his mug; on it was depicted an anchor, a heart and a cross. “That’s faith, love and hope. Don’t cry any more.” He stood over the fire with his hands clasped. “Dear one, dear one,” he said softly, “you will not achieve the highest and you will not release everything. You tried to tear yourself to pieces by force, but you have remained whole and you will neither save the world nor smash it to pieces. Much in you will remain closed up, like fire in a stove; that is good, it is sacrifice. You wanted to do too great things, and you will instead do small ones. That is good.”
Prokop knelt down in front of the fire, not daring to raise his eyes. He knew now that it was God the Father who was speaking to him.
“It is good,” he whispered.
“It is good. You will do things which will help people. He whose thoughts are full of the highest turns away his eyes from people. Instead you will serve them.”
“That is good,” whispered Prokop, on his knees.
“Now you see,” said the old man, pleased, and squatted down on his heels. “Tell me, what’s this—what do you call it? Your invention?”
Prokop raised his head. “I’ve . . . forgotten.”
“That doesn’t matter,” the old man reassured him. “You'll take up other things. Wait a moment, what was it I was going to say? Aha! Why was there such a great explosion? That’s more people injured. But look about and search; perhaps you’ll find . . . well, perhaps only such pf-pf-pf,” he said, blowing out his soft cheeks, “you see? So that it should only be puf-puf . . . and do some-
