“Sir,” I said, “to dispute with an orphan the last vigil at a father’s side is a bold enterprise.  I do not know what your orders may be.  You may remain in the adjoining room; if anything happens, I alone am responsible.”

He retired.  A single candle on the table shone on the bed.  I sat down in the chair the priest had just left, and again uncovered those features I was to see for the last time.

“What do you wish to say to me, father?” I asked.  “What was your last thought concerning your child?”

My father had a book in which he was accustomed to write from day to day the record of his life.  That book lay on the table, and I saw that it was 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 swollen and my mouth sealed; I looked at my father without moving.

He knew my life, and my irregularities had caused him much sorrow and anxiety.  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 influenced my entire life, for his life had been one of singular virtue and kindness.  I supposed that before dying he wished to see me to try once more 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 wrote in his book that he loved me.

CHAPTER II

THE BALM OF SOLITUDE

A little wooden railing surrounded my father’s grave.  According to his expressed wish, he was buried in the village cemetery.  Every day I visited his tomb and passed part of the day on a little bench in the interior of the vault.  The rest of the time I lived alone in the house in which he died, and kept with me only one servant.

Whatever sorrows the passions may cause, the woes of life are not to be compared with those of death.  My first thought as I sat beside my father’s bedside was that I was a helpless child, knowing nothing, understanding nothing; I can not say that my heart felt physical pain, but I sometimes bent over and wrung my hands, as one who wakens from a long sleep.

During the first months of my life in the country I had no thought either of the past or of the future.  It did not seem to be I who had lived up to that time; what I felt was not despair, and in no way resembled the terrible griefs I had experienced in the past; there was a sort of languor in every action, a sense of disgust with life, a poignant bitterness that was eating out my heart.  I held a book in my hand all day long, but I did not read; I did not even know what I dreamed about.  I had no thoughts; within, all was silence; I had received such a violent blow, and yet one that was so prolonged in its effects, that I remained a purely passive being and there seemed to be no reaction.