He died long before she did, and he died without changing his
views. On his death-bed he told my mother that he was sure there was no
other life, that he was going to the dust. That made the agony of his
farewell. The certainty on his part that he and my mother were parting
for ever. I was a little boy at the time, but I remember that, when he
was dead, my mother said to me, 'Boris, pray for your father every day.
He is still alive.' She said nothing more, but I ran upstairs crying,
fell upon my knees and prayed--trying to think where my father 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.
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