kissing his hand. He opened his eyes and beheld his son. He was sorry for him. His wife approached him. There she was with open mouth, and with undried tears on her nose and cheek, regarding him with an expression of despair. He was sorry for her.
"Yes, I am tormenting them," he thought; "it is wretched for them, but it will be better for them when I die." He wanted to say this, but he had not the strength to pronounce it "But why speak at all? One must act," he thought to himself. With a look he indicated his son to his wife and said:
"Take away ... a pity . . . and thou also." He wanted to say besides: " Forgive," but he said: "Never mind," and not being strong enough to rectify the error he waved his hand, knowing that he understood whom it alone concerned.
And suddenly it became clear to him that that which was tormenting him and would not go away was suddenly going away all at once and altogether. He was sorry for them, and he must cease from paining them. He must deliver them and deliver himself at the same time from these sufferings. "What a good and simple thing it is," he thought "And the pain," he asked himself, "whither has it gone? Come now, where art thou, oh pain?" He began to listen intently.
"Yes, there it is. Well, pain, thou mayest depart."
"And death, where is it?"
He searched for his former habitual fear of death, and did not find it. "Where is it? What is death?" There was no terror because there was no death.
