future life,—­not a shadow of doubt as to its existence, but rather a certain uneasiness about how he would be received, joined to an almost unconscious, unsophisticated belief that he would not be treated as a mere nobody in particular.  I shall never die like this, because I have no basis to uphold me in the hour of death.  My father parted with his life in absolute faith and the deep contrition of a true Christian.  At the moment when he received the last sacraments he was so venerable, so purely saintly, that his image will remain with me always.

How futile, how miserable, appears to me my scepticism in presence of that immense power of faith that, stronger even than love, triumphs over death at the very moment when it extinguishes life.  After having received the last sacraments, a great tenderness took possession of him.  He grasped my hand strongly, almost convulsively, and did not let it go again, as if through me he wanted to hold fast to life.  And yet it was neither fear nor despair that moved him, he was not in the least afraid.  Presently I saw the eyes riveted upon my face grow dim and fixed, his forehead became moist, as if covered by a gentle dew; he opened his mouth several times as if to catch his breath,—­sighed deeply once more,—­and died.

I was not present at the embalming of the body,—­I had not the strength; but after that I did not leave the dear remains for a minute, out of fear they might treat him as a thing of no consequence.  How truly awful are those last rites of death,—­the whole funereal paraphernalia, the candles, the misericordia, with the covered faces of the singers.  It still clings to my ears, the “Anima ejus,” and “Requiem aeternam.”  There breathes from it all the gloomy, awful spirit of Death.  We carried the remains to Santa Maria Maggiore, and there I looked for the last time at the dear, grand face.  The Campo Santo looks already like a green isle.  Spring is very early this year.  The trees are in bloom and the white marble monuments bathed in sunshine.  What an awful contrast, the young, nascent life, the budding trees, the birds in full song,—­and a funeral.  Crowds of people filled the cemetery, for my father was known for his benevolence in Rome as much as my aunt is at Warsaw.  All these people so full of life, as if reflecting the joys of spring, jarred upon my feelings.  Crowds, especially in Italy, consider everything as a spectacle got up for their special benefit, and even now their faces betrayed more curiosity to see a grand funeral than any sympathy.  Human selfishness knows no limit, and I am convinced that even people morally and intellectually educated, when following a funeral, feel a kind of unconscious satisfaction that this has happened to somebody else, and it is not they who are to be interred.

My aunt arrived, as I had summoned her by telegram.  She, from the standpoint of faith, looks upon death as a change essentially for the better; therefore received the blow with far more calmness than I. This did not prevent her from, shedding bitter tears at her brother’s coffin.