er was and
what he could be looking like. And in that prayer for my father, which
was also an act of obedience to my mother, I think I took the first step
towards the monastic life. For I remember that then, for the first time,
I was conscious of a great sense of responsibility. My mother's command
made me say to myself, 'Then perhaps my prayer can do something in
heaven. Perhaps a prayer from me can make God wish to do something He
had not wished to do before.' That was a tremendous thought! It excited
me terribly. I remember my cheeks burned as I prayed, and that I was hot
all over as if I had been running in the sun. From that day my mother
and I seemed to be much nearer together than we had ever been before. I
had a twin brother to whom I was devoted, and who was devoted to me.
But he took after my father. Religious things, ceremonies, church music,
processions--even the outside attractions of the Catholic Church, which
please and stimulate emotional people who have little faith--never meant
much to him. All his attention was firmly fixed upon the life of the
present. He was good to my mother and loved her devotedly, as he loved
me, but he never pretended to be what he was not. And he was never a
Catholic. He was never anything.

"My father had originally come to Africa for his health, which needed a
warm climate. He had some money and bought large tracts of land suitable
for vineyards. Indeed, he sunk nearly his whole fortune in land. I told
you, Domini, that the vines were devoured by the phylloxera. Most of
the money was lost. When my father died we were left very poor. We lived
quietly in a little village--I told you its name, I told you that part
of my life, all I dared tell, Domini--but now--why did I enter the
monastery? I was very young when I became a novice, just seventeen. You
are thinking, Domini, I know, that I was too young to know what I was
doing, that I had no vocation, that I was unfitted for the monastic
life. It seems so. The whole world would think so. And yet--how am I
to tell you? Even now I feel that then I had the vocation, that I was
fitted to enter the monastery, that I ought to have made a faithful
and devoted monk. My mother wished the life for me, but it was not only
that. I wished it for myself then. With my whole heart I wished it. I
knew nothing of the world. My youth had been one of absolute purity. And
I did not feel longings after the unknown. My mother's influence upon me
was str