There was no quarrel, no scene between us, no rupture.
I said to him only a single, really harmless word, but nevertheless it was the moment when an illusion between us fell in colored pieces.
The presentiment had for some time already oppressed me, but one Sunday in his scholarly old room this presentiment changed to a definite feeling.
We were lying on the floor before the fire. He was speaking of mysteries and religious forms which he was studying, and on which he was meditating.
He occupied himself with trying to picture their possible future. To me all this seemed curious and interesting, but scarcely of vital importance.
It smacked of erudition. It was like a fatiguing search among the ruins of former worlds.
And all at once I felt an aversion from the whole business, from this cult of mythology,
from this sort of piecing together, this mosaic work of religious forms which had been handed down to posterity.
"Pistorius," I said suddenly, in a malicious outburst which surprised and frightened even myself,
"relate a dream, a real dream, one that you have had in the night.
What you have just been talking about is so—so cursedly antiquarian!"
He had never heard me speak thus. With shame and terror I realized the very same moment
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