“I know that you knew. I know that you had a vision of Him, that you saw where you yourself had failed to understand, and that you would not acknowledge your own new understanding--which came too late.” “You know too much,” he said. “You asked me to be your judge,” I retorted. “But not my executioner.” “You have been your own executioner, and the executioner of your people.” “My people!” His tone was scornful. “Did I not say that you had no love?” I demanded. “And what do you now bid me do?” “Go back to the earth, and teach mankind how man can surpass himself. Go back to the earth, and teach men to follow the carpenter’s Son whom you taught them to despise. Go back to Germany, and repudiate yourself.” “And how shall I go back?” “In another body, of course, a clean and wholesome body, which you are to keep clean.” “What do you mean?” “You know very well what I mean! I have told you that you had no love. You had only fastidiousness, and arrogance, and the desire for sensation.” “You have set me a hard task,” he said. “Eternity is long,” I replied, “and the new Germany will have need of your new teaching.” “Shall I thank you?” he asked. “There is no need. It is I who thank you for not appealing from my decision.” “Good night,” he said. “Good night,” I repeated. And the soul of Friedrich Nietzsche passed on. Was it toward the gate of rebirth? _June 1._ LETTER XLVI THE ENTERING WEDGE AFTER our writing of last night, in which I told you of the tortured soul who asked my judgment on a course of teaching which had corrupted a nation, I went back to the battle line in France. (The Germans cannot sink me with their torpedoes.) Passing slowly along on the German side, I saw again the tall majestic form, dark-veiled about the head, which I described to you in a previous letter. This time I hailed him, without waiting for him to hail me. “How goes your work?” I asked. He threw back the veil which covered him, and I saw the dark and splendid face, marked deep by thought and evil. “My work goes as it goes,” he answered. “And what have you been doing?” “Writing to the world this evening,” I replied. He laughed. “Have you been writing about peace?” “Not this time. I have been writing about a conversation I had with a great and troubled soul.” “Yes, I know.” “You know, do you? Were you listening?” “Through my long-distance telephone.” “Brilliant invention, the telephone,” I observed. “Did you inspire the invention?” “I? Oh, no! I worked against it.” “And why?” “It is not well that man should know too much.” “But when man makes discoveries, notwithstanding your efforts to hinder him, you attempt to use those discoveries against him, do you not?” “Of course.” “You interest me,” I said. “And were you interested by my conversation with the soul of Friedrich Nietzsche?” “More interested than you can imagine, until I tell you why.” “And you will tell me why?”