“Friedel?”
“Thou art a very little boy, but thou art not like other boys; thy father is not just like other fathers.”
“I know it.”
“He is very sad.”
“Yes.”
“And his life which he has to live will be a sad one.”
The child began to weep again. I had to pause. How was I to open my lips to instruct this baby upon the fearful, profound abyss of a subject—the evil and the sorrow that are in the world—how, how force those little tender, bare feet, from the soft grass on to the rough up-hill path all strewed with stones, and all rugged with ups and downs? It was horribly cruel.
“Life is very sad sometimes, mein Sigmund.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. Some people, too, are much sadder than others. I think thy father is one of those people. Perhaps thou art to be another.”