‘And while in that state of doubt and disillusion, I was overtaken by a cruel moral crisis. I wallowed in the Slough of Despond. One of my friends lived at Bordeaux; I went to stay with him, and it was there that, by God’s grace, I received a letter from Claudel. Such an admirable letter, full of consolation and instruction! I was struck by it. And I pondered it in my heart. “If this dear life,” said I, “that I so love, remains a riddle, if there is no answer to our questions, then away with it! Life is a horror, a madhouse!” I went to the Cathedral, and for a long while I wept; the miracle of grace began to operate in my soul. ‘I returned to my home at Orthez. That which Claudel’s letter had begun, speech with Claudel was to effectuate. He came; he spoke to me of religion like a great philosopher, like a man of science, too; and we prayed together. I was in the bottom of the pit, dying, dejected. On the 7th of July, 1905, I went to confession, I received the Communion; Claudel, my guardian angel, served the Mass. Since then I have found all that I missed in life; I have recovered my delight. After the harshest solitudes I have come to a place of certainty: I am a Catholic!’ (And M. Jammes flings this cry forth into space, like a chant of triumph.) ‘A real thorough-going Catholic?’ said I; ‘absolute, obedient faith?’ ‘The faith of a cobbler! I am no neo-Christian; I practise all the precepts of the Church I know. You smile (I used to smile) at certain observances. The Church would not have enjoined them if all the faithful stood on the intellectual level of a Pascal or a Claudel. But humanity is not made up of Pascals and Claudels. These minor practices are just knots in our handkerchief, lest we forget! The Church thinks them necessary; I bow to her decision. I know this attitude seems disconcerting to certain persons, who really are not Catholics at all, but would like to exploit the Church in favour of a political system. But, when the flame of faith is lit in our hearts, we scorn to be the catspaw of a politician. We are just Catholics.’ ‘You speak as though you were sure of possessing Truth itself!’ ‘So I am; Truth is my heritage, since I find my security so good! Nothing in Life is comparable to the happiness which I derive from my religion; it is dearer to me than life itself! I was as an orchard harassed by the wind; and now I am an orchard golden with ripe fruit.’ So spake Francis Jammes. I smiled the slight smile of the sceptic. The poet glanced at me with an infinite generosity. ‘I wish you the same happiness!’ he said. Elie-Joseph Bois, _Le Temps_. _Nov. 3, 1913._