“But whence dost thou know that we shall not be happy after death?”
“Wilt thou tell me whence thou hast the knowledge that we shall?”
“I do not know; I believe.”
There was no answer to this; therefore Pan Stanislav said, as if to himself, “Mercy, empyrean light, eternity, meeting; but what is there in fact? The corpse of a child in the grave, and a mother who is wailing from pain. Grant that death has produced thy faith at least; yet it brings doubt, because thou art grieving for the child. I am grieving still more; and this grief casts on me directly the question, ‘Why did she die? Why such cruelty?’ I know that this question is a foolish one, and that milliards of people have put it to themselves; but, if this knowledge is to be my solace, may thunderbolts split it! I know, too, that I shall not find an answer, and for that very reason I want to gnash my teeth and curse. I do not understand, and I rebel; that is all. That is the whole result, which thou canst not recognize as the one sought for.”
Vaskovski answered also, as if speaking to himself, “Christ rose from the dead, for He was God; but He rose as man, and He passed through death. How can I, poor worm, do otherwise than magnify the Divine Will and Wisdom in death?”
To this Pan Stanislav answered.—
“It is impossible to talk with thee!”
“It is slippery,” answered Vaskovski; “give me thy arm.” And, taking Pan Stanislav by the arm, he leaned on him, and said, “My dear friend, thou hast an honest and a loving heart; thou didst love that little girl greatly, thou wert ready to do much for her. Do this one thing now,—whether thou believest or not,—say for her, ‘Eternal rest!’ If thou think that that will be no good to her, say to thyself, ‘I can do no more, but I will do that.’”
“Give me peace!” answered Pan Stanislav.
“That may not be needful to her, but thy remembrance of her will be dear; she will be grateful, and will obtain the grace of God for thee.”