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I hurry down the Boulevard back to the plague-stricken
hospital. There at last, and only there,
in my cell, I feel at home. When I reflect on
my lot, I recognise again that invisible Hand
which scourges and chastises without my knowing
its object. Does it grant me fame and at
the same time deny me an honourable position
in the world? Must I be humbled in order to
be lifted up, made low in order to be raised
high? The thought keeps on recurring: “Providence
is planning something with thee, and this
is the beginning of thy education.”
In February I leave the hospital, uncured, but
healed from the temptations of the world. At
parting I wished to kiss the hand of the faithful
Mother, who, without speaking many words,
has taught me the way of the Cross, but a feeling
of reverence, as if before something holy, kept
me back. May she now in spirit receive this
expression of thanks from a stranger, whose
traces have been lost in distant lands.
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