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made him angry, and he said something profane about the
church. He grew thoughtful, however; he guessed at once
that he was seriously ill, and that that was why his moth-
er was begging him to confess and take the sacrament. He
had been aware, indeed, for a long time past, that he was
far from well, and had a year before coolly observed at din-
ner to your mother and me, ‘My life won’t be long among
you, I may not live another year,’ which seemed now like a
prophecy.
Three days passed and Holy Week had come. And on
Tuesday morning my brother began going to church. ‘I am
doing this simply for your sake, mother, to please and com-
fort you,’ he said. My mother wept with joy and grief. ‘His
end must be near,’ she thought, ‘if there’s such a change in
him.’ But he was not able to go to church long, he took to his
bed, so he had to confess and take the sacrament at home.
It was a late Easter, and the days were bright, fine, and
full of fragrance. I remember he used to cough all night
and sleep badly, but in the morning he dressed and tried
to sit up in an arm-chair. That’s how I remember him sit-
ting, sweet and gentle, smiling, his face bright and joyous,
in spite of his illness. A marvellous change passed over him,
his spirit seemed transformed. The old nurse would come
in and say, ‘Let me light the lamp before the holy image, my
dear.’ And once he would not have allowed it and would
have blown it out.
‘Light it, light it, dear, I was a wretch to have prevented
you doing it. You are praying when you light the lamp, and
I am praying when I rejoice seeing you. So we are praying