Siegmund thanked God that life was pitiless, strong enough to take his
treasures out of his hands, and to thrust him out of the room;
otherwise, how could he go with any faith to death; otherwise, he would
have felt the helpless disillusion of a youth who finds his infallible
parents weaker than himself.
'I know the heart of life is kind,' said Siegmund, 'because I feel it.
Otherwise I would live in defiance. But Life is greater than me or
anybody. We suffer, and we don't know why, often. Life doesn't explain.
But I can keep faith in it, as a dog has faith in his master. After all,
Life is as kind to me as I am to my dog. I have, proportionally, as much
zest. And my purpose towards my dog is good. I need not despair
of Life.' It occurred to Siegmund that he was meriting the old gibe of the
atheists. He was shirking the responsibility of himself, turning it over
to an imaginary god.
'Well,' he said, 'I can't help it. I do not feel altogether
self-responsible.' The morning had waxed during these investigations. Siegmund had been
vaguely aware of the rousing of the house. He was finally startled into
a consciousness of the immediate present by the calling of Vera at
his door.
'There are two letters for you. Father.' He looked about him in bewilderment; the hours had passed in a trance,
and he had no idea of his time or place.
'Oh, all right,' he said, too much dazed to know what it meant. He heard
his daughter going downstairs. Then swiftly returned over him the
throbbing ache of his head and his arms, the discordant jarring of
his body.
'What made her bring me the letters?' he asked himself. It was a very
unusual attention. His heart replied, very sullen and shameful: 'She
wanted to know; she wanted to make sure I was all right.' Siegmund forgot all his speculations on a divine benevolence. The
discord of his immediate situation overcame every harmony. He did not
fetch in the letters.
'Is it so late?' he said. 'Is there no more time for me?' He went to look at his watch. It was a quarter to nine. As he walked
across the room he trembled, and a sickness made his bones feel rotten.
He sat down on the bed.
'What am I going to do?' he asked himself.
By this time he was shuddering rapidly. A peculiar feeling, as if his
belly were turned into nothingness, made him want to press his fists
into his abdomen. He remained shuddering drunkenly, like a drunken man
who is sick, incapable of thought or action.