  This is the last day for me. Tomorrow at this time many hours will have passed since the iron door of my cell was unlocked and I was taken along the corridors of the prison and across the yard to the place of execution. Already I shall know for myself what lies on the other side, I shall have ceased forever, I hope, to count the bars of my iron door, my sole occupation and the one thing which keeps me from thinking too much of the past, so bitter. Why did they come today. Did they think they would ease my pain, did they think it was charity to play for us, here in the prison. At first their music only irritated me and kept me from counting properly the iron bars. Then it enraged me, that woman with the soprano voice— But I counted my iron bars— Suddenly the pain, worse than any I had ever known,—remorse, sorrow, longing,—crowded into my soul. I felt as if I should die. A man at the piano was playing the melody my mother most often played. My agony was beyond bearing. Repentance again swept over me, and eased me. It had been many years since I had heard that old-fashioned tune. At the first chord on the piano a flood of I was once more a boy, in the library at home—lighted lamps and the curtains drawn—a fire blazed and crackled My younger brothers sat on the floor near it, amusing themselves by fancying they saw monsters and castles in the depths of the flames. My father was there My sisters and my mother too. Oh, misericorde! What pain at the sight of her— She is there now— before me at the piano, and I hear that melody. And who is that boy sitting there, His boyish soul is clean. I am sorrowful unto madness. I may not live to see the hour of dawn, The hour of execution. This grief will kill me Long since the musicians have returned to their homes, I still hear it, note for note. Mother to welcome me Peace in my soul. Forgive, Great Master, forgive Thy wandering sheep! I have strayed, my Lord, far— I repent—I come |
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