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- 3789
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:52.918Z
- extracted_by
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- 3745
- text
- _are_, Pierre, but in age we _seem_. Look again. I am thy real father,
so much the more truly, as thou thinkest thou recognizest me not,
Pierre. To their young children, fathers are not wont to unfold
themselves entirely, Pierre. There are a thousand and one odd little
youthful peccadilloes, that we think we may as well not divulge to them,
Pierre. Consider this strange, ambiguous smile, Pierre; more narrowly
regard this mouth. Behold, what is this too ardent and, as it were,
unchastened light in these eyes, Pierre? I am thy father, boy. There was
once a certain, oh, but too lovely young Frenchwoman, Pierre. Youth is
hot, and temptation strong, Pierre; and in the minutest moment momentous
things are irrevocably done, Pierre; and Time sweeps on, and the thing
is not always carried down by its stream, but may be left stranded on
its bank; away beyond, in the young, green countries, Pierre. Look
again. Doth thy mother dislike me for naught? Consider. Do not all her
spontaneous, loving impressions, ever strive to magnify, and
spiritualize, and deify, her husband's memory, Pierre? Then why doth she
cast despite upon me; and never speak to thee of me; and why dost thou
thyself keep silence before her, Pierre? Consider. Is there no little
mystery here? Probe a little, Pierre. Never fear, never fear. No matter
for thy father now. Look, do I not smile?--yes, and with an unchangeable
smile; and thus have I unchangeably smiled for many long years gone by,
Pierre. Oh, it is a permanent smile! Thus I smiled to cousin Ralph; and
thus in thy dear old Aunt Dorothea's parlor, Pierre; and just so, I
smile here to thee, and even thus in thy father's later life, when his
body may have been in grief, still--hidden away in Aunt Dorothea's
secretary--I thus smiled as before; and just so I'd smile were I now
hung up in the deepest dungeon of the Spanish Inquisition, Pierre;
though suspended in outer darkness, still would I smile with this smile,
though then not a soul should be near. Consider; for a smile is the
chosen vehicle for all ambiguities, Pierre. When we would deceive, we
smile; when we are hatching any nice little artifice, Pierre; only just
a little gratifying our own sweet little appetites, Pierre; then watch
us, and out comes the odd little smile. Once upon a time, there was a
lovely young Frenchwoman, Pierre. Have you carefully, and analytically,
and psychologically, and metaphysically, considered her belongings and
surroundings, and all her incidentals, Pierre? Oh, a strange sort of
story, that, thy dear old Aunt Dorothea once told thee, Pierre. I once
knew a credulous old soul, Pierre. Probe, probe a little--see--there
seems one little crack there, Pierre--a wedge, a wedge. Something ever
comes of all persistent inquiry; we are not so continually curious for
nothing, Pierre; not for nothing, do we so intrigue and become wily
diplomatists, and glozers with our own minds, Pierre; and afraid of
following the Indian trail from the open plain into the dark thickets,
Pierre; but enough; a word to the wise.
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