Death is such a gulf, and though we know that all have to go thither, yet when it swallows up one of our dear ones, we who remain on the brink are torn with fear, sorrow, and despair.  On that brink all reasoning leaves us, and we only cry out for help which cannot come from anywhere.  The only solace and comfort lies in faith, but he who is deprived of that light gets well-nigh maddened by the impenetrable darkness.  Ten times a day it seems to me impossible, too horrible, that death should be the end of everything,—­and then again, a dozen times I feel that such is the case.

23 March.

When I arrived from Ploszow I found my father so much better that it never even entered my mind that the end could be so near.  What strange twists there are in the human mind.  God knows how sincerely I rejoiced when I found my father so much better than I had thought, and yet because throughout that anxious journey I had fancied him sick unto death, and already saw myself kneeling at his coffin, I was sorry for my wasted anxieties.  Now the memory of this fills me with keen remorse.

How thoroughly unhappy is the individual whose heart and soul have lost their simplicity.  Thus not less bitter, not less of a reproach is the remembrance that at my father’s deathbed there were two persons in me:  one of them the son full of anguish, who gnawed his hands to keep back his sobs; the other the philosopher, who studied the psychology of death.  I am unutterably unhappy because my nature is an unhappy one.

My father died with full consciousness.  Saturday evening he felt a little worse.  I sent for the doctor, that he might be at hand in case we should want him.  The doctor prescribed some physic, and my father, according to his habit, disputed the point, demonstrating that the physic would bring on a stroke.  The doctor calmed my fears, and said though there was always fear of another stroke, he saw no immediate danger, and that my father most likely would live for many years to come.  He repeated the same to the patient, who, hearing of the many years to come, incredulously shook his head and said:  “We will see.”  As he has always been in the habit of contradicting his doctors, and proving to them that they know nothing, I did not take his words seriously.  Towards ten at night, when taking his tea, he suddenly rose and called out:—­

“Leon, come here, quick!”

A quarter of an hour later he was in his bed, and within an hour he was dying.

24 March.

I am convinced that people preserve their idiosyncracies and originality to the last minute of their life.  Thus my father, in the solemn dignity of thoughts at the approaching end, still showed a gratified vanity that he, and not the doctor, had been right, and that his unbelief in medicine was well founded.  I listened to what he said, and besides, read his thoughts in his face.  He was deeply impressed with the importance of the moment; there was also curiosity as to the