John Mortonson's funeral {1}
John Mortonson was dead: his lines in "the tragedy 'Man'" had all
been spoken and he had left the stage.
The body rested in a fine mahogany coffin fitted with a plate of
glass. All arrangements for the funeral had been so well attended to
that had the deceased known he would doubtless have approved. The
face, as it showed under the glass, was not disagreeable to look
upon: it bore a faint smile, and as the death had been painless, had
not been distorted beyond the repairing power of the undertaker. At
two o'clock of the afternoon the friends were to assemble to pay
their last tribute of respect to one who had no further need of
friends and respect. The surviving members of the family came
severally every few minutes to the casket and wept above the placid
features beneath the glass. This did them no good; it did no good to
John Mortonson; but in the presence of death reason and philosophy
are silent.
As the hour of two approached the friends began to arrive and after
offering such consolation to the stricken relatives as the
proprieties of the occasion required, solemnly seated themselves
about the room with an augmented consciousness of their importance in
the scheme funereal. Then the minister came, and in that
overshadowing presence the lesser lights went into eclipse. His
entrance was followed by that of the widow, whose lamentations filled
the room. She approached the casket and after leaning her face
against the cold glass for a moment was gently led to a seat near her
daughter. Mournfully and low the man of God began his eulogy of the
dead, and his doleful voice, mingled with the sobbing which it was
its purpose to stimulate and sustain, rose and fell, seemed to come
and go, like the sound of a sullen sea. The gloomy day grew darker
as he spoke; a curtain of cloud underspread the sky and a few drops
of rain fell audibly. It seemed as if all nature were weeping for
John Mortonson.
When the minister had finished his eulogy with prayer a hymn was sung
and the pall-bearers took their places beside the bier. As the last
notes of the hymn died away the widow ran to the coffin, cast herself
upon it and sobbed hysterically. Gradually, however, she yielded to
dissuasion, becoming more composed; and as the minister was in the
act of leading her away her eyes sought the face of the dead beneath
the glass. She threw up her arms and with a shriek fell backward
insensible.
The mourners sprang forward to the coffin, the friends followed, and
as the clock on the mantel solemnly struck three all were staring
down upon the face of John Mortonson, deceased.
They turned away, sick and faint. One man, trying in his terror to
escape the awful sight, stumbled against the coffin so heavily as to
knock away one of its frail supports. The coffin fell to the floor,
the glass was shattered to bits by the concussion.
From the opening crawled John Mortonson's cat, which lazily leapt to
the floor, sat up, tranquilly wiped its crimson muzzle with a
forepaw, then walked with dignity from the room.
Footnotes:
{1} Rough notes of this tale were found among the papers of the late
Leigh Bierce. It is printed here with such revision only as the
author might himself have made in transcription.
-THE END-
Ambrose Bierce's short story: John Mortonson's funeral
GO TO TOP OF SCREEN
