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“By all?”
“Not only by philosophers, but by every one.”
“And so Jehovah shall die?”
“He and all angels, all saints, all devils, all lies.”
“Who will then rule the earth?”
“Do you think that any one has ever ruled it?
Do you believe in the Providence that is said to care
for sparrows and to number the hairs of your head?
No one has ruled the world, nor ever will rule it.”
“But we poor humans, what will become of us?”
“We shall be what we were before—dust and
ashes. That which is burned out can burn no more;
it is dead. We are only fuel enveloped by the fires
of life, whose sparks fly from one to the other; we
ignite, flame up, and die out. That is life.”
“Oh, Uncle Eberhard, is there no life of the
spirit?”
“None.”
“No good, no evil, no hope, no goal?”
“None.”
The young woman crossed over to the window.
She looked out upon the yellowing autumn leaves,
upon the dahlias and asters whose heads hung down
on wind-broken stems; she beheld Löfven’s troubled
waves, the dark storm-clouds of the autumnal
sky, and for a moment she became a prey to doubt.
“Uncle Eberhard,” she sighed, “how drab and
ugly the world is! How futile everything seems!
I want to lie down and die.”
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