Eu, Pai!

No seu livro Remanescências, Ilya Tolstoy faz uma breve mas poderosa descrição do seu pai. Recordo-me destas suas palavras para quase auto-retratar a minha figura enquanto Pai. Ora, transcrevo aqui essas suas memórias:

"Papa is the cleverest man in the world. He always knows everything. There is no being naughty with HIM. When he is up in his study "working," one is not allowed to make a noise, and nobody may go into his room. What he does when he is at "work," none of us know. Later on, when I had learned to read, I was told that papa was a "writer."
This was how I learned. I was very pleased with some lines of poetry one day, and asked my mother who wrote them. She told me they were written by Pushkin, and Pushkin was a great writer. I was vexed at my father not being one, too. Then my mother said that my father was also a well-known writer, and I was very glad indeed.
At the dinner-table papa sits opposite mama and has his own round silver spoon. When old Natalia Petrovna, who lives on the floor below with great-aunt Tatyana Alexandrovna, pours herself out a glass of kvass, he picks it up and drinks it right off, then says, "Oh, I'm so sorry, Natalia Petrovna; I made a mistake!" We all laugh delightedly, and it seems odd that papa is not in the least afraid of Natalia Petrovna. When there is jelly for pudding, papa says it is good for gluing paper boxes; we run off to get some paper, and papa makes it into boxes. Mama is angry, but he is not afraid of her either. We have the gayest times imaginable with him now and then. He can ride a horse better and run faster than anybody else, and there is no one in the world so strong as he is.
He hardly ever punishes us, but when he looks me in the eyes he knows everything that I think, and I am frightened. You can tell stories to mama, but not to papa, because he will see through you at once. So nobody ever tries. "

Para ser perfeito. só faltava acrescentar que o pai não consegue manter a pilinha dentro das calças.

2 comentários:

noname disse...

à luz do que foi o meu pai, depois de ler isto, esse nem foi grande espingarda, primava pela ausência na presença, e nem acredito que soubesse tudo, só porque olhava nos olhos da família, o que ele fazia com mestria era tirar partido do que, ele sabia, elas pensavam. Portanto, se também ele não conseguisse manter a cuja dita dentro da calça, não abonava nem desabonava, de certa forma, vivia à margem.
Isto sou eu a dizer o penso, acerca do que li e vale o vale, nada mais que isso.

Andreia Morais disse...

Não conhecia o livro, mas gostei de ler esta passagem.

r: Muito obrigada :)