全国のお父さんに、いえお母さんにも見て欲しいです。
和訳は「続きを読む」をClick!
Listen, son: I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little paw crumpled under your cheek and the blond curls stickily wet on your damp forehead. I have stolen into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper in the library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over me. Guiltily, I came to your bedside.
There are things I was thinking, son: I had been cross to you. I scolded you as you were dressing for school because you gave your face merely a dab with a towel. I took you to task for not cleaning your shoes. I called out angrily when you threw some of your things on the floor.
At breakfast I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down your food. You put your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick on your bread. And as you started off to play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a hand and called,
"Goodbye, Daddy!" and I frowned, and said in reply, " Hold your shoulders back!"
Then it began all over again in the late afternoon. As I came up the road I spied on you, down to your knees, playing marbles. There were holes in your socks. I humiliated you before your friends by marching you ahead of me to the house. Socks were expensive - and if you had to buy them you would be more careful!
Imagine that, son, from a father!
Do you remember, later, when I was reading in the library, how you came in timidly, with a sort of hurt look in your eyes? When I glanced up over my paper, impatient at the interruption, you hesitated at the door.
"What is it you want?" I snapped.
You said nothing, but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, and your small arms tightened with an affection that God had set blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither. And then you were gone, pattering up the stairs.
Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible sickening fear came over me. What has the habit been doing to me? The habit of finding fault, of reprimanding - this was my reward to you for being a boy. It was not that I did not love you; it was that I expected too much of youth. I was measuring you by the yardstick of my own years.
And there was so much that was good and fine and true in your character. The little heart of you was as big as the dawn itself over the wide hills. This was shown by your spontaneous impulse to rush in and kiss me good night. Nothing else matters tonight, son. I have come to your bedside in the darkness, and I have knelt there, ashamed!
It is a feeble atonement; I know you would not understand these things if I told them to you during your waking hours. But tomorrow I will be a real daddy! I will chum with you, and suffer when you suffer, and laugh when you laugh. I will bite my tongue when impatient words come. I will keep saying as if it were a ritual: "He is nothing but a boy - a little boy!"
I am afraid I have visualized you as a man. Yet as I see you now, son, crumpled and weary in your cot, I see that you are still a baby. Yesterday you were in your mother's arms, your head on her shoulder. I have asked too much, too much.
by W. Livingston Larned
和訳は「続きを読む」をClick!
Listen, son: I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little paw crumpled under your cheek and the blond curls stickily wet on your damp forehead. I have stolen into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper in the library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over me. Guiltily, I came to your bedside.
There are things I was thinking, son: I had been cross to you. I scolded you as you were dressing for school because you gave your face merely a dab with a towel. I took you to task for not cleaning your shoes. I called out angrily when you threw some of your things on the floor.
At breakfast I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down your food. You put your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick on your bread. And as you started off to play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a hand and called,
"Goodbye, Daddy!" and I frowned, and said in reply, " Hold your shoulders back!"
Then it began all over again in the late afternoon. As I came up the road I spied on you, down to your knees, playing marbles. There were holes in your socks. I humiliated you before your friends by marching you ahead of me to the house. Socks were expensive - and if you had to buy them you would be more careful!
Imagine that, son, from a father!
Do you remember, later, when I was reading in the library, how you came in timidly, with a sort of hurt look in your eyes? When I glanced up over my paper, impatient at the interruption, you hesitated at the door.
"What is it you want?" I snapped.
You said nothing, but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, and your small arms tightened with an affection that God had set blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither. And then you were gone, pattering up the stairs.
Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible sickening fear came over me. What has the habit been doing to me? The habit of finding fault, of reprimanding - this was my reward to you for being a boy. It was not that I did not love you; it was that I expected too much of youth. I was measuring you by the yardstick of my own years.
And there was so much that was good and fine and true in your character. The little heart of you was as big as the dawn itself over the wide hills. This was shown by your spontaneous impulse to rush in and kiss me good night. Nothing else matters tonight, son. I have come to your bedside in the darkness, and I have knelt there, ashamed!
It is a feeble atonement; I know you would not understand these things if I told them to you during your waking hours. But tomorrow I will be a real daddy! I will chum with you, and suffer when you suffer, and laugh when you laugh. I will bite my tongue when impatient words come. I will keep saying as if it were a ritual: "He is nothing but a boy - a little boy!"
I am afraid I have visualized you as a man. Yet as I see you now, son, crumpled and weary in your cot, I see that you are still a baby. Yesterday you were in your mother's arms, your head on her shoulder. I have asked too much, too much.
by W. Livingston Larned
「父は忘れる」
リビィングストン・ラーネッド
坊や、きいておくれ。お前は小さな手に頬をのせ、汗ばんだ額に金髪の巻き毛をくっつけて、安らかに眠っているね。お父さんは、ひとりで、こっそりお前の部屋にやってきた。今しがたまで、お父さんは書斎で新聞を読んでいたが、急に、息苦しい悔恨の念に迫られた。罪の意識にさいなまれてお前のそばにやって来たのだ。
お父さんは考えた。これまでわたしはお前にずいぶんつらく当たっていたのだ。お前が学校に行く支度をしている最中に、タオルで顔をちょっとなでただけだといって、叱った。靴を磨かないからと言って、叱りつけた。また、持ち物を床の上にほうり投げたといっては、どなりつけた。
今朝も食事中に小言をいった。食物をこぼすとか、丸呑みにするとか、テーブルに肘をつくとか、パンにバターを付けすぎるとかいって、叱りつけた。それから、お前は遊びに出かけるし、お父さんは停車場へ行くので、一緒に家を出たが、別れるとき、お前は振り返って手を振りながら、「お父さん、行ってらっしゃい！」といった。すると、お父さんは、顔をしかめて、「胸を張りなさい！」といった。
同じようなことがまた夕方に繰り返された。わたしは帰ってくると、お前は地面に膝をついて、ビー玉で遊んでいた。長靴下は膝のところが穴だらけになっていた。お父さんはお前を家に追いかえし、友達の前で恥をかかせた。「靴下は高いのだ。お前が自分で金をもうけて買うんだったら、もっと大切にするはずだ。」― これが、お父さんの口から出た言葉だから、われながら情けない！
それから夜になってお父さんが書斎で新聞を読んでいるとき、お前は、悲しげな目つきをして、おずおずと部屋に入ってきたね。うるさそうにわたしが目を上げると、お前は、入り口のところで、ためらった。「何の用だ」とわたしがどなると、お前は何も言わずに、さっとわたしのそばに駆け寄ってきた。両の手を私の首に巻き付けて、私に接吻した。お前の小さな両腕には、神さまがうえつけてくださった愛情がこもっていた。どんなにないがしろにされても、決して枯れることのない愛情だ。やがて、お前は、ばたばたと足音をたてて、二階の部屋へ行ってしまった。
ところが、坊や、そのすぐ後で、お父さんは突然何ともいえない不安におそわれ、手にしていた新聞を思わず取り落としたのだ。何という習慣に、お父さんは、取り付かれていたのだろう！叱ってばかりいる習慣―まだほんの子供にすぎないお前に、お父さんは何ということをしてきたのだろう！決してお前を愛していないわけではない。お父さんは、まだ年端もゆかないお前に、無理なことを期待しすぎていたのだ。お前を大人と同列に考えていたのだ。
お前の中には、善良な、立派な、真実なものがいっぱいある。お前の優しい心根は、ちょうど、山の向こうからひろがってくるあけぼのを見るようだ。お前がこのお父さんに飛びつき、お休みの接吻をした時、そのことが、お父さんにはっきりわかった。ほかのことは問題ではない。お父さんは、お前にわびたくて、こうしてひざまずいているのだ。
お父さんとしては、これが、お前に対するせめてものつぐないだ。昼間こういうことを話しても、お前には分かるまい。だが、明日からは、きっと、よいお父さんになってみせる。お前と仲良しになって、一緒に喜んだり悲しんだりしよう。小言をいいたくなったら舌をかもう。そして、お前がまだ子供だということを常に忘れないようにしよう。
お父さんはお前を一人前の人間と見なしていたようだ。こうして、あどけない寝顔を見ていると、やはりお前はまだ赤ちゃんだ。昨日も、お母さんに抱っこされて、肩にもたれかかっていたではないか。お父さんの注文が多すぎたのだ。
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