Just such ice-flowers lay frozen before his soul. The lottery of fate has appointed his time: ten years his life would last; then he must die.
From seventeen to twenty-seven is just the fairest part of life. Many had made their whole earthly career during that period.
And what awaits him?
His ardent yearning for freedom, his audacious plans, his misplaced confidence; friends' treason, and the consequent freezing rigor, where were they leading to?...
Every leaf had fallen from the trees. Only ten years to live: the decree was unalterable.
From the opponent, whom he despised, it is not possible even to accept as a present, that to which chance has once given him the right.
And these ten years, with what will they begin? Perhaps with a long imprisonment? The time which is so short—(ten years are light!) will seem so long there! (ten years are heavy!) Would it not be better not to wait for the first day? To say: if it is time, take it away: let me not take the days on lease from thee! The hateful, freezing days.
Why, when nature dies in this wise, man himself would love to die after her.
If only there were not that weeping face at home, that white-haired head, mother and grandmother.
In vain Fate is inevitable. The eighth bed was already made;—but that no one must know for ten years. Should someone learn, he might perpetrate the outrage of occupying earlier the eighth niche in the family vault; and then his successor would have nothing left but the church-yard grave.