And finally, I simply cannot help believing, for my soul
is weary with waiting and repeating together with the great Jewish
poet: "How long, how long, how long?"
An aged journalist, who, it seems, has lost all fervour and faith, has
recently laughed in his sleeve at the word "miracle," which nowadays
comes so often to our lips: according to him, miracles, generally
speaking, do not exist. It is my opinion also that there are no
miracles, if we understand by a miracle an arbitrary violation of the
natural, logical, inevitable order of things. But to him who
contemplates life proper, not the table of multiplication,--logic
itself appears as the greatest of all miracles. Oh, if logic would
really reign supreme in life; oh, if in our cursed human existence,
where there are so many aimless and unnecessary sorrows and tears and
wild outrages, the simplest "two and two is four" would not be the
rarest of miracles, equal to the transubstantiation of water into
precious wine. Would millions of individually innocent human beings
perish in this most terrible of wars, if instead of a dark and
terrible _alogism_ a clear and lucid syllogism lay at the basis of our
intricate and enigmatical existence? It is logic that is the true
miracle, and "two and two is four" is that extraordinary happiness,
which falls so seldom to our lot!
And just as I rejoiced as at miracles, at Russia's achievement of
temperance, and Poland's rebirth in the same way, I now marvel at the
coming solution of the "Jewish question," the immemorial and darkest
of alogisms.
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