surrounded forever with a gentle poesy. These words were:
"Joy of all the afflicted!"
Sometimes, in painful moments, he whispered, without praying, without even accounting to himself for what he was doing: "Joy of all the afflicted!" And then he suddenly felt relieved; he had a desire to approach someone who was dear to him and complain gently:
"Our life! . . . but is it really a life? Say, my dear, it is really a life?"
And then suddenly he felt himself ridiculous; he would have liked to bare his breast and ask someone to beat it.
He had spoken to no one, not even to his best comrades, of his "Joy of all the afflicted!" He seemed to know nothing of it himself, so deeply hidden was it in his soul. And he evoked it rarely, with precaution.
Now that the fear of the unfathomable mystery which was rising before him completely covered him, as the water covers the plants on the bank when the tide is rising, he had a desire to pray. He wanted to fall upon his knees, but was seized with shame before the sentinel; so, with hands clasped upon his breast, he murmured in a low voice:
"Joy of all the afflicted!"
And he repeated with anxiety, in a tone of supplication:
"Joy of all the afflicted, descend into me, sustain me!"
Something moved softly. It seemed to him that a sorrowful and gentle force hovered in the distance and then vanished, without illuminating the shades of the agony.
