“I understand that even a believer may spit upon life in such moments.”
Here Vaskovski rubbed his forehead with his hand, and then said to himself,—
“Yes; I have seen that kind, too. For there are people who believe, not through love, but as it were because atheism is bankrupt, as it were from despair, who imagine to themselves that somewhere, off behind phenomena, there is not a merciful Father, who places his hand on every unfortunate head, but some kind of He, unapproachable, inscrutable, indifferent; it is all one, in such case, whether that He is called the Absolute, or Nirvana. He is only a concept, not love. It is impossible to love this He; and when misfortune comes, people spit on life.”
“That is well,” answered Svirski, testily; “but meanwhile Pan Ignas is lying with a broken skull, and they have gone to the seashore, and it is pleasant for them.”
“Whence do you know that it is pleasant for them?” answered Vaskovski.
“The deuce fire them!” said Svirski.
“But I say to you that they are unhappy. No one may trample on truth and go unpunished. They will talk various things into each other, but one thing they will not be able to talk into each other,—that is, self-respect; they will begin to despise themselves in secret, and at last even that attachment which they had for each other will be turned into secret dislike. That is inevitable.”
“The deuce fire them!” repeated Svirski.
“The mercy of God is for them, not for the good,” concluded Vaskovski.
Meanwhile Bigiel talked with Pan Stanislav, admiring the kindness and courage of Panna Helena.