Death was already crossing his bony hands above the goblets out of which we drank, cheerful as children. We felt no awareness of death because we had no awareness of God. The only one of our company who held fast to the forms of religion was Count Chojnicki, not through any conviction but because he felt that his noble estate in duty bound him to follow the established pattern of religion. The rest of us, who neglected to do so, he looked upon as half-way to being anarchists. ‘The Church of Rome’, he used to say, ‘is in this decadent world the only provider and defender of form. One might say its only dispenser. The Church locks the traditional aspects of its so-called law of ages into dogma, into a palace of ice, as it were. By so doing it wins for its children the freedom to behave irresponsibly outside it, in the wide and spacious courtyard of this ice palace, in the knowledge that even if they do what is forbidden they may yet be forgiven. Just as the Church defines sins, so it may forgive them. Faultless human beings are simply not recognised as such: this is the eminently human aspect of the Church. Her children who are without fault are canonised. If only through this, the fallibility of Man is recognised. The condition of sin is acknowledged, to the extent that it cannot be absent from humanity, only from the blessed and the sainted. By this means the Church of Rome emphasises its noblest intent, to forgive, to pardon. There can be no nobler policy than forgiveness. Bear in mind that there is no policy more vulgar than revenge. There is no nobility without generosity, no spirit of revenge without vulgarity.’

He was the eldest and the cleverest of us, our Count Chojnicki, but we were too young and foolish to pay his superior intelligence the respect which was certainly its due. We listened to him with pleasure, rather, but at the same time imagined that we were doing him a courtesy by listening. He was for us so-called young men a gentleman of a certain age. We only found out later, during the war, how much younger he was in spirit than we were.

We learned much later, much too much later, that we were indeed not younger than he, but simply ageless, unnatural one might say. Whereas he was of course worthy of his years, true and blessed by the hand of God.

[VIII]

A MONTH OR two later I received the following letter from the fiaker, Manes Reisiger:

 

Dear Sir,

After the great honour and favour which you have shown me I permit myself to inform you most warmly of my very great gratitude to you. My son writes to me that he is making progress in the Konservatorium, and I have you to thank for all his genius. This I do, most heartily. At the same time may I enquire most anxiously whether you would have the great goodness to come to visit us.Your cousin Trotta, the chestnut roaster, always—that is to say, for the last ten years—comes to stay with me in the autumn. I had in mind that you might also care to stay with me. My house is humble, but roomy.

Dear Sir! Please do not on any account take offence at this invitation. I am so small and you are so important. Dear Sir, forgive me for having this letter written for me, since I cannot myself write, except my name. This letter is written by the official public writer of our locality, Hirsch Kiniower, a reliable, well-behaved and professional person. I remain, honoured Sir, your much obliged:

Manes Reisiger, fiaker in Zlotogrod.

The whole letter was written in a careful calligraphic script: ‘just like print’, as used to be said of this kind of writing.