[opp. 168]
Ninth Drawing
[One Hundred Sixty-nine]
[IX]
he last entry in the Journal of Mallare—undated.
“Talk to me, Mallare. Tell me. Where am I? He grows larger, this dumb one. He moves away, growing larger. He defies distance. He grows too large to see. But his tears remain.
“Whisper to me, Mallare. He vanishes and I must sneak after him. Call me back. He is strange. His darkness lures me out of my heaven. A little whisper will save me. You will say to me, ‘Here is God.’ I will come back.
“My words tire of him. He will not listen. His tears! dear God, are You so human that [One Hundred Seventy] they silence You? He has come into my loneliness. And there is no use debating with him any longer. Since he followed me home in the snow his weeping has never wavered. I must talk not to him but to Mallare. I must debate with Mallare. But where is he, this Supreme One? Mallare, where art thou?