Whenever I visited Westminster Abbey later on (I am glad to say I did that very often) I paid my homage first to the tombs, the old, old coronation chair, the famous stone beneath it, which is regarded as the stone on which Jacob had slept and dreamt his world-known dream, the Poets' Corner, and to countless other glorious things; after which I restrained no longer the sweet impatience of my heart, but slipped through the low wooden door into the convent garden. And seated there on one of the benches, with my eyes twinkling, because of the full, sudden glare of light, I used to weave some sweet sad tale of love around the sombre figure of a proud and handsome monk. Apart from these hours of so sweet, restful, and contemplative a nature, every day was given up to work. I did all in my power to acquaint myself most thoroughly with a knowledge of the English language, and made such good progress that I began to compose my verses in English. It is true that these poems will most probably never secure me the gratitude of the English people, but nevertheless they pleased me much, and my friend too expressed his satisfaction with them. He also sometimes asked me now what I was going to do after I had passed my examination, whether I was intending to stay in England or to go somewhere else. But to these questions I never wrote any answer, and when I had to do so at last, a similar cowardice got hold of me to that which possessed St. Peter when he denied his Master. "Do you think that I may come back?" I asked him. Later on I went to post the lines, and when I returned to my room I found all the old well-known witches again. "Is not something that is good beyond questioning--not clear as the purest water?" Thus they whispered into my ear high and low in every scale, and beside that whisper I could hear the church bell strike every hour of the night. The days seemed to creep to the thrilling impatience within me, and sometimes I felt a sudden terror at an unknown dread. "What will he write to me? And when will he write?" I asked myself over and over again. His letter arrived at last; it was put in a blue envelope and felt like a weight of lead in my hand. I could not make up my mind to open it, and wished somehow that I had not yet received it. Tearing open the envelope at last, I read the letter, read it again and again. When I dropped the neatly written sheets, there was a dead stillness in the room. Involuntarily I looked around me. All the evil spirits had gone. All fear, all cowardice, all doubt had gone. Something like a cloud lifted from my soul, and then a feeling rose up to which I could as yet give no name, a feeling which tumbled about within me like someone aroused from a dream, and finally pressed itself hard against my throat.