NEWTON’S BRAIN.
By Jakub Arbes
WANT to tell an amusing story and yet begin at a grave. It is cynical; but I hope that, after a few words of explanation, even tender souls will forgive me.
Severe and implacable Science has robbed many of us of the sweetest dream of life; her cruel hand has torn asunder that veil which has covered the destiny of living beings after death; and a dreadful, but more or less clear, perspective opens to every one who trusts to her proofs, instead of to old traditional, though pleasant, prejudices.
Why, then, should we lament at the grave of a man who believed—nay, what is more, who was convinced—that all that blesses or grieves us ends with death? Why mourn the death of a man who disliked sorrow more than the most bitter scorn, who, hating grief and tears from the depths of his soul, knew no sweeter sensation than that which arises from the knowledge that one’s endeavors have all been intended to drive away the most fearful demon of man’s soul,—grief?
The man of whom I speak had been a friend of mine from his early youth, and died—or, more correctly, was killed—in the battle of Königgrätz, as an officer of Prince Konstantin’s regiment. A Prussian sabre cut his skull in two.
His father was manager of Prince Kinsky’s garden. We were remote relations; and although my friend’s family was quite rich, while mine was poor, we lived in most intimate friendship for almost twenty years. We played together in childhood, and studied together in boyhood.
Our life and studies were as peculiar as our inclinations. At first we busied ourselves with everything that came into our hands; we examined, analyzed, and discussed whatever chance would bring us. Our debates were lively,—nay, impassioned. But the exchange of strange, often bizarre, opinions was pleasing and
