This etext was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of thefile for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making anentire meal of them. D.W.]
CONFESSION OF A CHILD OF THE CENTURY
(Confession d'un Enfant du Siecle)
By ALFRED DE MUSSET
My father lived in the country some distance from Paris. When I arrived
I found a physician in the house, who said to me:
"You are too late; your father expressed a desire to see you before hedied."
I entered, and saw my father dead. "Sir," I said to the physician,"please have everyone retire that I may be alone here; my father hadsomething to say to me, and he will say it."
In obedience to my order the servants left the room. I approached thebed and raised the shroud which covered the face. But when my eyes fellon that countenance, I stooped to kiss it and lost consciousness.
When I recovered, I heard some one say:
"If he requests it, you must refuse him on some pretext or other."
I understood that they wanted to get me away from the bed of death, andso I feigned that I had heard nothing. When they saw that I was restingquietly, they left me. I waited until the house was quiet, and then tooka candle and made my way to my father's room. I found there a youngpriest seated near the bed.
"Sir," I said, "to dispute with an orphan the last vigil at a father'sside is a bold enterprise. I do not know what your orders may be. Youmay remain in the adjoining room; if anything happens, I alone amresponsible."
He retired. A single candle on the table shone on the bed. I sat downin the chair the priest had just left, and again uncovered those featuresI was to see for the last time.
"What do you wish to say to me, father?" I asked. "What was your lastthought concerning your child?"
My father had a book in which he was accustomed to write from day to daythe record of his life. That book lay on the table, and I saw that itwas open; I kneeled before it; on the page were these words and no more:
"Adieu, my son, I love you and I die."
I did not shed a tear, not a sob came from my lips; my throat was swollenand my mouth sealed; I looked at my father without moving.
He knew my life, and my irregularities had caused him much sorrow andanxiety. He did not refer to my future, to my youth and my follies.His advice had often saved me from some evil course, and had influencedmy entire life, for his life had been one of singular virtue andkindness. I supposed that before dying he wished to see me to try oncemore to turn me from the path of error; but death had come too swiftly;he felt that he could express all he had to say in one word, and he wrotein his book that he loved me.
A little wooden railing surrounded my father's grave. According to hisexpressed wish, he was buried in the village cemetery. Every day Ivisited his tomb and passed part of the day on a little bench in theinterior of the vault. The rest of the time I lived alone in the housein which he died, and kept with me only one servant.
Whatever sorrows the passions may c