I don’t know what would have become of me if I had not been a reading boy.  My prep. finished I would have had nothing to do but sit and watch the awful stillness of the sick room flow out through the closed door and coldly enfold my scared heart.  I suppose that in a futile childish way I would have gone crazy.  But I was a reading boy.  There were many books about, lying on consoles, on tables, and even on the floor, for we had not had time to settle down.  I read!  What did I not read!  Sometimes the elder nun, gliding up and casting a mistrustful look on the open pages, would lay her hand lightly on my head and suggest in a doubtful whisper, “Perhaps it is not very good for you to read these books.”  I would raise my eyes to her face mutely, and with a vague gesture of giving it up she would glide away.

Later in the evening, but not always, I would be permitted to tip-toe into the sick room to say good-night to the figure prone on the bed, which often could not acknowledge my presence but by a slow movement of the eyes, put my lips dutifully to the nerveless hand lying on the coverlet, and tip-toe out again.  Then I would go to bed, in a room at the end of the corridor, and often, not always, cry myself into a good sound sleep.

I looked forward to what was coming with an incredulous terror.  I turned my eyes from it sometimes with success, and yet all the time I had an awful sensation of the inevitable.  I had also moments of revolt which stripped off me some of my simple trust in the government of the universe.  But when the inevitable entered the sick room and the white door was thrown wide open, I don’t think I found a single tear to shed.  I have a suspicion that the Canon’s housekeeper looked on me as the most callous little wretch on earth.

The day of the funeral came in due course and all the generous “Youth of the Schools,” the grave Senate of the University, the delegations of the Trade-guilds, might have obtained (if they cared) de visu evidence of the callousness of the little wretch.  There was nothing in my aching head but a few words, some such stupid sentences as, “It’s done,” or, “It’s accomplished” (in Polish it is much shorter), or something of the sort, repeating itself endlessly.  The long procession moved out of the narrow street, down a long street, past the Gothic front of St. Mary’s under its unequal towers, towards the Florian Gate.

In the moonlight-flooded silence of the old town of glorious tombs and tragic memories, I could see again the small boy of that day following a hearse; a space kept clear in which I walked alone, conscious of an enormous following, the clumsy swaying of the tall black machine, the chanting of the surpliced clergy at the head, the flames of tapers passing under the low archway of the gate, the rows of bared heads on the pavements with fixed, serious eyes.  Half the population had turned out on that fine May afternoon.  They had not come to honour a great achievement, or even some splendid failure.  The dead and they were victims alike of an unrelenting destiny which cut them off from every path of merit and glory.  They had come only to render homage to the ardent fidelity of the man whose life had been a fearless confession in word and deed of a creed which the simplest heart in that crowd could feel and understand.