"It was rather."
"Yes. I was pretty bad in other ways as well, which I'll tell you of afterwards. At present this is just physical. I had an awful dread all the time in my mind what this might be, though I kept saying it was indigestion. Then I went down to Rome and saw Schiavetti, the doctor. And I can't describe to you—though it may sound odd—what a relief it was to know for certain that my fears were correct. The worst I had feared was true, but anyhow, the fear, the apprehension were gone. When you are up against a thing, you may dislike it very much, but you don't fear the possibility of it any longer. It's there; and nothing, even the worst, is as bad as suspense. I've got cancer."
He looked radiantly at me.
"That was one relief," he said, "and on the top of it came another. It was quite impossible to operate. I needn't be afraid of being cut about. All the surgery that I have had or will have is the morphia needle, which, when you are in bad pain, is neither more nor less than heaven. But I haven't wanted the morphia needle for the last fortnight, and they think I shan't want it again. After a few horrible weeks the pain grew much less, and then ceased altogether. I doze and sleep most of the time now, and when I wake it is to an ecstasy. I don't want to die, it isn't that, and I don't want to live. But that complete absence of desire isn't apathy at all. It's just the divinest content you can imagine. It's true that I wanted to see you, and here you are."
An idea suddenly struck me.
"Then there's something happened to you," said I, "which is not physical."
"Ah! I wondered if you would think of that. Guess once more."
It was no question of guessing; I knew.
"You have passed through the dark night of the soul."
He laughed.