Thursday, November 10th.
In the presence of your brother's teacher you failed in respect to
your mother! Let this never happen again, my Enrico, never again!
Your irreverent word pierced my heart like a point of steel. I
thought of your mother when, years ago, she bent the whole of one
night over your little bed, measuring your breathing, weeping blood
in her anguish, and with her teeth chattering with terror, because
she thought that she had lost you, and I feared that she would lose
her reason; and at this thought I felt a sentiment of horror at
you. You, to offend your mother! your mother, who would give a year
of happiness to spare you one hour of pain, who would beg for you,
who would allow herself to be killed to save your life! Listen,
Enrico. Fix this thought well in your mind. Reflect that you are
destined to experience many terrible days in the course of your
life: the most terrible will be that on which you lose your mother.
A thousand times, Enrico, after you are a man, strong, and inured
to all fates, you will invoke her, oppressed with an intense desire
to hear her voice, if but for a moment, and to see once more her
open arms, into which you can throw yourself sobbing, like a poor
child bereft of comfort and protection. How you will then recall
every bitterness that you have caused her, and with what remorse
you will pay for all, unhappy wretch! Hope for no peace in your
life, if you have caused your mother grief. You will repent, you
will beg her forgiveness, you will venerate her memory--in vain;
conscience will give you no rest; that sweet and gentle image will
always wear for you an expression of sadness and of reproach which
will put your soul to torture. Oh, Enrico, beware; this is the most
sacred of human affections; unhappy he who tramples it under foot.
The assassin who respects his mother has still something honest and
noble in his heart; the most glorious of men who grieves and
offends her is but a vile creature. Never again let a harsh word
issue from your lips, for the being who gave you life. And if one
should ever escape you, let it not be the fear of your father, but
let it be the impulse of your soul, which casts you at her feet, to
beseech her that she will cancel from your brow, with the kiss of
forgiveness, the stain of ingratitude. I love you, my son; you are
the dearest hope of my life; but I would rather see you dead than
ungrateful to your mother. Go away, for a little space; offer me no
more of your caresses; I should not be able to return them from my
heart.