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They dress me, and undress me, and look after
me like a child. The kind sister takes a fancy
to me, treats me like a baby, calls me “my
child,” while I call her “mother.”
But it does me good to be able to say this
word “mother,” which has not passed my lips
for thirty years. The old lady, an Augustine
nun, who wears the garb of the dead, because
she has never lived, is mild as resignation itself,
and teaches us to smile at our sufferings as
though they were joys, for she knows the
beneficial effects of pain. She does not utter a word
of reproof nor admonition nor sermonising.
She knows the regulations of the ordinary
hospitals so well that she can allow small
liberties to the patients, though not to herself.
She permits me to smoke in my room, and offers
to make my cigarettes herself; this, however, I
decline. She procures for me permission to go
out beyond the regulated limits of time. When
she discovers that I am actively interested in
chemistry, she takes me to the learned apothecary
of the hospital. He lends me books, and
invites me, when I acquaint him with my theory
of the composite character of so-called simple
bodies, to work in his laboratory. This nun has
had a great influence on my life. I begin to
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