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
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.
Afterwards she spoke to me long and tenderly,--a conversation full
of exceeding goodness, I took much amiss at the time, for which I am
sorry now. She did not mention Aniela's name,--spoke only of my future
loneliness, and insisted upon my coming to Ploszow; where, surrounded
by tender hearts, especially the one old heart which loved me beyond
everything on earth, I would feel less sad. I saw in all this only
her desire to continue her matchmaking; and in presence of my recent
bereavement this seemed to me improper, and irritated me very much. I
felt not inclined to think of the life before me, nor of love-speeches
or weddings, with the shadow of death across my path. I refused
peremptorily, even curtly; told my aunt I was going away,--most likely
to Corfu, then would come back to Rome in order to arrange my father's
affairs, and after that would come to Ploszow.
She did not insist upon having her own way. Feeling deeply for me, she
was even more gentle than usual, and left Rome three days after the
funeral. I did not go to Corfu; instead of that, Mr. and Mrs. Davis
carried me off to their villa at Peli, where I have been now for
several days. Whether Mrs. Davis is sincere or not I do not know, and
will not even enter upon that now; I know only that no sister could
have shown more sympathy and solicitude. With a nature poisoned by
scepticism, I am always prone to suspect and misjudge those around me;
but if it should be proved that I misjudged this woman, I should feel
truly guilty,--because her goodness to me is quite extraordinary.