“Heaven only knows how he aimed. I suspect that he purposely aimed high.
“That is the end of the story. I think of it very often. But what is the use of it all, now? Oftentimes those two theories of heroism float through my head, and it seems to me that that combat was a duel of theories. Šetina’s theory fell. Šetina himself gave the greatest argument in proof of Martini’s theory. He died for a piece of folly, but he died like a hero. I constantly see him before me. Oh, that life was indeed worthy of a more beautiful end.”
“And Martini?” I asked the Captain, much affected.
“Martini?” he repeated as he spat disgustedly. “Martini is today the owner of a large estate. He married a rich girl whom he did not love and withdrew from the army.
“And you poets,” he said, bitterly, after a pause, “find everywhere and depict always ‘poetic justice’! Look for it in real life! Find it—if you can! To be sure, poetry is only a pastime for wealthy people—and such must not have their nerves shaken by some harsh truth. You have everything smoothed out—everything lovely—it all fairly sparkles—scoundrels are punished and virtuous lovers secure each other—but in reality—
“But lest I forget—Šetina’s mother was stricken with paralysis on hearing of her son’s death. What became of his sweetheart I don’t know. She has probably become someone’s wife.”
