August 1739
VeniceI continued my visits to Rachel, who now had lived in L'Ospedale for three years. Her physical condition had worsened, although her mood was often imbued with a childlike quality. She would want to play little games of dice and smooth stones, and she would talk of music as if it emanated from the ceiling.
“Is there still music?” she continued to ask. By this time, I didn't want to answer because I couldn't tell whether she was talking in general about the world of music, or whether I, too, heard it from above.
“How is he?” she asked.
I flinched at the question. There had been isolated incidents of the rosebud and note, some seen directly by me and some mentioned by nursemaids in the hallway when I approached. If my wife retained only some memories of life, I wanted th
