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“Look, Countess,” he said, “my work is completed,
and what I have written shall now be given
to the world. A great thing is about to happen.”
“What is going to happen, Uncle Eberhard?”
asked she.
“Ah, Countess, it will come like a thunderbolt,
a bolt that enlightens and kills! Ever since Moses
drew him forth from the thunder-cloud of Sinai and
enthroned him in the innermost sanctuary, he has
sat secure, this old Jehovah. Now men shall learn
what he is: illusion, emptiness, vapor—the still-born
child of our own brain. He shall sink into
nothingness,” declared the old philosopher, laying
his wrinkled hand on the manuscript. “It is writ
here, and when they read this the people must
believe. They will see how stupid they have been, and
will make fire-wood of their crosses, convert their
churches into grain-lofts, and set their clergy to
ploughing the earth.”
“Oh, Uncle Eberhard!” exclaimed the Countess
with a shudder, “are you such a terrible man as all
that? Do such dreadful things stand there?”
“Dreadful?” repeated the old man. “Why, it
is the truth. But we are like little boys, who hide
their faces in a woman’s skirt whenever they meet
a stranger; we have accustomed ourselves to hide
from Truth—the eternal stranger. But now he
shall come and dwell among us and be known by
all.”
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