then the kerchiefs flashed into flames of blue, and red, and yellow,
which but for the coffin and the incense of juniper berries, made the
procession rather look like a wedding than a funeral. Death does not
seem to make much impression upon the rustic mind; perhaps they regard
it in the light of an everlasting holiday. As we stood by the open
grave, I noticed their faces following the ceremony with concentrated
attention and curiosity; but I saw no trace of thoughtfulness or
reflection at the inexorable end, after which begins the great,
terrible Unknown.

I looked at Aniela as she stooped for a handful of soil to throw upon
the lowered coffin. She was paler than usual, and with the sun shining
upon her I could read the transparent features as an open book. I was
certain she was thinking of her own death. To me it seemed simply
monstrous, a horrible improbability, that this face so full of
expression, so full of life and charming individuality, should at some
time be stony white and remain in eternal darkness.

And as if a sudden frost had nipped all my thoughts, I grew suddenly
conscious that the first ceremony I assisted at with Aniela was a
funeral. As a person in long sickness, having lost faith in medicine,
turns to quack doctors and wise women, so the sick soul, doubting
everything, still clings to certain superstitions.

Probably no one is so near the gulf of mysticism as the absolute
sceptic. Those who have lost faith in religious and sociological
ideals, those whose belief in the power of science and the human
intellect is shaken, that whole mass of highly cultured people,
uncertain of their way, deprived of all dogmas, hopelessly struggling
in the dark, drift more and more towards mysticism. It seems to spring
up everywhere,--the usual reaction of a society whose life is based
upon positivism, the overthrow of ideals, empty pleasures, and
soulless striving after gain. The human spirit begins to burst its
shell, which is too narrow, too much like a stock exchange. One epoch
draws to an end, and then appears a simultaneous evolution in all
directions. It has struck me often with amazement that, for instance,
the more recent great writers seem not to know how very close upon
mysticism they are. Some of them are conscious of it, and confess so
openly. In every book I opened lately, I found, not the human soul,
will, and personal passions, but merely fatal forces with all
the characteristics of terrible beings