Life had
recovered its regular rhythm. "One must live!" said the people, and the
struggle for existence filled their thoughts with its immediate urgency.
Those whose relatives were in the army, were still thinking of them, but
their occupations were so blunting the edge of memory, that they were
becoming accustomed to their absence, regarding the unusual as the
normal condition. At first, the war made sleep out of the question, food
impossible to swallow, and embittered every pleasure with its funereal
pall. Now the shops were slowly opening, money was in circulation, and
people were able to laugh; they talked of the great calamity, but only
at certain hours, as something that was going to be long, very long and
would exact great resignation to its inevitable fatalism.
"Humanity accustoms itself easily to trouble," said Argensola, "provided
that the trouble lasts long enough. . . . In this lies our strength."
Don Marcelo was not in sympathy with the general resignation. The
war was going to be much shorter than they were all imagining. His
enthusiasm had settled on a speedy termination;--within the next three
months, the next Spring probably; if peace were not declared in the
Spring, it surely would be in the Summer.
A new talker took part in these conversations. Desnoyers had become
acquainted with the Russian neighbor of whom Argensola had so frequently
spoken.
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