His father’s death was always regarded by him as flowing from a direct and supernatural decree. It visited his meditations oftener than it did mine. The traces which it left were more gloomy and permanent. This new incident had a visible effect in augmenting his gravity. He was less disposed than formerly to converse and reading. When we sifted his thoughts, they were generally found to have a relation, more or less direct, with this incident. It was difficult to ascertain the exact species of impression which it made upon him. He never introduced the subject into conversation, and listened with a silent and half-serious smile to the satirical effusions of Pleyel.
One evening we chanced to be alone together in the temple. I seized that opportunity of investigating the state of his thoughts. After a pause, which he seemed in no wise inclined to interrupt, I spoke to him—“How almost palpable is this dark; yet a ray from above would dispel it.” “Ay,” said Wieland, with fervor, “not only the physical, but moral night would be dispelled.” “But why,” said I, “must the Divine Will address its precepts to the eye?” He smiled significantly. “True,” said he, “the understanding has other avenues.” “You have never,” said I, approaching nearer to the point—“you have never told me in what way you considered the late extraordinary incident.” “There is no determinate way in which the subject can be viewed. Here is an effect, but the cause is utterly inscrutable. To suppose a deception will not do. Such is possible, but there are twenty other suppositions more probable. They must all be set aside before we reach that point.” “What are these twenty suppositions?” “It is needless to mention them. They are only less improbable than Pleyel’s. Time may convert one of them into certainty. Till then it is useless to expatiate on them.”