From my father I received the best inheritance, namely a "good temper." He was lively, good-looking, round, and fat; a complete contradiction to his profession. His employment placed him at the head of the grandest people of the town. He had to precede the bishop, and even the princes of the blood; he always went first—he was a hearse driver!
When people saw my father perched up in front of the omnibus of death, dressed in his long, black cloak and three-cornered hat, and then glanced at his round, jocund face, they could not think much of sorrow. That face said, "It is nothing, it will all end better than people think." So I inherited from him not only my good temper, but a habit of going often to the churchyard, and of reading the Intelligencer, just as he used to do.
The newspaper and the churchyard were always exciting to me. My walks there were like bathing-places for my good humor. Every grave is like a closed book, with only the title visible. I keep a diary where I write a history of all who lie here.
Now we are in the churchyard. Here rests a very unhappy man. He had a good position and refined tastes, but the least thing annoyed him. At the theatre, he would fret over misplaced stage props or inappropriate audience reactions. He fretted and worried himself into the grave.
Here rests a happy man—a man of high birth and position. He walked about in an embroidered coat, looking like a showy bell-pull. But behind such bell-pulls always hangs a good thick cord for use. This man also had a stout, useful substitute behind him, who did all his dirty work. It is all so wisely arranged.
Here rests a man who, for sixty-seven years, was never remembered to have said a good thing. He lived only in the hope of having a good idea. At last he felt convinced he had one, and died of joy at the thought. No one even heard what the idea was. I imagine this idea may prevent him from resting quietly; for if he must present it at breakfast but can only appear at midnight like a ghost, the idea would not suit the hour, and he would have to carry it back to a troubled grave.
Here rests a remarkably stingy woman, who would mew at night so her neighbors thought she kept a cat.
Here rests a young lady who would always make her voice heard. When she sang "Mi manca la voce" ("I lack a voice"), it was the only true thing she ever said.
Here rests a widow who, with music on her tongue, carried gall in her heart. She preyed upon the faults of others with envy and malice.
This is a family grave. The members held so firmly to their own opinions that they would believe no other. If their rooster crowed at midnight, they declared it morning, despite all evidence to the contrary.
I come here often. If any of my friends, or those who are not my friends, are too much for me, I choose a plot to bury them, as it were. There they lie, dead and powerless, until they return as new and better characters. I write their stories in my diary. Then, if our friends act absurdly, no one need be vexed. Let them bury the offenders out of sight and keep their good temper.
When the time comes for the history of my life to be bound by the grave, they will write upon it as my epitaph: "The man with a cheerful temper."
And this is my story.