Toppi glanced at me sharply and sighed. Then he lapsed into thought...and strange as it may seem—something akin to a monkey appeared in his countenance, as in the cardinal’s. Later, from somewhere deep within him, there appeared a smile. It illumined his hanging nose, rose to his eyes and blazed forth within them in two bright, little flames, not devoid of wanton malice. I looked at him in astonishment and even with joy: yes that was my old Toppi, risen from his human grave.... I am convinced that his hair again has the smell of fur instead of oil! Gently I kissed his brow—old habits cannot be rooted out—and exclaimed:
“You are enchanting, Toppi! But what was it that gave you such joy?”
“I waited to see whether he would show Maria to the cardinal?”
“Well?”
“He did not!”
“Well?”
But Toppi remained silent. And as it had come so did the smile disappear, slowly: at first the hanging nose grew pale and became quite indistinct, then all at once the flames within his eyes went out—and again the old dejection, sourness and odor of church hypocrisy buried him who had been resurrected for a moment. It would have been useless to trouble the ashes with further questions.
This happened yesterday. A warm rain fell during the day but it cleared up towards evening and Magnus, weary and apparently suffering with headache, suggested that we take a ride into the Campagna. We left our chauffeur behind, a practice peculiar to all our intimate trips. His duties were performed by Magnus, with extraordinary skill and daring. On this occasion, his usual daring reached the point of audacity: despite the ever-thickening twilight and the muddy road, Magnus drove the automobile at such mad speed that more than once did I look up at his broad, motionless back. But that was only at first: the presence of Maria, whom I supported with my arm (I do not dare say embraced!) soon brought me to the loss of all my senses. I cannot describe it all to you—so that you would really feel it—the aromatic air of the Campagna, which caressed my face, the magnificence and charm of our arrow-like speed, my virtual loss of all sensation of material weight, of the complete disappearance of body, when I felt myself a speeding thought, a flying gaze....
But still less can I tell you of Maria. Her Madonna gaze whitened in the twilight, like marble; like the mysterious silence and perfect beauty of marble was her gentle, sweet and wise silence. I barely touched her slender, supple figure, but if I had been embracing within the hollow of my hand the entire firmness of earth and sky I could not have felt a more complete mastery of the whole world! Do you know what a line is in measurement? Not much,—is that not so? And it was only by the measure of a line that Maria bent her divine form to me—no, no more than that! But what would you say, man, if the sun, coming down from its course just one line were to come closer to you by that distance? Would you not consider it a miracle?
My existence seemed unbounded, like the universe, which knows neither your time nor distance. For a moment there gleamed before me the wall of my unconsciousness, that unconquerable barrier against which the spirit of him who has donned the human form beats in vain,—and as quickly did it disappear: it was swallowed, without sound or conflict, by the waves of my new sea. Even higher they rose, enshrouding the world. There was no longer anything to remember for me or to know: my new human soul remembered all and commanded all. I am a man!