So let us carry on through these circumvolutions of the ecclesiastical brain, on the trail of the noun seeking an adjective. Sílvio calls to Sílvia. Listen: in the distance it sounds like someone else is whispering; lo, it is Sílvia calling to Sílvio.

Now they can hear each other and they begin to seek each other out. What a difficult and intricate path this is, in a brain so chock-full of things old and new! There is such a hubbub of ideas in here that it almost drowns out their voices; let us not lose sight of ardent Sílvio over there, going up and down, slipping and jumping; when he stumbles, he grabs hold of some Latin roots over there, he leans against a psalm, yonder he climbs aboard a pentameter, and on he goes, carried along by an irresistible inner force.

From time to time, a lady—another adjective—appears to him and offers him her graces ancient or modern; but, alas, she is not the right one, not the one and only, the one destined ab eterno for this union. And so Sílvio carries on, looking for that special one. Pass by, ye eyes of every hue, ye shapes of every caste, ye hairstyles fit for Day or Night; die without an echo, sweet ballads yearningly played upon the eternal violin; Sílvio is not asking for any old love, casual or anonymous; he is asking for one specific love, named and predestined.

Don’t be frightened, reader; it’s nothing to worry about, it’s just the canon standing up, going over to the window, and taking a break from all his labors. While he’s there he forgets about the sermon and about everything else. The parrot on its perch beside the window repeats its usual words to him and, out in the courtyard, the peacock puffs himself up in the morning sun. The sun, for its part, recognizing the canon, sends him one of its faithful rays as a greeting. The ray arrives and stops in front of the window: “Illustrious canon, I bring you the compliments of the sun, my lord and father.” Thus all of nature seems to applaud the return of that galley-slave of the mind. He himself rejoices, gazes up at the pure air and feasts his eyes on greenery and freshness, all to the sound of a little bird and a piano. Then he speaks to the parrot, calls to the gardener, blows his nose, rubs his hands, and leans forward. He has forgotten all about Sílvio and Sílvia.