Life could swerve from its orbit for pity, what terror of vacillation; and who would wish to bear the responsibility of the deflection?
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.
