Генрик Сенкевич
Children of the Soil
CHAPTER XXVI
Pani Kraslavski received Pan Stanislav with great astonishment, because of the early hour; but still she received him, thinking that he had come for some uncommon reason. He, on his part, without long introductions, told her what had happened, disguising at the same time only what was necessary for shielding Mashko from suspicion of bankruptcy or unfavorable business.
He noticed that the old lady, while he was talking, kept her green eyes – made, as it were, of stone, and devoid of glitter – fixed on him, and that no muscle of her face moved. Only when he had ended did she say, —
“There is one thing in all this which I do not understand. Why did Pan Mashko sell the oak? That is no small ornament to any residence.”
“Those oaks stand far from the house,” answered Pan Stanislav, “and injure the land, – for nothing will grow in the shade of them; and Pan Mashko is a practical man. Besides, to tell the truth, we are old friends, and he did that through friendship for me. I am a merchant; I needed the oak, and Pan Mashko let me have all he could spare.”
“In such an event, I do not understand why that young man – ”
“If you are acquainted with Pan Yamish,” interrupted Pan Stanislav, “he, because he lives near both Kremen and Yalbrykov, will explain to you that that young man is not of perfect mind, and is known as such in the whole neighborhood.”
“In that case Pan Mashko was not obliged to fight a duel with him.”
“In such matters,” answered Pan Stanislav, with a shade of impatience, “we have different ideas from ladies.”
“You will permit me to say a couple of words to my daughter.”
Pan Stanislav thought it time to rise and take farewell; but since he had come, as it were, on a reconnaissance, and wished to take some information to Mashko, he said, —
“If the ladies have any message to Pan Mashko, I am going to him directly.”
“In a moment,” answered Pani Kraslavski.
Pan Stanislav remained alone and waited rather long, so long indeed that he began to be impatient. At last both ladies appeared. Though her hair had not been dressed with sufficient care, the young lady, in a white chemisette and a sailor’s tie, seemed to Pan Stanislav quite beautiful, in spite of a slight inflammation of the eyes, and a few pimples on her forehead, which were powdered. There was about her a certain attractive languor, from which, having risen very late apparently, she had not been able yet to rouse herself, and a certain equally charming morning carelessness. For the rest, there was no emotion on her bloodless face.
After salutations were exchanged with Pan Stanislav, she said, with a cool, calm voice, —
“Be so kind as to tell Pan Mashko that I was greatly pained and alarmed. Is the wound really slight?”
“Beyond a doubt.”
“I have begged mamma to visit Pan Mashko; I will take her, and wait in the carriage for news. Then I will go again for mamma, and so every day till Pan Mashko has recovered. Mamma is so kind that she consents to this.”
Here a slight, barely evident blush passed over her pale face. To Pan Stanislav, for whom her words were an utter surprise, and whom they pierced with astonishment, she seemed then perfectly comely; and a moment later, when going to Mashko, he said to himself, —
“Well, the women are better than they seem. But they are two decanters of chilled water; still the daughter has some heart. Mashko did not know her, and he will have an agreeable surprise. The old woman will go to him, will see all those bishops and castellans with crooked noses over which Bukatski amused himself so much; but she will believe in Mashko’s greatness.”
Meditating in this way, he found himself in Mashko’s house, and had to wait, for he came at the moment of dressing the wound. But barely had the doctor gone, when Mashko gave command to ask him to enter, and, without even a greeting, inquired, —
“Well, hast thou been there?”
“How art thou; how hast thou slept?”
“Well. But never mind – hast thou been there?”
“I have. I will tell thee briefly. In a quarter of an hour Pani Kraslavski will be here. The young lady told me to say that she would bring her mother, and would wait to hear how thou art; and to tell thee that she is greatly alarmed, that she is very unhappy, but thanks God that there is nothing worse. Thou seest, Mashko! I add, besides, that she is good-looking, and has attracted me. Now I am going, for I have no time to wait.”
“Have mercy; wait a moment. Wait, my dear; I have not a fever, and if thou speak through fear – ”
“Thou art annoying,” said Pan Stanislav; “I give thee my word that I tell the truth, and that thou hast spoken ill of thy betrothed prematurely.”
Mashko dropped his head on the pillow, and was silent for a time; then he said, as if to himself, —
“I shall be ready to fall in love with her really.”
“That is well. Be in health; I am going to take farewell of Vaskovski.”
But instead of going to Vaskovski, he went to the Plavitskis’, whom he did not find at home, however. Plavitski was never at home, and of Marynia they said that she had gone out an hour before. Usually when a man is going to a woman who rouses vivid interest in him, and makes up his mind on the way what to say to her, he has rather a stupid face if he finds that she is not at home. Pan Stanislav felt this, and was vexed. He went to a greenhouse, however, bought a multitude of flowers, and had them sent to Marynia. When he thought of the delight with which she would receive them, and with what a beating heart she would wait for evening, he was so pleased that after dinner he dropped into Vaskovski’s in the very best humor.
“I have come to take farewell, Professor; when dost thou start on the journey?”
“How art thou, my dear?” answered Vaskovski. “I had to delay for a couple of days; for, as thou seest, I am wintering various small boys here.”
“Young Aryans, I suppose, who in hours of freedom draw purses out of pockets?”
“No, they are good souls; but I cannot leave them without care. I must seek out a successor who will live in my place.”
“But who would roast himself here? How dost thou live in such heat?”
“Because I sit without a coat; and wilt thou permit me not to put it on? It is a little warm here; but perspiration is wholesome, and these little feathered creatures crave heat.”
Pan Stanislav looked around. In the room there were at least a dozen and a half of buntings, titmice, finches. Sparrows, accustomed evidently to be fed, looked in in flocks through the window. The professor kept in his room only birds purchased of dealers; sparrows he did not admit, saying that if he did there would be no end to their numbers, and that it would be unjust to receive some and reject others. The chamber birds had cages fastened to the walls and the inner sash of the window, but went into them only at night; during daylight they flew through the chamber freely, filling it with twitter, and leaving traces on books and manuscripts, with which all the corners and the tables were filled.
Some of the birds which had become very tame sat on Vaskovski’s head even. On the floor husks of hemp-seed cracked under one’s feet. Pan Stanislav, who knew that chamber thoroughly, still shrugged his shoulders, and said, —
“All this is very good, but that the professor lets them light and sing on his head; that, God knows, is too much. Besides, it is stifling here.”
“That is the fault of Saint Francis of Assisi,” answered Vaskovski, “for I learned from him to love these little birds. I have even a pair of doves, but they are home-stayers.”
“Thou wilt see Bukatski, of course; I received a letter from him, – here it is.”
“May I read it?”
“I give it to thee for that very purpose.”
Vaskovski read the letter, and said when he had finished, “I have always liked this Bukatski; he is a good soul, but – he has a little something here!” Vaskovski began, to tap his forehead with his fingers.
“This is beginning to amuse me,” exclaimed Pan Stanislav. “Imagine to thyself, Professor, for a certain number of days some one taps himself on the forehead and says of some one of our acquaintance, ‘He has something here!’ A charming society!”
“If it is a little so, it is a little so!” answered Vaskovski, with a smile. “and knowest thou what this is? It is the usual Aryan trouble of soul; and in us, as Slavs, there is more of that than in the west, for we are the youngest Aryans, and therefore neither reason nor heart have settled yet into a balance. We are the youngest Aryans: we feel with more vividness; we take everything to heart more feverishly; and we arrange ourselves to the practice of life with more passion. I have seen much; I have noticed this for a long time. What wonderful natures! Just look, for example, the German students can carouse, – that doesn’t hinder them from either working or fashioning themselves into practical people; but let a Slav take this habit, and he is lost, he will do himself to death! And so with everything. A German will become a pessimist and write volumes on this, – that life is despair; but he will drink beer meanwhile, rear children, make money, cultivate his garden, and sleep under a feather tick. A Slav will hang himself, or ruin himself with mad life, with excess, smother himself in a swamp into which he will wade purposely. My dear, I remember men who Byronized themselves to death. I have seen much; I have seen men who, for example, took a fancy to peasants, and ended with drinking vodka in peasant dramshops. There is no measure with us, and there cannot be, for in us, to the excessive acceptance of every idea, are joined frivolousness and knowest what vanity. O my God, how vain we are! how we wish to push ourselves forward always, so that we may be admired and gazed at! Take this Bukatski: he has sunk in scepticism up to his ears in fact; in pessimism, Buddhism, decadency, and in what else besides – do I know? – and in these too there is a chaos at present. He has sunk so deeply that those miasmas are really poisoning him; but dost thou think that with this he is not posing? What wonderful natures! those who are most sincere, who have the most vivid feelings, taking all things to heart most powerfully, – are at the same time comedians. When a man thinks of this, he loves them, but he wants to laugh and to weep.”
Pan Stanislav recalled how during his first visit to Kremen he had told Marynia of his Belgian times, when, living with some young Belgians, occupying himself with pessimism, he noticed finally that he took all these theories far more to heart than the Belgians, and that, through this, these theories spoiled his life more. Hence he said now, —
“Professor, thy speech is truthful. I have seen such things too, and the devils will take us all.”
Vaskovski fixed his mystic eyes on the frosty window-panes, and said, —
“No; some one else will take us all. That hotness of blood, that capacity for accepting an idea, are the great basis of the mission which Christ has designed for the Slavs.” Here Vaskovski pointed to a manuscript stained by the birds, and said mysteriously, —
“I am going with that; that is the labor of my life. Dost wish I will read from it?”
“As God lives, I haven’t time; it is late already.”
“True. It is growing dark. Then I will tell thee in brief words. Not only do I think, but I believe most profoundly, that the Slavs have a great mission.”
Here Vaskovski halted, began to rub his forehead, and said, —
“What a wonderful number, – ‘three.’ There is some mystery in it.”
“Thou wert going to speak of a mission,” said Pan Stanislav, disquieted.
“Never fear; the one has connection with the other. There are three worlds in Europe: the Roman, the German, and the Slav. The first and second accomplished what they had to do. The future is for that third.”
“And what has that third to do?”
“Social conditions, justice, the relations of man to man, the life of individuals, and that which is called private life, are founded on Christian science, no matter what comes. The incoherence of men has deformed this science, but still everything stands on it. Only the first half of the problem is solved, – the first epoch. There are people who think that Christianity is nearing its end. No; the second epoch is about to begin. Christ is in the life of individuals, but not in history. Dost understand? To bring Him into history, to found on Him the relations of peoples, to create the love of our neighbor in the historical sense, – that is the mission which the Slav world has to accomplish. But the Slavs are deficient in knowledge yet; and the need is to open their eyes to this mission.”
Pan Stanislav was silent, for he had nothing to answer.
Vaskovski continued: “This is what I have been pondering over a lifetime, and have explained in this work.” Here he pointed to a manuscript. “This is the labor of my life. Here this mission is outlined.”
“On which meanwhile the buntings are – ” thought Pan Stanislav. “And surely it will be that way a long time.” But aloud he said, “And it is thy hope, Professor, that when such a work is printed – ”
“No; I hope nothing. I have a little love, but I am a man too insignificant, too weak in mind. This will vanish, as if some one had thrown a stone into water; but there will be a circle. Let some chosen one come later on; for I know that what is predestined will not fail. He will not refuse the mission even if he wishes. There is no use in bending men from their predestination, nor in changing them by force. What is good in a different place may be bad in this, for God made us for another use. The labor is vain. Vainly too wilt thou persuade thyself that thy only wish is to gain money; thou, like others, must follow the voice of predestination and nature.”
“I am following it indeed, for I am going to marry; that is, if I be accepted.”
Vaskovski embraced him.
“I wish thee happiness! This is perfect! May God bless thee! I know that the little maid indicated it to thee. But remember how I told thee that she had something to do, and that she would not die till she had done it. May God give her light, and a blessing to both of you! Besides, Marynia is golden.”
“And to thee, beloved Professor, a happy journey and a successful mission!”
“And to thee, thy wish for thyself.”
“What do I wish?” asked Pan Stanislav, joyfully. “Well, so, half a dozen little missionaries.”
“Ah rogue! thou wert always a rogue!” answered Vaskovski. “But fly off, fly off; I will visit thee once more.”
Pan Stanislav flew out, sat on a droshky, and gave command to take him to the Plavitskis’. On the road he was arranging what to say to Marynia; and he prepared a little speech, partly sentimental, and partly sober, as befits a positive man who has found really that which he was seeking, but who also is marrying through reason. Evidently Marynia looked for him much later; for there was no light in the chamber, though the last gleam of twilight was quenched. Pan Stanislav, for a greeting, began to kiss both her hands, and, forgetting completely his wise introduction, asked in a voice somewhat uncertain and excited, —
“Have you received the flowers and the letter?”
“I have.”
“And did you guess why I sent them?”
Marynia’s heart beat with such force that she could not answer.
Pan Stanislav inquired further, with a still more broken voice, —
“Do you agree to Litka’s wish, – do you want me?”
“I do,” answered Marynia.
Then he, in the feeling that it was proper to thank her, sought words in vain; but he pressed her hands more firmly to his lips, and, holding them both, drew her gently nearer and nearer. Suddenly a flame seized him; he put his arms around her, and began to seek her lips with his own. But Marynia turned away her head so that he could kiss only the hair on her temples. For a while only their hurried breathing was heard in the darkness; at last Marynia wrested herself from his arms.
A few moments later the servant brought a light. Pan Stanislav, recovering himself, was alarmed at his own boldness, and looked into Marynia’s eyes with disquiet. He was sure that he had offended her, and was ready to beg her forgiveness. But he saw with wonder that there were no traces of anger in her face. Her eyes were downcast, her cheeks flushed, her hair disarranged somewhat; it was evident that she was disturbed and, as it were, dazed, but withal only penetrated with the perfect sweetness of that fear which comes to a woman who is loved, and who, in passing over the new threshold, feels that she must yield something there, but who passes over and yields because she wishes. She loves, and she is obliged to yield in view of the rights which she accords to the man.
But a vivid feeling of gratitude passed through Pan Stanislav at sight of her. It seemed to him then that he loved her as he had loved of old, before Litka’s death. He felt also that in that moment he could not be too delicate nor too magnanimous; hence, taking her hand again, he raised it to his lips with great respect, and said, —
“I know that I am not worthy of you; there is no discussion on that point. God knows that I shall always do for you what is in my power.”
Marynia looked at him with moist eyes and said, “If only you are happy.”
“Is it possible not to be happy with you? I saw that from the first moment at Kremen. But afterward, you know, everything was spoiled. I thought you would marry Mashko, and how I worried – ”
“I was angry, and I beg forgiveness – my dear – Pan Stas.”
“This very day the professor said, ‘Marynia is gold,’” exclaimed Pan Stanislav, with great ardor. “This is true! all say the same – not only gold, but a treasure – a very precious one.”
Her kindly eyes began to smile at him: “Maybe a heavy one.”
“Let not your head ache over that. I have strength enough; I shall be able to bear it. Now at least I have something to live for.”
“And I,” answered Marynia.
“Do you know that I have been here already to-day? I sent chrysanthemums later. After yesterday’s letter to you, I said to myself, ‘That is simply an angel, and I should lack, not only heart, but common-sense to delay any longer.’”
“I was so alarmed about that duel, and so unhappy. But is it all over now?”
“I give you my word, most thoroughly.”
Marynia wanted to make further inquiries, but at that moment Plavitski came. They heard him cough a little, put away his cane, and remove his overcoat; he opened the door then, and, seeing them alone, said, —
“So you are sitting all by yourselves?”
But Marynia ran up to him, and placing her hands on his shoulders, and putting forth her forehead for a kiss, said, —
“As betrothed, papa.”
Plavitski stepped back a little and inquired, “What dost thou say?”
“I say,” answered she, looking quietly into his eyes, “that Pan Stanislav wishes to take me, and that I am very happy.”
Pan Stanislav approached, embraced Plavitski heartily, and said, “I do with uncle’s consent and permission.”
But Plavitski exclaimed, “Oh, my child!” and, advancing with tottering step to a sofa, he sat on it heavily. “Wait a moment,” said he, with emotion. “It will pass – do not mind me – my children! If that is needed, I bless you with my whole heart.”
And he blessed them; wherewith still greater emotion mastered him, for, after all, he loved Marynia really. The voice stuck in his throat repeatedly; and the two young people heard only such broken expressions as, for example, “Some corner near you – for the old man, who worked all his life – an only child – an orphan.”
They pacified him together, and pacified him so well that half an hour later Plavitski struck Pan Stanislav on the shoulder suddenly, and said, —
“Oh robber! Thou wert thinking of Marynia, and I was thinking thee a little – ” He finished the rest in Pan Stanislav’s ear, who grew red with indignation, and answered, —
“How could uncle suppose such a thing? If any one else had dared to say that?”
“Well, well, well!” answered Plavitski, smiling; “there is no smoke without fire.”
That evening Marynia, taking farewell of Pan Stanislav, asked, —
“You will not refuse me one thing?”
“Nothing that you command.”
“I have said long to myself that if a moment like the present should come, we would go to Litka together.”
“Ah, my dear lady,” answered Pan Stanislav; and she continued, —
“I know not what people will say; but what do we care for the world – what indeed?”
“Nothing. I am thankful to you from my heart and soul for the thought – My dear lady – my Marynia!”
“I believe that she looks at us and prays for us.”
“Then she is our little patroness.”
“Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
“Till to-morrow.”
“Till to-morrow,” said he, kissing her hands, – “till after to-morrow, daily;” and here he added in a low voice, “Until our marriage.”
“Yes,” answered Marynia.
Pan Stanislav went out. In his head and in his heart he felt a great whirl of feelings, thoughts, impressions, above which towered one great feeling, – that something unheard of in its decisiveness had happened; that his fate had been settled; that the time of reckoning, of wavering and changing, had passed; that he must begin a new life. And that feeling was not unpleasant to him, – nay, it verged on a kind of delight, especially when he remembered how he had kissed Marynia’s hair and temples. That which was lacking in his feelings shrank and vanished almost utterly in this remembrance; and it seemed to Pan Stanislav that he had found everything requisite to perfect happiness. “I shall never grow sated with this,” thought he; and it seemed to him simply impossible that he should. He remembered then the goodness of Marynia, and how reliable she was; how on such a heart and character he might build; how in living with her nothing could ever threaten him; how she would not trample on any quality of his, nor make it of no avail; how she would receive as gold that which in him was gold; how she would live for him, not for herself. And, meditating in this way, he asked what better could he find? and he wondered indeed at his recent hesitation. Still he felt that what was coming was a change so gigantic, so immensely decisive, that somewhere at the bottom, in the deepest corner of his soul, there was roused a kind of alarm before this unknown happiness. But he did not hesitate. “I am neither a coward nor an imbecile,” thought he. “It is necessary to go ahead, and I will go.”
Returning home, he looked at Litka; and immediately there opened before him, as it were, a new, clear horizon. He thought that he might have children, have such a bright dear head as this – and with Marynia. At the very thought his heart began to beat with greater life, and to the impulse of thoughts was joined such a solace of life as he had not known previously. He felt almost perfectly happy. Looking by chance at Bukatski’s letter, which he took from his pocket before undressing, he laughed so heartily that the servant looked in with astonishment. Pan Stanislav wished to tell him that he was going to marry. He fell asleep only toward morning, but rose sprightly and fresh; after dressing, he flew to his office to announce the news to Bigiel at the earliest.
Bigiel embraced him, then, with his usual deliberation, proceeded to consider the affair, and said finally, —
“Reasoning the matter over, this is the wisest thing that thou hast done in life;” then, pointing to a box of papers, he added, “Those contracts ought to be profitable, but thine is still better.”
“Isn’t it?” exclaimed Pan Stanislav, boastfully.
“I will fly to tell my wife,” said Bigiel, “for I cannot contain myself; but go thou home, and go for good. I will take thy place till the wedding, and during the honeymoon.”
“Very well; I will hurry to see Mashko, and then Marynia and I will go to Litka.”
“That is due from you both to her.”
Pan Stanislav bought more flowers on the way, added a note to them that he would come soon, and dropped in to see Mashko. Mashko was notably better, under the care of Pani Kraslavski, and was looking for her arrival every moment. When he had heard the news, he pressed Pan Stanislav’s hand with emotion, and said, —
“I will tell thee only one thing, – I do not know whether she will be happy with thee, but certainly thou wilt be happy with her.”
“Because women are better than men,” answered Pan Stanislav. “After what has happened to thee, I hope that thou art of this opinion.”
“I confess that to this moment I cannot recover from astonishment. They are both better, and more mysterious. Imagine to thyself – ” Here Mashko halted, as if hesitating whether to continue.
“What?” inquired Pan Stanislav.
“Well, thou art a discreet man, and hast given me, besides, such proofs of friendship that there may not be secrets between us. Imagine, then, that yesterday, after thy departure, I received an anonymous letter. Here, as thou art aware, the noble custom of writing such letters prevails. In the letter were tidings that Papa Kraslavski exists, is alive, and in good health.”
“Which, again, may be gossip.”
“But also may not be. He lives, probably, in America. I received the letter while Pani Kraslavski was here. I said nothing; but after a time, when she had examined those portraits, and began to inquire of my more distant family relations, I asked her, in turn, how long she had been a widow. She answered, —
“‘My daughter and I have been alone in the world nine years; and those are sad events, of which I do not wish to speak to-day.’
“Observe that she did not say directly when her husband died.”
“And what dost thou think?”
“I think that if papa is alive, he must be that kind of figure of which people do not speak, and that in truth those may be ‘sad events.’”
“The secret would have come out long ago.”
“Those ladies lived abroad some years. Who knows? That, however, will not change my plans in any way. If Pan Kraslavski is living in America, and does not return, he must have reasons; it is as if he were not in the world, then. In fact, I am gaining the hope now that my marriage will come to pass, for I understand that when people have something to hide, they exact less.”
“Pardon my curiosity,” said Pan Stanislav, taking his hat; “but with me it is a question of my money, and now touching the Kraslavskis. Dost thou know surely that these ladies have money?”
“It seems that they have much; still, I am playing against a card somewhat hidden. It is likely that they have much ready money. The mother told me repeatedly that her daughter would not need to look to her husband’s property. I saw their safe; they keep a big house. I know nearly all the money-lenders – Jews and non-Jews – in Warsaw, and I know surely that these ladies are not in debt a copper to any one; as thou knowest thyself, they have a nice villa not far from the Bigiels. They do not live on their capital, for they are too prudent.”
“Thou hast no positive figures, however?”
“I tried to get them, but in roundabout fashion. Not being too certain of my connection with the ladies, I could not insist overmuch. It was given me to understand that there would be two hundred thousand rubles, and perhaps more.”
Pan Stanislav took leave, and on the way to the Plavitskis’ thought, “All this is a kind of mystery, a kind of darkness, a kind of risk. I prefer Marynia.”
Half an hour later he was driving with Marynia to the cemetery, to Litka. The day was warm, as in spring, but gray; the city seemed sullen and dirty. In the cemetery the melting snow had slipped in patches to the ground from the graves, and covered the yellow, half-decayed grass. From the arms of crosses and leafless tree-branches large drops were falling, which, borne from time to time by gusts of warm wind, struck the faces of Pan Stanislav and Marynia. These gusts pulled Marynia’s dress, so that she had to hold it. They stopped at last before Litka’s grave.
And here all was wet, sloppy, gloomy, half-stripped of the melting snow. The thought that that child, once so cared for, so loved, and so petted, was lying in that damp dungeon darkness, could hardly find a place in Pan Stanislav’s head.
“All this may be natural,” thought he; “but it is not possible to be reconciled with death.” And, in truth, whenever he visited Litka, he returned from the cemetery in a kind of irrepressible rebellion, with a species of passionate protest in his soul. These thoughts began to rend him in that moment also. It seemed to him simply terrible to love Litka, and to reconcile his love with the knowledge that a few steps lower down she is lying there, black and decaying. “I ought not to come,” said he to himself, “for I grow mad, lose my head here, and lose every basis of life.” But, above all, he suffered, for, if it is impossible not to think of death, it is equally impossible to explain it; hence everything touching it, which comes to the head, is, in so far as a man does not stretch forth his hand toward simple faith, at once despairing and shallow, trivial and common. “For me there is a greater question here than that of existence itself, but I am only able to answer with a commonplace. A perfectly vicious circle!”
And it was true; for if he considered, for example, that at the first thought of death everything becomes smoke, and he felt that unfortunately it does, he felt at the same time that thousands of people had come to that thought before he had, and that no one had found in it either solace or even such satisfaction as the discovery of a truth gives. Everything that he could say to himself was at once terrifying and petty. It was easy for him to understand that the whole life of man, general history, all philosophies, are at bottom merely a struggle with incessant death, – a struggle despairing, a struggle utterly senseless, and at the same time infinitely foolish and devoid of object, for it is lost in advance. But such reasoning could not bring him any comfort, since it was merely the confirmation of a new vicious circle.
For if the one object of all human efforts is life, and the only result death, the nonsense passes measure, and simply could not be accepted, were it not for that loathsome and pitiless reality, which turns beings beloved and living into rotten matter.
