Samuele, you have been with me during the saddest days of my life. I cannot deny that all interest has gone out of living for me. I still believe, but I don't believe as I used to. Perhaps it was not right that I went through life as I did. Now I know that I rose up every morning full of unspeakable happiness. It seldom left me. I had never thought before that my beliefs in themselves were unbelievable. I used to boast that they were, but I did not know what I was saying. Now hours come to me when I hear a voice saying: There is no prayer. There is no God. There are people and trees, millions of them both, every moment dying.--You will come and see me again, won't you, Samuele? Have I made it very unpleasant for you in the house? When I reached my rooms in Rome I found three letters from the Cardinal asking me to come and see him at once. As I entered the gate he came toward me eagerly: How is she? Is she well? No, Father, she is in great trouble. Come inside, my son. I must speak to you. When we entered his study, he closed his door behind him, and said with great emotion: I want to say to you that I have sinned, greatly sinned. I cannot rest until I have tried to repair the harm I have done. Look, look at this letter she has written me. Yes, I have seen it. Her letter forbids my explaining what I meant. Is there no way I can reassure her? There is only one way now. You must regain all her confidence before you touch on such matters again. You must come and go about her house as though nothing had happened-- Oh, but she will never ask me again! Yes, she is having you all to dinner quite soon, Alix, Donna Leda, and M. Bogard. Thanks be to God! I thank Thee, I thank Thee, I thank Thee, I thank Thee ... May I speak quite boldly, Eminence? Yes. I am a poor old man, all mistakes. Speak to me as you like. If you go, take great care not to let slip any remark on religious matters. I beg of you, do _not_ try to reinstate yourself with some orthodox comments. She might misunderstand one little word and think you were attacking her faith again. It is very serious. Your ideas are not orthodox, Father, and if you said an orthodox thing it would not sound sincere and that would be worst of all. But if you come and go simply and affectionately, she will lose her horror of you-- Horror of me! Yes, and very gradually, perhaps after a year, you may be able-- But I may not live a year! _Es muss sein!_ This struck him as humorous and ruefully he sang Beethoven's phase, adding: All the avenues of life lead to that. [Illustration]