was infinitely dearer to me than all his talent.  I found him, not thinner, for that was impossible, but weaker.  His strength sank, his life faded visibly.  He embraced me with affection and with tears in his eyes, thinking not of his own pain but of mine; he spoke of my poor friend Eduard Worte, whom I had just lost, you know how.  (He was shot, a martyr of liberty, at Vienna, November 10, 1848.)

I availed myself of his softened mood to speak to him about his soul.  I recalled his thoughts to the piety of his childhood and of his beloved mother.  “Yes,” he said, “in order not to offend my mother I would not die without the sacraments, but for my part I do not regard them in the sense that you desire.  I understand the blessing of confession in so far as it is the unburdening of a heavy heart into a friendly hand, but not as a sacrament.  I am ready to confess to you if you wish it, because I love you, not because I hold it necessary.”  Enough:  a crowd of anti-religious speeches filled me with terror and care for this elect soul, and I feared nothing more than to be called to be his confessor.

Several months passed with similar conversations, so painful to me, the priest and the sincere friend.  Yet I clung to the conviction that the grace of God would obtain the victory over this rebellious soul, even if I knew not how.  After all my exertions, prayer remained my only refuge.

On the evening of October 12 I had with my brethren retired to pray for a change in Chopin’s mind, when I was summoned by orders of the physician, in fear that he would not live through the night.  I hastened to him.  He pressed my hand, but bade me at once to depart, while he assured me he loved me much, but did not wish to speak to me.

Imagine, if you can, what a night I passed!  Next day was the 13th, the day of St. Edward, the patron of my poor brother.  I said mass for the repose of his soul and prayed for Chopin’s soul.  “My God,” I cried, “if the soul of my brother Edward is pleasing to thee, give me, this day, the soul of Frederic.”

  In double distress I then went to the melancholy abode of our
  poor sick man.

I found him at breakfast, which was served as carefully as ever, and after he had asked me to partake I said:  “My friend, today is the name day of my poor brother.”  “Oh, do not let us speak of it!” he cried.  “Dearest friend,” I continued, “you must give me something for my brother’s name day.”  “What shall I give you?” “Your soul.”  “Ah!  I understand.  Here it is; take it!”

At these words unspeakable joy and anguish seized me.  What should I say to him?  What should I do to restore his faith, how not to lose instead of saving this beloved soul?  How should I begin to bring it back to God?  I flung myself on my knees, and after a moment of collecting my thoughts I cried in the depths of my heart, “Draw