had a beginning? What did he know about it?
He was conscious that someone had held a mirror in front of his mouth. Someone, the physician no doubt, said solemnly:
"He's gone!"
And Van Mitten knew that the person was right. He knew that an eternally valid change had taken place, that he was now what men call dead. He said to himself–and he realized perfectly well that he no longer had any voice, any lips, to say it with–he repeated to himself: "Now I shall know! Now I shall know everything!" But he was filled with an immense astonishment to discover that he did not know. He did not know anything at all! Death had torn away no veil. The mystery of things remained intact, impenetrable–just as it had been before!
He was bewildered, baffled, helpless with perplexity.
"What is this?" he said to himself. "What is this?–I am dead. There is no doubt about that. I am completely, thoroughly, irrevocably dead. I am not annihilated–I am still I, just the same–I still have being, I am immortal–but what a strange sort of being it is! I can't see, I can't hear, I can't feel, I can't remember.–What is this, what is this?" What am I?–What was I? Where did I come from?"
He was plunged into an ocean of ignorance. He tried hard to think, he had the power of effort and he made use of that power, he seemed to himself like a bird fluttering against the bars of his cage. Then it seemed to him that he saw the reason for his helplessness.
"My memory–my memory was left behind–so of course–well, even if it is gone, I am still a person, I am still myself."
Now he realized that it was impossible, that his speculations could arrive nowhere. He surrendered, completely. He understood that it could not be otherwise. His memory belonged to his past, to his completely separate past, his past which was in no sense he any longer. He should never be able to remember his past life, he should never be able to know that he had been something before, something different–a thing, even a person–in the past that was past for ever and ever.
All of a sudden he discovered that he was very, very tired. He relaxed and let himself sink, physically as well as mentally. And under him, he had a confused feeling that springs were yielding, the springs of a soft bed. Was he dead no longer? Dead? What did the word mean? Nothing, nothing at all. He readied out his hands–by what miracle did he have hands, and could he thrust them out?–he felt clumsily of smooth, braided willow work, to the right, to the left, braided osier walls–he tried to speak, but could not–he had no words–he had no thoughts, even–he could remember nothing–he knew nothing–it was all strange to him, all new, prodigiously new and difficult.
Yet he had a voice. He could make a so and. His voice sounded like:
"Wah!… wah!… wah!"
Someone came to him. A voice called, hopeful, troubled:
"Is he all right? I thought I heard him crying."
And another voice replied:
"He's hungry, that's what's the matter with him! He's fit as a fiddle, bless his heart! I'll bring him to you so he can get his dinner!"
And the person who had been Van Mitten, who had grown old and died and been born again, sucked down his fill of mother's milk and went to sleep again.
