J. S. MACHAR
"Do you know, Mr. M., that I did not sleep all night?" said Mr. Fels suddenly in despair.
"Not even after all that walking?"
"That doesn't lie in the body, that lies in the soul,—just ask Goldenstein here."
Goldenstein gazed mournfully into vacancy and nodded: "Neither of us slept. Nor did Fröhlich. We lay thinking, and when our thoughts led to nothing, we looked at the lamp."
"And what are your troubles? What is it that worries you?"
"Business, business", sighed Mr. Goldenstein.
"They dragged us away and locked us up,—a man can't speak, he's not allowed to write, the officials are helpless and indifferent,—God knows what is happening", explained Mr. Fels.
"Very well. Business. Imagine that you had just read the letters in your office, let us say,—suddenly you fall from your chair, the doctor is called, examines you and diagnoses inflammation of the intestine,—an operation is most urgently necessary. You are taken to a sanatorium, and after a few hours you're on the operating table. You are cut open, the inflammation was acute, you rest in a small room, the nurse is sitting with you, you are only half alive, without interest for anything in the world, you cannot think or speak, but you feel only one thing: I am on the threshold of death, life may be closed to me at any moment. Business,—what do you care about business? Correspondence,—what folly. To live, above all and solely to live. You are here in jail, it is true, but how much better than in hospital. And, as is customary in Austria, everything has been forbidden you, but after a few days you will be allowed to write, visitors will arrive, and finally you will manage your affairs from here, just as well as from a sanatorium."
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