My doctor has gone away on a holiday and I never asked him whether he
meant me to give the story of my father’s life as well as my own. If I
were to describe my father too minutely, it might appear an essential
condition of my cure that he should have been analysed first, in which
case all my trouble will have been in vain. However, I go boldly
on, because I am convinced that even if my father did need the same
treatment as me it would have been for quite a different complaint. So,
to save time, I will only go into my father’s story in so far as it
helps me to recollect my own.
15.iv.1890--4.30 a.m. My father died. L.C.
For whoever it may interest let me explain that the last two letters
stand for “last cigarette.” I find this note on the flyleaf of a volume
of _Positive Philosophy_ by Ostwald, over which I pored optimistically,
hour after hour, but never succeeded in understanding. Probably no one
will believe me, but this brief note records the most important event
in my life.
My mother died before I was fifteen. I wrote some poems to her
memory--not a very good substitute for tears; and in the midst of my
grief I could not get rid of the feeling that the serious business
of life must begin for me from that moment. My grief seemed to be
the token of a new and intenser life. I was at that time genuinely
religious, and this also helped somewhat to lighten the blow. I felt
my mother was still alive, though very far away, and that she would
rejoice in any success I might achieve. This was a very comforting
conclusion. I remember my state of mind perfectly at that moment. My
mother’s death and the healthy emotion it caused made me feel that
everything was going to get better.
My father’s death, on the contrary, was an unmitigated catastrophe.
Paradise had ceased to exist for me, and at thirty I was played out.
Yes, it was all up with me. I realised for the first time that the most
important, the really decisive part of my life lay behind me and would
never return. But my grief was not so purely selfish as this would seem
to suggest. No! I mourned for him and for myself, but for myself only
because he was dead. Up to that moment I had passed from cigarette
to cigarette, and from subject to subject at the University, with an
indestructible faith in my possibilities. And I cannot help believing
I should not have lost that happy and inspiring faith if my father had
not died. His death destroyed the future which alone gave point to my
resolutions.
How often when I look back on it, have I wondered at the curious fact
that this despair about my future overwhelmed me only when my father
died, and not before! All this happened fairly recently and I don’t
need to dream, as our psycho-analytic friends prescribe, in order
to remember every detail of the tragedy and my tremendous grief. I
remember everything, but I understand nothing. Up to the time of my
father’s death I had never devoted myself to him. I made no effort to
get into touch with him; I even avoided him so far as I could without
giving offence. At college they all knew him by my nickname for him:
Old Silva free-fist. It needed his illness to draw me to him, and he
was hardly ill before he was dead; the doctor at once gave him up.
When I was at Trieste we saw each other at most for about an hour a
day. We had never been so much together, nor for so long, as when I was
mourning for his death. If only I had been nicer to him and mourned for
him less, I should not have been so ill. It was difficult for us to be
together, because intellectually we had so little in common. We both
looked at each other with a rather pitying smile, which in him had a
certain bitterness because of his anxiety about my future. Mine, on the
contrary, was all indulgence; I regarded his little weaknesses as of
no importance because I attributed them chiefly to age. It was he who
first expressed doubts about my strength of will--too soon, I think. I
cannot help suspecting, though I have no scientific proof of it, that
he lacked confidence in me just because I was his child; which, in
itself, was quite enough--and here science supports me--to diminish my
confidence in him.
He had however the reputation of being an able man of business; but I
knew that for many years past it was Olivi who had managed his affairs.
In his incapacity for business he resembled me, but it was the only
thing we had in common; if it comes to comparing us, I am bound to
say that of the two I was the stronger character. Everything I have
put down in my notebooks proves quite clearly that I have, and have
always had, a strong impulse to become better; this is perhaps my
greatest misfortune. My many dreams of strength and balance can only
be interpreted in this sense. All this was quite outside my father’s
ken. He was perfectly satisfied with himself as he was, and I doubt
if he ever made any effort to improve himself. He smoked all day long
and, after my mother’s death, all night too when he could not sleep. He
drank in moderation, as a gentleman should; just enough at dinner to be
sure of falling asleep directly he put his head on the pillow. But he
regarded tobacco and alcohol as wholesome drugs.
As regards women, I was told by relations that my mother had had
some cause for jealousy. It seems that the quiet little woman had to
interfere sometimes to keep her husband within bounds. He let himself
be guided by her whom he loved and respected, but apparently she
never succeeded in making him confess he had been unfaithful, so that
she died in the belief that she had been mistaken. However my kind
relations say that she once almost caught her husband _en flagrant
délit_ with her dressmaker. He pleaded a fit of distraction, and with
such persistence that she at last believed him. The only consequence
was that my mother never went to that dressmaker again, nor did my
father. In his place I think I should have ended by confessing, but
probably without giving up the dressmaker; for where I halt, there I
take root.
My father, like so many family men, was an adept in the art of least
resistance. He was at peace with his family and with himself. He only
read safe and moral books, not out of hypocrisy but from genuine
conviction. I think he really believed in those sermons, and that it
quieted his conscience to feel himself sincerely on the side of virtue.
Now that I am getting old and begin to approach the patriarchal state,
I too feel that it is worse to preach immorality than to practise it.
One may be driven to commit murder by love or hatred, but one can only
advocate murder out of sheer wickedness.
We had so little in common that he confessed to me that I was one of
the human beings who gave him most cause for anxiety. My pursuit of
health had led me to study the human body. He, on the other hand, had
succeeded in banishing from his memory all thoughts of that terrible
machine. As far as he was concerned the heart did not beat, and he
had no need to remind himself of valves and veins and metabolism to
explain why he was alive. Only no movement! for experience taught one
that whatever moved must in the end wear out. For him the earth was
motionless and solid, poised between its poles. Of course he never said
so, but it pained him if something was said which did not conform to
this conception. He interrupted me one day in sheer disgust when I said
something about the antipodes. The thought of all those people standing
upside down made him feel quite sick and giddy.
He reproached me for two other things--my absent-mindedness, and my
tendency to laugh about serious things. As regards absent-mindedness,
the only difference between us was that he kept a notebook in which
he put down everything which he wanted to remember, and looked at it
several times during the day. This made him feel that he had conquered
his weakness and he was no longer worried by it. He insisted on my
keeping a notebook too, but I only used it for putting down a few last
cigarettes.
As for my supposed contempt for serious things, I think his fault was
to take too many things in this world seriously. For example: when,
after leaving the Law for Chemistry, I obtained his permission to go
back again to Law, he said good-naturedly: “It is quite clear to me
that you are mad.”
I was not the least offended, and was so grateful to him for giving
his consent that I thought I would reward him by telling him something
to make him laugh. I went to Dr. Canestrini to be medically examined
and get a certificate of sanity. It was no easy matter, for I had to
submit to a long and minute examination. When I had got my certificate
I carried it off in triumph to my father; but I could not even win a
smile. In an agonised voice and actually with tears in his eyes, he
exclaimed: “Ah, then you really are mad!”
This was all the thanks I got for my exhausting but innocent little
comedy. He never forgave me for it, and therefore he would never laugh
at it. Go to a doctor as a joke? Have a certificate stamped on purpose,
just as a joke? Sheer madness!
Compared with him I felt myself strong, and I sometimes think that the
loss of this weaker person with whom I could compare myself to my own
advantage made me feel that my value had definitely diminished.
I had a clear proof of his weakness when that scoundrel Olivi insisted
on his making his will. Olivi was in a great hurry to get a will made
which appointed him guardian of my affairs, and he spent much time and
energy in persuading the old man to go through all the formalities of
drawing it up. At last my father gave in, but his great beaming face
became quite overcast. He was always thinking about death, as if the
act of making his will had brought him nearer to it.
One evening he said to me: “Do you think that death is the end of
everything?”
Not a day passes but I meditate on the mystery of death, but I had not
yet reached the point of being able to give him the information he
wanted. I invented, to please him, a very cheerful view of our life
beyond the grave.
“I think that pleasure will survive, but that there will be no more
need for pain. Perhaps death will remind us of the pleasures of love.
It must surely be accompanied by a feeling of happiness and repose,
after the continuous work of building up the body. Death must surely be
the crown of life!”
It was a complete fiasco. We had just had dinner and were still at
table. My father got up without a word, emptied his glass and then said:
“This is not the moment to philosophise, especially with you!” And out
he went.
I followed him sadly. I should have liked to have stayed with him and
tried to distract him from his gloomy thoughts. But he sent me away,
saying that I reminded him of death and the pleasures he used to enjoy.
He could not get his will out of his mind till he had spoken to me
about it. Whenever he saw me he thought about it. One evening he burst
out with:
“I must tell you I have made my will.”
Hoping to rid him of his obsession, I at once overcame the surprise
this news caused me and said:
“I shall never have to bother about one, for I hope to outlive all my
heirs!”
My laughing at such a serious matter upset him at once, and restored to
him all his old desire to punish me so that he found it easy enough to
tell me the fine trick he had played me in making Olivi my guardian.
I must confess that I behaved very dutifully. I refrained from making
the smallest objection, so anxious was I that he should not again fall
a prey to such melancholy thoughts. I said that whatever he might
appoint I should submit to.
“Perhaps,” I added, “my conduct will be such that you will feel called
upon in time to make a new will.”
This pleased him because he saw that I anticipated a long life for
him--a very long one indeed. But he exacted from me an oath that,
supposing he did not alter his will, I would not try to interfere with
the powers he had given Olivi. I took an oath, since my word of honour
did not satisfy him. I was so docile and accommodating that when I am
tortured by the thoughts that I did not love him enough before he died,
I always try to call up that scene. To be frank I must say that it was
fairly easy for me to resign myself to his will because at that time I
positively welcomed the idea of being obliged not to work.
About a year before he died I was able to interfere efficaciously in
the interest of his health. He confided to me that he did not feel
well, and I persuaded him to go and see a doctor and to let me go
with him. The doctor wrote a prescription and told us to come back
in a few weeks’ time. My father refused to, saying that doctors and
grave-diggers were both equally odious, and he would not take his
medicine because that also reminded him of doctors and grave-diggers.
He stopped smoking for a few hours, and for one whole meal drank no
wine. When he decided to give up this treatment he felt much better,
and seeing him so cheerful I thought no more about it.
After that he sometimes seemed to be depressed; but I should have been
more surprised if he had been cheerful considering how old and lonely
he was.
One evening towards the end of March I came home a little later than
usual, for the rather trivial reason that I had run into a learned
friend who had insisted on treating me to his ideas on the origins of
Christianity. It was the first time that I had ever been asked to give
a thought to the subject, and I only submitted to the long lecture to
please my friend. It was raining a little and very cold. Everything
seemed dreary and dismal, including the Greeks and Hebrews my friend
was discussing, but I put up with his tiresome lecture for a good two
hours. My usual weakness! I am so bad at refusing anyone anything that
I don’t mind betting I might at any moment be persuaded, if you tried
hard enough, to take up astronomy--for a short time at least.
I came in at the garden gate from which a short carriage drive leads up
to the house. Our servant Maria was at the window looking out for me,
and when she heard me coming she called out in the dark:
“Is that you, Mr. Zeno?”
Maria was one of those servants who are a thing of the past. She had
been with us for fifteen years. She put aside part of her wages monthly
into the savings bank, to provide for her old age; but she never
profited by her economy, for soon after my marriage she died, still in
our service.
She told me that my father had come in several hours before, but that
he had insisted on waiting dinner for me. When she had urged him to
begin without me, he had spoken rather sharply to her and sent her
away. Then he had inquired for me several times, and seemed to be
worried because I did not come in. Maria hinted that my father probably
was not feeling very well. She said he had difficulty in speaking and
seemed short of breath. The fact is she was alone with him so much that
she often got it into her head that he was ill. The poor woman had
not much to think about, alone in that house, and she assumed that we
should all die before her, as my mother had done.
I hurried to the dining-room, curious to see what was the matter, but
without feeling any particular cause for alarm. My father rose hastily
from the sofa on which he was lying and welcomed me joyfully; but his
greeting left me rather cold for I thought it was meant as a reproach.
It was however quite sufficient to reassure me, because joy always
seems to be a token of health. I could not discover any trace of the
difficulty in speaking or breathing which Maria had mentioned. Instead
of scolding me he only apologised for being so obstinate.
“You must forgive me,” he said gaily. “You and I are alone in the
world, and I wanted to see you before going to bed.”
If only I had behaved simply and embraced him--my dear father who,
because he was ill, had become so tender and affectionate. But
instead I began coldly to diagnose the situation: Why has old Silva
suddenly grown so lamb-like? Can it be that he is ill? I looked at him
suspiciously and all I could find to say, in a tone of reproach, was:
“But why did you keep dinner back all this time? You could have had
yours and then waited for me.”
He laughed gaily and said: “It is more fun to eat when there are two of
us.”
I thought his cheerfulness was a sign that he was hungry; my mind was
quite at rest, and I sat down to dinner. My father shuffled to the
table in his slippers, rather insecurely, and sat down in his usual
place. He sat and watched me eating, only taking a few mouthfuls
himself, and then pushing his plate away as if he could not bear the
sight of it. But there was still the same smile on his old face. Only I
remember, as clearly as if it were yesterday, that several times when
I looked straight at him, he turned his face away. That is supposed to
be a sign of insincerity, but I now know that it is a sign of illness.
A sick creature will not let one look it straight in the eye, lest
one should detect its weakness there. He was still waiting for me to
tell him how I had spent all those hours he had been expecting me. And
seeing how much he wanted to hear, I stopped eating a moment and said
coldly that I had been busy discussing the origins of Christianity.
He looked puzzled, and said rather doubtfully:
“Are you occupied with religion too, then?”
I saw that it would have been a great consolation to him if I would
have consented to talk to him about it. But so long as my father was
alive (no longer) I always felt contrary, and I replied in one of those
well-worn phrases, which you may hear any day in the cafés near the
university:
“I look upon religion simply as a phenomenon to be studied like any
other.”
“Phenomenon?” he repeated in bewilderment. He searched for a reply and
opened his mouth in readiness to make it. Then he hesitated and looked
at the second course which Maria was just handing to him; but he would
not touch it. So the better to gag himself he stuck a cigar-end between
his teeth, lit it, and at once let it go out. He had thus gained time
to reflect quietly. He looked at me fixedly for a moment and then said:
“You don’t mean to laugh at religion?”
And I, who have always been the perfect type of Bohemian student,
answered with my mouth full:
“I don’t laugh at it, I study it!”
He said nothing, but went on staring at the cigar-end, which he had put
down on a plate. I understand now why he said that to me. I understand
now everything that passed through his already clouded mind, and I only
wonder why I understood so little at the time. I think it was because
I lacked the sympathy which makes one understand so many things. Later
on it was easy enough. My father avoided saying anything which might
shock my scepticism, for he could not face a direct conflict at that
moment; but he thought he might venture cautiously on a flank attack,
as more suited to the resources of an invalid. I remember how he caught
his breath, and what difficulty he had in getting his words out.
Preparing for a battle is very exhausting. But I felt that he would not
be content to go to bed until he had put me in my place, and I resigned
myself to the discussion which after all never came. Still staring at
his now extinguished cigar-end, he said:
“I feel that I have much experience and a great knowledge of life. One
cannot have lived all these years in vain. I know a great many things
but, alas, I don’t know how to make you understand them. How I wish I
could! I feel that I can see the meaning of things to a certain extent
and can also distinguish between what is true and what is false.”
It was no good arguing about it. I went on eating and muttered, without
much conviction: “Yes, father.”