Saturday, 17th.
Surely, neither your comrade Coretti nor Garrone would ever have
answered their fathers as you answered yours this afternoon.
Enrico! How is it possible? You must promise me solemnly that this
shall never happen again so long as I live. Every time that an
impertinent reply flies to your lips at a reproof from your father,
think of that day which will infallibly come when he will call you
to his bedside to tell you, "Enrico, I am about to leave you." Oh,
my son, when you hear his voice for the last time, and for a long
while afterwards, when you weep alone in his deserted room, in the
midst of those books which he will never open again, then, on
recalling that you have at times been wanting in respect to him,
you, too, will ask yourself, "How is it possible?" Then you will
understand that he has always been your best friend, that when he
was constrained to punish you, it caused him more suffering than it
did you, and that he never made you weep except for the sake of
doing you good; and then you will repent, and you will kiss with
tears that desk at which he worked so much, at which he wore out
his life for his children. You do not understand now; he hides from
you all of himself except his kindness and his love. You do not
know that he is sometimes so broken down with toil that he thinks
he has only a few more days to live, and that at such moments he
talks only of you; he has in his heart no other trouble than that
of leaving you poor and without protection.
And how often, when meditating on this, does he enter your chamber
while you are asleep, and stand there, lamp in hand, gazing at you;
and then he makes an effort, and weary and sad as he is, he returns
to his labor; and neither do you know that he often seeks you and
remains with you because he has a bitterness in his heart, sorrows
which attack all men in the world, and he seeks you as a friend, to
obtain consolation himself and forgetfulness, and he feels the need
of taking refuge in your affection, to recover his serenity and his
courage: think, then, what must be his sorrow, when instead of
finding in you affection, he finds coldness and disrespect! Never
again stain yourself with this horrible ingratitude! Reflect, that
were you as good as a saint, you could never repay him sufficiently
for what he has done and for what he is constantly doing for you.
And reflect, also, we cannot count on life; a misfortune might
remove your father while you are still a boy,--in two years, in
three months, to-morrow.
Ah, my poor Enrico, when you see all about you changing, how empty,
how desolate the house will appear, with your poor mother clothed
in black! Go, my son, go to your father; he is in his room at work;
go on tiptoe, so that he may not hear you enter; go and lay your
forehead on his knees, and beseech him to pardon and to bless you.