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Full text of "Heart : a schoolboy's journal"

ffF 







SCHOOLBOY'S 
JOURNAL H 



; ST>*> ""> A "^k. if 'W S~\ W V~A 

DE AMIGIS 



' 

c. 



NY PUBLIC LIBRARY THE BRANCH LIBRARIES 



3 3333 08087 3132 







Frontispiece 

POINTED OUT ON THE WALL MAP OF ITALY THE SPOT 
WHERE LAY REGGIO, IN CALABRIA 



HEART 



A SCHOOLBOY'S JOURNAL 



BY 

EDMONDO DE AMICIS 

'II 



TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN BY 

ISABEL F. HAPGOOD 



COMPLETE EDITION 



NEW YORK 
THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 



COPYRIGHT, 1887, 1895 and 1901. 
BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT, 1915. 
BY ISABEL, F. HAPGOOD 

COPYRIGHT, 1922. 
BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY 



Printed in the United States of America 



mm i t 

J 



A 



PROPERTY Of 
OTV OF NEW YORK 





PREFACE 

This book is specially dedicated to the boys of the 
elementary schools between the ages of nine and thir- 
teen years, and might be entitled: "The Story of a 
Scholastic Year written by a Pupil of the Third Class 
of an Italian Municipal School." In saying, written 
by a pupil of the third class, I do not mean to say that 
it was written by him exactly as it is printed. He 
noted day by day in a copy-book, as well as he knew 
how, what he had seen, felt, thought, in the school 
and outside the school; his father at the end of the 
year wrote these pages on those notes, taking care not 
to alter the thought, and preserving, when it was pos- 
sible, the words of his son. Four years later the boy, 
being then in the lyceum, read over the MSS. and 
added something of his own, drawing on his mem- 
ories, still fresh, of persons and of things. 

Now read this book, boys; I hope that you will be 
pleased with it, and that it may do you good. 

EDMONDO DE AMICIS 



iii 






CONTENTS 

OCTOBER 

PAGE 

THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL i 

OUR MASTER 4 

AN ACCIDENT 5 

THE CALABRIAN BOY 7 

MY SCHOOLMATES 9 

A GENEROUS DEED n 

MY SCHOOLMISTRESS OF THE UPPER FIRST ... 13 

IN AN ATTIC 15 

THE SCHOOL 17 

The Little Patriot of Padua 19 

THE CHIMNEY-SWEEP 22 

THE DAY OF THE DEAD 24 

NOVEMBER 

MY FRIEND GARRONE 26 

THE CHARCOAL-MAN AND THE GENTLEMAN ... 28 

MY BROTHER'S SCHOOLMISTRESS 30 

MY MOTHER 32 

MY FRIEND CORETTI 34 

THE PRINCIPAL 38 

THE SOLDIERS 41 

NELLI'S PROTECTOR 43 

THE HEAD OF THE CLASS 45 

The Little Vidette of Lombardy 47 

J. HE JrOOR O 

DECEMBER 

THE TRADER 56 

VANITY 5$ 

THE FIRST SNOW-STORM 60 

v 



vi CONTENTS 

PAGE 

MURATORINO, THE LlTTLE MASON 62 

A SNOWBALL 64 

THE SCHOOLMISTRESSES 67 

THE WOUNDED MAN 69 

The Little Florentine Scribe 71 

\ V 1 1 , 1 > * 

GRATITUDE 82 

JANUARY 

THE ASSISTANT MASTER 85 

STARDI'S LIBRARY 87 

THE BLACKSMITH'S SON 89 

A FINE VISIT 91 

THE FUNERAL OF VICTOR EMANUEL .... 93 

FRANTI EXPELLED FROM SCHOOL 95 

The Sardinian Drummer-Boy 98 

THE LOVE OF COUNTRY 108 

ENVY no 

FRANTI'S MOTHER 112 

HOPE 114 

FEBRUARY 

A MEDAL WELL BESTOWED 116 

GOOD RESOLUTIONS 118 

THE TRAIN OF CARS 120 

X^jvIDE ........... 1 ^*) 

THE WOUNDS OF LABOR 125 

THE PRISONER 127 

Daddy's Nurse 131 

THE WORKSHOP 142 

THE LITTLE CLOWN 145 

THE LAST DAY OF THE CARNIVAL 150 

THE BLIND BOYS 153 

THE SICK TEACHER 160 

THE STREET 163 

MARCH 

THE EVENING SCHOOL . 165 

THE FIGHT 167 



CONTENTS vii 

PAGE 

THE BOYS' PARENTS 170 

NUMBER 78 171 

A LITTLE DEAD BOY 174 

THE EVE OF THE FOURTEENTH OF MARCH . . .176 

THE DISTRIBUTION OF PRIZES 178 

THE QUARREL 184 

MY SISTER 187 

Blood of Romagna 188 

THE LITTLE MASON ON His SICK-BED .... 197 
COUNT CAVOUR 200 

APRIL 

SPRING 203 

KING UMBERTO 205 

THE INFANT ASYLUM 210 

GYMNASTICS 2i5 

MY FATHER'S TEACHER 218 

CONVALESCENCE 231 

FRIENDS AMONG THE WORKINGMEN 233 

GARRONE'S MOTHER 234 

GIUSEPPPE MAZZINI 236 

Civic Valor 239 

MAY 

CHILDREN WITH THE RICKETS 245 

SACRIFICE . . . 247 

THE FIRE 249 

From the Apennines to the Andes 254 

SUMMER 295 

THE POETIC SIDE 297 

THE DEAF-MUTE 299 

JUNE 

GARIBALDI 3 TO 

THE ARMY 3 11 

ITALY 3 J 4 

THIRTY-TWO DEGREES 3 T 5 

MY FATHER 3 J 7 



viii CONTENTS 

PAGE 

IN THE COUNTRY 319 

THE DISTRIBUTION OF PRIZES TO THE WORKING- 
MEN 3^3 

MY DEAD SCHOOLMISTRESS 326 

THANKS 329 

The Shipwreck 331 

JULY 

THE LAST PAGE FROM MY MOTHER 339 

THE EXAMINATIONS 340 

THE LAST EXAMINATION 343 

FAREWELL 346 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

Drawings by A. Ferraguti and E. Nardi 
Redrawn in color by William E. Mears 

"Pointed out on the wall map of Italy the spot where 

lay Reggio, in Calabria" (page 8) . . Frontispiece 

PACK 

A generous deed n 

A man was handing him an armful of wood at a 

time 34 

"Fifty boys began to dance around the band, singing" 41 

"Stop that, you little rascals !" 64 

"Then the troop darted out of the door" .... 104 

A medal well bestowed 106 

"The boy had walked ten miles" 131 

The blind boys !3^ 

"Hurrah for the Deputy of Calabria!" .... 178 

Searching the cupboard X 94 

"He stood watching the convoy until it was lost to 
sight" 



PROPERTY OF THE CITY OF NEW YORK 

THE NEW YOillv . LIBRARY 

MANHATTAN RESERVE 



An Italian School Boy's Journal 




OCTOBER 

THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL 

Monday, I7th. 

r ,i TO-DAY, is the first day of school. The three months 
of vacation in the country have passed like a dream. 
This morning my mother took me to the Baretti school- 
house to have me enter for the third elementary grade : 
I was thinking of the country, and went unwillingly. 
The streets were swarming with boys: the two 
book-shops were thronged with fathers and mothers 
who were purchasing bags, portfolios, and copy-books, 
and in front of the school so many people had collected, 
that the beadle and the policeman found it har.d to 



2 OCTOBER 

keep the entrance clear. Near the door, I felt myself 
touched on the shoulder : it was my master of the 
second grade, cheerful, as usual, and with his red hair 
ruffled. He said to me: 

"So we are to part forever, Enrico?" 

I knew it well, yet the words pained me. 

We made our way in with difficulty. Ladies, 
gentlemen, women of the people, workmen, officials, 
nuns, and servants, all leading boys with one hand, and 
holding the promotion books in the other, filled the 
anteroom and the stairs, making such a buzzing, that 
it seemed like entering a theatre. I was glad to see 
once more that large room on the ground floor, with 
the doors leading to the seven classes, where I had 
passed nearly every day for three years. There was 
a throng of teachers going and coming. My school- 
mistress of the first upper class greeted me from the 
door of the class-room, and said : 

"Enrico, you are going to the floor above, this year. 
I shall not even see you pass by any more!" And 
she gazed sadly at me. 

The principal was surrounded by women who were 
much worried because there was no room for their 
sons ; and it struck me that his beard was a little whiter 
than it had been last year. I found the boys had grown 
taller and stouter. On the ground floor, where the 
divisions had already been made, there were little chil- 
dren of the first and lowest sections, who did not want 
to enter the class-rooms, and who pulled back like 
donkeys : they had to be dragged in by force, and some 



THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL 3 

ran away from the benches; others, when they saw 
their parents leave, began to cry, and the parents had 
to go back and comfort them, or take them away; while 
the teachers were in despair. 

My little brother was placed in the class of Mistress 
Delcati: I was put with Master Perboni, upstairs on 
the first floor. 

At ten o'clock we were all in our classes : fifty-four 
of us; only fifteen or sixteen of my companions of the 
second class, among them, Derossi, the one who 
always gets the first prize. 

The school seemed so small and gloomy to me when 
I thought of the woods and the mountains where I 
had passed the summer ! I thought again, too, of my 
master in the second class, who was so good, and who 
always smiled at us, and was so small that he seemed 
to be one of us; and I grieved that I should no longer 
see him, with his tumbled red hair. Our present 
teacher is tall; he has no beard; his hair is gray and 
long; and he has a straight line running crosswise on 
his forehead. He has a big voice, and he looks at us 
fixedly, one after the other, as though he were reading 
our very thoughts ; and he never smiles. I said to my- 
self : "This is my first day. There are nine months 
more. What work, what monthly examinations, what 
weariness!" I wanted to see my mother when I came 
out, and I ran to kiss her hand ! She said to me : 

"Courage, Enrico ! we will study together." And I 
returned home content. But I no longer have my 
master, with his kind, merry smile, and school does not 
seem so nice to me as it did before. 



OCTOBER 



OUR MASTER 

Tuesday, i8th. 

I like my new teacher too, since this morning. 
While we were coming in, and when he was already 
seated, some of his scholars of last year every now and 
then peeped in at the door to salute him; they would 
present themselves and greet him : 

"Good morning, Signer Teacher!" "Good morning, 
Signor Perboni!" 

Some came in, touched his hand, and ran away. It 
was plain that they liked him, and would have been glad 
to return to him. He responded, "Good morning,'* 
and shook the hands which were held out to him, but 
he looked at no one; at every greeting his smile re- 
mained serious, with that deep wrinkle on his brow, 
with his face turned towards the window, and staring 
at the roof of the house opposite; and instead of being 
cheered by these greetings, he seemed to suffer from 
them. Then he looked at us closely, one after the other. 
While he was dictating, he got down and walked among 
the benches. Catching sight of a boy whose face was 
all red with little pimples, he stopped dictating, took 
the lad's face between his hands and examined it ; then 
he asked him what was the matter with him, and laid 
his hand on his forehead, to feel if it were hot. Mean- 
while, a boy behind him got up on the bench, and began 
to play the marionette. The teacher turned round sud- 
denly; the boy sat down at one dash, and remained 
there, with head hanging, in dread of being punished. 



AN ACCIDENT 5 

The master placed one hand on his head and said to 
him: 

"Don't do so again." Nothing more. 

Then he returned to his table and finished the dicta- 
tion. When he was done, he looked at us a moment 
in silence ; then he said, very, very slowly, with his big 
but kind voice : 

"Listen. We have a year to pass together; let us 
see that we pass it well. Study and be good. I have 
no family; you are my family. Last year I had a 
mother; she is dead. I am left alone. I have no one 
but you in all the world ; I have no other affection, no 
other thought than you : you must be my sons. I wish 
you well, and you must like me too. I do not wish to 
be obliged to punish any one. Show me that you are 
boys of heart : our school shall be a family, and you 
shall be my comfort and my pride. I do not ask you 
to give me a promise; I am sure that in your hearts 
you have already answered 'y es / and I thank you." 

Just then the beadle came in to announce the close 
of school. We all left our seats as quietly as could 
be. The boy who had stood upon the bench went up to 
the master, and said to him, in a trembling voice: 

"Forgive me, Signor Master." 

The master kissed him on the brow, and said, "Go, 
my son." 

AN ACCIDENT 

Friday, 2ist. 

The year has begun with an accident. On my way 
to school this morning I was repeating to my father 



6 OCTOBER 

the words of our teacher, when we noticed that the 
street was full of people, who were pressing close to 
the door of the schoolhouse. Suddenly my father 
said : 

"An accident ! The year is beginning badly !" 

We passed through with some difficulty. The big 
hall was crowded with parents and children, whom the 
teachers had not succeeded in placing in the class- 
rooms, and all were turning towards the principal's 
room, and we heard the words, "Poor boy! Poor 
Robetti !" 

Over their heads, at the end of the room, we could 
see the helmet of a policeman, and the bald head of the 
principal ; then a gentleman with a tall hat entered, and 
all said, "That is the doctor." My father inquired of 
a master, "What has happened?" "A wheel has 
passed over his foot/' replied the latter. "His foot 
has been crushed," said another. He was a boy be- 
longing to the second class, who, on his way to school 
through the Dora Grossa street, seeing a little child of 
the lowest class, who had run away from its mother, 
fall down in the middle of the street, a few paces from 
an omnibus which was bearing down upon it, had has- 
tened forward boldly, caught up the child, and placed 
it in safety; but, as he had not withdrawn his own 
foot quickly enough, the wheel of the omnibus had 
passed over it. He is the son of a captain of artil- 
lery. 

While we were being told this, a woman entered the 
big hall, like mad, and forced her way through the 
crowd: she was Robetti's mother, who had been sent 
for. Another woman hastened towards her, and flung 



THE CALABRIAN BOY 7 

her arms about her neck, with sobs : it was the mother 
of the baby who had been saved. Both flew into the 
room, and a desperate cry made itself heard : "Oh my 
Giulio ! My child !" 

At that moment a carriage stopped before the door, 
and a little later the director made his appearance, with 
the boy in his arms; the latter leaned his head on his 
shoulder, with pallid face and closed eyes. Every one 
stood very still; the sobs of the mother were audible. 
The director paused a moment, quite pale, and raised 
the boy up a little in his arms, in order to show him to 
the people. And then the masters, mistresses, parents, 
and boys all murmured together : "Bravo, Robetti ! 
Bravo, poor child!" and they threw kisses to him; the 
mistresses and boys who were near him kissed his 
hands and his arms. He opened his eyes and said, "My 
satchel!" The mother of the little boy whom he had 
saved showed it to him and said, amid her tears, "I 
will carry it for you, my dear little angel ; I will carry 
it for you." And in the meantime, she bore up the 
mother of the wounded boy, who covered her face with 
her hands. They went out, placed the lad comfortably 
in the carriage, and the carriage drove away. Then 
we all entered school in silence. 

THE CALABRIAN BOY 

Saturday, 22d. 

Yesterday afternoon, while the master was telling us 
the news of poor Robetti, who will have to go on 
crutches, the director entered with a new pupil, a lad 
with a very brown face, black hair, large black eyes, 



8 OCTOBER 

and thick eyebrows which met on his forehead: he 
was dressed entirely in dark clothes, with a black 
morocco belt round his waist. The director went away, 
after speaking a few words in the master's ear, leaving 
beside the latter the boy, who glanced about with his 
big black eyes as* though frightened. The master took 
him by the hand, and said to the class : 

"You ought to be glad. To-day there enters our 
school a little Italian born in Reggio, in Calabria, more 
than five hundred miles from here. Love your brother 
who has come from so far away. He was born in a 
glorious land, which has given illustrious men to Italy, 
and which now furnishes her with stout laborers and 
brave soldiers; in one of the most beautiful lands of 
our country, where there are great forests, and great 
mountains, inhabited by people full of talent and cour- 
age. Treat him well, so that he shall not feel that he 
is far away from the city in which he was born ; make 
him see that an Italian boy, in whatever Italian school 
he sets his foot, will find brothers there." So saying, 
he rose and pointed out on the wall map of Italy the 
spot where lay Reggio, in Calabria. Then he called : 

"Ernesto Derossi !" the boy who always gets the 
first prize. Derossi rose. 

"Come here," said the master. Derossi left his 
bench and stepped up to the little table, facing the Cala- 
brian. 

"As the head of the class,' ' said the master to him, 
"give a welcome to this new companion, in the name of 
the whole school the embrace of the sons of Piedmont 
to the son of Calabria." 

Derossi embraced the Calabrian, saying in Kis clear 



MY SCHOOLMATES 9 

voice, "Welcome!" and the other kissed him impetu- 
ously on the cheeks. All clapped their hands. ''Si- 
lence!" cried the master; "we don't clap hands in 
school!" But it was clear that he was pleased. And 
the Calabrian was pleased also. The master gave him 
a place, and went with him to the bench. Then he said 
again : * 

"Bear well in mind what I have said to you. In 
order that this case might occur, that a Calabrian boy 
should be as though in his own house at Turin, and 
that a boy from Turin should be at home in Calabria, 
our country fought for fifty years, and thirty thousand 
Italians died. You must all respect and love each 
other; but any one of you who should give offense to 
this comrade, because he was not born in our province, 
would render himself unworthy of ever again raising 
his eyes from the earth when he passes the tricolored 
flag." 

Hardly was the Calabrian seated in his place, when 
his neighbors presented him with pens and a picture; 
and another boy, from the last bench, sent him a Swiss 
postage-stamp. 

MY SCHOOLMATES 

Tuesday, 25th. 

The boy who sent the postage-stamp to the Cala- 
brian is the one I like best of all. His name is Garrone : 
he is the biggest boy in the class; he is about fourteen 
years old ; his head is large, his shoulders broad ; he is 
good, as one can see when he smiles; but it seems as 
though he always thought like a man. I already know 



io OCTOBER 

several of my classmates. Another one I am taken with 
is named Coretti, and he wears chocolate-colored trou- 
sers and a catskin cap : he is always jolly; he is the son 
of a huckster of wood, who was a soldier in the war of 
1866, in the squadron of Prince Umberto, and they say 
that he has three medals. There is little Nelli, a poor 
hunchback, a weak boy, with a thin face. There is one 
who is very well dressed, who always wears fine Flor- 
entine plush, and is named Votini. On the bench in 
front of me there is a boy who is called Muratorino 
("the little mason") because his father is a mason: his 
face is as round as an apple, with a nose like a small 
ball; he possesses a special talent: he knows how to 
make a hare's face, and they all get him to do it, and 
then they laugh. He wears a little ragged cap, which 
he carries rolled up in his pocket like a handkerchief. 
Beside Muratorino sits Garoffi, a long, thin, silly fel- 
low, with the nose and beak of a screech-owl, and 
very small eyes, who is always trading in little pens and 
images and match-boxes, and who writes the lesson 
on his nails, in order that he may read it on the sly. 
Then there is a young gentleman, Carlo Nobis, who 
seems very haughty ; and he is between two boys I like, 
one the son of a blacksmith, clad in a jacket which 
reaches to his knees, who is pale, as though from ill- 
ness, who always has a frightened air, and who never 
laughs ; and the other with red hair, who has a withered 
arm, and carries it hung in a sling from his neck; his 
father has gone away to America, and his mother goes 
about peddling pot-herbs. And there is another curi- 
ous fellow, my neighbor on the left, Stardi small 
and thickset, with no neck, a gruff fellow, who speaks 




A GENEROUS DEED 



A GENEROUS DEED n 

to no one, and doesn't seem to understand much, but 
stands watching the master without winking, his brow 
lined with wrinkles, and his teeth set; and if he is 
questioned when the master is speaking, he makes no 
reply the first and second times, and the third time he 
gives a kick. And beside him there is a bold, cunning 
face, belonging to a boy named Franti, who has al- 
ready been expelled from another district. There are, 
in addition, two brothers who are dressed exactly alike, 
who resemble each other to a hair, and both of whom 
wear caps of Calabrian cut, with a peasant's plume. 
But handsomer than all the rest, the one who has the 
most talent, who will surely be the head this year also, 
is Derossi; and the master, who has already perceived 
this, always questions him. But I like Precossi, the 
son of the blacksmith, the one with the long jacket, 
who seems sickly. They say that his father beats him ; 
he is very timid, and every time that he addresses or 
touches any one, he says, "Excuse me," and gazes at 
them with his kind, sad eyes. But Garrone is the big- 
gest and the best. 

A GENEROUS DEED 

Wednesday, 26th. 

It was this very morning that Garrone let us know 
what he is like. When I entered the school a little 
late, because the mistress of the upper first had stopped 
me to inquire at what hour she could find me at home, 
the master had not yet come, and three or four boys 
were teasing poor Crossi, the one with the red hair, 
who has a dead arm, and whose mother sells vegetables. 



12 OCTOBER 

They were poking him with rulers, hitting him in the 
face with chestnut shells, and making him out to be 
a cripple and a monster, by mimicking him, with his 
arm hanging in the sling. And he, alone on the end of 
the bench, and quite pale, was gazing now at one and 
now at another with beseeching eyes, that they might 
leave him in peace. But the others mocked him worse 
than ever, and he began to tremble and to turn red with 
rage. All at once, Franti, the boy with the bad face, 
sprang upon a bench, and pretending that he was carry- 
ing a basket on each arm, he aped the mother of Crossi, 
when she used to come to wait for her son at the door ; 
for she is ill now. Many began to laugh loudly. 
Then Crossi lost his head, and seizing an inkstand, he 
hurled it at the other's head with all his strength; but 
Franti dodged, and the inkstand struck the master, 
who entered at the moment, full in the breast. 

All flew to their places, and became silent with terror. 

The master, quite pale, went to his table, and said in 
a stern voice : 

" Who did it?" 

No one replied. 

The master raised his voice, and said again, "Who 
was it?" 

Then Garrone, moved to pity for poor Crossi, rose 
abruptly and said resolutely, "It was I." 

The master looked at him, and at the stupefied 
scholars; then said in a quiet voice, "It was not you." 

And, after a moment: "The guilty one shall not be 
punished. Let him rise!" 

Crossi rose and said, weeping, "They were striking 



MY SCHOOLMISTRESS 13 



me and insulting me, and I lost my head, and threw- 

"Sit down," said the master. "Let those who pro- 
voked him rise." 

Four rose, and hung their heads. 

'You," said the master, "have insulted a companion 
who had given you no provocation ; you have scoffed at 
an unfortunate lad, you have struck a weak person 
who could not defend himself. You have committed 
one of the basest, the most shameful acts with which 
a human creature can stain himself. Cowards!" 

Having said this, he came down among the benches, 
put his hand under Garrone's chin, as the latter stood 
with drooping head, and having made him raise it, he 
looked him straight in the eye, and said, "You are a 
noble soul." 

Garrone profited by the occasion to murmur some- 
thing in the ear of the master; and he, turning towards 
the four culprits, said abruptly, "I forgive you." 

MY SCHOOLMISTRESS OF THE UPPER 

FIRST 

Thursday, 27th. 

My schoolmistress kept her promise, and came to- 
day just as I was on the point of going out with my 
mother to carry some linen to a poor woman recom- 
mended by the Gazette. It was a year since I had seen 
her in our house. We all made a great deal of her. 
She is just the same as ever, a little thing, with a 
green veil wound about her bonnet, carelessly dressed, 
and with untidy hair, because she has not time to adorn 



14 OCTOBER 

herself; but with a little less color than last year, with 
some white hairs, and a constant cough. My mother 
said to her: 

"And your health, my dear mistress? You do not 
take sufficient care of yourself!" 

"It does not matter," the other replied, with her 
smile, at once bright and sad. 

"You speak too loud," my mother added; "you 
exert yourself too much with your boys/' 

That is true; her voice is always to be heard; I 
remember how it was when I went to school to her; 
she talked and talked all the time, so that the boys 
might not lose their attention, and she did not remain 
seated a moment. I felt quite sure that she would 
come, because she never forgets her pupils ; she remem- 
bers their names for years. On the days of the monthly 
examinations, she runs to ask the director what marks 
they have won; she waits for them at the entrance, 
and makes them show her their compositions, in order 
that she may see what progress they have made; 
and many, who are now in the grammar school and 
wear long trousers and a watch, still come to see her. 

To-day she had come back in a great state of ex- 
citement, from the picture-gallery, whither she had 
taken her boys, just as she had conducted them all to a 
museum every Thursday in years gone by, and ex- 
plained everything to them. The poor mistress has 
grown still thinner than of old. But she is always 
brisk, and always becomes animated when she speaks 
of her school. She wanted to have a peep at the bed 
on which she had seen me lying very ill two years ago, 
and which is now occupied by my brother; she gazed 



IN AN ATTIC 

at it for a while, and could not speak. She was 
obliged to go away soon to visit a boy belonging to her 
class, the son of a saddler, who is ill with the measles; 
and she had besides a package of sheets to correct, a 
whole evening's work; and she had still a private 
lesson in arithmetic to give to the mistress of a shop 
before nightfall. 

'Well, Enrico," she said to me as she was going, 
"are you still fond of your schoolmistress, now that 
you do hard sums and write long compositions ?" She 
kissed me, and called up once more from the foot of the 
stairs : "You are not to forget me, you know, 
Enrico !" 

Oh, my kind teacher, never, never shall I forget you ! 
Even when I grow up I shall remember you and shall 
go to seek you among your boys ; and every time I pass 
near a school and hear the voice of a schoolmistress, 
I shall think that I hear your voice, and I shall recall 
the two years I passed in your school, where I learned 
so many things, where I so often saw you ill and weary, 
but always earnest, always indulgent, in despair when 
any one was clumsy with his pen, trembling when the 
examiners asked us questions, happy when we made a 
good showing, always kind and loving as a mother. 
Never, never shall I forget you, my teacher! 

IN AN ATTIC 

Friday, 28th. 

Yesterday evening I went with my mother and my 
sister Sylvia, to carry the linen to the poor woman 
recommended by the newspaper., I carried the bundle ; 



16 OCTOBER 

Sylvia had the paper with the initials of the name and 
the address. We went up to the very roof of a tall 
house, and through a long corridor with many doors. 
My mother knocked at the last; it was opened by a 
thin, fair woman who was still young, and it instantly 
struck me that I had seen her many times before, with 
that very same blue kerchief that she wore on her head. 

"Are you the person of whom the newspaper says 
so and so?" asked my mother. 

"Yes, signora, I am." 

"Well, we have brought you a little linen." 

The woman began to thank us and bless us, and 
could not make enough of it. Just then I noticed, in 
one corner of the bare, dark room, a boy kneeling in 
front of a chair, with his back turned towards us, who 
appeared to be writing; and he really was writing, with 
his paper on the chair and his inkstand on the floor. 
How did he manage to write in the dark? While I 
was saying this to myself, I suddenly recognized the 
red hair and the coarse jacket of Crossi, the son of 
the vegetable-peddler, the boy with the useless arm. 
I told this to my mother softly, while the woman was 
putting away the things. 

"Hush!" replied my mother; "perhaps he will feel 
ashamed to see you giving alms to his mother : don't 
speak to him." 

But at that moment Crossi turned round ; I was em- 
barrassed; he smiled, and then my mother gave me a 
push, so that I should run to him and embrace him. I 
did so: he rose and took me by the hand. 

"Here I am," his mother was saying in the meantime 
to my mother, "alone with this boy, my husband in 



THE SCHOOL 17 

America these seven years, and I sick in addition, so 
that I can no longer make my rounds with my vege- 
tables, and earn a few cents. We have not even a table 
left for my poor Luigino to do his work on. When 
there was a bench down at the door, he could, at least, 
write on the bench ; but that has been taken away. He 
has not even light enough to study without ruining his 
eyes. And it is a mercy that I can send him to school, 
since the city provides him with books and copy- 
books. Poor Luigino, who would be so glad to study I 
Unhappy woman, that I am!" 

My mother gave her all that she had in her purse, 
kissed the boy, and almost wept as we went out. And 
she had good cause to say to me : "Look at that poor 
boy ; see how he is forced to work, when you have every 
comfort, and yet study seems hard to you! Ah, 
Enrico, there is more merit in the work which he does 
in one day, than in your work for a year. It is to 
such that the first prizes should be given \" 

THE SCHOOL 

Friday, 28th. 

Yes, study comes hard to you, my dear Enrico, as 
your mother says : I do not yet see you set out for school 
with that resolute mind and that smiling face which I 
should like. You are still unwilling. But listen; re- 
flect a little! How poor and pitiable your day would 
be if you did not go to school! At the end of a week 
you would beg with clasped hands that you might return 
there, for you would be eaten up with weariness and 
shame; disgusted with your sports and with your ex- 
istence. Everybody, everybody studies now, my child. 



1 8 OCTOBER 

Think of the workmen who go to school in the evening 
after having toiled all the day; think of the women, of 
the girls of the people, who go to school on Sunday, after 
having worked all the week; of the soldiers who turn to 
their books and copy-books when they return exhausted 
from their drill ! Think of the dumb and the blind who 
study, nevertheless ; and last of all, think of the prisoners, 
who also learn to read and write. Reflect in the morning, 
when you set out, that at that very moment, in your own 
city, thirty thousand other boys are going like yourself, 
to shut themselves up in a room for three hours of study. 
Think of the army of boys who, at nearly this precise 
hour, are going to school in all countries. Behold them 
with your imagination, going, going, through the lanes of 
quiet villages; through the streets of the noisy towns, 
along the shores of rivers and lakes ; here beneath a 
burning sun; there amid fogs, in boats, in countries 
which are cut with canals; on horseback on the far- 
reaching plains ; in sledges over the snow ; through valleys 
and over hills ; across forests and torrents, over the 
solitary paths of mountains; alone, in couples, in groups, 
in long files, all with their books under their arms, clad 
in a thousand ways, speaking a thousand tongues, from 
the most remote schools in Russia, almost lost in the 
ice, to the furthermost schools of Arabia, shaded by 
palm-trees, millions and millions, all going to learn the 
same things, in a hundred varied forms. Imagine this 
vast, vast throng of boys of a hundred races, this im- 
mense movement of which you form a part, and re- 
member, if this movement were to cease, humanity would 
fall back into barbarism; this movement is the progress, 
the hope, the glory of the world. 

Courage, then, little soldier of the immense army! 
Your books are your arms, your class is your squad- 



THE LITTLE PATRIOT OF PADUA 19 

ron, the field of battle is the whole earth, and the victory 
is human civilization. Be not a cowardly soldier, my 
Enrico. 

YOUR FATHER. 



THE LITTLE PATRIOT OF PADUA 

(The Monthly Story,) 

Saturday, 29th. 

I will not be a "cowardly soldier," no; but I should 
be much more willing to go to school if the master 
would tell us a story every day, like the one he told us 
this morning. 

"Every month/' said he, "I shall tell you one; I 
shall give it to you in writing, and it will always be the 
tale of a fine and noble deed performed by a boy. This 
one is called The Little Patriot of Padua. Here it is. 

"A French steamer set out from Barcelona, a city 
in Spain, for Genoa; there were on board Frenchmen, 
Italians, Spaniards, and Swiss. Among the rest was 
a lad of eleven, poorly clad, and alone, who always 
held himself aloof, like a wild animal, and stared at all 
with gloomy eyes. He had good reasons for looking 
at every one with forbidding eyes. Two years previ- 
ous to this time his parents, peasants in the neighbor- 
hood of Padua, had sold him to a company of mounte- 
banks, who, after they had taught him how to perform 
tricks, by dint of blows and kicks and starving, had 
carried him all over France and Spain, beating him 
continually and never giving him enough to eat. 

"On his arrival in Barcelona, being no longer able to 
endure ill treatment and hunger, and being reduced to 



20 OCTOBER 

a pitiable condition, he had fled from his slave-master 
and had betaken himself for protection to the Italian 
consul, who, moved with compassion, had placed him 
on board of this steamer, and had given him a letter to 
the guardsman of Genoa, who was to send the boy back 
to his parents to the parents who had sold him like a 
beast. The poor lad was weak and ragged. He had 
been put in the second-class cabin. Every one stared 
at him; some questioned him, but he made no reply, 
and seemed to hate and despise every one, to such an 
extent had privation and suffering borne him down 
and saddened him. Nevertheless, three travelers, per- 
sisting in their questioning, succeeded in making him 
unloosen his tongue; and in a few rough words, a 
mixture of Venetian, French, and Spanish, he related 
his story. These three travelers were not Italian, but 
they understood him; and partly out of compassion, 
partly because they were excited with wine, they gave 
him a few coins, jesting with him and urging him on to 
tell them other things; and as several ladies entered 
the salon at the moment, they gave him some more 
money for the purpose of making a show, and cried: 
'Take this ! Take this, too !' as they made the money 
rattle on the table. 

"The boy pocketed it all, thanking them in a low 
voice, and with his sad face, but with a look that was 
for the first time smiling and affectionate. Then he 
climbed into his berth, drew the curtain, and lay quiet, 
thinking over his affairs. With this money he would 
be able to purchase some good food on board, after 
having suffered for lack of bread for two years; he 



THE LITTLE PATRIOT OF PADUA 21 

could buy a jacket as soon as he landed in Genoa, after 
having gone about clad in rags for two years ; and he 
could also, by carrying it home, insure for himself from 
his father and mother a kinder greeting than would fall 
to his lot if he arrived with empty pockets. This 
money was a little fortune for him ; and he was taking 
comfort out of the thought behind the curtain of his 
berth, while the three travelers chatted away, as they 
sat around the dining-table in the second-class salon. 

'They were drinking and discussing their travels and 
the countries which they had seen ; and from one topic 
to another they began to discuss Italy. One of them 
began to complain of the inns, another of the railways, 
and then, growing warmer, they all began to speak 
evil of everything. One would have preferred a trip 
in Lapland ; another declared that he had found nothing 
but robbers and brigands in Italy; the third said that 
Italian officials do not know how to read. 

" 'It's an ignorant nation/ continued the first. 

" 'A filthy nation/ added the second. 

" 'Rob ' exclaimed the third, meaning to say 
'robbers' ; but he was not allowed to finish the word : 
a tempest of small coin came down upon their heads 
and shoulders, fell over the table and the floor with 
a great clatter. All three sprang up in a rage, looked 
up, and received another handful of coppers in their 
faces. 

" Take back your money !' said the lad, disdainfully, 
thrusting his head between the curtains of his berth; 
'I do not accept alms from those who insult my 
country!' " 



22 OCTOBER 



THE CHIMNEY-SWEEP 

November ist. 

Yesterday afternoon I went to the girls' school 
building, near ours, to give the story of the boy from 
Padua to Sylvia's teacher, who wished to read it. 
There are seven hundred girls there. Just as I arrived, 
they began to come out, all greatly rejoiced at the 
holiday of All Saints and All Souls; and here is a fine 
thing that I saw: 

Opposite the door of the school, on the other side 
of the street, with his sack and scraper, stood a very 
small chimney-sweep, his face entirely black, with one 
arm resting against the wall, and his head supported on 
his arm, weeping and sobbing. Two or three of the 
girls of the second grade approached him and said, 
"What is the matter, that you weep like this?" But 
he made no reply, and went on crying. 

"Come, tell us what is the matter with you and why 
you are crying," the girls repeated. And then he 
raised his face from his arm a baby face and said 
through his tears that he had been to several houses 
to sweep the chimneys, and had earned thirty soldi, 
and that he had lost them, that they had slipped through 
a hole in his pocket, and he showed the hole, and he 
did not dare to return home without the money. 

"The master will beat me," he said, sobbing; and 
again dropped his head upon his arm, like one in de- 
spair. The children stood and stared at him very 
seriously. In the meantime, other girls, large and 
small, poor girls and girls of the upper classes, with 



THE CHIMNEY-SWEEP 23 

their satchels under their arms, had come up; and one 
large girl, who had a blue feather in her hat, pulled 
two soldi from her pocket, and said : 

"I have only two soldi; let us make a collection." 

"I have two soldi, also," said another girl, dressed 
in red; "we shall certainly find thirty soldi among us 
all"; and then they began to call out: 

"Amalia! Luigia! Annina! A soldo. Who has 
any soldi? Bring your soldi here!" 

Several had soldi to buy flowers or copy-books, and 
they brought them; some of the smaller girls gave 
centesimi; the one with the blue feather collected all, 
and counted them in a loud voice : 

"Eight, ten, fifteen!" But more was needed. Then 
one larger than any of them, who seemed to be an 
assistant mistress, appeared, and gave half a lira; and 
all made much of her. Five soldi were still lacking. 

'The girls of the fourth class are coming; they will 
have it," said one girl. The members of the fourth 
class came, and the soldi showered down. All hurried 
forward eagerly; and it was beautiful to see that poor 
chimney-sweep in the midst of all those many-colored 
dresses, of all that whirl of feathers, ribbons, and curls. 
The thirty soldi were already obtained, but more kept 
pouring in; and the very smallest who had no money 
made their way among the big girls, and offered their 
bunches of flowers, for the sake of giving something. 
All at once the portress came out and called : 

"The Signora Directress!" The girls fled in all 
directions, like a flock of sparrows; and then the little 
chimney-sweep was visible, alone, in the middle of the 
street, wiping his eyes in perfect content, with his hands 



24 OCTOBER 

full of money, and the button-holes of his jacket, his 
pockets, his hat, full of flowers; and there were blos- 
soms on the ground at his feet. 



THE DAY OF THE DEAD 
(All-Soul's Day) 

November 2d. 

This day is sacred to the memory of the dead. Do 
you know, Enrico, that all you boys should, on this 
day, devote a thought to those who are dead? to those 
who have died for you, for boys and little children. 
How many have died, and how many are dying con- 
tinually! Have you ever reflected how many fathers 
have worn out their lives in toil? how many mothers 
have descended to the grave before their time, worn 
out by the privations to which they have condemned 
themselves for the sake of sustaining their children? Do 
you know how many men have planted a knife in their 
hearts in despair at beholding their children in misery? 
how many women have drowned themselves or have 
died of sorrow, or have gone mad, through having lost 
a child? Think of all these dead on this day, Enrico. 
Think of how many schoolmistresses have died young, 
have pined away through the fatigues of the school, 
through love of the children, from whom they had not 
the heart to tear themselves away; think of the doctors 
who have perished of contagious diseases, having bravely 
sacrificed themselves to cure the children ; think of all 
those who in shipwrecks, in fires, in famines, in moments 
of supreme danger, have yielded to infants the last 
morsel of bread, the last place of safety, the last rope 
of escape from the flames, to expire content with their 



THE DAY OF THE DEAD 25 

sacrifice, since they preserved the life of a little innocent. 
Such dead as these are countless, Enrico ; every grave- 
yard contains hundreds of these sainted beings, who, 
if they could rise for a moment from their graves, would 
cry the name of a child for whom they gave up the joys 
of youth, the peace of old age, their affections, their 
learning, their life: wives of twenty, men in the flower 
of their strength, octogenarians, youths, heroic an3 
obscure martyrs to infancy, so grand and so noble, that 
the earth does not produce as many flowers as should 
strew their graves. To such a degree are ye loved, O 
children ! Think to-day on those dead with gratitude, 
and you will be kinder and more affectionate to all those 
who love you, and who toil for you, my dear, fortunate son, 
who, on the day of the dead, have, as yet, no one to grieve 
for. 

YOUR MOTHER. 



NOVEMBER 

MY FRIEND GARRONE 

Friday, 4th. 

THERE were but two days of vacation, yet it seemed 
a long time without seeing Garrone. The more I know 
him, the better I like him ; and so it is with all the rest, 
except with the overbearing, who have nothing to say 
to him, because he does not permit them to bully. 
Every time a big boy raises his hand against a little 
one, the little one shouts, "Garrone!" and the big one 
stops striking him. 

His father is an engine-driver on the railway. 
Garrone began school late, because he was ill for two 
years. He is the tallest and the strongest of the class; 
he lifts a bench with one hand; he is always eating; and 
he is good. Whatever he is asked for, a pencil, 
rubber, paper, or penknife, he lends or gives it; and 
he neither talks nor laughs in school : he always sits 
perfectly still on a bench that is too narrow for him, 
with his spine curved forward, and his big head be- 
tween his shoulders ; and when I look at him, he smiles 
at me with his eyes half closed, as much as to say, 
"Well, Enrico, are we friends?" 

He makes me laugh, because, tall and broad as he is, 
he has a jacket, trousers, and sleeves which are too 
small for him, and too short; a cap which will not 

stay on his head ; a threadbare cloak ; coarse shoes ; and 

26 



MY FRIEND GARRONE 27 

a necktie which is always twisted into a cord. Dear 
Garrone ! it needs but one glance in his face to inspire 
love for him. All the little boys like to be near his 
bench. He knows arithmetic well. He carries his 
books bound together with a strap of red leather. He 
has a knife, with a mother-of-pearl handle, which he 
found in the field for military manoeuvres, last year, 
and one day he cut his finger to the bone ; but no one in 
school knew about it, and he did not breathe a word 
about it at home, for fear of alarming his parents. He 
lets us say anything to him in jest, and he never takes 
it ill; but woe to any one who says to him, "That is 
not true," when he states a thing: then fire flashes 
from his eyes, and he hammers down blows enough to 
split the bench. 

Saturday morning he gave a soldo to one of the 
upper first class, who was crying in the middle of the 
street, because his own had been taken from him, and 
he could not buy his copy-book. For the last 
three days he had been working over a letter of 
eight pages, with pen ornaments on the margins, 
for the saints' day of his mother, who often comes to 
get him, and who, like himself, is tall and large and 
sympathetic. The master is always glancing at him, 
and every time that he passes near him he taps him 
on the neck with his hand, as though he were a good, 
peaceable young bull. I am very fond of him. I am 
happy when I press his big hand, which seems like a 
man's, in mine. I am sure he would risk his life to 
save that of a comrade; that he would allow himself to 
be killed in his defence, so clearly can I read his eyes ; 
and although he always seems to be grumbling with 



28 NOVEMBER 

that big voice of his, one feels that it is a voice that 
comes from a gentle heart. 

THE CHARCOAL-MAN AND THE 
GENTLEMAN 

Monday, 7th. 

Garrone would certainly never have said the words 
which Carlo Nobis spoke yesterday morning to Betti. 
Carlo Nobis is proud, because his father is a great 
gentleman ; a tall gentleman, with a black beard, who is 
very serious, and who accompanies his son to school 
nearly every day. Yesterday morning Nobis quarrelled 
with Betti, one of the smallest boys, and the son of a 
charcoal-man, and not knowing what retort to make, 
because he was in the wrong, said to him loudly, "Your 
father is a tattered beggar !" Betti reddened up to his 
very hair, and said nothing, but the tears came to his 
eyes ; and when he went home, he repeated the words to 
his father; so the charcoal-dealer, a little man, who was 
black all over, made his appearance at the afternoon 
session, leading his boy by the hand, in order to com- 
plain to the master. While he was making his com- 
plaint, and every one was silent, the father of Nobis, 
who was taking off his son's coat at the entrance, as 
usual, entered on hearing his name pronounced, and 
asked an explanation. 

"This workman has come," said the master, "to 
complain that your son Carlo said to his boy, 'Your 
father is a tattered beggar.' 

Nobis' s father frowned and colored slightly. Then 
he asked his son, "Did you say that?" 



THE CHARCOAL-MAN 29 

His son, who was standing in the middle of the 
school, with his head hanging, in front of little Betti, 
made no reply. 

Then his father grasped him by one arm and pushed 
him forward, facing Betti, so that they nearly touched, 
and said to him, "Beg his pardon." 

The charcoal-man tried to interpose, saying, "No, 
no!" but the gentleman paid no heed to him, and re- 
peated to his son, "Beg his pardon. Repeat my words. 
T beg your pardon for the insulting, foolish, and ig- 
noble words which I uttered against your father, whose 
hand my father would feel honored to grasp.' 

The charcoal-man made a gesture, as though to say, 
"I will not allow it." The gentleman did not heed 
him, and his son said slowly, in a very thread of a 
voice, without raising his eyes from the ground, "I 
beg your pardon for the insulting foolish ignoble 
words which I uttered against your father, whose 
hand my father would feel honored to grasp." 

Then the gentleman offered his hand to the char- 
coal-man, who shook it vigorously, and then, with a 
sudden push, he thrust his son into the arms of Carlo 
Nobis. 

"Do me the favor to place them next each other," 
said the gentleman to the master. The master put 
Betti on Nobis's bench. When they were seated, the 
father of Nobis bowed and went away. 

The charcoal-man remained standing there in 
thought for several moments, gazing at the two boys 
side by side; then he approached the bench, and fixed 
upon Nobis a look expressive of affection and regret, 
as though he were desirous of saying something to 



3 o NOVEMBER 

him, but he did not ; he stretched out his hand to bestow 
a caress upon him, but he did not dare, and merely 
stroked his brow with his large fingers. Then he made 
his way to the door, and turning round for one last 
look, he disappeared. 

"Fix what you have just seen firmly in your minds, 
boys," said the master; "this is the finest lesson of the 
year." 

MY BROTHER'S SCHOOLMISTRESS 

Thursday, loth. 

The son of the charcoal-man had been a pupil of 
that schoolmistress Delcati who had come to see my 
brother when he was ill, and who had made us laugh 
by telling us how, two years ago, the mother of this 
boy had brought to her house a big apronful of char- 
coal, out of gratitude to her for having given the medal 
to her son ; and the poor woman had persisted, and had 
not been willing to carry the coal home again, and had 
wept when she was obliged to go away with her apron 
quite full. And she told us, also, of another good 
woman, who had brought her a very heavy bunch of 
flowers, inside of which there was a little hoard of 
soldi. We had been greatly diverted in listening to 
her, and so my brother had swallowed his medicine, 
which he had not been willing to do before. 

How much patience is necessary with those boys 
of the lower first, all toothless, like old men, who can- 
not pronounce their r's and s's! And one coughs, 
and another has the nosebleed, and another loses his 
shoes under the bench, and another bellows because he 



MY BROTHER'S SCHOOLMISTRESS 31 

has pricked himself with his pen, and another one cries 
because he has bought copy-book No. 2 instead of 
No. i. Fifty in a class, who know nothing; and all of 
them with those flabby little hands, must be taught to 
write; they carry in their pockets bits of licorice, 
buttons, phial corks, pounded brick, all sorts of little 
things, and the teacher has to search them; but they 
hide these objects even in their shoes. And they are 
not attentive: a fly enters through the window, and 
throws them all into confusion; and in summer they 
bring grass into school, and horn-bugs, which fly round 
in circles or fall into the inkstand, and then streak 
the copy-books all over with ink. The schoolmistress 
has to play mother to all of them, to help them dress 
themselves, tie up their pricked fingers, pick up their 
caps when they drop them, watch to see that they do 
not exchange coats, and that they do not indulge in 
cat-calls and shrieks. Poor schoolmistress ! And then 
the mothers come to complain: "How comes it, sig- 
norina, that my boy has lost his pen? How does it 
happen that mine learns nothing ? Why is not my boy 
put on the roll of honor, when he knows so much? 
Why don't you have that nail which tore my Piero's 
trousers taken out of the bench?" 

Sometimes my brother's teacher gets out of pa- 
tience with the boys ; and when she can resist no longer, 
she bites her finger, to keep herself from dealing a 
blow; she loses temper, and then she repents, and pets 
the child whom she has scolded ; she sends a little rogue 
out of school, and then swallows her tears, and flies 
into a rage with parents who make the little ones fast 
by way of punishment. Schoolmistress Delcati is 



32 NOVEMBER 

young and tall, well-dressed, brown of complexion, 
and restless ; she does everything as though on springs, 
is affected by a mere trifle, and at such times speaks 
with great tenderness. 

"But the children become attached to you, surely/ 1 
my mother said to her. 

"Many do," she replied ; "but at the end of the year 
the majority of them pay no further heed to us. When 
they are with the masters, they are almost ashamed 
of having been with a woman teacher. After two 
years of cares, after having loved a child so much, 
it makes us feel sad to part from him; but we say to 
ourselves, 'Oh, I am sure of that one ; he is fond of me.' 
But the vacation over, he comes back to school. I run 
to meet him ; 'Oh, my child, my child !' And he turns 
his head away." Here the teacher interrupted her- 
self. "But you will not do so, little one?" she said, 
raising her humid eyes, and kissing my brother. "You 
will not turn aside your head, will you? You will 
not deny your poor friend?'' 

MY MOTHER 

Thursday, November loth. 

In the presence of your brother's teacher you failed 
in respect to your mother ! Let this never happen again, 
my Enrico, never again ! Your irreverent word pierced 
my heart like a point of steel. I thought of your mother 
when, years ago, she bent the whole of one night over 
your little bed, watching your breathing, weeping in her 
anguish, and with her teeth chattering with terror, be- 
cause she thought that she had lost you ; and I feared 
that she would lose her reason. And at this thought 



MY MOTHER 33 

I felt a sentiment of horror at you. You, to offend your 
mother! your mother, who would give a year of happi- 
ness to spare you one hour of pain, who would beg 
for you, who would allow herself to be killed to save 
your life! Listen, Enrico. Fix this thought well in 
your mind. Reflect that you are destined to experience 
many terrible days in the course of your life: the most 
terrible will be that on which you lose your mother. A 
thousand times, Enrico, after you are a man, strong, and 
inured to all fates, you will invoke her, oppressed with 
an intense desire to hear her voice, if but for a mo- 
ment, and to see once more her open arms, into which 
you can throw yourself sobbing, like a poor child bereft 
of comfort and protection. How you will then recall 
every bitterness that you have caused her, and with what 
remorse you will pay for all, unhappy being! Hope 
for no peace in your life, if you have caused your mother 
grief. You will repent, you will beg for her forgive- 
ness, you will venerate her memory in vain; conscience 
will give you no rest; that sweet and gentle image will 
always wear for you an expression of sadness and of 
reproach which will put your soul to torture. 

Oh, Enrico, beware! this is the most sacred of human 
affections ; unhappy he who tramples it under foot. The 
assassin who respects his mother has still something honest 
and noble in his heart; the most glorious of men who 
grieves and offends her is but a vile creature. Never 
again let a harsh word issue from your lips, for the 
being who gave you life. And if one should ever es- 
cape you, let it not be the fear of your father, but let 
it be the impulse of your soul, which casts you at her 
feet, to beseech her that she will blot from your brow, 
with the kiss of forgiveness, the stain of ingratitude. I 
love you, my son; you are the dearest hope of my life; 



34 NOVEMBER 

but I would rather see you dead than ungrateful to your 
mother. Go away, for a little space; offer me no more 
of your caresses ; I should not be able to return them from 
my heart. 

YOUR FATHER. 



MY FRIEND CORETTI 

Sunday, I3th. 

My father forgave me; but I was somewhat down- 
cast. So my mother sent me, with the porter's largest 
son, to take a walk on the Corso. Half-way down the 
Corso, as we were passing a cart which was standing 
in front of a shop, I heard some one call me by name : 
I turned round ; it was Coretti, my schoolmate, with his 
chocolate-colored clothes and catskin cap, all in a per- 
spiration, but merry, with a big load of wood on his 
shoulders. A man who was standing in the cart was 
handing him an armful of wood at a time, which he 
took and carried into his father's shop, where he piled 
it up in the greatest haste. 

"What are you doing, Coretti?" I asked him. 

"Don't you see?" he answered, reaching out his arms 
to receive the load; "I am reviewing my lesson." 

I laughed; but he seemed to be serious, and, having 
grasped the armful of wood, he began to repeat as he 
ran, "The conjugation of the verb consists in its vari- 
ations according to number according to number and 
person " 

And then, throwing down the wood and piling it, 
"according to the time according to the time to which 
the action refers, " 








A MAN WAS HANDING HIM AN ARMFUL OF WOOD AT A 

TIME 



MY FRIEND CORETTI 35 

And turning to the cart for another armful, "accord- 
ing to the mode in which the action is enunciated." 

It was our grammar lesson for the following day. 
"Isn't this a good scheme?" he said. "I am putting 
my time to use. My father has gone off on business. 
My mother is ill. It falls to me to do the unloading. 
In the meantime, I am going over my grammar lesson. 
It is a hard lesson to-day; I cannot succeed in getting 
it into my head. My father said that he would be 
here at seven o'clock to give you your money," he said 
to the man with the cart. 

The cart drove off. "Come into the shop a minute," 
Coretti said to me. I went in. It was a large room, 
full of piles of wood and fagots, with a steel-yard on 
one side. 

"This is a busy day, I can assure you," resumed 
Coretti; "I have to do my work by fits and starts. 
I was writing my phrases, when some customers came 
in. I went to writing again, and behold! that cart 
arrived. I have already made two trips to the wood 
market in the Piazza Venezia this morning. My legs 
are so tired that I can hardly stand, and my hands 
are all swollen. I should be in a pretty pickle if I 
had to draw !" And as he spoke he set about sweeping 
up the dry leaves and the straw which covered the brick- 
paved floor. 

"But where do you do your work, Coretti?" I in- 
quired. 

"Not here, certainly," he replied. "Come and see ;" 
and he led me into a little room behind the shop, which 
served as a kitchen and dining-room, with a table in 
one corner, on which there were books and copy-books, 



36 NOVEMBER 

and work which had been begun. "Here it is," he 
said; "I left the second answer unfinished: Leather 
is used for shoes and belts, and oh yes ! and valises." 
And, taking his pen, he began to write in his fine hand. 

"Is there any one here?" came a call from the shop 
at that moment. It was a woman who had come to 
buy some little fagots. 

"Here I am!" replied Coretti; and he sprang out, 
weighed the fagots, took the money, ran to a corner 
to enter the sale in a shabby old account-book, and re- 
turned to his work, saying, "Let's see if I can finish 
that sentence." And he wrote, travelling-bags, and 
knapsacks for soldiers. "Oh, my poor coffee is boil- 
ing over !" he exclaimed, and ran to the stove to take 
the coffee-pot from the fire. "It is coffee for 
mamma," he said; "I had to learn how to make it. 
Wait a while, and we will carry it to her; she will be 
glad to see you. She has been in bed a whole week. 
Conjugation of the verb! I always scald my fingers 
with this coffee-pot. What is there that I can add 
after the soldiers' knapsacks? Something more is 
needed, and I can think of nothing. Come to 



mamma.' 



He opened a door, and we entered another small 
room : there Coretti's mother lay in a big bed, with a 
white kerchief wound round her head. 

"Here is your coffee, mamma," said he; "and this is 
one of my schoolmates." 

"Ah, brave little master!" said the woman to me; 
"you have come to visit the sick, have you?" 

Meanwhile, Coretti was arranging the pillows be- 
hind his mother's back, straightening the bed-clothes, 



MY FRIEND CORETTI 37 

brightening up the fire, and driving the cat off the chest 
of drawers. 

"Do you want anything else, mamma?" he asked, 
as he took the cup from her. "Have you taken the 
two spoonfuls of syrup? When it is all gone, I will 
make a trip to the apothecary's. The wood is un- 
loaded. At four o'clock I will put the meat on the 
stove, as you told me; and when the butter-woman 
passes, I will give her those eight soldi. Everything 
will go on well; so don't give it a thought." 

Thanks, my son !" replied the woman. "That will 
do. Poor boy ! he thinks of everything." 

She insisted that I should take a lump of sugar ; and 
then Coretti showed me a little picture, the photo- 
graph of his father dressed as a soldier, with the medal 
for bravery which he had won in 1866, in the troop of 
Prince Umberto : he had the same face as his son, with 
the same vivacious eyes and merry smile. 

We went back to the kitchen. "I have found the 
last answer," said Coretti ; and he added on his copy- 
book, Harness is also made of it. 'The rest I will 
do this evening; I shall sit up later. How happy you 
are, to have time to study and to go to walk, too!" 
And still gay and active, he re-entered the shop, and 
began to place pieces of wood on the horse and to saw 
them, saying : "This is gymnastics : it is quite different 
from the throw your arms forward. I want my father 
to find all this wood sawed when he gets home; how 
glad he will be! The worst part of it is that after 
sawing I make T's and L's which look like snakes, so 
the teacher says. What am I to do? I shall tell 
him that I have to move my arms about. The im- 



38 NOVEMBER 

portant thing is to have mamma get well quickly. She 
is better to-day, thank Heaven ! I will study my gram- 
mar to-morrow morning at cock-crow. Oh, here's 
the cart with the logs! To work!" 

A small cart laden with logs halted in front of the 
shop. Coretti ran out to speak to the man, then re- 
turned : "I cannot keep your company any longer now," 
he said; "farewell until to-morrow. You did right 
to come and hunt me up. A pleasant walk to you! 
lucky fellow!" 

And pressing my hand, he ran to take the first log, 
and began once more to trot back and forth between 
the cart and the shop, with a face as fresh as a rose 
beneath his catskin cap, and so alert that it was a 
pleasure to see him. 

"Lucky fellow!" he had said to me. Ah, no, 
Coretti, no; you are the more fortunate, because you 
study and work too; because you are of use to your 
father and your mother; because you are better a 
hundred times better and braver than I, my dear 
schoolmate ! 

THE PRINCIPAL 

Friday, i8th. 

Coretti was pleased this morning, because his master 
of the second class, Coatti, a big man, with a huge 
head of curly hair, a great black beard, big dark eyes, 
and a voice like a cannon, had come to assist in the 
work of the monthly examination. He is always 
threatening the boys that he will break them in pieces 
and carry them by the nape of the neck to the police- 



THE PRINCIPAL 39 

station; and he makes all sorts of frightful faces; 
though he never punishes any one, but always smiles 
the while behind his beard, so that no one can see it. 
There are eight masters in all, including Coatti, and a 
little, beardless assistant, who looks like a boy. There 
is one master of the fourth class, who is lame and goes 
wrapped up in a big woollen scarf, and who is always 
suffering from pains which he contracted when he 
was a teacher in the country, in a damp school, where 
the walls were dripping with moisture. Another of the 
teachers of the fourth is old and perfectly white-haired, 
and has been a teacher of the blind. There is one 
welldressed master, with eye-glasses, and a blonde 
moustache, who is called the little lawyer, because, while 
he was teaching, he studied law and took his diploma; 
and he also got up a book to teach how to write letters. 
The one who teaches gymnastics is of a soldierly type, 
and was with Garibaldi, and has on his neck a scar 
from a sabre wound received at the battle of Milazzo. 
Then there is the principal, who is tall and bald, and 
wears gold spectacles, and has a gray beard that flows 
down upon his breast; he dresses entirely in black, 
and is always buttoned up to the chin. He is so kind 
to the boys, that when they enter his office, all in a 
tremble, because they have been summoned to receive 
a reproof, he does not scold them, but takes them by 
the hand, and tells them so many reasons why they 
ought not to behave so, and why they should be sorry, 
and promise to be good, and he speaks in such a kind 
manner, and in so gentle a voice, that they all come 
out with red eyes, more confused than if they had been 
punished. 



40 NOVEMBER 

Poor head-master! he is always the first at his 
post in the morning, waiting for the scholars and 
lending an ear to the parents; and when the other 
masters are already on their way home, he is still 
hovering about the school, and looking out that the 
boys do not get under the carriage-wheels, or hang 
about the streets to stand on their heads, or fill their 
bags with sand or stones. And the moment he ap- 
pears at a corner, so tall and black, flocks of boys 
scamper off in all directions, leaving their games of 
coppers and marbles, and he threatens them from afar 
with his forefinger, with his sad and loving air. No 
one has ever seen him smile, my mother says, since 
the death of his son, who was a volunteer in the army: 
he always keeps the latter's portrait before his eyes, 
on a little table in his room. He wanted to go away 
after this misfortune; he wrote his resignation to the 
Municipal Council, and kept it always on his table, 
putting off sending it from day to day, because it 
grieved him to leave the boys. 

The other day he seemed undecided ; and my father, 
who was in the director's room with him, was just 
saying to him, "What a shame it is that you are going 
away, Signor Director!" when a man came in to put 
down the name of a boy who was to be transferred 
from another schoolhouse to ours, because he had 
changed his residence. At the sight of this boy, the 
principal made a gesture of astonishment, gazed at 
him for a while, looked at the portrait that he keeps 
on his little table, and then stared at the boy again, 
as he drew him between his knees, and made him hold 
up his head. The boy resembled his dead son. The 



THE SOLDIERS 41 

principal said, "It is all right," wrote down his name, 
dismissed the father and son, and remained lost in 
thought. 

'What a pity that you are going away!" repeated 
my father. 

The head-master took up his resignation, tore it in 
two, and said, "I shall remain." 



THE SOLDIERS 

Tuesday, 22d. 

His son had been a volunteer in the army when 
he died : this is the reason why the principal always 
goes to the Corso to see the soldiers pass, when we 
come out of school. Yesterday a regiment of infan- 
try was passing, and fifty boys began to dance around 
the band, singing and beating time with their rulers 
on their bags and satchels. We were standing in a 
group on the sidewalk, watching them: Garrone, 
squeezed into his clothes, which were too tight for 
him, was biting at a large piece of bread; Votini, the 
well-dressed boy, who always wears Florentine plush; 
Precossi, the son of the blacksmith, with his father's 
jacket; the Calabrian; "Muratorino" ; Crossi, with his 
red head ; Franti, with his bold face ; and Robetti, the 
son of the artillery captain, the boy who saved the child 
from the omnibus, and who now walks on crutches. 
Franti burst into a derisive laugh, in the face of a 
soldier who was limping. But all at once he felt a 
man's hand on his shoulder : he turned round ; it was 
the principal. 'Take care," said the master to him; 
"jeering at a soldier when he is in the ranks, when 



42 NOVEMBER 

he can neither avenge himself nor reply, is like insult- 
ing a man whose hands are tied : it is cowardly." 

Franti disappeared. The soldiers were marching 
by fours, all perspiring and covered with dust, and 
their guns were gleaming in the sun. The principal 
said : 

"You ought to wish the soldiers well, boys. They 
are our defenders, who would go to be killed for our 
sakes, if a foreign army were to menace our country 
to-morrow. They are boys to; they are not many 
years older than you; and they, too, go to school; and 
there are poor and rich among them, just as there are 
among you, and they come from every part of Italy. 
See if you can recognize them by their faces : Sicilians 
are passing, and Sardinians, and Neapolitans, and 
Lombards. This is an old regiment, one of those 
which fought in 1848. They are not the same soldiers, 
but the flag is still the same. How many died for our 
country around that banner twenty years before you 
were born!" 

"Here it is!" said Garrone. And in fact, not far 
off, the flag was visible, advancing, above the heads 
of the soldiers. 

"Do one thing, my sons," said the head-master; 
"make your scholar's salute, with your hand to your 
brow, when the tricolor passes." 

The flag, borne by an officer, passed before us, all 
tattered and faded, and with the medals attached to 
the staff. We put our hands to our foreheads, all 
together. The officer looked at us with a smile, and 
returned our salute with his hand. 

"Bravo, boys!" said some one behind us. We 



NELLI'S PROTECTOR 43 

turned to look; it was an old man who wore in his 
button-hole the blue ribbon of the Crimean campaign 
a pensioned officer. "Bravo!" he said; "you have 
done a noble deed." 

In the meantime, the band of the regiment had made 
a turn at the end of the Cor so, surrounded by a 
throng of boys, and a hundred merry shouts accom- 
panied the blasts of the trumpets, like a war-song. 

"Bravo !" repeated the old officer, as he gazed upon 
us; "he who respects the flag when he is little will 
know how to defend it when he is grown up." 

NELLI'S PROTECTOR 

Wednesday, 23d. 

Nelli, too, poor little hunchback! was looking at 
the soldiers yesterday, but with an air as though he 
were thinking, "I can never be a soldier!" He is 
good, and he studies; but he is so puny and wan, and 
he breathes with difficulty. He always wears a long 
apron of shining black cloth. His mother is a little 
blonde woman who dresses in black. She always 
comes to get him at the end of school, so that he may 
not come out in the crowd with the others, and she 
pets him. At first many of the boys ridiculed him, 
and thumped him on the back with their bags, because 
he is so unfortunate as to be a hunchback ; but he never 
offered any resistance, nor said anything to his mother, 
in order not to give her the pain of knowing that her 
son was the laughing-stock of his companions. They 
jeered at him, and he cried quietly, with his head laid 
against the bench. 



44 NOVEMBER 

But one morning Garrone jumped up and said, "The 
first person who touches Nelli will get such a lick from 
me that he will spin round three times !" 

Franti paid no attention to him ; the blow was given : 
and from that time forth no one ever touched Nelli 
again. The master placed Garrone near him, on the 
same bench. They have become friends. Nelli has 
grown very fond of Garrone. As soon as he enters 
the schoolroom he looks to see if Garrone is there. 
He never goes away without saying, "Good bye, Gar- 
rone," and Garrone does the same with him. When 
Nelli drops a pen or a book under the bench, Garrone 
stoops quickly, to prevent his stooping and tiring him- 
self, and picks it up for him. Then he helps him to 
put his things in his bag and to twist himself into his 
coat. For this Nelli loves him, and gazes at him con- 
stantly; and when the master praises Garrone he is as 
pleased, as though he had been praised himself. 

Nelli must at last have told his mother all about the 
ridicule of the early days, and what they made him 
suffer; and about the comrade who defended him, and 
how he had grown fond of the latter; for this is what 
happened this morning. The master had sent me to 
carry to the director, half an hour before the close of 
school, a programme of the lesson, and while I was 
in the office, a small, blonde woman dressed in black 
came in. It was Nelli's mother. She asked : 

"Signor Director, is there a boy named Garrone in 
the class with my son?" 

"Yes," replied the head-master. 

"Will you have the goodness to let him come here 
for a moment? I have a word to say to him." 



THE HEAD OF THE CLASS 45 

The principal called the porter and sent him to the 
school; and after a minute Garrone appeared on the 
threshold, with his big, close-cropped head, in perfect 
amazement. No sooner did she catch sight of him 
than the woman flew to meet him, threw her arms 
around him, and kissed him on the head, saying : 

"You are Garrone, the friend of my little son, the 
protector of my poor child; it is you, my dear, brave 
boy; it is you!" 

Then she searched hastily in all her pockets, and in 
her purse, and finding nothing, she detached a chain 
with a small cross from her neck, and put it on Gar- 
rone's neck, underneath his necktie, and said to him : 



'Take it! wear it in memory of me, my dear boy; in 
memory of Nelli's mother, who thanks and blesses 
you." 

THE HEAD OF THE CLASS 

Friday, 25th. 

Garrone attracts the love of all; Derossi, the admira- 
tion. Derossi has taken the first medal ; he will always 
be the first. This year also no one can compete with 
him; all recognize his superiority in all points. He 
is first in arithmetic, in grammar, in composition, in 
drawing ; he understands everything at a glance ; he has 
a marvelous memory; he succeeds in everything with- 
out effort. It seems as though study were play to 
him. The teacher said to him yesterday :- 

"You have received great gifts from God. Be care- 
ful not to squander them." 

And besides, he is tall and handsome, with a great 



46 NOVEMBER 

crown of golden curls; he is so nimble that he can leap 
over a bench by resting one hand on it ; and he already 
understands fencing. He is twelve years old, and the 
son of a merchant; he is always dressed in blue, with 
gilt buttons ; he is always lively, merry, gracious to all, 
and helps us as much as he can in examinations. No 
one has ever dared to play a trick on him or call him 
names. 

Nobis and Franti alone look askance at him, and 
Votini darts envy from his eyes : but he does not even 
perceive it. All smile at him, and take his hand or his 
arm, when he goes about, in his graceful way, to collect 
the work. He gives away illustrated papers, drawings, 
everything that is given him at home. He has made a 
little geographical chart of Calabria for the Calabrian 
lad ; and he gives everything with a smile, without pay- 
ing any heed to it, like a grand gentleman, and without 
favoritism for any one. It is impossible not to envy 
him, not to feel smaller than he in everything. 

Ah! I, too, envy him, like Votini. And I feel a 
bitterness, almost a certain scorn, for him, sometimes, 
when I am striving to do my work at home, and think 
that he has already finished his correctly, at this same 
moment, and without fatigue. But then, when I re- 
turn to school, and behold him so handsome, so smiling 
and triumphant, and hear how frankly and confidently 
he replies to the master's questions, and how courteous 
he is, and how the others all like him, then all the bit- 
terness, all scorn, departs from my heart, and I am 
ashamed of having felt that way. I should like to be 
always near him at such times. I should like to be 



LITTLE VIDETTE OF LOMBARDY 47 

able to do all my school tasks with him, for his pres- 
ence, his voice, inspire me with courage, with a will to 
work, with cheerfulness and pleasure. 

The teacher has given him the monthly story to copy, 
which will be read to-morrow, The Little Vidette of 
Lombardy. He copied it this morning, and was so 
much affected by that heroic deed, that his face was all 
aflame, his eyes moist, and his lips trembling. I gazed 
at him : how handsome and noble he was ! With what 
pleasure would I not have said frankly to his face: 
"Derossi, you are worth more than I in everything! 
You are a man in comparison with me ! I respect you 
and admire you!" 

THE LITTLE VIDETTE OF LOMBARDY 

(Monthly Story.) 

Saturday, 26th. 

In the year 1859, during the war for the liberation 
of Lombardy, a few days after the battle of Solferino 
and San Martino, won by the French and Italians over 
the Austrians, on a beautiful morning in the month 
of June, a little band of cavalry of Saluzzo was pro- 
ceeding at a slow pace along a retired path, in the di- 
rection of the enemy, and exploring the country atten- 
tively. The troop was commanded by an officer and a 
sergeant, and all were gazing into the distance ahead of 
them, with eyes fixed, silent, and prepared at any 
moment to see the uniforms of the enemy's advance- 
posts gleam white before them through the trees. 

In this order they arrived at a rustic cabin, sur- 



48 NOVEMBER 

rounded by ash-trees, in front of which stood a solitary 
boy, about twelve years old, who was removing the 
bark from a small branch with a knife, in order to make 
himself a stick. From one window of the little house 
floated a large tri-colored flag. There was no one in- 
side : the peasants had fled, after hanging out the flag, 
for fear of the Austrians. As soon as the lad saw the 
cavalry, he flung aside his stick and raised his cap. He 
was a handsome boy, with a bold face, large blue eyes 
and long, golden hair. He was in his shirt-sleeves and 
his breast was bare. 

'What are you doing here?" the officer asked him, 
reining in his horse. "Why did you not flee with your 
family ?" 

"I have no family," replied the boy. "I am a found- 
ling. I do a little work for everybody. I stayed here 
to see the war." 

"Have you seen any Austrians pass?" 

"No; not for these three days." 

The officer paused a while in thought ; then he leaped 
from his horse, leaving his soldiers there, with their 
faces turned towards the foe, he entered the house and 
mounted to the roof. The house was low; from the 
roof only a small tract of country was visible. "It 
will be necessary to climb the trees," said the officer, 
and descended. Just in front of the garden plot rose 
a very lofty and slender ash-tree, which was rocking 
its crest in the sky. The officer stood thinking a mo- 
ment, gazing now at the tree, and again at the soldiers ; 
then, all of a sudden, he asked the lad : 

"Is your sight good, you monkey?" 



LITTLE VIDETTE OF LOMBARDY 49 

"Mine?" replied the boy. "I can spy a sparrow 
a mile away." 

"Are you good for a climb to the top of this tree?" 

'To the top of this tree? I'll be up there in half a 
minute." 

"And will you be able to tell me what you see up 
there if there are Austrian soldiers in that direction, 
clouds of dust, gleaming guns, horses ?" 

"Certainly I shall." 

"What do you ask for this service?" 

"What do I ask?" said the lad, smiling. "Nothing. 
A fine thing, indeed! Now if it were for the 
Germans, I wouldn't do it on any terms ; but for our 
men ! I am a Lombard !" 

"Good ! Then up with you." 

"Wait a moment, until I take off my shoes." 

He pulled off his shoes, tightened the girth of his 
trousers, flung his cap on the grass, and clasped the 
trunk of the ash. 

'Take care, now!" exclaimed the officer, making a 
movement to hold him back, as though seized with 
a sudden terror. 

The boy turned to look at him, with his handsome 
blue eyes, as though to question him. 

"No matter," said the officer; "up with you!" 

Up went the lad like a cat. 

"Keep watch ahead!" shouted the officer to the 
soldiers. 

In a few moments the boy was at the top of the tree, 
twined around the trunk, with his legs among the 
leaves, but his body displayed to view, and the sun 



50 NOVEMBER 

beating down on his blonde head, which seemed like 
gold. The officer could hardly see him, so small did 
he seem. 

"Look straight ahead and far away!" shouted the 
officer. 

The lad, in order to see better, removed his right 
hand from the tree, and shaded his eyes with it. 

'What do you see?" asked the officer. 

The boy bent his head towards him, and, making a 
speaking-trumpet of his hand, replied, "Two men on 
horseback, on the white road." 

"At what distance from here?" 

"Half a mile." 

"Are they moving?" 

"They are standing still." 

'What else do you see?" asked the officer, after a 
momentary silence. "Look to the right." 

The boy looked to the right. Then he said : "Near 
the cemetery, among the trees, there is something 
glittering. It seems to be bayonets." 

"Do you see men?" 

"No. They must be hidden in the grain." 

At that moment the sharp whiz of a bullet passed 
high up in the air, and died away in the distance, be- 
hind the house. 

"Come down, my lad!" shouted the officer. "They 
have seen you. I don't want anything more. Come 
down!" 
; "I'm not afraid," replied the boy. 

"Come down!" repeated the officer. "What else do 
you see to the left ?" 

"To the left?" 



LITTLE VIDETTE OF LOMBARDY 51 

"Yes, to the left." 

The lad turned his head to the left. At that mo- 
ment, another whistle, more acute and lower than the 
first, cut the air. The boy was startled. 

"Deuce take them!" he exclaimed. "They actually 
are aiming at me \" The bullet had passed at a short 
distance from him. 

"Down !" shouted the officer, angrily and command- 
ingly. 

"I'll come down presently," replied the boy. "But 
the tree shelters me. Don't fear. You want to know 
what there is on the left?" 

"Yes, on the left," answered the officer; "but come 
down." 

"On the left," shouted the lad, turning his body in 
that direction, "yonder, where there is a chapel, I think 
I see" 

A third fierce whistle passed through the air, and 
almost at the same instant the boy was seen to descend, 
catching for a moment at the trunk and branches, and 
then falling headlong with arms outspread. 

"Curse them !" exclaimed the officer, running up. 

The boy landed on the ground, upon his back, and 
lay there with arms open and motionless; a stream of 
blood flowed from his left side. The sergeant and 
two soldiers leaped from their horses. The officer 
bent over and opened his shirt. The ball had entered 
his left lung. 

"He is dead!" exclaimed the officer. 

"No, he still lives !" replied the sergeant. 

"Ah, poor boy! brave boy!" cried the officer. 
"Courage, courage!" But while he was saying 



52 NOVEMBER 

"courage," he was pressing his handkerchief on the 
wound. 

The boy rolled his eyes wildly and dropped his head 
back. He was dead. The officer turned pale and 
stood for a moment gazing at him. He laid him down 
carefully on his cloak upon the grass ; then rose and 
stood looking at him. The sergeant and two soldiers 
also stood motionless, gazing upon him. The rest 
were facing the direction of the enemy. 

"Poor boy!" repeated the officer. "Poor, brave 
boy !" 

He approached the house, removed the tricolor from 
the window, and spread it like a shroud over the little 
dead boy, leaving his face uncovered. The sergeant 
collected the dead boy's shoes, his cap, his little stick, 
and his knife, and placed them beside him. They 
stood for a few moments longer in silence; then the 
officer turned to the sergeant and said to him, 

'We will send the ambulance for him : he died as a 
soldier; the soldiers shall bury him." Having said 
this, he threw a kiss to the dead boy, and shouted "To 
horse !" All sprang into the saddle, the troop drew to- 
gether and resumed its road. 

And a few hours later the little dead boy received 
the honors of war. 

At sunset the whole line of the Italian advance- 
posts marched forward towards the foe ; and along the 
same road which had been traversed in the morning 
by the detachment of cavalry, there proceeded, in two 
files, a heavy battalion of sharpshooters, who, a fewi 
days before, had valiantly watered the hill of San Mar- 
tino with blood. The news of the boy's death had al- 



THE POOR 53 

ready spread among the soldiers before they left the 
encampment. The path, flanked by a rivulet, ran a 
few paces distant from the house. When the first 
officers of the battalion caught sight of the little body 
stretched at the foot of the ash-tree and covered with 
the tricolored banner, they made the salute to it with 
their swords, and one of them bent over the bank 
of the streamlet, which was covered with flowers at 
that spot, and plucked a couple of blossoms and threw 
them on it. Then all the sharpshooters, as they 
passed, plucked flowers and threw them on the body. 
In a few minutes the boy was covered with flowers, 
and officers and soldiers all saluted him as they passed 
by: 

"Bravo, little Lombard!" "Farewell, my lad!" 
"I salute thee, gold locks!" "Hurrah!" "Glory!" 
"Farewell!" 

One officer tossed him his medal for valor; another 
went and kissed his brow. And flowers continued to 
rain down on his bare feet, on his blood-stained breast, 
on his golden head. And there he lay asleep on the 
grass, enveloped in his flag, with a white and almost 
smiling face, as though he heard the salutes and was 
glad that he had given his life for his Lombardy. 

THE POOR 

Tuesday, 29th. 

To give one's life for one's country as the Lombard 
boy did, is a great virtue; but you must not neglect the 
lesser virtues, my son. This morning as you walked 
in front of me, when we were returning from school, 



54 NOVEMBER 

you passed near a poor woman who was holding between 
her knees a thin, pale child, and who asked alms of you. 
You looked at her and gave her nothing, and yet you 
had some coppers in your pocket. Listen, my son. Do 
not accustom yourself to pass carelessly by poverty which 
stretches out its hand to you, and far less before a mother 
who asks a copper for her child. Reflect that the child 
may be hungry; think of the agony of that poor woman. 
Picture to yourself the sob of despair of your mother, 
if she were some day forced to say, "Enrico, I cannot 
give you even bread to-day !" 

When I give a soldo to a beggar, and he says to me, 
"God preserve your health, and the health of all be- 
longing to you !" you cannot understand the sweetness 
which these words produce in my heart, the gratitude 
that I feel for that poor man. It seems to me that such 
a good wish must surely keep one in good health for a 
long time; and I return home content, and think, "Oh, 
that poor man has returned to me very much more than 
I gave him !" 

Well, cause me sometimes to hear that good wish 
merited by you ; draw a soldo from your little purse now 
and then, and let it fall into the hand of a blind man 
without means of subsistence, of a mother without bread, 
of a child without a mother. The poor love the alms of 
boys, because it does not humiliate them, and because boys, 
who stand in need of everything, resemble themselves: 
you see that there are always poor people around the 
schoolhouses. The alms of a man is an act of charity; 
but that of a child is at one and the same time an act 
of charity and a caress do you understand? It is as 
though a soldo and a flower fell from your hand to- 
gether. Reflect that you lack nothing, and that they lack 
everything; that while you aspire to be happy, they are 



THE POOR 55 

content simply with not dying. Reflect, that it is a 
horror, in the midst of so many palaces, along the streets 
thronged with carriages, and children clad in velvet, that 
there should be women and children who have nothing 
to eat. To have nothing to eat ! O God ! Boys like 
you, as good as you, as intelligent as you, who, in the midst 
of a great city, have nothing to eat, like wild beasts lost in 
a desert! Oh, never again, Enrico, pass a mother who 
is begging, without placing a soldo in her hand ! 

[YOUR MOTHER. 



DECEMBER 

THE TRADER 

Thursday, ist. 

MY father wishes me to have some one of my 
schoolmates come to our house every holiday, or that 
I should go to see one of them, in order that I may 
gradually become friends with all of them. Sunday 
I shall go to walk \vith Votini, the well-dressed boy 
who is always brushing himself up, and who is so 
envious of Derossi. In the meantime, Garoffi. came 
to the house to-day, that long, lank boy, with the 
nose like an owl's beak, and small, knavish eyes, which 
seem to be ferreting everywhere. He is the son of 
a grocer, and is a queer fellow ; he is always counting 
the soldi in his pocket; he reckons them on his fingers 
very, very rapidly, and goes through some process of 
multiplication without any tables; and he hoards his 
money, and already has a book in the Scholars' Sav- 
ings Bank. He never spends a soldo, I am positive; 
and if he drops a centesimo under the benches, he is 
likely to hunt for it a week. He does as magpies do, 
so Derossi says. Everything that he finds worn-out 
pens, postage-stamps that have been used, pins, candle- 
ends he picks up. He has been collecting postage- 
stamps for more than two years now; and he already 
has hundreds of them from every country, in a large 
album, which he will sell to a bookseller later on, 

56 



THE TRADER 57 

when he has got it quite full. Meanwhile, the book- 
seller gives him his copy-books, because he takes a 
great many boys to the shop. 

In school, he is always bartering; he effects sales 
of little articles every day, and gets up lotteries and 
exchanges; then he regrets the trade, and wants his 
stuff back again. He buys for two and sells for four ; 
he plays at pitch-penny, and never loses; he sells old 
newspapers over again to the tobacconist ; and he keeps 
a little blank-book, full of figures, in which he sets 
down his transactions. At school he studies noth- 
ing but arithmetic; and if he desires the medal, it is 
only that he may have a free entrance into the puppet- 
show. 

But he pleases me; he amuses me. We played at 
keeping a market, with weights and scales. He knows 
the exact price of everything; he understands weigh- 
ing, and quickly makes handsome paper horns, like 
shopkeepers. He declares that as soon as he has 
finished school he shall set up in business in a new 
business which he has invented himself. He was very 
much pleased when I gave him some foreign postage- 
stamps ; and he informed me exactly how each one sold 
for collections. My father pretended to be reading 
the newspaper; but he listened to him, and was greatly 
diverted. His pockets are bulging, full of his little 
wares ; and he covers them up with a long, black cloak, 
and always appears thoughtful and preoccupied with 
business, like a merchant. 

But the thing that he has nearest his heart is his 
collection of postage-stamps. This is his treasure; 
and he always speaks of it as though he were going 



58 DECEMBER 

to get a fortune out of it. The boys accuse him of 
miserliness and usury. I do not know: I like him; 
he teaches me a great many things; he seems a man 
to me. Coretti, the son of the wood-merchant, says 
that Garoffi would not give him his postage-stamps to 
save his mother's life. My father does not believe 
it. 

"Wait a little before you condemn him," he said 
to me; "he has this passion, but he has heart as well." 

VANITY 

Monday, 5th. 

Yesterday I went for a walk along the Rivoli road 
with Votini and his father. As we were passing 
through the Dora Grossa Street we saw Stardi, the 
boy who kicks at those who bother him, standing 
stiffly in front of the window of a book-shop, with 
his eyes fixed on a map; and no one knows how long 
he had been there, because he studies even in the street. 
He barely returned our salute, the rude fellow ! 

Votini was well dressed even too much so. He 
had on morocco boots embroidered in red, an embroid- 
ered coat, small silken tassels, a white beaver hat, and 
a watch ; and he strutted. But his vanity was to come 
to a bad end this time. After having gone a toler- 
ably long distance up the Rivoli road, leaving his 
father, who was walking slowly, a long way in the 
rear, we halted at a stone seat, beside a modestly clad 
boy, who appeared to be weary and moody, and who 
sat with drooping head. A man, who must have been 
his father, was walking to and fro under the trees, 



VANITY 



59 



reading the newspaper. We sat down. Votini placed 
himself between me and the boy. All at once he rec- 
ollected that he was well dressed, and wanted to make 
his neighbor admire and envy him. 

He lifted one foot, and said to me, "Have you seen 
my officer's boots?" He said this in order to make the 
other boy look at them ; but the latter paid no attention. 

Then he dropped his foot, and showed me his silk 
tassels, glancing slyly at the boy the while, and said 
that these tassels did not please him, and that he wanted 
to have them changed to silver buttons ; but the boy did 
not look at the tassels either. 

Then Votini fell to twirling his handsome white hat 
on the tip of his forefinger; but the boy and it seemed 
as though he did it on purpose did not deign even a 
glance at the hat. 

Votini, who began to be irritated, drew out his watch, 
opened it, and showed me the wheels; but the boy did 
not turn his head. 

"Is it of silver gilt?" I asked him. 

"No," he replied; "it is gold." 

"But not merely of gold," I said; "there must be 
some silver with it." 

"Why, no!" he retorted; and, in order to compel 
the boy to look, he held the watch before his face, and 
said to him, "Say, look here! isn't it true that it is 
entirely of gold?" 

The boy replied briefly, "I don't know." 

"Oh! Oh!" exclaimed Votini, full of wrath, "what 
pride !" 

As he was saying this, his father came up, and heard 
him ; he looked steadily at the lad for a moment, then 



60 DECEMBER 

said sharply to his son, "Hold your tongue !" and, bend- 
ing down to his ear, he added, "he is blind !" 

Votini sprang to his feet, with a shudder, and stared 
the boy in the face: the latter's eyeballs were glassy, 
without expression, without sight. 

Votini stood humbled, speechless, with his eyes 
fixed on the ground. At length he stammered, "I am 
sorry ; I did not know." 

But the blind boy, who had understood it all, said, 
with a kind, sad smile, "Oh, it's no matter!" 

Well, Votini is vain; but his heart is not bad. He 
never laughed again during the whole of the walk. 

THE FIRST SNOW-STORM 

Saturday, loth. 

Farewell, walks to Rivoli ! Here is the beautiful 
friend of the boys! Here is the first snow! Ever 
since yesterday evening it has been falling in thick flakes 
as large as gillyflowers. It was a pleasure this morning 
at school to see it beat against the panes and pile up 
on the window-sills; even the master watched it, and 
rubbed his hands ; and all were glad, when they thought 
of making snowballs, and of the ice which will come 
later, and of the hearth at home. Stardi, entirely 
absorbed in his lessons, and with his fists pressed to 
his temples, was the only one who paid no attention to it. 

What beauty! What a celebration there was when 
we left school ! All danced down the streets, shouting 
and tossing their arms, catching up handfuls of snow, 
and dashing about in it, like poodles in water. The 
umbrellas of the parents, who were waiting outside, 



THE FIRST SNOW-STORM 61 

were all white ; the policeman's helmet was white ; all 
our satchels were white in a few moments. Every 
one appeared to be beside himself with joy even 
Precossi, the son of the blacksmith, that pale boy 
who never laughs,. And Robetti, the lad who 
saved the little child from the omnibus, poor fel- 
low! jumped about on his crutches. The Calabrian, 
who had never touched snow, made himself a little 
ball of it, and began to eat it, as though it had been 
a peach. Crossi, the son of the vegetable-vendor, filled 
his satchel with it. And "Muratorino" made us burst 
with laughter, when my father invited him to come to 
our house to-morrow. He had his mouth full of snow, 
and, not daring either to spit it out or to swallow it, 
he stood there choking and staring at us, and made no 
answer. Even the schoolmistress came out of school 
on a run, laughing; but my mistress of the upper first, 
poor little thing ! ran through the drizzling snow, cover- 
ing her face with her green veil, and coughing. 
Meanwhile, hundreds of girls from the neighboring 
schoolhouse passed by, screaming and frolicking on 
that white carpet, And the masters and the beadles and 
the policemen shouted, "Home! home!" swallowing 
flakes of snow, and whitening their moustaches and 
beards. But they, too, laughed at this wild romp of 
the scholars, as they celebrated the winter. 

You hail the arrival of winter; but there are boys 
who have neither clothes nor shoes nor fire. There 
are thousands of them, who descend to their villages, 
over a long road, carrying in hands bleeding from chil- 
blains a bit of wood to warm the schoolroom. There 



62 DECEMBER 

are hundreds of schools almost buried in the snow, 
bare and dismal as caves, where the boys suffocate with 
smoke or chatter their teeth with cold as they gaze in 
terror at the white flakes which descend unceasingly, 
which pile up constantly on their distant cabins threatened 
by avalanches. You rejoice in the winter, boys. Think 
of the thousands of creatures to whom winter brings 
misery and death. 

YOUR FATHER. 

MURATORINO, THE LITTLE MASON 

Sunday, nth. 

The "little mason" came to-day, in a hunting-jacket, 
entirely dressed in the cast-off clothes of his father, 
which were still white with lime and plaster. My 
father was even more anxious than I that he should 
come. How much pleasure he gives us! No sooner 
had he entered than he pulled off his ragged cap, which 
was all soaked with snow, and thrust it into one of 
his pockets. He came forward with his listless gait, 
like a weary workman, turning his face, as smooth as 
an apple, with its ball-like nose, from side to side ; and 
when he entered the dining-room, he cast a glance 
round at the furniture and fixed his eyes on a small 
picture of Rigoletto, a hunchbacked jester, and made 
a "hare's face." It is impossible to keep from laughing 
when he makes that hare's face. 

We went to playing with bits of wood: he is good 
at making towers and bridges, which seem to stand as 
though by a miracle, and he works at it quite seriously, 
with the patience of a man. Between one tower and 



MURATORINO, THE LITTLE MASON 63 

another he told me about his family: they live in a 
garret ; his father goes to the evening school to learn to 
read, and his mother is a washerwoman. And they 
must love him, of course, for he is clad like a poor boy, 
but he is well protected from the cold, with neatly 
mended clothes, and with his necktie nicely tied by 
his mother. His father, he told me, is a fine man, a 
giant, who has trouble in getting through doors; but 
he is kind, and always calls his son "hare's face" : the 
son, on the contrary, is rather small. 

At four o'clock we lunched on bread and goat's-milk 
cheese, as we sat on the sofa; and when we rose, I do 
not know why, but my father did not wish me to brush 
off the back, which the little mason had spotted with 
white, from his jacket : he held my hand, and then 
rubbed it off himself on the sly. While we were 
playing, the little mason lost a button from his hunting- 
jacket, and my mother sewed it on, and he grew quite 
red, and began to watch her sew, in perfect amazement 
and confusion, holding his breath the while. Then we 
gave him some albums of caricatures to look at, and he, 
without being aware of it himself, imitated the grim- 
aces of the faces there so well, that even my father 
laughed. He was so much pleased when he went 
away that he forgot to put on his tattered cap; and 
when we reached the landing, he made a hare's face 
at me once more in sign of his gratitude. His name 
is Antonio Rabucco, and he is eight years and eight 
months old. 

Do you know, my son, why I did not wish you to 
wipe off the sofa ? Because to wipe it while your friend 



64 DECEMBER 

was looking on would have been almost the same as 
reproving him for having soiled it. And this was not well, 
in the first place, because he did not do it intentionally, 
and in the next, because he did it with the clothes of 
his father, who had covered them with plaster while 
at work; and what comes from work is not dirt; it is 
dust, lime, varnish, whatever you like, but it is not dirt. 
Labor does not soil one. Never say of a laborer coming 
from his work, "He is filthy." You should say, "He 
has on his clothes the signs, the traces, of his toil." 
Remember this. And you must love the little mason, 
first, because he is your comrade ; and next, because he is 
the son of a workingman. 

YOUR FATHER. 



A SNOWBALL 

Friday, i6th. 

And still it snows. A bad accident happened 
because of the snow, this morning when we came out 
of school. A crowd of boys had no sooner got into the 
Corso than they began to throw balls of wet snow 
which makes missiles as solid and heavy as stones. 
SVlany persons were passing along the sidewalks. A 
gentleman called out, "Stop that, you little rascals!"; 
and just then a sharp cry rose from another part of 
the street, and we saw an old man who had lost his 
hat and was staggering about, covering his face with 
his hands, and beside him a boy who was shouting, 
"Help ! help !" 

People instantly ran from all directions. He had 
been struck in the eye with a ball. All the boys dis- 




'STOP THAT, YOU LITTLE RASCALS! 



A SNOWBALL 65 

persed, fleeing like arrows. I was standing in front 
of the bookseller's shop, into which my father had gone, 
and I saw several of my schoolmates coming at a run, 
mingling with others near me, and pretending to be 
engaged in staring at the windows : there was Garrone, 
with his penny roll in his pocket, as usual; Coretti; 
"Muratorino" ; and Garoffi, the boy with the postage- 
stamps. In the meantime a crowd had formed around 
the old man, and a policeman and others were running 
to and fro, threatening and demanding: "Who was 
it? Who did it? Was it you? Tell me who did 
it!" and they looked at the boys' hands to see whether 
they were wet with snow. 

Garoffi was standing beside me. I noticed that he 
was trembling all over, and that his face was as white 
as that of a corpse. "Who was it? Who did it?" 
the crowd continue to cry. 

Then I overheard Garrone say in a low voice to 
Garoffi, "Come, give yourself up; it would be cowardly 
to allow any one else to be arrested." 

"But I did not do it on purpose," replied Garoffi, 
trembling like a leaf. 

"No matter; do your duty," repeated Garrone. 

"But I have not the courage." 

"Take courage, then; I will accompany you." 

And the policeman and the other people were crying 
more loudly than ever: "Who was it? Who did it? 
One of his glasses had been driven into his eye! He 
has been blinded! The ruffians!" 

I thought that Garoffi would fall to the earth. 
"Come," said Garrone, resolutely, "I will defend you;" 
and grasping him by the arm, he thrust him forward, 



66 DECEMBER 

supporting him as though he had been a sick man. The 
people saw, and instantly understood, and several per- 
sons ran up with their fists raised; but Garrone thrust 
himself between, crying: 

"Do ten men of you set on one boy?" 

Then they ceased, and a policeman seized Garoffi by 
the hand and led him, pushing aside the crowd as he 
went, to a pastry-cook's shop, where the wounded man 
had been carried. On catching sight of him, I sud- 
denly recognized him as the old employee who lives 
on the fourth floor of our house with his grandnephew. 
He was stretched out on a chair, with a handkerchief 
over his eyes. 

"I did not do it on purpose!" sobbed Garoffi, half 
dead with terror ; "I did not do it on purpose !" 

Two or three persons thrust him violently into the 
shop, crying: "Down to the earth! Beg his pardon!" 
and they threw him to the ground. But all at once two 
vigorous arms set him on his feet again, and a resolute 
voice said : 

"No, gentlemen!" It was our principal, who had 
seen it all. "Since he has had the courage to give him- 
self up," he added, "no one has the right to humiliate 
him." All stood silent. "Ask his forgiveness," said 
the principal to Garofrl. Garofrl, bursting into tears, 
embraced the old man's knees, and the latter, having 
felt for the boy's head with his hand, caressed his hair. 
Then all said : 



"Go, boy! go, return home." 

And my father drew me out of the crowd, and said 
as we passed along the street, "Enrico, would you have 



THE SCHOOLMISTRESSES 67 

had the courage, under similar circumstances, to do 
your duty, to go and confess your fault? 1 " 

I told him that I should. And he said, "Give me 
your word, as a lad of heart and honor, that you would 
do it." 

"I give you my word, father !" 



THE SCHOOLMISTRESSES 

Saturday, i7th. 

To-day Garoffi stood in fear and dread of a severe 
punishment from the teacher; but the master did not ap- 
pear; and as the assistant was also missing, Signora 
Cromi, the oldest of the schoolmistresses, came to teach 
the school. She has two grown-up children, and she 
has taught several women to read and write, who now 
come with their sons to the Baretti schoolhouse. 

She was sad to-day, because one of her sons is ill. 
No sooner had the boys caught sight of her, than they 
began to make an uproar. But she said, in a slow and 
calm tone, "Respect my white hair; I am not only a 
school-teacher, I am also a mother"; and then no one 
dared to speak again, in spite of that brazen face of 
Franti, who contented himself with jeering at her on 
the sly. 

Signora Delcati, my brother's teacher, was sent to 
take charge of Signora Cromi's class, and to Signora 
Delcati's was sent the teacher who is called "the little 
nun," because she always dresses in dark colors, with 
a black apron, and has a small white face, hair that is 
always smooth, very bright eyes, and a delicate voice, 



68 DECEMBER 

that seems to be forever murmuring prayers. It is 
hard to understand, my mother says; she is so gentle 
and timid, with that thread of a voice, which is always 
even, which is hardly audible, and she never speaks 
loud nor flies into a passion; but, nevertheless, she keeps 
the boys so quiet that you cannot hear them, and the 
most roguish bow their heads when she merely ad- 
monishes them with her finger, so that her school seems 
like a church ; and it is for this reason, also, that she is 
called "the little nun." 

But there is another one I like, the young mistress 
of the lower first, the girl with the rosy face, who has 
two pretty dimples in her cheeks, and who wears a 
large red feather on her little bonnet, and a small cross 
of yellow glass on her neck. She is always cheerful, 
and keeps her class cheerful. 'She is always calling out 
with that silvery voice of hers, which makes her seem 
to be singing, and tapping her little rod on the table, 
and clapping her hands to impose silence. When they 
come out of school, she runs after one and another like 
a child, to bring them back into line. She pulls up the 
cape of one, and buttons the coat of another, so they 
may not take cold. She follows them even into the 
street, in order that they may not fall to quarrelling. 
She begs the parents not to whip them at home. She 
brings lozenges to those who have coughs. She lends 
her muff to those who are cold. And she is continually 
tormented by the smallest children, who caress her and 
demand kisses, and pull at her veil and mantle; but 
she lets them do it, and kisses them all with a smile, 
and returns home all rumpled and with her throat all 
bare, panting and happy, with her beautiful dimples 



THE WOUNDED MAN 69 

and her red feather. She is also the girls' drawing- 
teacher, and she supports her mother and a brother by 
her earnings. 



THE WOUNDED MAN 

Sunday, i8th. 

The grandnephew of the old employee who was 
struck in the eye by Garoffi's snowball is in the room 
of the schoolmistress who has the red feather : we saw 
him to-day with his uncle, who treats him like a son. 
I had finished writing out the monthly story for the 
coming week, The Little Florentine Scribe, which 
the master had given to me to copy ; and my father said 
to me : 

"Let us go up to the fourth floor, and see how that 
old gentleman's eye is." 

We entered a room which was almost dark, where 
the old man was sitting up in bed, with a great many 
pillows behind his shoulders; by the bedside sat his 
wife, and in one corner his nephew was amusing him- 
self. The old man's eye was bandaged. He was very 
glad to see my father; he made us sit down, and said 
that he was better, that his eye was not only not ruined, 
but that he should be quite well again in a few days. 

"It was an accident," he added. "I regret the terror 
which it must have caused that poor boy." Then he 
talked to us about the doctor, whom he expected every 
moment to attend him. Just then the door-bell 
rang. 

"There is the doctor," said his wife. 

The door opened and whom did I see? Garoffi, 



70 DECEMBER 

in his long cloak, standing, with bowed head on 
the threshold, and without the courage to enter. 

"Who is it?" asked the sick man. 

"It is the boy who threw the snowball/' said my 
father. And then the old man said : 

"Oh, my poor boy! come here; you have come to 
inquire after the wounded man, have you not? But 
he is better; be at ease; he is better and almost well. 
Come here." 

Garoffi, who did not see us in his confusion, ap- 
proached the bed, forcing himself not to cry; and the 
old man caressed him, but could not speak. 

"Thank you," said the old man; "go and tell your 
father and mother that all is going well, and that they 
are not to think any more about it." 

But Garoffi did not move, and seemed to have 
something to say which he dared not utter. 

"What have you to say to me? What do you 
want?" 

"I? Nothing." 

"Well, good-bye, until we meet again, my boy; go 
with your heart in peace." 

Garoffi went as far as the door; but there he halted, 
turned to the nephew, who was following him, and 
who gazed curiously at him. All at once he pulled 
some object from beneath his cloak, put it in the 
boy's hand, and whispered hastily to him, "It is 
for you," and away he went like a flash. 

The boy carried the object to his uncle. He saw 
that on it was written, "I give you this." He looked 
inside, and uttered an exclamation of surprise. It 
was the famous album, with his collection of postage- 



THE LITTLE FLORENTINE SCRIBE 71 

stamps, which poor Garoffi had brought, the col- 
lection about which he was always talking, upon 
which he had founded so many hopes, and which had 
cost him so much trouble. It was his treasure, poor 
boy! it was the half of his very blood, which he had 
given in exchange for his pardon. 

THE LITTLE FLORENTINE SCRIBE 

(Monthly Story.) 

He was in the fourth elementary class. He was a 
graceful Florentine lad of twelve, with black hair and 
a pale face, the eldest son of an employee on the rail- 
way, who, having a large family and but small pay, 
lived in straitened circumstances. His father loved 
him and was kind and indulgent to him indulgent 
in everything except in what concerned school: on 
this point he required a great deal, and was severe, be- 
cause his son was obliged to attain such a rank as 
would enable him to obtain a place and help his family ; 
and in order to accomplish anything quickly, it was 
necessary that he should work a great deal in a very 
short time. So although the lad studied, his father 
was always exhorting him to study more. 

His father was advanced in years, and too much 
toil had aged him before his time. Nevertheless, in 
order to provide for the necessities of his family, in 
addition to the toil which his occupation imposed upon 
him, he obtained special work here and there as a 
copyist, and passed a good part of the night at his 
writing-table. Lately, he had undertaken, in behalf 
of a house which published journals and books in 
parts, to write upon the parcels the names and ad- 



72 DECEMBER 

dresses of their subscribers, and he earned three lire 
for every five hundred of these paper wrappers, writ- 
ten in large and regular characters. But this work 
wearied him, and he often complained of it to his 
family at dinner. 

"My eyes are giving out," he said; "this night work 
is killing me." One day his son said to him, "Let me 
work instead of you, papa ; you know that I can write 
like you, and fairly well." But the father answered: 

"No, my son, you must study; your school is a 
much more important thing than my wrappers; I 
would hate to rob you of a single hour; I thank you, 
but I will not have it; do not mention it to me again." 

The son knew that it was useless to insist on such 
a matter with his father, and he did not persist; but 
this is what he did. He knew that exactly at mid- 
night his father stopped writing, and quitted his work- 
room to go to his bedroom ; he had heard him several 
times : so soon as the twelve strokes of the clock had 
sounded, he had heard the sound of a chair drawn 
back, and the slow step of his father. One night he 
waited until the latter was in bed, then dressed himself 
very, very softly, and felt his way to the little work- 
room, lighted the petroleum lamp again, seated him- 
self at the writing-table, where lay a pile of white 
wrappers and the list of addresses, and began to write, 
imitating exactly his father's handwriting. And he 
wrote with a will, gladly, a little in fear, and the 
wrappers piled up. From time to time he dropped the 
pen to rub his hands, and then began again with in- 
creased alacrity, listening and smiling. He wrote a 



THE LITTLE FLORENTINE SCRIBE 73 

hundred and sixty one lira! Then he stopped, 
placed the pen where he had found it, put out the light, 
and went back to bed on tiptoe. 

At noon the next day his father sat down to the 
table in a good humor. He had noticed nothing. 
He did the work mechanically, measuring it by the 
hour, and thinking of something else, and only 
counted the wrappers he had written on the following 
day. Slapping his son on one shoulder, he said to 
him: 

"Eh, Giulio! Your father is even a better work- 
man than you thought. In two hours I did a good 
third more work than usual last night. My hand is 
still nimble, and my eyes still do their duty." And 
Giulio, silent but content, said to himself, "Poor daddy, 
besides the money, I am giving him such satisfaction 
in the thought that he has grown young again. Well, 
courage!'* 

Encouraged by these good results, when night came 
and twelve o'clock struck, he rose once more, and set 
to work. And this he did for several nights. And 
his father noticed nothing; only once, at supper, he 
remarked, "It is strange how much oil has been used 
in this house lately!" This was a shock to Giulio; 
but the conversation ceased there, and the nightly 
labor went on. 

However, on account of breaking his sleep every 
night, Giulio did not get sufficient rest : he rose in the 
morning fatigued, and when he was doing his school 
work in the evening, he had difficulty in keeping his 
eyes open. One evening, for the first time in his life, 
he fell asleep over his copy-book. 



74 DECEMBER 

"Courage! courage!" cried his father, clapping his 
hands; "to work!" 

He shook himself and set to work again. But the 
next evening, and on the days following, the same 
thing occurred, and worse: he dozed over his books, 
he rose later than usual, he studied his lessons in a 
languid way, he seemed disgusted with study. His 
father began to observe him, then to reflect seriously, 
and at last to reprove him. He should never have 
done it! 

"Giulio," he said to him one morning, "you put me 
out of patience; you are no longer as you used to be. 
I don't like it. Take care; all the hopes of your 
family rest on you. I am dissatisfied; do you under- 
stand ?" 

At this reproof, the first severe one, in truth, which 
he had ever received, the boy grew troubled. 

"Yes," he said to himself, "it is true; it cannot go 
on so; this deceit must come to an end." 

But at dinner, on the evening of that very same day, 
his father said with much cheerfulness, "Do you know 
that this month I have earned thirty-two lire more at 
addressing those wrappers than last month!" and so 
saying, he drew from under the table a paper package 
of sweets which he had bought, that he might celebrate 
with his children this unusual profit, and they all hailed 
it with clapping of hands. 

Giulio took courage again, and said in his heart, 
"No, poor papa, I shall not cease to deceive you; I 
shall make greater efforts to work during the day, but 
I shall continue to work at night for you and for the 
rest." And his father added, "Thirty-two lire more! 



THE LITTLE FLORENTINE SCRIBE 75 

I am satisfied. But that boy there," pointing at 
Giulio, "is the one who displeases me." And Giulio 
received the reprimand in silence, forcing back two 
tears which tried to flow ; but at the same time he felt 
a great pleasure in his heart. 

And he continued to work by main force; but fa- 
tigue added to fatigue rendered it ever more difficult 
for him to resist. Thus things went on for two 
months. The father continued to reproach his son, 
and to gaze at him with eyes which grew constantly 
more wrathful. One day he went to make inquiries 
of the teacher, and the teacher said to him : "Yes, he 
gets along, because he is intelligent ; but he no longer 
has the good will which he had at first. He is drowsy, 
he yawns, his mind is distracted. He writes short 
compositions, scribbled down in all haste, and badly. 
Oh, he could do a great deal, a great deal more." 

That evening the father took the son aside, and 
spoke to him words which were graver than any the 
latter had ever heard. "Giulio, you see how I toil, 
how I am wearing out my life, for the family. You 
do not second my efforts. You have no heart for 
me, nor for your brothers, nor for your mother!" 

"Ah no! ,don't say that, father!" cried the son, 
bursting into tears, and opening his mouth to confess 
all. But his father interrupted him, saying: 

"You are aware of the condition of the family; you 
know that good will and sacrifices on the part of all 
are necessary. I myself, as you see, have had to 
double my work. I counted on a gift of a hundred 
lire from the railway company this month, and this 
morning I have learned that I shall receive nothing!" 



76 DECEMBER 

At the news, Giulio repressed the confession which 
was on the point of escaping from his soul, and re- 
peated resolutely to himself: "No, papa, I shall tell 
you nothing; I shall guard my secret for the sake of 
being able to work for you ; I shall recompense you in 
another way for the sorrow I am causing you ; I shall 
study enough at school to win promotion; the impor- 
tant point is to help you to earn our living, and to re- 
lieve you of the fatigue which is killing you." 

And so he went on, and two months more passed, 
of labor by night and weakness by day, of desperate 
efforts on the part of the son, and of bitter reproaches 
on the part of the father. But the worst of it was, 
that the latter grew gradually colder towards the boy, 
only spoke to him rarely, as though he had been a rec- 
reant son, of whom there was nothing any longer to 
be expected, and almost avoided meeting his glance. 
And Giulio perceived this and suffered from it, and 
when his father's back was turned, he threw him a 
furtive kiss, stretching forth his face with a sentiment 
of sad and dutiful tenderness; and between sorrow 
and fatigue, he grew thin and pale, and he was forced 
to neglect his studies still further. He knew full well 
that there must be an end to it some day, and every 
evening he said to himself, "I will not get up to- 
night;" but when the clock struck twelve, at the mo- 
ment when he should vigorously have reaffirmed his 
resolution, he felt remorse : it seemed to him, that by 
remaining in bed he should be failing in a duty, and 
robbing his father and the family of a lira. He would 
rise, thinking that some night his father would wake 
up and discover him, or that he would find the decep- 



THE LITTLE FLORENTINE SCRIBE 77 

tion by accident, by counting the wrappers twice ; and 
then all would come to a natural end, without any act 
of his will, which he did not feel the courage to exert. 
And thus he went on. 

But one evening at dinner his father spoke a word 
which was decisive so far as he was concerned. His 
mother looked at him, and it seemed to her that he was 
more ill and weak than usual. She said to him, 
"Giulio, you are ill." And then, turning to his father, 
with anxiety : "Giulio is ill. See how pale he is ! 
Giulio, my dear, how do you feel?" 

His father gave a hasty glance, and said : :< It is his 
bad conscience that produces his bad health. He was 
not thus when he was a studious scholar and a loving 



son.' 



"But he is ill!" exclaimed the mother. 

"I don't care anything about him any longer!" re- 
plied the father. 

This remark was like a stab in the heart to the poor 
boy. Ah! he cared nothing any more. His father, 
who once had trembled at the mere sound of a cough 
from him! He no longer loved him; there was no 
more doubt about it; he was dead in his father's 
heart. 

"Ah, no! my father," said the boy to himself, his 
heart oppressed with anguish, "now all is over indeed ; 
I cannot live without your affection ; I must have it all 
back. I will tell you all ; I will deceive you no longer. 
I will study as of old, come what may, if you will only 
love me once more, my poor father ! Oh, this time I 
am quite sure of my resolution!" 

Nevertheless he rose that night again, by force of 



78 DECEMBER 

habit more than anything else ; and when he was once 
up, he wanted to go and greet and see once more, 
for the last time, in the quiet of the night, that little 
chamber where he had toiled so much in secret with his 
heart full of satisfaction and tenderness. And when 
he beheld again that little table with the lamp lighted 
and those white wrappers on which he was never more 
to write those names of towns and persons, which he 
had come to know by heart, he was seized with a great 
sadness, and with an impetuous movement he grasped 
the pen to recommence his accustomed toil. But in 
reaching out his hand he struck a book, and the book 
fell. The blood rushed to his heart. What if his 
father had waked! Certainly he would not have dis- 
covered him in the commission of a bad deed: he had 
himself decided to tell him all, and yet the sound of 
that step approaching in the darkness, the discovery 
at that hour, in that silence, his mother, who would 
be awakened and alarmed, and the thought, which 
had occurred to him for the first time, that his father 
might feel humiliated in his presence on thus discover- 
ing all; all this terrified him almost. He bent his 
ear, with suspended breath. He heard no sound. He 
laid his ear to the lock of the door behind him noth- 
ing. The whole house was asleep. His father had 
not heard. 

He recovered his composure, and set himself again 
to his writing, and wrapper was piled on wrapper. 
He heard the regular tread of the policeman below in 
the deserted street; then the rumble of a carriage which 
gradually died away; then, after an interval, the rattle 
of a file of carts, which passed slowly by; then a pro- 



THE LITTLE FLORENTINE SCRIBE 79 

found silence, broken from time to time by the distant 
barking of a dog. 

And he wrote on and on : and meanwhile his father 
was behind him. He had risen on hearing the fall of 
the book, and had remained waiting for a long time: 
the rattle of the carts had drowned the noise of his 
footsteps and the creaking of the door-casing; and he 
was there, with his white head bent over Guilio's little 
black head, and he had seen the pen flying over the 
wrappers, and in an instant he had divined all, remem- 
bered all, understood all, and a despairing penitence, 
but at the same time an immense tenderness, had taken 
possesion of his mind and had held him nailed to the 
spot and choking behind his child. Suddenly Guilio 
uttered a piercing shriek; two arms had pressed his 
head convulsively. 

"Oh, papa, papa! forgive me, forgive me!" he cried, 
recognizing his parent by his weeping. 

"Do you forgive me!" replied his father, sobbing, 
and covering his brow with kisses. : 'I have under- 
stood all, I know all; it is I who asked your pardon, 
my blessed child; come, come with me!" and he pushed 
or rather carried him to the bedside of his mother, 

k 

who was awake, and throwing him into her arms, he 
said : 

"Kiss this little angel of a son, who has not 
slept for three months, but has been toiling for me, 
while I was saddening his heart, and he was earn- 
ing our bread!" The mother pressed him to her 
breast and held him there, without the power to speak ; 
at last she said: "Go to sleep at once, my baby, go 
to sleep and rest. Carry him to bed." 



8o DECEMBER 

The father took him from her arms, carried him 
to his room, and laid him in his bed, still breathing 
hard and caressing him, and arranged his pillows and 
coverlets for him. 

"Thanks, papa," the child kept repeating; "thanks; 
but go to bed yourself now; I am content; go to bed, 
papa." 

But his father wanted to see him fall asleep: 
so he sat down beside the bed, took his hand, and said 
to him, "Sleep, sleep, my little son!" and Giulio, being 
weak, fell asleep at last, and slumbered many hours, 
enjoying, for the first time in months, a tranquil sleep, 
enlivened by pleasant dreams; and as he opened his 
eyes, when the sun had already been shining for some 
time, he first felt, and then saw, close to his breast, and 
resting upon the edge of the little bed, the white head 
of his father, who had passed the night thus, and who 
was still asleep, with his brow against his son's 
heart. 

WILL 

Wednesday, 28th. 

None but Stardi in my school would have had the 
force to do what the little Florentine did. This 
morning two events occurred at the school : Garoffi 
became wild with delight, because his album had been 
returned to him, with the addition of three postage- 
stamps of the Republic of Guatemala, which he had 
been seeking for three months; and Stardi took the 
second medal. Stardi the next in the class after 
Derossi! All were amazed at it. Who could ever 



WILL 8 1 

have foretold it, when, in October, his father brought 
him to school bundled up in that big, green coat, and 
said to the master, in the presence of every one: 

"You must have a great deal of patience with him, 
because he is very hard of understanding!" 

Every one credited him with a wooden head from 
the very beginning. But he said, "I will burst or 
I will succeed," and he set to work doggedly, to study- 
ing day and night, at home, at school, while walking, 
with set teeth and clenched fists, patient as an ox, ob- 
stinate as a mule; and thus, by dint of trampling on 
every one, disregarding mockery, and dealing kicks 
to disturbers, this big thick-head passed in advance of 
the rest. He did not understand the first thing of 
arithmetic, he filled his compositions with absurdities, 
he never succeeded in holding a phrase in his mind; 
and now he solves problems, writes correctly, and 
sings his lesson like a song. And his iron will can be 
guessed when one sees how he is made, so very thick- 
set and squat, with a square head and no neck, with 
short, thick hands, and coarse voice. He studies even 
on scraps of newspaper, and on theatre bills, and every 
time that he has ten soldi, he buys a book. He has al- 
ready .collected a little library, and in a moment of 
good humor he allowed the promise to slip from his 
mouth that he would take me home and show it to me. 
He speaks to no one, he plays with no one, he is al- 
ways on hand, on his bench, with his fists pressed to 
his temples, firm as a rock, listening to the teacher. 
How he must have toiled, poor Stardi ! The master 
said to him this morning, although he was impatient 
and in a bad humor, when he bestowed the medals :- 



82 DECEMBER 

''Bravo, Stardi! he who endures, conquers." 
But Stardi did not appear in the least puffed up with 
pride he did not smile ; and no sooner had he returned 
to his seat, with the medal, than he planted his fists on 
his temples again, and became more motionless and 
more attentive than before. But the finest thing hap- 
pened when he went out of school; for his father, who 
is as big and squat as himself, with a huge face and a 
huge voice, was there waiting for him. He had not 
expected this medal, and he was not willing to believe 
in it, so that it was necessary for the master to re- 
assure him, and then he began to laugh heartily, and 
tapped his son on the back of the neck, saying energet- 
ically, "Bravo! good! my dear pumpkin; you'll do!" 
and he stared at him, astonished and smiling. And all 
the boys around him smiled too, except Stardi. He 
was already running over the lesson for to-morrow 
morning in that huge head of his. 

GRATITUDE 

Saturday, 3ist. 

Your schoolmate Stardi never complains of his teacher; 
I am sure of that. ;< The master was in a bad humor, 
was impatient," you say it in a tone of resentment. 
Think an instant how often you give way to acts of im- 
patience, and towards whom? towards your father and 
your mother, where your impatience is a crime. Your 
master has very good cause to be impatient at times! 
Reflect that he has been laboring for boys these many 
years, and that if he has found many affectionate and 
noble individuals among them, he has also found many 
ungrateful ones, who have abused his kindness and ig- 



GRATITUDE 83 

nored his toils; and that, among you all, you cause him 
far more bitterness than satisfaction. Reflect, that the 
most holy man on earth, if placed in his position, would 
allow himself to be conquered by wrath now and then. 
And then, if you only knew how often the teacher is 
feeling ill, but teaches, nevertheless, because he is not 
ill enough to be excused from school; and is impatient 
on account of his suffering, and is pained to see that the 
rest of you do not notice it, or abuse it! 

Respect, love your master, my son. Love him, also, 
because your father loves and respects him; because he 
consecrates his life to the welfare of so many boys who 
will forget him ; love him because he opens and enlightens 
your intelligence and educates your mind; because, one 
of these days, when you have become a man, and when 
neither I nor he shall be in the world, his image will often 
present itself to your mind, side by side with mine, and 
then you will see certain expressions of sorrow and weari- 
ness in his honest countenance to which you now pay no 
heed. You will recall them, and they will pain you, even 
after the lapse of thirty years; and you will feel ashamed, 
you will feel sad at not having loved him, at having be- 
haved badly towards him. Love your master; for he 
belongs to that vast family of fifty thousand elementary 
instructors, scattered throughout all Italy, who are the 
intellectual fathers of the millions of boys who are grow- 
ing up with you; the laborers, hardly recognized and 
poorly paid, who are preparing in our country a people 
superior to those of the present. 

I am not content with the affection which you have 
for me, if you have it not, also, for all those who are 
doing you good; and among these, your master stands 
first, after your parents. Love him as you would love 
a brother of mine; love him when he caresses and when 



84 DECEMBER 

he reproves you ; when he is just, and when he appears 
to you to be unjust; love him when he is amiable and 
gracious; and love him even more when you see him 
sad. Love him always. And always pronounce with 
reverence that name of "teacher," which, after that of 
"father," is the noblest, the sweetest name which one 
man can apply to another man. 

YOUR FATHER. 



JANUARY 

THE ASSISTANT MASTER 

Wednesday, 4th. 

MY father was right; the master was in a bad hu- 
mor because he was not well; for the last three days, 
in fact, the assistant has been coming in his stead, 
that little man, without a beard, who looks like a boy. 

A shameful thing happened this morning. There 
had been an uproar on the first and second days, in 
the school, because the assistant is very patient and 
does nothing but say. "Be quiet, be quiet, I beg of you." 
But this morning they passed all bounds. Such a 
noise arose, that his words were no longer audible, and 
he admonished and besought; but it was a mere waste 
of breath. Twice the principal appeared at the door 
and looked in ; but the moment he went away the mur- 
mur increased as in a market. It was in vain that 
Derossi and Garrone turned round and made signs to 
the fellows to be good, that it was a shame. No 
one paid any heed to them. Stardi alone remained 
quiet, with his elbows on the bench, and his fists to 
his temples, thinking, perhaps, about his famous li- 
brary; and Garom", he of the hooked nose and the post- 
age-stamps, who was wholly occupied in making a 
catalogue of the subscribers at two centesimi each, for 
a lottery for a pocket inkstand. The rest chattered 
and laughed, pounded on the points of pens fixed in 

85 



86 JANUARY 

the benches, and snapped pellets of paper at each other 
with the elastics of their garters. 

The assistant grasped now one, now another, by 
the arm, and shook him; and he placed one of them 
against the wall time wasted. He no longer knew 
what to do, and he entreated them. "Why do you 
behave like this? Do you wish to make me punish 
you?" Then he thumped the little table with his fist, 
and shouted in a voice, angry but tearful, "Silence! 
silence! silence!" It was hard to hear him. But the 
noise kept getting louder. Franti threw a paper dart 
at him; some gave cat-calls; others thumped each 
other on the head. The hurly-burly was indescrib- 
able; when, all of a sudden, the beadle entered and 
said : 

"Signor Master, the principal has sent for you." 

The teacher rose and went out in haste, with a ges- 
ture of despair. Then the tumult began more vig- 
orously than ever. But suddenly Garrone sprang up, 
his face all flaming, his fists clenched, and shouted in 
a voice choked with rage: 

"Stop this! You are brutes! You take advan- 
tage of him because he is kind. II he were to bruise 
your bones for you, you would be as humble as dogs. 
You are a pack of cowards! The first one of you 
that jeers at him again, I shall wait for outside, and 
I shall break his teeth for him, I swear it, even un- 
der his father's very eyes!" 

All grew silent. Ah, what a fine thing it was to 
see Garrone, with his eyes darting flames ! He seemed 
to be a furious young lion. He stared at the most 
daring, one after the other, and all hung their heads. 



STARDFS LIBRARY 87 

When the assistant came back, with red eyes, not a 
breath was to be heard. He stood in amazement; 
then, catching sight of Gar rone, who was still all fiery 
and trembling, he understood it all, and he said to him, 
with accents of great affection, as to a brother, "I 
thank you, Garrone." 



STARDI'S LIBRARY 

I have been home with Stardi, who lives opposite 
the schoolhouse; and I really felt some envy at the 
sight of his library. He is not at all rich, and he can- 
not buy many books; but he preserves his schoolbooks 
with great care, as well as those which his relatives 
give him; and he lays aside every soldo that is given 
to him, and spends it at the bookseller's. In this way 
he has collected quite a little library; and when his 
father saw that he had this passion, he bought him a 
handsome bookcase of walnut wood, with a green cur- 
tain, and he has had most of his volumes bound for 
him in the colors that he likes. 

When he draws a little cord, the green curtain runs 
back, and three rows of books of every color are seen, 
all ranged in order, and shining, with gilt titles on their 
backs, books of tales, of travels, and of poetry; and 
some illustrated ones. He understands how to com- 
bine colors well : he places the white volumes next to 
the red ones, the yellow next the black, the blue be- 
side the white, so that, viewed from a distance, they 
make a very fine show ; and he amuses himself by vary- 
ing the combinations. 

He has made himself a catalogue. He is like a libra- 



88 JANUARY 

rian. He is always standing near his books, dusting 
them, turning over the leaves, looking over the bind- 
ings. It is something to see the care with which he 
opens them, with his big, stubby hands, and blows be- 
tween the pages : then they seem perfectly new again. 
I have worn out all of mine. It is a delight for him to 
polish off every new book that he buys, to put it in its 
place, and to pick it up again to take another look at it 
from all sides, and to brood over it as a treasure. He 
showed me nothing else for a whole hour. His eyes 
were troubling him, because he had read too much. 
His father, who is large and thickset like himself, 
with a big head like his, and who happened to come in 
the room, gave him two or three taps on the nape of 
the neck, saying with that huge voice of his : 

"What do you think of him, eh? of this head of 
bronze? It is a stout head, that will succeed in any- 
thing, I assure you!" 

And Stardi half closed his eyes, under these rough 
caresses, like a big hunting-dog. I do not know why, 
but I did not dare to jest with him; I could not realize 
that he was only a year older than myself. And when 
he said to me, "Farewell until we meet again," at the 
door, with that funny face of his, I came very near 
replying, "I salute you, sir," as to a man. 

I told my father afterwards, at home: "I don't 
understand it; Stardi has no natural talent, he lacks 
fine manners, and his face is almost ridiculous; yet 
he inspires me with respect." 

"It is because he has character," replied my father. 
And I added, "During the hour that I spent with him 
he did not utter fifty words, he did not show me a single 



THE BLACKSMITH'S SON 89 

plaything, he did not laugh once; yet I liked to go 
there." 

And my father answered, 'That is because you 
value his society." 

THE BLACKSMITH'S SON 

Yes, but I also value Precossi's society indeed it is 
a stronger feeling, Precossi, the son of the black- 
smith, that thin, little fellow, who has kind, sad eyes 
and a frightened air; who is so timid that he says to 
every one, "Excuse me"; who is always sickly, and 
who, nevertheless, studies so much. His father goes 
home drunk, and beats him without the slightest reason 
in the world, and tosses his books and his copy-books 
in every direction. And Precossi comes to school 
with the black-and-blue marks on his face, and some- 
times with his face all swollen, and his eyes red with 
weeping. But never, never can he be made to acknowl- 
edge that his father beats him. 

"Your father has been beating you," the boys say 
to him. 

"That is not true ! it is not true !" he cries, to avoid 
shaming his father. 

"You did not burn this leaf," the teacher says to 
him, showing him his work, half burned. 

"Yes," he replies, in a trembling voice; "I let it fall 
on the fire." 

But we know very well, nevertheless, that his drunken 
father overturned the table and the light with a kick, 
while the boy was doing his work. He lives in a 
garret of our house, reached by another staircase. The 



90 JANUARY 

janitress tells my mother everything. My sister 
Sylvia heard him screaming from the terrace one day, 
when his father had thrown him headlong downstairs, 
because he had asked for a few soldi to buy a grammar. 
His father drinks, but does not work, and his family 
suffers from hunger. Often Precossi comes to school 
with an empty stomach, and nibbles in secret at a roll 
which Garrone has given him, or at an apple brought 
to him by the schoolmistress with the red feather, who 
was his teacher in the first lower class. But he never 
say, "I am hungry; my father does not give me any- 
thing to eat." 

His father sometimes comes for him, when he 
chances to be passing the schoolhouse, pale, unsteady 
on his legs, with a fierce face, his hair over his eyes, 
and his cap awry; and the poor boy trembles all over 
when he catches sight of him in the street. But he 
immediately runs to meet him, with a smile; and his 
father does not appear to see him, but seems to be 
thinking of something else. 

Poor Precossi! He mends his torn copy-books, 
borrows books to study his lessons, fastens the frag- 
ments of his shirt together with pins. It is pathetic 
to see him going through his gymnastics with those 
huge shoes in which he is fairly lost, in those trousers 
which drag on the ground, and that jacket which is too 
long, and those huge sleeves turned back to the very 
elbow r s. And he studies; he does his best; he would 
be one of the best, if he were able to work at home in 
peace. This morning he came to school with the marks 
of finger-nails on one cheek, and they all began to 
say to him. 



A FINE VISIT 91 

"It was your father, and you cannot deny it this 
time; it was your father who did that to you. Tell 
the principal about it, and he will have him arrested 
for it." 

But he sprang up, all flushed, with a voice trembling 
with indignation : 

"It's not true ! it's not true ! My father never beats 
me!" 

But afterwards, during lesson time, his tears fell 
upon the bench, and when any one looked at him, he 
tried to smile, in order that he might not show it. 
Poor Precossi ! To-morrow Derossi, Coretti, and 
Nelli are coming to my house. I want to tell him to 
come also ; I want to have him take luncheon with me ; 
I want to treat him to books, and turn the house up- 
side down to amuse him, and to fill his pockets with 
fruit, for the sake of seeing him happy for once, 
Poor Precossi ! who is so good and so brave ! 

A FINE VISIT 

Thursday, I2th. 

This has been one of the finest Thursdays of the 
year for me. At two o'clock, percisely, Derossi and 
Coretti came to the house, with Nelli, the hunchback. 
Precossi's father did not let him come. Derossi and 
Coretti were still laughing at their encounter with 
Crossi, the son of the vegetable-seller, in the street, 
the boy with the useless arm and the red hair, who 
was carrying a large cabbage for sale. With the soldo 
which he was to receive for the cabbage he was to go 
and buy a pen. He was perfectly happy because his 



92 JANUARY 

father had written from America that they might ex- 
pect him any day. 

Oh, the two delightful hours that we passed to- 
gether! Derossi and Coretti are the two j oiliest boys 
in the school ; my father fell in love with them. Coretti 
had on his chocolate-colored jacket and his catskin cap. 
He is a lively imp, who always wants to be doing some- 
thing, stirring up something, setting something to go- 
ing. He had already carried on his shoulders half a 
cartload of wood, early that morning; nevertheless, he 
pranced all over the house, taking note of everything 
and talking incessantly, as sprightly and nimble as a 
squirrel. Going into the kitchen, he asked the cook 
how much we had to pay a myriagramme for wood, 
because his father sells it at forty-five centesimi. He 
is always talking of his father, of the time when he 
was a soldier in the 49th regiment, at the battle of 
Custoza, where he served in the squadron of Prince 
Umberto. And he is so gentle in his manners! It 
makes no difference that he was born and brought up 
surrounded by wood: he has nobility in his blood, in 
his heart, so my father says. 

And Derossi amused us greatly. He knows geog- 
raphy like a teacher. He shut his eyes and said: 
'There, I see the whole of Italy; the Apennines, 
which extend to the Ionian Sea, the rivers flowing here 
and there, the white cities, the gulfs, the blue bays, the 
green islands"; and he repeated the names correctly 
in their order and very rapidly, as though he were read- 
ing them on the map. And at the sight of him stand- 
ing thus, with his head held high, with all his golden 
curls, with his closed eyes, and all dressed in bright 



FUNERAL OF VICTOR EMANUEL 93 

blue with gilt buttons, as straight and handsome as a 
statue, we could not help admiring him. In one hour 
he had learned by heart nearly three pages, which he is 
to recite the day after to-morrow, for the anniversary 
of the funeral of King Vittorio. Nelli also gazed at 

o o 

him in wonder and affection, smoothing the folds of 

o 

his black cloth apron, and smiling with his clear and 
mournful eyes. 

This visit gave me a great deal of pleasure; it left 
something like sparks in my mind and my heart. And 
it pleased me, too, when they went away, to see poor 
Nelli between the other two tall, strong fellows, who 
carried him home on their arms, and made him laugh 
as I have never seen him laugh before. 

On going back to the dining-room, I noticed that 
the picture of Rigoletto, the hunchback jester, was 
no longer there. My father had taken it away in order 
that Nelli might not see it. 

THE FUNERAL OF VICTOR EMANUEL 

Tuesday, i/th. 

To-day at two o'clock, as soon as we had entered 
the schoolroom, the master called up Derossi, who 
went and took his place in front of the little table fac- 
ing us, and began to recite, in his vibrating tones, 
gradually raising his limpid voice, and growing 
flushed in the face: 

"Four years ago, on this day, at this hour, there 
arrived in front of the Pantheon at Rome, the funeral- 
car which bore the body of Victor Emanuel, the first 
king of Italy, dead after a reign of twenty-nine years, 



94 JANUARY 

during which the great Italian fatherland, broken up 
into seven states, and oppressed by strangers and by 
tyrants, had been brought back to life in one single 
state, free and independent; after a reign of twenty- 
nine years, which he had made illustrious and benefi- 
cent with his valor, with loyalty, with boldness amid 
perils, with wisdom amid triumphs, with constancy 
amid misfortunes. The funeral-car arrived, laden 
with wreaths, after having traversed Rome under a 
rain of flowers, amid the silence of an immense and 
sorrowing multitude, which had assembled from every 
part of Italy. Preceded by a legion of generals and 
by a throng of ministers and princes, followed by a 
retinue of corporal veterans, by a forest of banners, 
by the envoys of three hundred towns, by everything 
which represents the power and glory of a people, it 
arrived before the august temple where the tomb 
awaited it. 

"At that moment twelve cuirassiers removed the 
coffin from the car. At that moment Italy bade her 
last farewell to her dead king, to her old monarch 
whom she had loved so dearly, the last farewell to her 
soldier, to her father, to the twenty-nine most fortunate 
and most blessed years in her history. It was a grand 
and solemn moment. The eyes, the souls, of all were 
quivering at the sight of that coffin and the darkened 
banners of the eighty regiments of the army of Italy, 
borne by eighty officers, drawn up in line on its 
passage : for Italy was there in those eighty tokens, 
which recalled the thousands of dead, the torrents of 
blood, our most sacred glories, our most holy sacrifices, 
our most tremendous griefs. 



FRANTI EXPELLED FROM SCHOOL 95 

"The coffin, borne by the cuirassiers, passed, and 
then the banners bent forward all together in salute, 
the banners of the new regiments, the old, tattered 
banners of Goito, of Pastrengo, of Santa Lucia, of 
Novara, of Crimea, of Palestro, of San Martino, of 
Castelfidardo ; eighty black veils fell, a hundred medals 
clashed against the staves, and that sonorous and con- 
fused uproar, which stirred the blood of all, was like 
the sound of a thousand human voices saying together, 
'Farewell, good king, gallant king, loyal king ! You 
will live in the heart of your people so long as the sun 
shall shine over Italy.' 

"After this, the banners rose heavenward once more, 
and King Victor entered into the immortal glory of 
the tomb." 

FRANTI EXPELLED FROM SCHOOL 

Saturday, 2ist. 

Only one boy was capable of laughing while Derossi 
was declaiming the funeral oration of the king. It 
was Franti. I detest that fellow. He is wicked. 
When a father comes to the school to reprove his son, 
he enjoys it; when any one cries, he laughs. He 
cowers before Garrone, and he strikes the little mason 
because he is small. He torments Crossi because he 
has a helpless arm. He ridicules Precossi, whom 
every one respects. He even jeers at Robetti, that 
boy in the second grade, who walks on crutches, 
through having saved a child. He provokes those who 
are weaker than himself, and when it come to blows, 
he grows savage and tries to do harm. 



96 JANUARY 

There is something beneath that low forehead, in 
those turbid eyes, kept nearly concealed under the 
visor of his small cap of waxed cloth, which inspires 
a shudder. He fears no one. He laughs in the 
master's face. He steals when he gets a chance and 
denies it brazenly. He is always in a quarrel with 
some one. He brings big pins to school, to prick his 
neighbors with. He tears the buttons from his own 
jackets and from those of others, and plays with them. 

His paper, books, and copy-books are all crushed, 
torn, dirty. His ruler is jagged, his pens gnawed, 
his nails bitten, his clothes covered with stains and 
rents which he has got in his brawls. They say that 
his mother has fallen ill from the trouble that he causes 
her, and that his father has driven him from the house 
three times. His mother comes every now and then 
to make inquiries, and she always goes away in tears. 
He hates the school, he hates his companions, he hates 
the teacher. The master sometimes pretends not to 
see his rascalities, and he behaves all the worse. The 
master tried to get a hold on him by kind treatment, 
and the boy ridiculed him for it. The master said 
terrible things to him, and the boy covered his face 
with his hands, as though he were crying; but he was 
laughing. He was suspended from school for three 
days, and he came back more perverse and insolent 
than before. Derossi said to him one day, "Stop it! 
don't you see how much the teacher suffers?" and the 
other threatened to stick a nail into his stomach. 

But this morning, at last, he got himself driven out 
like a dog. While the master was giving to Garrone 
the rough draft of The Sardinian Drummer-Boy, the 



FRANTI EXPELLED FROM SCHOOL 97 

monthly story for January, to copy, Franti threw a 
petard on the floor, which exploded, making the school- 
room resound as from a discharge of musketry. The 
whole class was startled by it. The master sprang to 
his feet, and cried: 

"Franti, leave the school !" 

Franti retorted, "It wasn't I"; but he laughed. 
The master repeated : 

"Go!" 

"I won't stir," he answered. 

Then the master lost his temper, and flung himself 
upon him, seized him by the arms, and tore him from 
his seat. He resisted, ground his teeth, and made 
him carry him out by main force. The master bore 
him thus, heavy as he was, to the principal, and then 
came back alone and seated himself at his little table, 
with his head clutched in his hands, out of breath, and 
with a look of such weariness and trouble that it was 
painful to see him. 

"After teaching school for thirty years!" he ex- 
claimed sadly, shaking his head. 

No one breathed. His hands were shaking with 
fury, and the cross-wise wrinkle in the middle of his 
forehead was so deep that it seemed like a wound. 
Poor master! All felt sorry for him. 

Derossi rose and said, "Signor Master, do not 
grieve. We love you." 

Then he grew calmer, and said, "We will go on 
with the lesson, boys." 



98 JANUARY 

THE SARDINIAN DRUMMER-BOY 

(Monthly Story.) 

On the first day of the battle of Custoza, the 24th 
of July, 1848, about sixty soldiers, belonging to an 
infantry regiment of our army, who had been sent to 
a hill to occupy a lonely house, suddenly found them- 
selves attacked by two companies of Austrian soldiers, 
who, showering them with bullets from various 
quarters, hardly gave them time to take refuge in the 
house and to barricade the doors, after leaving several 
dead and wounded on the field. Having barred the 
doors, our men ran in haste to the windows of the 
ground floor and the first story, and began to fire 
brisk discharges at their assailants, who, approaching 
gradually, ranged in a semicircle, made vigorous reply. 

The sixty Italian soldiers were commanded by two 
non-commissioned officers and a captain, a tall, thin, 
austere old man, with white hair and moustache; and 
with them there was a Sardinian drummer-boy, a lad 
of a little over fourteen, who did not look twelve, 
small, with an olive-brown complexion, and small, 
deep-set, sparkling eyes. 

The captain directed the defence from a room on 
the first floor, hurling commands like pistol-shots, and 
no sign of emotion was visible on his iron countenance. 
The drummer-boy, a little pale, but firm on his legs, 
had jumped upon a table, and was holding fast to the 
wall and stretching out his neck in order to gaze out 
of the windows. Through the smoke on the fields 
he saw the white uniforms of the Austrians, who 



THE SARDINIAN DRUMMER-BOY 99 

were slowly advancing. The house was situated at 
the summit of a steep declivity, and on the side of the 
slope it had but one high window, corresponding to a 
chamber of the roof : therefore the Austrians did not 
threaten the house from that quarter, and the slope 
was free ; the fire beat only upon the front and the two 
ends. 

But it was a fearful fire, a hailstorm of leaden 
bullets, which split the walls on the outside, ground 
the tiles to powder, and in the interior cracked ceilings, 
furniture, window-frames, and door-frames, sending 
splinters of wood flying through the air, and clouds of 
plaster, and fragments of kitchen utensils and glass, 
whizzing, and rebounding, and breaking everything 
with noise enough to smash one's skull. From time 
to time one of the soldiers who were firing from the 
windows fell crashing back to the floor, and was 
dragged to one side. Some staggered from room to 
room, pressing their hands on their wounds. There 
was already one dead body in the kitchen, with its fore- 
head cleft. The semicircle of the enemy was drawing 
together. 

At a certain point the captain, hitherto impassive, 
was seen to make a gesture of uneasiness, and to leave 
the room with huge strides, followed by a sergeant. 
Three minutes later the sergeant returned on a run, 
and summoned the drummer-boy, making him a sign 
to follow. The lad followed him at a quick pace up 
the wooden staircase, and entered with him into a bare 
garret, where he saw the captain writing with a pencil 
on a sheet of paper, as he leaned against the little 
window ; and on the floor at his feet lay the well-rope. 



ioo JANUARY 

The captain folded the sheet of paper, and said 
sharply, as he fixed his cold, gray eyes, before which 
all the soldiers trembled, on the boy : 

"Drummer!" 

The drummer-boy put his hand to his cap. 
'You have courage?" asked the captain. 

The boy's eyes flashed. 
'Yes, captain," he replied. 

"Look down there," said the captain, pushing him to 
the window; "on the plain, near the houses of Villa- 
franca, where there is a gleam of bayonets. There 
stand our troops, motionless. You are to take this 
message, tie yourself to the rope, descend from the 
window, get down that slope in an instant, make your 
way across the fields, reach our men, and give the note 
to the first officer you see. Throw off your belt and 
knapsack." 

The drummer took off his belt and knapsack and 
thrust the note into his breast-pocket; the sergeant 
flung the rope out of the window, and held one end of 
it clutched fast in his hands ; the captain helped the lad 
to clamber out of the small window, with his back 
turned to the field. 

"Now look out!" he said; "the salvation of this 
detachment lies in your courage and in your legs." 

"Trust to me, Signor Captain," replied the drummer- 
boy, as he let himself down. 

"Bend over on the slope," said the captain, grasp- 
ing the rope, with the sergeant. 

"Never fear." 

"God aid you!" 

In a few moments the drummer-boy was on the 



THE SARDINIAN DRUMMER-BOY 101 

ground ; the sergeant drew in the rope and disappeared ; 
the captain stepped boldly in front of the window and 
saw the boy flying down the slope. 

He was already hoping that the boy had succeeded 
in escaping unobserved, when five or six little puffs of 
dust, which rose from the earth in front of and behind 
the lad, warned him that he had been espied by the 
Austrians, who were firing down upon him from the 
top of the hill : these little clouds were thrown into the 
air by the bullets. But the drummer continued to run 
at a headlong speed. All at once he fell. "Killed!" 
roared the captain, clenching his fists. But before he 
had uttered the word he saw the drummer spring up 
again. "Ah, only a fall," the captain said to himself, 
and drew a long breath. 

The drummer, in fact, set out again at full speed; 
but he limped. "He has turned his ankle," thought 
the captain. Again several cloudlets of dust rose here 
and there about the lad, but ever more distant. He was 
safe. The captain gave a shout of triumph. But he 
continued to follow him with his eyes, trembling be- 
cause it was an affair of minutes : if he did not arrive 
yonder in the shortest possible time with the note, 
which called for instant succor, either all his soldiers 
would be killed or he should be obliged to surrender 
himself a prisoner with them. 

The boy ran rapidly for a space, then relaxed his 
pace and limped, then resumed his course, but grew! 
constantly more wearied, and every little while he 
stumbled and paused. 

"Perhaps a bullet has grazed him," thought the 
captain, and he noted all his movements, quivering 



102 JANUARY 

with excitement; and he encouraged him, he spoke to 
him, as though the boy could hear him ; he measured 
constantly, with a flashing eye, the space intervening 
between the fleeing figure and that gleam of arms 
which he could see in the distance amid the fields of 
grain gilded by the sun. And meanwhile he heard 
the whistle and the crash of the bullets in the rooms 
beneath, the imperious and angry shouts of the ser- 
geants and the officers, the piercing groans of the 
wounded, the ruin of furniture, and the fall of rub- 
bish. 

"On! courage!" he shouted, following the far-off 
drummer with a glance. "Forward! run! He halts, 
that cursed boy ! Ah, he resumes his course !" 

An officer came panting to tell him that the enemy, 
without slackening their fire, were flinging out a white 
flag to hint at a surrender. "Don't reply to them!" he 
cried, without taking his eyes from the boy, who was 
already on the plain, but who was no longer running, 
and who seemed to be dragging himself along with 
difficulty. 

"Go! run!" said the captain, clenching his teeth and 
his fists; "let them kill you; die, you rascal, but go!" 
Then he uttered a horrible oath. "Ah, the infamous 
poltroon! he has sat down!" In fact, the boy, whose 
head he had hitherto been able to see above a field of 
grain, had disappeared, as though he had fallen; but, 
after the lapse of a minute, it came into sight again; 
finally, it was lost behind the hedges, and the captain 
saw it no more. 

Then the captain came down resolutely; the bullets 



THE SARDINIAN DRUMMER-BOY 103 

were coming in a tempest; the rooms were encum- 
bered with the wounded, some of whom were whirl- 
ing round like drunken men, and clutching at the fur- 
niture; the walls and the floor were bespattered with 
blood; corpses lay across the doorways; the lieuten- 
ant had had his arm shattered by a ball; smoke and 
clouds of dust enveloped everything. 

"Courage!" shouted the captain. "Stand firm at 
your post! Relief is on the way! Courage for a 
little while longer!" 

The Austrians had approached still nearer: their 
contorted faces were already visible through the 
smoke; and amid the crash of the firing their furious 
shouts were heard, uttering insults, suggesting a sur- 
render, and threatening slaughter. Some of the 
soldiers were terrified, and withdrew from the 
windows; the sergeants drove them forward again. 
But the fire of the defence weakened; discouragement 
was seen on all faces. It was not possible to resist 
much longer. 

Then the fire of the Austrians slackened, and a 
thundering voice shouted, first in German and then 
in Italian, "Surrender!" 

"No!" shouted the captain from the window. 

And the firing recommenced more fast and furious 
on both sides. More soldiers fell. Already more 
than one window was without defenders. The fatal 
moment was near at hand. The captain muttered 
through his teeth, in a strangled voice, "They are not 
coming! they are not coming!" and rushed wildly 
about, twisting his sword in his convulsively clenched 



104 JANUARY 

hand, and resolved to die; when a sergeant descend- 
ing from the garret, uttered a piercing shout, "They 
are coming!" 

'They are coming!" repeated the captain, with a 
cry of joy. 

At that cry all, well and wounded, sergeants and 
officers, rushed to the windows, and the resistance 
became fierce once more. A few moments later a sort 
of uncertainty was noticeable, a beginning of disorder 
among the foe. The captain hastily collected a little 
troop in the room on the ground floor, in order to 
make a sortie with fixed bayonets. Then he flew up- 
stairs. Scarcely had he arrived there when they 
heard a hasty trampling of feet, accompanied by a 
formidable hurrah, and saw from the windows the 
two-pointed hats of the Italian carabineers advancing 
through the smoke, a squadron rushing forward at 
great speed, and a lightning flash of blades whirling 
in the air, as they fell on heads, shoulders, and on 
backs. 

Then the troop darted out of the door, with bay- 
onets presented; the enemy wavered, were thrown into 
disorder, and turned in flight; the field was cleared, 
the house was free, and a little later two battalions of 
Italian infantry and two cannon occupied the height. 

The captain, with the soldiers that remained to him, 
rejoined his regiment, went on fighting, and was 
slightly wounded in the left hand by a spent ball in 
the final assault with bayonets. 

The day ended with the victory on our side. 

But on the following day, the conflict having begun 
again, the Italians were defeated by the overwhelm- 




i 



THEN THE TROOP DARTED OUT OF THE DOOR 



THE SARDINIAN DRUMMER-BOY 105 

ing numbers of the Austrians, in spite of a valorous 
resistance, and on the morning of the 2^th they sadly 
retreated towards the Mincio. 

The captain, although wounded, made the march 
on foot with his soldiers, weary and silent, and arrived 
at the close of the day at Goito, on the Mincio. He 
at once sought out his lieutenant, who had been picked 
up by the ambulance, with his arm shattered, and who 
must have arrived before him. He was directed to a 
church, where the field hospital had been installed in 
haste. He went there. The church was full of 
wounded men, ranged in two lines of beds, and on 
mattresses spread on the floor. Two doctors and 
numerous assistants were going and coming, busily 
occupied; and suppressed cries and groans could be 
heard. 

No sooner had the captain entered than he halted 
and cast a glance around, in search of his officer. 

At that moment he heard himself called in a weak 
voice, 

"Signor Captain!" 

He turned round. It was his drummer-boy. He 
was lying on a cot bed, covered to the breast with a 
coarse window curtain, in red and white squares, with 
his arms on the outside, pale and thin, but his eyes 
still sparkled like black gems. 

"Are you here?" asked the captain, amazed, but 
still sharply. "Bravo! You did your duty/' 

"I did all I could," replied the drummer-boy. 

"Were you wounded?" said the captain, seeking 
with his eyes for his officer in the neighboring beds. 

"What could one expect?" said the lad, who gained 



io6 JANUARY 

courage by speaking, expressing the lofty satisfaction 
of having been wounded for the first time, without 
which he would not have dared to open his mouth in 
the presence of this captain; "I had a fine run, all 
bent over, but suddenly they caught sight of me. I 
should have arrived twenty minutes earlier if they had 
not hit me. Luckily, I soon came across a captain of 
the staff, to whom I gave the note. But it was hard 
work to get down after that little pat! I was dying 
of thirst. I was afraid that I should not get there at 
all. I wept with rage at the thought that at every 
moment of delay another man was setting out yonder 
for the other world. But enough! I did what I 
could. I am content. But, with your permission, 
captain, you should look to yourself : you are losing 
blood." 

Several drops of blood had in fact trickled down 
on the captain's fingers from his imperfectly ban- 
daged palm. 

"Would you like to have me give the bandage a 
turn, captain? Hold it here a minute." 

The captain held out his left hand, and stretched 
out his right to help the lad to loosen the knot and to 
tie it again; but no sooner had the boy raised himself 
from his pillow than he turned pale and was obliged 
to fall back once more. 

"That will do, that will do," said the captain, look- 
ing at him and withdrawing his bandaged hand, which 
the other tried to retain. "Attend to your own affairs, 
instead of thinking of others, for things that are not 
severe may become serious if they are neglected." 




A MEDAL WELL BESTOWED 



THE SARDINIAN DRUMMER-BOY 107 

The drummer-boy shook his head. 

"But you," said the captain, observing him atten- 
tively, "must have lost a great deal of blood to be as 
weak as this." 

"Lost blood!" replied the boy, with a smile. 
"Something else besides blood. Look!" He drew 
aside the coverlet. 

The captain started back in horror. 

The lad had but one leg. His left leg had been cut 
off above the knee; the stump was wrapped in blood- 
stained cloths. 

At that moment a small, fat, military surgeon 
passed, in his shirt-sleeves. "Ah, captain," he said, 
rapidly, nodding towards the drummer, "this is a sad 
case; there is a leg that might have been saved if he 
had not exerted himself in such a crazy manner 
that cursed inflammation ! It had to be cut off away up 
here. Oh, but he's a brave lad, I can assure you ! He 
never shed a tear, nor uttered a cry! He was proud 
of being an Italian boy, while I was performing the 
operation, upon my word of honor. He comes of a 
good race, by Heavens !" And away he went, on a run. 

The captain wrinkled his heavy, white brows, gazed 
fixedly at the drummer-boy, and spread the coverlet 
over him again, and slowly, almost unconsciously, and 
still gazing intently at him, he raised his hand to his 
head, and lifted his cap. 

"Signor Captain!" exclaimed the boy in amaze- 
ment. "What are you doing, Signor Captain? To 
me!" 

And then that rough soldier, who had never before 



io8 JANUARY 

said a gentle word to an inferior, replied in an inde- 
scribably sweet and tender voice, "I am only a captain ; 
you are a hero." 

He bent over with wide-spread arms upon the drum- 
mer-boy, and pressed him three times to his heart. 

THE LOVE OF COUNTRY 

Tuesday, 24th. 

Since the tale of the Drummer-boy has touched your 
heart, it should be easy for you this morning to write 
your composition for examination Why you love Italy 
well. Why do I love Italy ? Do not a hundred answers 
present themselves to you on the instant? I love Italy 
because my mother is an Italian; because the blood that 
flows in my veins is Italian; because the soil in which 
are buried the dead whom my mother mourns and whom 
my father venerates is Italian ; because the town in which 
I was born, the language that I speak, the books that 
educate me, because my brother, my sister, my com- 
rades, the great people among whom I live, and the beauti- 
ful nature which surrounds me, and all that I see, that 
I love, that I study, that I admire, is Italian. 

Oh, you cannot feel that affection to the full ! You 
will feel it when you become a man ; when, returning 
from a long journey, after a prolonged absence, you step 
up in the morning to the bulwarks of the vessel and see 
on the distant horizon the lofty blue mountains of your 
country; you will feel it then in the impetuous flood of 
tenderness which will fill your eyes with tears and will 
wrest a cry from your heart. You will feel it in some 
great and distant city, in that impulse of the soul which 
will draw you from the strange throng towards a work- 
ing man from whom you have heard in passing a word 



THE LOVE OF COUNTRY 109 

in your own tongue. You will feel it in that sad, haughty 
anger which will drive the blood to your brow when you 
hear insults to your country from the mouth of a 
stranger. You will feel it in more proud and vigorous 
measure on the day when the menace of a hostile race shall 
call forth a tempest of fire upon your country, and when 
you shall behold arms raging on every side, youths 
thronging in legions, fathers kissing their children and 
saying, "Courage !" mothers bidding adieu to their young 
sons and crying, "Conquer !" You will feel it like a joy 
divine, if you have the good fortune to behold the re- 
entrance to your town of the regiments, weary, ragged, 
with thinned ranks, yet terrible, with the splendor of 
victory in their eyes, and their banners torn by bullets, 
followed by a vast convoy of brave fellows, bearing their 
bandaged heads and their stumps of arms loftily, amid a 
wild throng, which covers them with flowers, with bless- 
ings, and with kisses. Then you will comprehend the 
love of country ; then you will feel your country, Enrico. 
It is a grand and sacred thing. 

May I one day see you return in safety from a battle 
fought for her; safe, you who are my flesh and soul. 
But if I should learn that you had preserved your life 
because you were concealed from death, your father, who 
now welcomes you with a cry of joy when you return 
from school, would then receive you with a sob of 
anguish. I .should never be able to love you again. I 
should die with that dagger in my heart. 

YOUR FATHER. 



i io JANUARY 

ENVY 

Wednesday, 25th. 

The boy who wrote the best composition on ''The 
Loi'e of Co: was L usual. And \ 

tini thought himself sure of the first medal! I 
like Votini well enough, although he is rather vain 
and does dress up a trifle too much, but it makes me 

,rn him, now that I am his neighbor on the bench, 
tc .- fa 'rnvious he is of Dero- He would like to 
rival him; he studies hard, but he cannr,: do it by any 
-jility, for Den : is ten time- as -,tron; ht is 
on every '.'Ant; and Votini rails at him. Carlo 
Xobis envies him too; but he has so much pride in 
his h that, purely from pride, he keeps it hidden. 
Yotini, on the other hand, betrays himself: he com- 
plains at home of his difficult! ': '. that the 
master is unjust to him. When Derossi replies so 
promptly and so well to questions, as he alway 
' "otini's fac'.- r, he hangs his head, preter. 
not to hear, or tr: laugh, but he laughs awkwardly, 
.rid even- one kn-. about it. so that when the 
me Dferossi they- all turn to look at \ r otini, 
who chews his venom, and "Muratorino" makes a 
hare' face at him. To-day for instance, he was put 
on the rack. The principal entered the room and an- 
nounced th f : result ,:' the examination, "D': 

n-tenths and the first medal/' 

.tini g: : . : a hd| eeze. The im tef at 

-n: it not hard to understand the matter. "Y - 
tini," he "do not let the serpent of envy enter 



FXVY ITT 

your body ; it is a serpent which g-naws at the brain 
and corrupts the heart." 

Every one stared at him except Perossi. Yotini 
tried to make some answer, but could not ; he sat there 
as though turned to stone, and with a white face. 
Then, while the master was conducting the lesson, he 
began to write in large characters on a sheet of paper. 

.7* O 11 

"/ am not jealous of those Ti'/.v ..:.'/* tlic jirst t . 
through favoritism and injustice." It was a note 
which he meant to send to Perossi. Rut. in the mean- 
time. 1 saw that Perossi's neighbors were plotting 
among themselves, and whispering in each other's 

T^ 1 C^ 

ears, and one cut with a penknife from paper a big 
medal on which they had drawn a black serpent. 
Yotini also noticed this. The master went out tor a 
few moments. All at once Perossi's friends rose and 
left their seats, for the purpose of coming and 
solemnly presenting the paper medal to Yotini. The 
whole class was prepared for a scene. Yotini had 
already begun to quiver all over. Perossi ex- 
claimed :- 

'\iive that to me!" 

"So much the better, thev replied; "vou are ttie 

w M 

one \\ ho ought to carrv it." 

v* ^/ 

Perossi took the medal and tore it into bits. At 
that moment the master returned, and resumed the 
lesson. I kept my eye on Yotini. He had turned 
as red as a coal. He took his sheet of paper very, 
very quietly, as though in absence of mind, rolled tt 
into a ball, on the sly, put it into his mouth, chewed 
it a little, and then spit it out under the bench. Then 
school broke up. Yotini, who was a little confused, 



ii2 JANUARY 

dropped his blotting-paper, as he passed Derossi. 
Derossi politely picked it up, put it in Votini's satchel, 
and helped him to buckle the straps. Votini dared not 
raise his eyes. 

FRANTI'S MOTHER 

Saturday, 28th. 

But Votini is stubborn. Yesterday morning, dur- 
ing the lesson on religion, in the presence of the 
principal, the teacher asked Derossi if he knew by 
heart the two couplets in the reading-book, 



'Where'er I turn my gaze, 
Tis Thee, great God, I see." 



Derossi said that he did not, and Votini suddenly 
exclaimed, "I know them !" with a smile, as though 
to pique Derossi. But he was piqued himself, instead, 
for he could not recite the poetry, because Franti's 
mother suddenly flew into the schoolroom, breathless, 
with her gray hair dishevelled and all wet with snow, 
and pushing before her her son, who had been sus- 
pended from school for a week. What a sad scene we 
were doomed to witness ! The poor woman flung her- 
self almost on her knees before the principal, with 
clasped hands, and besought him: 

"Oh, Signor Director, do me the favor to put my 
boy back in school! He has been at home for three 
days. I have kept him hidden; but God have mercy 
on him, if his father finds out about this affair: he 
will murder him! Have pity! I no longer know 
what to do! I entreat you with my whole soul!" 



FRANTI'S MOTHER 113 

The principal tried to lead her out, but she resisted, 
still continuing to pray and to weep. 

"Oh, if you only knew the trouble that this boy has 
caused me, you would have pity! Do me this favor! 
I hope that he will reform. I shall not live long, 
Signor Director; I bear death within me; but I should 
like to see him reformed before my death, because" 
and she broke into a passion of weeping "he is my 
son I love him I shall die in despair! Take him 
back once more, Signor Director, that a misfortune 
may not happen in the family! Do it out of pity 
for a poor woman!" And she covered her face with 
her hands and sobbed. 

Franti stood impassive, and hung his head. The 
head-master looked at him, reflected a little, then said, 
"Franti, go to your place." 

Then the woman removed her hands from her face, 
quite comforted, and began to express thanks upon 
thanks, without giving the director a chance to speak, 
and made her way towards the door, wiping her eyes, 
and saying hastily: "I beg of you, my son. May 
all have patience. Thanks, Signor Director; you have 
performed a deed of mercy. Be a good boy. Good 
day, boys. Thanks, Signor Teacher; good-bye, and 
forgive a poor mother." And after bestowing another 
supplicating glance at her son from the door, she went 
away, pulling up the shawl which was trailing after 
her, pale, bent, with a head which still shook, and we 
heard her coughing all the way down the stairs. The 
principal gazed intently at Franti, amid the silence of 
the class, and said to him in stern accents : 

"Franti, you are killing your mother!" 



H4 JANUARY 

We all turned to look at Franti ; and that infamous 
boy smiled. 

HOPE 

Sunday, 29th. 

Very beautiful, Enrico, was the impulse which made 
you fling yourself on your mother's heart on your return 
from your lesson on religion. Yes, your master said 
grand and consoling things to you. God threw us in each 
other's arms; he will never part us. When I die, when 
your father dies, we shall not speak to each other those 
despairing words, "Mamma, papa, Enrico, I shall never 
see you again !" We shall see each other again in another 
life, where he who has suffered much in this life will 
receive reward; where he who has loved much on earth 
will find again the souls whom he has loved, in a world 
without sin, without sorrow, and without death. 

But we must all render ourselves worthy of that other 
life. Reflect, my son. Every good action of yours, 
every impulse of affection for those who love you, every 
courteous act towards your companions, every noble 
thought of yours, is like a leap towards that other world. 
And every misfortune, also, serves to raise you towards 
that world ; every sorrow, since it is the expiation of a 
sin, just as every tear blots out a stain. Make it your 
rule to become better and more loving every day than 
the day before. Say every morning, "To-day I shall do 
something for which my conscience will praise me, and 
with which my father will be satisfied ; something which 
will render me beloved by such or such a comrade, by 
my teacher, by my brother, or by others." And pray 
God to give you the strength to put your resolution into 
practice. "Lord, I wish to be good, noble, courageous, 



HOPE 115 

gentle, sincere; help me; grant that every night, when 
my mother gives me her last kiss, I may be able to say 
to her, 'You kiss this night a nobler and more worthy 
boy than you kissed last night.' 

Keep always in your thoughts that other supernatural 
and blessed Enrico which you may be after this life. 
And pray. You cannot imagine the sweetness that you 
experience, how much better a mother feels when she 
sees her child with hands clasped in prayer. When I 
behold you praying, it seems impossible to me that there 
should not be some one there gazing at you and listening 
to you. Then I believe more firmly that there is a 
Supreme goodness and an Infinite pity ; I love you more, 
I work with more ardor, I endure with more force, I 
forgive with all my heart, and I think of death with 
serenity. 

O great and good God ! To hear once more after 
death the voice of my mother, to meet my children again, 
to see my Enrico once more, my Enrico, blessed and im- 
mortal, and to clasp him in an embrace which shall never- 
more be loosed, nevermore, nevermore to all eternity! 
Oh, pray! let us pray, let us love each other, let us be 
good, let us bear this celestial hope in our hearts and 
souls, my adored child! 

YOUR MOTHER. 



FEBRUARY 

A MEDAL WELL BESTOWED 

Saturday, 4th. 

THIS morning the superintendent of the schools, a 
gentleman with a white beard, and dressed in black, 
came to present the medals. He came in with the 
principal a little before the close and seated himself 
beside the teacher. He questioned a few, then gave 
the first medal to Derossi, and before giving the 
second, he stood for a few moments listening to the 
teacher and the principal, who were talking to him in 
a low voice. All were asking themselves, "To whom 
will he give the second?" 

The superintendent said aloud: "Pupil Pietro 
Precossi has merited the second medal this week, 
merited it by his work at home, by his lessons, by his 
handwriting, by his conduct in every way." 

All turned to look at Precossi, and seemed pleased. 
Precossi rose in such confusion that he did not know 
where he was. 

"Come here," said the superintendent. Precossi 
sprang up from his seat and went to the master's table. 
The superintendent looked attentively at the little 
waxen face, at the puny body enveloped in turned and 
ill-fitting garments, at the kind, sad eyes, which 
avoided his, but which hinted at a story of suffering; 
then he said to him, in a voice full of affection, as he 

fastened the medal on his shoulder ; * 

116 



A MEDAL WELL BESTOWED 117 

"I give you the medal, Precossi. No one is more 
worthy to wear it than you. I bestow it not only on 
your intelligence and your good will; I bestow it on 
your heart, I give it to your courage, to your character 
of a brave and good son. Is it not true," he added, 
turning to the class, "that he deserves it also on that 
score?" 

"Yes, yes !" all answered, with one voice. Precossi 
made a movement of the throat as though he were 
swallowing something, and cast upon the benches a 
very sweet look, which bespoke his immense gratitude. 

"Go, my dear boy," said the superintendent; "and 
may God protect you!" 

It was the hour for dismissing the school. Our 
class got out before the others. As soon as we were 
outside the door, whom should we espy there in the 
large hall just at the entrance? The father of 
Precossi, the blacksmith, pale as usual, with fierce 
face, hair hanging over his eyes, his cap awry, and 
unsteady on his legs. The teacher caught sight of 
him instantly, and whispered to the superintendent. 
The latter sought out Precossi in haste, and taking 
him by the hand, he led him to his father. The boy 
was trembling. He and the superintendent ap- 
proached; several of the boys collected around them. 

"Is it true that you are the father of this lad?" 
asked the superintendent of the blacksmith, with 
a cheerful air, as though they were friends. And, 
without awaiting a reply : "I rejoice with you. 
Look : he has won the second medal over fifty- four of 
his comrades. He has deserved it by his composi- 
tion, his arithmetic, everything. He is a boy of great 



n8 FEBRUARY 

intelligence and good will, who will accomplish great 
things ; a noble lad, who has gained the friendship and 
esteem of all. You may feel proud of him, I assure 
you." 

The blacksmith, who had stood there with open 
mouth listening to him, stared at the superintendent 
and the principal, and then at his son, who was 
standing before him with downcast eyes and 
trembling; and as though he had remembered and 
comprehended then, for the first time, all that he had 
made the little fellow suffer, and all the goodness, the 
heroic constancy, with which the latter had borne it, 
his face took on a certain stupid wonder, then a 
sullen remorse, and finally a sad, fierce tenderness ; and 
with a quick movement he caught the boy round the 
head and strained him to his breast. 

We went out ahead of them. I invited him to 
come to the house on Thursday, with Garrone and 
Crossi ; others bowed to him ; one gave him a friendly 
pat, another touched his medal, all said something to 
him; and his father stared at us in amazement, as he 
still held his son's head pressed to his breast, while the 
boy sobbed. 

GOOD RESOLUTIONS 

Sunday, 5th. 

The medal given to Precossi has awakened a regret 
in me. I have never earned one yet ! For some time 
past I have not been studying, and I am discon- 
tented with myself; and the teacher, and my father 



GOOD RESOLUTIONS 119 

and mother are discontented with me. I no longer 
take delight in amusing myself as I did formerly, 
when I worked with a will, and then sprang up from 
the table and ran to my games full of joy, as though 
I had not played for a month. Neither do I sit down 
to the table with my family with the same content- 
ment as of old. I have always a shadow in my soul, 
an inward voice, that says to me continually, "It 
won't do; it won't do/' 

In the evening I see a great many boys pass through 
the square on their return from work, in the midst 
of a group of workingmen, weary but merry. They 
step briskly along, impatient to reach their homes 
and suppers, and they talk loudly, laughing and 
slapping each other on the shoulder with hands 
blackened with coal, or whitened with plaster; and I 
reflect that they have been working since daybreak 
up to this hour. And with them are also many others, 
who are still smaller, who have been standing all day 
on the summits of roofs, in front of ovens, among 
machines, and in the water, and underground, with 
nothing to eat but a little bread; and I feel almost 
ashamed, that I in all that time have accomplished 
nothing but scribble four small pages, and that 
reluctantly. 

Ah, I am discontented, discontented! I see plainly 
that my father is out of humor, and would like to tell 
me so; but he is sorry, and he is still waiting. My 
dear father, who works so hard ! all is yours, all that 
I see around me in the house, all that I touch, all that 
I wear and eat, all that teaches me or amuses me, all 



120 FEBRUARY 

is the fruit of your toil, and I do not work; all has 
cost you thought, privations, trouble, effort, and I 
make no effort. 

Ah, no; this is too unjust, and causes me too much 
pain. I will begin this very day; I will apply myself 
to my studies, like Stardi, with clenched fists and set 
teeth. I will set about it with all the strength of my 
will and my heart. I will conquer my drowsiness in 
the evening, I will come down promptly in the 
morning, I will cudgel my brains without ceasing, I 
will punish my laziness without mercy. I will toil, 
suffer, even to the extent of making myself ill; but I 
will put a stop, once for all, to this aimless life, which 
is degrading me and causing sorrow to others. 
Courage ! to work ! To work with all my soul, and 
all my nerves! To work, which will restore to me 
sweet rest, pleasing games, cheerful meals ! To work, 
which will give me back again the kindly smile of my 
teacher, the blessed kiss of my father ! 

THE TRAIN OF CARS 

Friday, loth. 

Precossi came to our house to-day with Garrone. 
I do not think that two sons of princes would have 
been received with greater delight. This is the first 
time that Garrone has been here, because he is rather 
shy, and then he is ashamed to show himself because 
he is so large, and is still in the third grade. We all 
went to open the door when they rang. Crossi did 
not come, because his father has at last arrived from 



THE TRAIN OF CARS 121 

America, after an absence of seven years. My mother 
kissed Precossi. My father introduced Garrone to 
her, saying: 

"Here is a lad who is not only a good boy; he is a 
man of honor and a gentleman." 

And the boy dropped his big, shaggy head, with a 
sly smile at me. Precossi had on his medal, and he was 
happy, because his father had gone to work again, and 
has not drunk anything for the last five days, wants 
him to be always in the work-shop to keep him com- 
pany, and seems quite another man. 

We began to play, and I brought out all my things. 
Precossi was delighted with my train of cars, and the 
engine that goes of itself on being wound up. He had 
never seen anything of the kind. He devoured the 
little red and yellow cars with his eyes. I gave him 
the key, and he knelt down to play with the train, and 
did not so much as raise his head again. I have 
never seen him so happy. He kept saying, "Excuse 
me, excuse me," and motioning to us with his hands, 
not to stop the engine; and then he picked it up and 
started the cars with as much care as though they had 
been made of glass. He was afraid of tarnishing 
them with his breath, and he polished them up again, 
looking them over, top and bottom, and smiling to 
himself. 

We stood around him and gazed at him. We looked 
at the slender neck, the poor little ears, which I had 
seen bleeding one day, the jacket with the sleeves 
turned up, the two sickly, little arms, which had been 
upraised to ward off blows from his face. Oh! at 



122 FEBRUARY 

that moment I could have cast all my playthings and 
all my books at his feet, I could have taken the last 
morsel of bread from my lips to give to him, I could 
have taken off my clothing to clothe him, I could have 
flung myself on my knees to kiss his hand. 

"I shall at least give you the train," I thought; but 
first I must ask my father. At that moment I felt a 
bit of paper thrust into my hand. I looked; it was 
written in pencil by my father ; it said : 

"Your train strikes Precossi's fancy. He has no 
playthings. Does your heart suggest nothing to you?" 

Instantly I seized the engine and the cars in both 
hands, and placed them in his arms, saying: 

"Take this; it is yours." 

He looked at me, and did not understand. 

"It is yours," I said; "I give it to you." 

Then he looked at my father and mother, in Still 
greater astonishment, and asked me : 

"But why?" 

My father replied : "Enrico gives it to you because 
he is your friend, because he loves you to celebrate 
your medal." 

Precossi asked timidly : 

"I may carry it away home?" 

"Of course!" we all responded. 

He was already at the door, but he dared not go 
out. He was happy! He begged our pardon with a 
mouth that smiled and quivered. Garrone helped him 
to wrap up the train in a handkerchief, and as he bent 
over, he made the things with which his pockets were 
filled rattle. 



PRIDE 



123 



"Some day," said Precossi to me, "you shall come to 
the shop to see my father at work. I will give you 
some nails." 

My mother put a little bunch of flowers into Gar- 
rone's button-hole, for him to carry to his mother in 
her name. Garrone said, "Thank you," in his big 
voice, without raising his chin from his breast. But 
all his kind and noble soul shone in his eyes. 

PRIDE 

Saturday, nth. 

The idea of Carlo Nobis rubbing off his sleeve 
affectedly, when Precossi touches him in passing! 
That fellow is pride personified because his father is 
a rich man. But Derossi's father is rich too. Nobis 
would like to have a bench to himself; he is afraid 
that the rest will soil it; he looks down on everybody 
and always has a scornful smile on his lips : woe to 
him who stumbles over his foot, when we go out in 
files two by two ! For a mere trifle he flings an insult- 
ing word in your face, or a threat to get his father to 
come to the school. It is true that his father did give 
him a good lesson when he called the little son of the 
charcoal-man a ragamuffin. I have never seen so dis- 
agreeable a schoolboy ! No one speaks to him, no one 
says good-bye to him when he goes out; there is not 
even a dog who would prompt him when he does not 
know his lesson. He cannot endure any one, and he 
pretends to despise Derossi more than all, because he 
is the head boy ; and Garrone, because he is beloved by 



124 FEBRUARY 

all. But Derossi pays no attention to him when he 
is by; and when the boys tell Garrone that Nobis had 
been speaking ill of him, he says : 

"His pride is so silly that it is not worth fighting 
about." 

But Coretti said to him one day, when Nobis was 
smiling disdainfully at his catskin cap : 

"Go to Derossi for a while, and learn how to play 
the gentleman!" 

Yesterday he complained to the teacher, because the 
Calabrian touched his leg with his foot. The teacher 
asked the Calabrian : "Did you do it intentionally?" 

"No, sir," he replied, frankly. 

"You are too petulant, Nobis," said the teacher. 

And Nobis retorted, in his airy w r ay, "I shall tell 
my father about it." Then the teacher got angry. 

'Your father will tell you that you are in the wrong, 
as he has on other occasions. And besides that, it is 
the teacher alone who has the right to judge and punish 
in school." Then he added pleasantly : 

"Come, Nobis, change your ways ; be kind and cour- 
teous to your comrades. You see, we have here sons 
of workingmen and of gentlemen, of the rich and the 
poor, and all love each other and treat each other like 
brothers, as they are. Why do not you do like the 
rest? It would not cost you much to make every one 
like you, and you would be so much happier yourself, 
too! Well, have you no reply to make me?" 

Nobis, who had listened to him with his customary 
scornful smile, answered coldly: 

"No, sir." 



THE WOUNDS OF LABOR 125 



"Sit down," said the master to him. "I am sorry 
for you. You are a boy without a heart." 

This seemed to be the end of it all; but the "little 
mason," who sits on the front bench, turned his round 
face towards Nobis, who sits on the back bench, and 
made such a fine and ridiculous hare's face at him, 
that the whole class burst into a shout of laughter. 
The master reproved him; but he was obliged to put 
his hand over his own mouth to hide a smile. And 
even Nobis laughed, but not in a pleasant way. 

THE WOUNDS OF LABOR 

Monday, I5th. 

Nobis can be paired off with Franti : neither of them 
was affected this morning by the terrible sight which 
passed before our eyes. 

On coming out of school, I was standing with my 
father and looking at some big boys of the second 
grade, who had thrown themselves on their knees and 
were wiping off the ice with their cloaks and caps, in 
order to make slides more quickly, when we saw a 
crowd of people appear at the end of the street, walk- 
ing hurriedly, all serious and seemingly terrified, and 
talking in low tones. In the midst of them were three 
policemen, and behind the policemen two men 
carrying a litter. Boys hastened up from all quarters. 
The crowd advanced toward us. On the litter was 
stretched a man, pale as a corpse, with his head resting 
on one shoulder, and his hair tumbled and stained with 
blood, for he had been losing blood through the mouth 



126 FEBRUARY 

and ears; and beside the litter walked a woman with 
a baby in her arms, who seemed crazy, and who 
shrieked from time to time, 

"He is dead! He is dead! He is dead!" 

Behind the woman came a boy who had a satchel 
under his arm and who was sobbing. 

"What has happened?" asked my father. A 
neighbor replied, that the man was a mason who had 
fallen from the fourth story while at work. The 
bearers of the litter halted for a moment. Many 
turned away their faces in horror. I saw the 
schoolmistress of the red feather supporting my mis- 
tress of the upper first, who was almost in a swoon. 
At the same moment I felt a touch on the elbow; it 
was the "little mason," who was ghastly white and 
trembling from head to foot. He was certainly think- 
ing of his father. I was thinking of him, too. I, at 
least, am at peace in my mind while I am in school: 
I know that my father is at home, seated at his table, 
far removed from all danger; but how many of my 
companions think that their fathers are at work on a 
very high bridge or close to the wheels of a machine, 
and that a movement, a single false step, may cost them 
their lives! They are like so many sons of soldiers 
who have fathers in the battle. "Muratorino" gazed 
and gazed, and trembled more and more, and my 
father noticed it and said : 

"Go home, my boy; go at once to your father, and 
you will find him safe and sound; go!" 

The "little mason" went off, turning round at every 
step. And in the meanwhile the crowd had begun to 



THE PRISONER 127 

move again, and the woman to shriek in a way that rent 
the heart: 

"He is dead ! He is dead ! He is dead !" 

"No, no; he is not dead," people on all sides said 
to her. But she paid no heed to them, and tore her 
hair. 

Then I heard an indignant voice say, "You are laugh- 
ing !" and at the same moment I saw a bearded man 
staring in Franti's smiling face. Then the man 
knocked Franti's cap to the ground with his stick, 
saying : 

"Uncover your head, you wicked boy, when a man 
wounded by labor is passing by!" 

The crowd had already passed, and a long streak of 
blood was to be seen in the middle of the street. 

THE PRISONER 

Friday, I7th. 

Ah, this is certainly the strangest event of the whole 
year! Yesterday morning my father took me to the 
suburbs of Moncalieri, to look at a villa which he 
thought of hiring for the coming summer, because we 
shall not go to Chieri again this year, and it turned 
out that the person who had the keys was a teacher 
who acts as secretary to the owner. He showed us 
the house, and then he took us to his own room, where 
he gave us something to drink. On his table, among 
the glasses, there was a wooden inkstand, of a conical 
form, carved in a singular manner. Noting that my 
father was looking at it, the teacher said : 



128 FEBRUARY 

That inkstand is very precious to me: if you only 
knew its history, sir !" And he told it. 

Years ago he was a teacher at Turin, and all one 
winter went daily to give lessons to the prisoners in the 
judicial prison. He gave the lessons in the chapel of 
the jail, which is a circular building, and all around it, 
on the high, bare walls, are a great many little square 
windows, covered with two cross-bars of iron, each 
one of which corresponds to a very small cell inside. 
He gave his lessons as he paced about the dark, cold 
chapel, and his scholars stood at the holes, with their 
copy-books resting against the gratings, showing noth- 
ing in the shadow but wan, frowning faces, gray 
and ragged beards, staring eyes of murderers and 
thieves. 

Among the rest there was one, No. 78, who was more 
attentive than all the others, and who studied a great 
deal, and gazed at his teacher with eyes full of respect 
and gratitude. He was a young man, with a black 
beard, more unfortunate than wicked, a cabinet-maker 
who, in a fit of rage, had flung a plane at his master, 
who had been persecuting him for some time, and had 
inflicted a mortal wound on his head : for this he had 
been condemned to several years of imprisonment. 

In three months he had learned to read and write, 
and he read constantly; and the more he learned, the 
better he seemed to become, and the more remorseful 
for his crime. One day, at the conclusion of the lesson, 
he made a sign to the teacher to come near to his little 
window, and told him that he was to leave Turin on 
the following day, to go and expiate his crime in the 
prison at Venice. As he bade him farewell, he begged 



THE PRISONER 129 

in a humble and much moved voice, that he might be 
allowed to touch the teacher's hand. The teacher 
offered him his hand, and he kissed it ; then he said : 
"Thanks! thanks!" and disappeared. The master 
drew back his hand; it was bathed with tears. After 
that he did not see the man again. 

Six years passed. 

"I was thinking of anything except that unfortunate 
man/' said the teacher, "when, the other morning, I 
saw a stranger come to the house, a man with a 
large, black beard already sprinkled with gray, and 
badly dressed, who said to me : 'Are you the teacher 
So-and-So, sir?' 'Who are you?' I asked him. 'I am 
prisoner No. 78,' he replied; 'you taught me to read 
and write six years ago; if you recollect, you gave me 
your hand at the last lesson; I have now expiated my 
crime, and I have come to beg you to do me the favor 
of accepting a memento of me, a poor little thing which 
I made in prison. Will you accept it in memory of 
me, Signor Master?' 

"I stood there speechless. He thought that I did 
not wish to take it, and he looked at me as much as to 
say, 'So six years of suffering are not sufficient to 
cleanse my hands !' But he gazed at me with so much 
pain, that I instantly extended my hand and took the 
little object. This is it." 

We looked closely at the inkstand : it seemed to 
have been carved very laboriously with the point of a 
nail. On its top was graven a pen lying across a 
copy-book, and around it was written : "To my teacher. 
A memento of No. 78. Six years!' 3 And below, in 
small letters, "Study and hope." 



1 3 o FEBRUARY 

The teacher said nothing more; we went away. 
But all the way from Moncalieri to Turin I could not 
get that prisoner standing at his little window, that 
farewell to his master, that poor inkstand made in 
prison, which told so much, out of my head; and I 
dreamed of them all night, and was still thinking of 
them this morning far enough from imagining the 
surprise which awaited me at school ! No sooner had 
I taken my new seat, beside Derossi, and written my 
problem in arithmetic for the monthly examination, 
than I told my companion the story of the prisoner 
and the inkstand, and how the inkstand was made, 
with the pen across the copy-book, and the inscription 
around it, "Six years!" 

Derossi sprang up at these words, and began to look 
first at me and then at Crossi, the son of the vegetable- 
vendor, who sat on the bench in front, with his back 
turned to us, wholly absorbed on his problem. 

"Hush!" he said; then, in a low voice, catching me 
by the arm, "don't you know that Crossi spoke to me 
day before yesterday of having caught a glimpse of 
an inkstand in the hands of his father, who has re- 
turned from America; a conical inkstand, made by 
hand, with a copy-book and a pen? that is the one; 
six years! He said that his father was in America; 
instead of that he was in prison: Crossi was a little 
boy at the time of the crime; he does not remember 
it; his mother has deceived him; he knows nothing; 
let not a syllable of this escape !" 

I remained speechless, with my eyes fixed on Crossi. 
Then Derossi solved his problem, and passed it under 
the bench to Crossi; he gave him a sheet of the paper; 




THE BOY HAD WALKED TEN MILES 



DADDY'S NURSE 131 

he took out of his hands the monthly story, Daddy's 
Nurse, which the teacher had given him to copy out, 
in order that he might copy it for him; he gave him 
pens, and stroked his shoulder, and made me promise 
on my honor that I would say nothing to any one ; and 
when we left school, he said to me hastily : 

"His father came to get him yesterday; he will be 
here again this morning : do as I do." 

We went into the street. Crossi's father was there, 
a little to one side : a man with a black beard sprinkled 
with gray, badly dressed, and with a colorless, thought- 
ful face. Derossi shook Crossi's hand, in a way to 
attract attention, and said to him in a loud tone, "Fare- 
well until we meet again, Crossi," and passed his 
hand under his chin. I did the same. But as he did 
so, Derossi turned crimson, and so did I; and Crossi's 
father gazed straight at us, with a kindly glance; but 
through it shone a look of distrust and doubt which 
made our hearts grow cold. 

DADDY'S NURSE 

(Monthly Story.) 

One morning, on a rainy day in March, a lad dressed 
like a country boy, all wet and muddy, with a bundle 
of clothes under his arm, came up to the porter of the 
great hospital at Naples, and, presenting a letter, asked 
for his father. He had a fine, oval face, of a pale 
brown hue, thoughtful eyes, and two thick lips, always 
half open, which displayed extremely white teeth. 
He came from a village in the neighborhood of Naples. 
His father, who had left home a year previously to 



1 32 FEBRUARY 

seek work in France, had returned to Italy, and had 
landed a few days before at Naples, where, having 
fallen suddenly ill, he had hardly time to write a line 
to announce his arrival to his family, and to say that 
he was going to the hospital. His wife, in despair at 
this news, and unable to leave home because she had a 
sick child, and a baby to tend, had sent her eldest son 
to Naples, with a few soldi, to help his father his 
daddy, as they called him. The boy had walked ten 
miles. 

The porter, after glancing at the letter, called a nurse 
and told him to conduct the lad to his father. 

"Whose father?" inquired the nurse. 

The boy, trembling with terror, lest he should hear 
bad news, gave the name. 

The nurse did not recall such a name. 

"An old laborer, arrived from abroad?" he asked. 

"Yes, a laborer," replied the lad, still more uneasy; 
"not so very old. Yes, arrived from abroad." 

"When did he enter the hospital?'" asked the nurse. 

The lacl glanced at his letter; "Five days ago, I 
think." 

The nurse stood awhile in thought; then, as though 
suddenly recalling him; "Ah!" he said, "the furthest 
bed in the fourth ward." 

"Is he very ill? How is he?" inquired the boy, 
anxiously. 

The nurse looked at him, without replying. Then 
he said, "Come with me." 

They ascended two flights of stairs, walked to the 
end of a long corridor, and found themselves facing 
the open door of a large hall, wherein two rows of 



DADDY'S NURSE 133 

beds were arranged. "Come," replied the nurse, 
entering. The boy plucked up his courage, and 
followed him, casting terrified glances to right 
and left, on the pale, emaciated faces of the sick people, 
some of whom had their eyes closed, and seemed to be 
dead, while others were staring into the air, with their 
eyes wide open and fixed, as though frightened. Some 
were moaning like children. The big room was dark, 
the air was filled with an acute odor of medicines. 
Two sisters of charity were going about with phials 
in their hands. 

Arrived at the end of the great room, the nurse 
halted at the head of a bed, drew aside the curtains 
and said, "Here is your father." 

The boy burst into tears, and letting fall his bundle, 
he dropped his head on the sick man's shoulder, clasp- 
ing with one hand the arm which was lying motion- 
less on the coverlet. The sick man did not move. 

The boy rose to his feet, and looked at his father, 
and broke into a fresh fit of weeping. Then the sick 
man gave a long look at him, and seemed to recognize 
him; but his lips did not move. Poor daddy, how he 
was changed! The son would never have recognized 
him. His hair had turned white, his beard had grown, 
his face was swollen, of a dull red hue, with the skin 
tightly drawn and shining, his eyes were diminished 
in size, his lips were very thick, and his whole coun- 
tenance was altered. There was no longer anything 
natural about him but his forehead and the arch of his 
eyebrows. He breathed with difficulty. 

"Daddy! daddy!" said the boy, "it is I; don't you 
know me? I am Cicillo, your own Cicillo, who has 



134 FEBRUARY 

come from the country: mamma has sent me. Take 
a good look at me; don't you know me? Say one 
word to me." 

But the sick man, after having looked at him, closed 
his eyes. 

"Daddy! daddy! What is the matter with you? 
I am your little son your own Cicillo." 

The sick man did not stir, and continued to breathe 
painfully. 

Then the lad, still weeping, took a chair, seated 
himself and waited, without taking his eyes from his 
father's face. "A doctor will surely come to pay him 
a visit," he thought; "he will tell me something." 
And he gave himself up to sad thoughts, recalling 
many things about his kind father, the day of part- 
ing, when he had said the last good-bye to him on 
board the ship, the hopes which his family had 
founded on his journey, the anguish of his mother on 
the arrival of the letter. Then he thought of death: 
he beheld his father dead, his mother dressed in 
black, the family in misery. He remained a long time 
thus. A light hand touched him on the shoulder, and 
he started up : it was a nun. 

"What is the matter with my father?" he asked her 
quickly. 

"Is he your father?" said the sister gently. 

"Yes, he is my father; I have come. What ails 
him?" 

"Courage, my boy," replied the sister; "the doctor 
will be here soon now." And she went away with- 
out saying anything more. 

Half an hour later he heard the sound of a bell, and 



DADDY'S NURSE 135 

he saw the doctor enter at the further end of the hall, 
accompanied by an assistant; the sister and a nurse 
followed him. They began the visit, pausing at every 
bed. This time of waiting seemed an eternity to the 
lad, and his anxiety increased at every step of the 
doctor. At length they arrived at the next bed. The 
doctor was an old man, tall and stooping, with a 
grave face. Before he left the next bed the boy rose 
to his feet, and when he approached he began to cry. 

The doctor looked at him. 

"He is the sick man's son," said the sister; "he 
arrived this morning from the country." 

The doctor placed one hand on his shoulder; then 
bent over the sick man, felt his pulse, touched his 
forehead, and asked a few questions of the sister, who 
replied, "There is nothing new." Then he thought 
for a while and said, "Continue the present treat- 
ment." 

Then the boy took courage, and asked in a tearful 
voice, "What is the matter with my father?" 

"Be brave, my boy," replied the doctor, laying his 
hand on his shoulder once more; "he has erysipelas of 
the face. It is a serious case, but there is still hope. 
Help him. Your presence may do him a great deal 
of good." 

"But he does not know me!" exclaimed the boy in 
a mournful tone. 

"He will recognize you to-morrow, perhaps. 
Let us hope for the best and keep up our courage." 

The boy would have liked to ask some more ques- 
tions, but he did not dare. The doctor passed 
on. And then he began his life of nurse. As he 



136 FEBRUARY 

could do nothing else, he arranged the coverlets of the 
sick man, touched his hand every now and then, drove 
away the flies, bent over him at every groan, and when 
the sister brought him something to drink, he took 
the glass or the spoon from her hand, and gave it in 
her stead. The sick man looked at him occasionally, 
but he gave no sign of recognition. However, his 
glance rested longer on the lad each time, especially 
when the latter put his handkerchief to his eyes. 

Thus passed the first day. At night the boy slept 
on two chairs, in a corner of the ward, and in the 
morning he resumed his work of mercy. That day it 
seemed as though the eyes of the sick man revealed a 
dawning of consciousness. At the sound of the boy's 
soothing voice a vague expression of gratitude seemed 
to gleam for an instant in his pupils, and once he 
moved his lips a little, as though he wanted to say 
something. After each brief nap he seemed, on open- 
ing his eyes, to seek his little nurse. The doctor, who 
had passed twice, thought he noted a slight improve- 
ment. Towards evening, on putting the cup to his 
lips, the lad fancied that he saw a very faint smile 
glide across the swollen lips. Then he began to take 
comfort and to hope; and with the hope of being 
understood, confusedly at least, he talked to him 
alked to him at great length of his mother, of his little 
sisters, of his own return home; and he exhorted him 
to courage, with warm and loving words. And al- 
though he often doubted whether he was heard, he 
still talked; for it seemed to him that even if he did 
not understand him, the sick man listened with a 



DADDY'S NURSE 137 

certain pleasure to his voice, to that unaccustomed 
intonation of affection and sorrow. 

Thus passed the second day, and the third, and the 
fourth, with slight improvements or unexpected 
changes for the worse; and the boy was so absorbed 
in all his cares, that he hardly nibbled a bit of bread 
and cheese twice a day, when the sister brought it to 
him, and hardly saw what was going on around him, 
the dying patients, the sudden running up of the 
sisters at night, the moans and despairing gestures of 
visitors, all those doleful scenes of hospital life, 
which on any other occasion would have shocked and 
alarmed him. 

Hours, days passed, and still he was there with his 
daddy; watchful, wistful, trembling at every sigh and 
at every look, shaken continually between a hope 
which relieved his mind and a discouragement which 
froze his heart. 

On the fifth day the sick man suddenly grew worse. 
The doctor, on being questioned, shook his head, as 
much as to say that all was over, and the boy flung 
himself on a chair and burst out sobbing. But one 
thing comforted him. In spite of the fact that he was 
worse, the sick man seemed to be slowly regaining a 
little consciousness. He stared at the lad with in- 
creasing attention, and, with an expression which grew 
in sweetness, would take his drink and medicine from 
no one but him, and made strenuous efforts with his 
lips with greater frequency, as though he were trying 
to pronounce some word. He did it so plainly some- 
times that his son grasped his arm violently, inspired 



138 FEBRUARY 

by a sudden hope, and said to him in a tone which was 
almost that of joy, 

"Courage, courage, daddy; you will get well, we 
will go away from here, we will go home to mamma; 
courage, for a little while longer!" 

It was four o'clock in the afternoon, and just as 
the boy had abandoned himself to one of these out- 
bursts of tenderness and hope, that a sound of foot- 
steps was heard outside the nearest door in the ward, 
and then a strong voice uttering two words only, 
"Farewell, sister!" which made him spring to his 
feet, with a stifled cry in his throat. 

At that moment a man with a bundle in his hand 
entered the ward, followed by a sister. 

The boy uttered a sharp cry, and stood rooted to 
the spot. 

The man turned round, looked at him for a moment, 
and cried in his turn, "Cicillo!" and darted towards 
him. 

The boy fell into his father's arms, choking with 
emotion. 

The sister, the nurse, and the assistant ran up, and 
stood there in amazement. 

The boy could not recover his voice. 

"Oh, my Cicillo!" exclaimed the father, after cast- 
ing a searching glance on the sick man, as he kissed 
the boy repeatedly. "Cicillo, my son, how is this? 
They took you to the bedside of another man. And 
there was I, in despair at not seeing you after mamma 
had written, 'I have sent him.' Poor Cicillo ! How 
many days have you been here? How did this mis- 
take occur? I have come out of it easily! I have a 




THE BLIND BOYS 



X 



DADDY'S NURSE 139 

good constitution, you know! And how is mamma? 
And Concettella? And the little baby? How are 
they all? I am leaving the hospital now. Come, 
then. Oh, good Heaven! Who would have thought 
it!" 

The boy tried to say a few words, to tell the news 
of the family. "Oh how happy I am!" he stam- 
mered. "How happy I am! What terrible days I 
have passed!" And he could not finish kissing his 
father. 

But he did not stir. 

"Come," said his father; "we can get home this 
evening." And he drew the lad towards him. The 
boy turned to look at his patient. 

"Well, are you coming or not?" his father asked, 
in amazement. 

The boy gave still another look at the sick man, who 
opened his eyes at that moment and gazed intently at 
him. 

Then a flood of words poured from his very soul. 
"No, daddy; wait here. I can't. Here is this old 
man. I have been here for five days. He watches 
me all the time. I thought he was you. I love him 
dearly. He looks at me; I give him his drink; he 
wants me always beside him; he is very ill now. 
Have patience; I have not the courage I don't know 
it pains me too much ; I will go to-morrow ; let me 
stay here a little longer ; I don't at all like to leave him. 
See how he looks at me ! I don't know who he is, but 
he wants me ; he will die alone : let me stay here, dear 
daddy !" 

"Bravo, little fellow!" exclaimed the attendant. 



140 FEBRUARY 

The father stood in perplexity, staring at the boy; 
then he looked at the sick man. "Who is he?" he in- 
quired. 

"A countryman, like yourself," replied the attend- 
ant, "just arrived from abroad, and who entered the 
hospital on the very day you did. He was out of his 
senses when they brought him here, and could not 
speak. Perhaps he has a family far away, and sons. 
He probably thinks that your son is one of his." 

The sick man was still looking at the boy. 

The father said to Cicillo, "Stay." 

"He will not have to stay much longer," murmured 
the attendant. 

"Stay," repeated his father: "you have a heart. I 
will go home at once, to relieve mamma's distress. 
Here is a scudo for your expenses. Good-bye, my 
brave little son, until we meet!" 

He embraced him, looked at him fixedly, kissed 
him again on the brow, and went away. 

The boy went back to his post at the bedside, and 
the sick man appeared consoled. And Cicillo began 
again to play the nurse, no longer weeping, but with the 
same eagerness, the same patience, as before; he again 
began to give the man his drink, to arrange his bed- 
clothes, to caress his hand, to speak softly to him, to 
exhort him to courage. He attended him all that day, 
all that night; he remained beside him all the follow- 
ing day. But the sick man continued to grow con- 
stantly worse; his face turned a purple color, his 
breathing grew heavier, he grew more restless, inartic- 
ulate cries escaped his lips, the swelling became 
greater. On his evening visit, the doctor said that he 



DADDY'S NURSE 141 

would not live through the night. And then Cicillo 
redoubled his cares, and never took his eyes from him 
for a minute. The sick man gazed and gazed at him, 
and kept moving his lips from time to time, with 
great effort, as though he wanted to say something. 
And an expression of extraordinary tenderness passed 
over his eyes now and then, as they continued to grow 
smaller and more dim. And that night the boy 
watched with him until he saw the first rays of dawn 
gleam white through the windows, and the sister ap- 
peared. The sister approached the bed, cast a glance 
at the patient, and then went away with rapid steps. 
A few moments later she reappeared with the assist- 
ant doctor, and with a nurse, who carried a lantern. 

"He is at his last gasp," said the doctor. 

The boy clasped the sick man's hand. The latter 
opened his eyes, gazed at him, and closed them once 
more. 

At that moment the lad fancied that he felt a pres- 
sure of the hand. "He pressed my hand!" he ex- 
claimed. 

The doctor bent over the patient for an instant, then 
straightened himself up. 

The sister took a crucifix from the wall. 

"He is dead!" cried the boy. 

"Go, my son," said the doctor : "your work of mercy 
is finished. Go, and may fortune attend you ! for you 
deserve it. God will protect you. Farewell!" 

The sister, who had stepped aside for a moment, 
returned with a little bunch of violets which she had 
taken from a glass on the window-sill, and handed 
them to the boy, saying : 



142 FEBRUARY 

"I have nothing else to give you. Take these in 
memory of the hospital." 

"I thank you," said the boy, taking the bunch of 
flowers with one hand and drying his eyes with the 
other; "but I have such a long distance to go on foot 
-I shall spoil them." And loosening the violets, he 
scattered them over the bed, saying: "I leave them in 
remembrance of my poor, dead man. Thank you, 
sister! thank you, doctor!" Then, turning to the 
dead man, "Farewell " And while he sought a 
name to give him, the sweet name which he had ap- 
plied to him for five days recurred to his lips, 
"Farewell, poor daddy!" 

So saying, he took his little bundle of clothes under 
his arm, and, with slow, weary steps, he walked away. 

The day was dawning. 

THE WORKSHOP 

Saturday, i8th. 

Precossi came last night to remind me that I was 
to go and see his workshop, which is down the street. 
So this morning when I went out with my father, I 
got him to take me there for a moment. As we 
neared the shop, Garofri issued from it on a run, with 
a package in his hand, his big cloak, with which he 
hides his merchandise, fluttering in the wind. Ah! 
now I know where he goes to get the iron filings, 
which he sells for old papers, that trader of a Garofri ! 

When we came to the door, we saw Precossi seated 
on a little pile of bricks, studying his lesson, with his 
book resting on his knees. He rose quickly and in- 



THE WORKSHOP 143 

vited us to enter. It was a large room, full of coal- 
dust, bristling with hammers, pincers, bars, and old 
iron of every description; and in one corner burned 
a fire in a small furnace, where puffed a pair of 
bellows worked by a boy. Precossi, the father, was 
standing near the anvil, and a young man was holding 
a bar of iron in the fire. 

"Ah! here he is," said the smith, as soon as he 
caught sight of us, and he lifted his cap, "the nice boy 
who gives away railway trains! He has come to see 
me work a little, has he not? I shall be at your 
service in a moment." 

And as he said it, he smiled; and he no longer had 
the savage face, the evil eyes of former days. The 
young man handed him a long bar of iron heated red- 
hot on one end, and the smith placed it on the anvil. 
He was making one of those curved bars for the rail 
of terrace balustrades. He raised a large hammer 
and began to beat the bar, pushing the heated part 
now here, now there, between one point of the anvil 
and the middle, and turning it about in various ways ; 
and it was a marvel to see how the iron curved 
beneath the rapid and accurate blows of the hammer, 
and twisted, and gradually assumed the graceful form 
of a leaf torn from a flower, shaped as though it were 
of dough which he had modelled with his hands. And 
meanwhile his son watched us with a certain air of 
pride, as much as to say, "See how my father 
works !" 

"Do you see how it is done, little master?" the 
blacksmith asked me, when he had finished, holding 
out the bar, which looked like a bishop's crosier, 



144 FEBRUARY 

Then he laid it aside, and thrust another into the fire. 

"That was very well made, indeed," my father said 
to him. And he added, "So you are working eh? 
You have returned to good habits?" 

"Yes, I have returned," replied the workman, 
wiping away the perspiration, and reddening a little. 
"And do you know who made me return to them?" 
My father pretended not to understand. 'This brave 
boy," said the blacksmith, indicating his son with his 
finger; "the boy who studied and did honor to his 
father, while his father rioted, and treated him like 
a dog. When I saw that medal Ah! thou little lad 
of mine, no bigger than a soldo* of cheese, come here, 
that I may get a good look at you !" 

The boy ran to him instantly; the smith took him 
and put him on the anvil, holding him under the 
arms, and said to him: 

"Scrub off the front of this big beast of a daddy 
of yours a little!" 

And then Precossi covered his father's black face 
with kisses, until he was all black himself. 

"That's the way to do it," said the smith, and he 
set him on the ground again. 

"That really is the way, Precossi!" exclaimed my 
father delighted. And bidding the smith and his son 
good day, he led me away. As I was going out, little 
Precossi said to me, "Excuse me," and thrust a packet 
of nails into my pocket. I invited him to come and 
view the Carnival from my house. 

"You gave him your railway train," my father 

* The Twentieth part of a cubit; Florentine measure. 



THE LITTLE CLOWN 145 

said to me in the street; "but if it had been made of 
gold and filled with pearls, it would still have been 
but a petty gift to that sainted son, who has reformed 
his father's heart." 



THE LITTLE CLOWN 

Monday, 2oth. 

The whole city is in a tumult over the Carnival, 
which is nearing its close. In every square rise 
booths of mountebanks and jesters; and we have 
under our windows a circus-tent, in which a little 
Venetian company, with five horses, is giving a show. 
The circus is in the centre of the square; and in one 
corner there are three very large vans in which the 
mountebanks sleep and dress themselves, three 
small houses on wheels, with their tiny windows, and 
a chimney in each of them, which smokes continually ; 
and between window and window the baby's 
swaddling-bands are stretched. There is one woman 
who nurses a child, prepares the food, and dances on 
the tight-rope. 

Poor people! The word mountebank is spoken as 
though it were an insult; but they earn their 
living honestly, nevertheless, by amusing all the world. 
And how they work ! All day long they run back and 
forth between the circus-tent and the vans, in tights, 
in all this cold; they snatch a mouthful or two in 
haste, standing, between two performances. And 
sometimes, when they get their tent full, a wind 
arises, wrenches away the ropes and puts out the 



146 FEBRUARY 

lights, and then good-bye to the show! They are 
obliged to return the money, and to work the entire 
night at repairing their booth. 

There are two lads who work; and my father 
recognized the smallest one as he was going across 
the square. He is the son of the proprietor, the same 
one whom we saw perform tricks on horse-back last 
year in a circus on the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele. 
And he has grown; he must be eight years old. He 
is a handsome boy, with a round and roguish face, 
and with so many black curls that they escape from 
his pointed cap. He is dressed up like a clown, 
decked out in a sort of sack, with sleeves of white, 
embroidered with black, and his slippers are of cloth. 
He is a merry little imp. He charms every one. 
He does everything. We see him early in the 
morning, wrapped in a shawl, carrying milk to his 
wooden house; then he goes to get the horses at the 
stable on the Via Bertola. He holds the tiny baby 
in his arms; he carries hoops, trestles, rails, ropes; he 
cleans the vans, lights the fire, and in his leisure 
moments he always hangs about his mother. My 
father is always watching him from the window, and 
does nothing but talk about him and his family, who 
have the air of nice people, and of being fond of 
their children. 

One evening we went to the circus. It was cold, 
and there was hardly any one there; but the little 
clown did his best to keep the crowd merry. He 
made risky leaps; he caught hold of the horses' tails; 
he walked, all alone, with his legs in the air; he sang, 
always with a smile on his handsome, little, brown 



THE LITTLE CLOWN 147 

face. And his father, who had on a red vest and 
white trousers, with tall boots, and a whip in his hand, 
watched him. It was really pitiful. My father 
was sorry for him, and spoke of him on the following 
day to Delis the painter, who came to see us. These 
poor people were killing themselves with hard work, 
and their affairs were going so badly ! The little boy 
pleased him so much ! What could be done for them ? 
The artist had an idea. 

"Write a fine article for the Gazette," he said : "you 
know how to write well. Tell the wonderful things 
which the little clown does, and I will draw his 
portrait for you. Everybody reads the Gazette, and 
people will flock to see the circus." 

They did so. My father wrote a good article, full 
of jests, which told all that we had seen from the 
window, and made people want to see and pet the little 
artist. And the painter sketched a little portrait 
which was graceful and a good likeness, and which 
was published on Saturday evening. And behold! 
at the Sunday performance a great crowd rushed to 
the circus. The announcement was made: Benefit 
Performance for the Little Clown, as he was styled in 
the Gazette. The circus was crammed; many of the 
spectators held the Gazette in their hands, and showed 
it to the little clown, who laughed and ran from one 
to another, perfectly delighted. The proprietor was 
delighted also. Just fancy! Not a single news- 
paper had ever done him such an honor, and the 
money-box was filled. 

My father sat beside me. Among the spectators 
we found persons we knew. Near the entrance for 



148 FEBRUARY 

the horses stood the teacher of gymnastics the one 
who has been with Garibaldi; and opposite us, in the 
second row, was the "little mason," with his small, 
round face, seated beside his gigantic father; and no 
sooner did he catch sight of me than he made a hare's 
face at me. A little farther on I espied Garoffi, who 
was counting the spectators, and calculating on his 
fingers how much money the company had taken in. 
On one of the chairs in the first row, not far from us, 
there was also poor Robetti, the boy who saved the 
child from the omnibus, with his crutches between his 
knees, pressed close to the side of his father, the 
artillery captain, who kept one hand on his shoulder. 

The performance began. The little clown did 
wonders on his horse, on the trapeze, on the tight- 
rope; and every time that he jumped down, every one 
clapped their hands, and many pulled his curls. Then 
several others, rope-dancers, jugglers, and riders, clad 
in tights, and sparkling with silver, went through 
their acts; but when the boy was not performing, the 
audience seemed to grow weary. At a certain point 
I saw the teacher of gymnastics, who held his post at 
the entrance for the horses, whisper in the ear of the 
proprietor of the circus, and the latter instantly 
glanced around, as though in search of some one. 
His glance rested on us. My father saw this, and 
understood that the teacher had revealed that he was 
the author of the article; and in order to escape being 
thanked, he hastily retreated, saying to me : 

"You may stay, Enrico; I will wait for you out- 
side." 

After exchanging a few words with his father, the 



THE LITTLE CLOWN 149 

little clown went through still another trick: erect 
upon a galloping horse, he appeared in four characters 
as a pilgrim, a sailor, a soldier, and an acrobat; and 
every time that he passed near me, he looked at me. 
When he dismounted, he began to make the tour of 
the circus, with his clown's cap in hand, and every- 
body threw soldi or sugar-plums into it. I had two 
soldi ready; but when he got in front of me, instead 
of offering his cap, he drew it back, gave me a look 
and passed on. I was ill at ease. Why had he 
offered me that slight? 

The performance came to an end; the proprietor 
thanked the audience; and all the people rose also, and 
thronged the doors. I was confused by the crowd, 
and was on the point of going out, when I feh a touch 
on my hand. I turned round. It was the little 
clown, with his tiny, "brown face and his black curls, 
who was smiling at me. He had his hands full of 
sugar-plums. Then I understood. 

"Will you accept these sugar-plums from the little 
clown?" he said, in his dialect. 

I nodded, and took three or four. 

"Then," he added, "please accept a kiss also." 

"Give me two," I answered; and held up my face 
to him. He rubbed off his floury face with his hand, 
put his arm round my neck, and planted two kisses on 
my cheek, saying: 

"There! take one of them to your father." 



150 FEBRUARY 

THE LAST DAY OF THE CARNIVAL 

Tuesday, 2ist. 

What a sad scene was that we witnessed to-day at 
the procession of the masks! It ended well; but it 
might have resulted in a great misfortune. 

In the San Carlo Square, all decorated with red, 
white, and yellow festoons, a vast multitude had as- 
sembled; masks of every hue were flitting about; cars, 
gilded and adorned, in the shape of pavilions; little 
theatres, barks filled with clowns, warriors, cooks, 
sailors, and shepherdesses. There was such a confu- 
sion that one knew not where to look: a tremendous 
clash of trumpets, horns, and cymbals tore the ears; 
and the masks on the chariots drank and sang, as they 
addressed the people in the streets and at the windows, 
who retorted at the top of their lungs, and hurled 
oranges and sugar-plums at each other vigorously. 
Above the chariots and the throng, as far as the eye 
could reach, one could see banners fluttering, helmets 
gleaming, plumes waving, gigantic pasteboard heads 
moving, huge head-dresses, enormous trumpets, fan- 
tastic arms, little drums, castanets, red caps, and bot- 
tles; all the world seemed to have gone mad. 

When our carriage entered the square, a magnifi- 
cent chariot was driving in front of us, drawn by four 
horses covered with trappings embroidered in gold, 
and wreathed in artificial roses, upon which there were 
fourteen or fifteen gentlemen masquerading as noble- 
men at the court of France, each aglitter with silk, 
with a huge, white wig, a plumed hat, a small-sword 



: 




THE LAST DAY OF THE CARNIVAL 151 

under the arm, and a tuft of ribbons and laces on the 
breast. They were very gorgeous. They were sing- 
ing a French song and throwing sweetmeats to the 
people, and the latter clapped their hands and shouted. 

Suddenly, on our left, we saw a man lift a child of 
five or six above the heads of the crowd, a poor, 
little creature, who wept piteously, and flung her arms 
about as though in a fit. The man made his way to 
the gentlemen's chariot; one of the latter bent down, 
and the other said aloud: 

"Take this child ; she has lost her mother in the 
crowd ; hold her in your arms ; the mother may not be 
far off, and she will catch sight of her: there is no 
other way." 

The gentleman took the child in his arms: all the 
rest stopped singing. The child screamed and strug- 
gled. The gentleman removed *his mask. The 
chariot continued to move slowly. Meanwhile, as we 
were afterwards told, at the opposite side of the 
square a poor woman, half -crazed with despair, was 
forcing her way through the crowd, by main force, 
elbowing, and shrieking: 

"Maria! Maria! Maria! I have lost my little daugh- 
ter! She has been stolen from me! They have suffo- 
cated my child!" And for a quarter of an hour she 
raved in this manner, straying now a little .way .in this 
direction, and then a little way in that, crushed by the 
throng through which she strove to force her way. 

All this time, the gentleman on the car was holding 
the child pressed against the ribbons and laces on his 
breast, looking over the square, and trying to calm 
the poor creature, who covered her face with her 



\ 



V 




C-sT-X 
\ 













152 FEBRUARY 

hands, not knowing where she was, and sobbed as 
though her heart would break. The gentleman was 
touched : it was evident that these screams went to his 
soul. All the others offered the child oranges and 
sugar-plums; but she refused them all, growing con- 
stantly more convulsive and frightened. 

"Find her mother!" shouted the gentleman to the 
crowd; "seek her mother!" 

And every one turned to the right and the left; but 
the mother was not to be found. Finally, a few paces 
from the place where the Via Roma enters the square, 
a woman was seen to rush towards the chariot. Ah, 
I shall never forget that! She no longer seemed a 
human creature : her hair was streaming, her face dis- 
torted, her garments torn. She hurled herself for- 
ward with a rattle in her throat, no one knew 
whether to attribute it to joy, anguish, or rage, and 
darted out her hands like two claws to snatch her 
child. The chariot stopped. 

"Here she is," said the gentleman, reaching out the 
child after kissing it; and he placed her in her mother's 
arms, who pressed her to her breast in a transport of 
feeling. But one of the tiny hands rested a second 
longer in the hands of the gentleman; and the latter, 
pulling off of his right hand a gold ring set with a 
large diamond, and slipping it with a rapid movement 
upon the finger of the little girl, said: 

"Take this! it shall be your marriage dowry." 

The mother stood rooted to the spot, as though en- 
chanted. The crowd broke into applause. The 
gentleman put on his mask again, his companions re- 



THE BLIND BOYS 153 

sumed their song, and the chariot started on again 
slowly, amid a tempest of hand-clapping and hurrahs. 



THE BLIND BOYS 

Thursday, 24th. 

The teacher is very ill, and they have sent in his 
stead the master of the fourth grade, who has been a 
teacher in the Institute for the Blind. He is the oldest 
of all the instructors, with hair so white that it looks 
like a wig made of cotton ; and he speaks in a peculiar 
manner, as though he were chanting a mournful song. 
But he does it well, and he knows a great deal. No 
sooner had he entered the schoolroom than, catching 
sight of a boy with a bandage on his eye, he ap- 
proached the bench, and asked him what was the 
matter. 

"Take care of your eyes, my boy," he said to him. 
And then Derossi asked him : 

"Is it true, sir, that you have been a teacher of the 
blind?" 

"Yes, for several years," he replied. And Derossi 
said, in a low tone, 

"Tell us something about it." 

The teacher went and seated himself at his table. 

Coretti said aloud, "The Institute for the Blind is 
in the Via Nizza." 

"You say blind blind," said the teacher, "as you 
would say poor or ill, or I know not what. But do 
you fully realize the meaning of that word? Reflect 
a little. Blind! Never to see anything! Not to be 



154 . FEBRUARY 

able to distinguish day from night ; to see neither the 
sky, nor the sun, nor your parents, nor anything of 
what is around you, and which you touch ; to be sunk 
in endless darkness, as though buried in the bowels of 
the earth ! Make a little effort to close your eyes, and 
to think of being obliged to remain forever thus ; you 
will suddenly be overwhelmed by a mental agony, by 
terror; it will seem to you impossible to resist, that 
you must burst into a scream, that you must go mad 
or die. 

"But, poor boys! when you enter the Institute for 
the Blind for the first time, during their recrea- 
tion hour, and hear them playing on violins and flutes, 
and talking loudly and laughing, running up and down 
the stairs at a rapid pace, and wandering freely 
through the halls and dormitories, you would never 
think them to be the unfortunates that they are. One 
must observe them closely. There are lads of sixteen 
or eighteen, robust and cheerful, who bear their blind- 
ness with a certain ease, almost with hardihood; but 
you understand from a certain proud, resentful expres- 
sion of countenance that they must have suffered 
tremendously before they became resigned to this 
misfortune. 

"There are others, with sweet and pallid faces on 
which a profound resignation is visible; but they are 
sad, and one understands that they must still weep at 
times in secret. Ah, my sons! reflect that some of 
them have lost their sight in a few days; some after 
years of martyrdom and after terrible surgical oper- 
ations ; and that many were born so, born into a 
night that has no dawn for them, that they entered 



THE BLIND BOYS 155 

into the world as into an immense tomb, and that they 
do not know what the human face is like. Picture 
to yourself how they must have suffered, and how they 
must still suffer, when they think thus confusedly of the 
vast difference between themselves 'and those who 
see, and ask themselves, "Why this difference, if we 
are not to blame?' 

"I who have spent many years among them, when 
I recall that class, all those eyes forever sealed, all 
those pupils without sight and without life, and then 
look at the rest of you, I cannot find it possible that 
you should not all be happy. Think of it! there are 
about twenty-six thousand blind persons in Italy I 
Twenty-six thousand persons who do not see the light. 
Do you understand? An army which would take 
four hours to march past our windows." 

The teacher paused. Not a breath was heard in 
all the school. Derossi asked if it were true that the 
blind have a finer sense of feeling than the rest of us. 

"It is true," the teacher answered. "All the other 
senses are finer in them, because, since they must re- 
place, among them, that of sight, they are more and 
better exercised than they are in the case of those who 
see. In the morning in the dormitory, one asks an- 
other, 'Is the sun. shining?' and the one who is the 
most alert in dressing runs into the yard, and waves his 
hands in the air, to find out whether there is any 
warmth of the sun perceptible. Then he comes to tell 
the good news, 'The sun is shining!' From the voice 
of a person they obtain an idea of his height. We 
judge of a man's soul by his eyes; they, by his voice. 

"They remember intonations and accents for years. 



156 FEBRUARY 

They know if there is more than one person in a room, 
even if only one speaks, and the rest remain motionless. 
They know by their touch whether a spoon is more or 
less polished. Little girls distinguish dyed wool from 
that which is of the natural color-. As they walk two 
and two along the streets, they recognize nearly all the 
shops by their odors, even those in which we perceive 
no odor. They spin top, aad by listening to its hum- 
ming they go straight to it and pick it up without any 
mistake. They trundle hoop, play at ninepins, jump 
the rope, build little houses of stones, pick violets as 
though they saw them, make mats and baskets, 
weaving together straw of various colors rapidly and 
well to such a degree is their sense of touch 
skilled. The sense of touch is their sight. One 
of their greatest pleasures is to handle, to grasp, to 
guess the forms of things by feeling them. It 
is affecting to see them when they are taken to the 
Industrial Museum., where they are allowed to 
handle whatever they please, and to observe with 
what eagerness they fling themselves on geometrical 
bodies-, on little models of houses, on instruments; with 
what joy they feel over and rub and turn everything 
about in their hands, in order to see how it is made. 
They call this seeing!" 

Garoffi interrupted the teacher to inqu-ire if it were 
true that blind boys learn to reckon better than others. 

The master replied : "It is true. They learn to 
reckon and to write. They have books made on pur- 
pose for them, with raised characters; they pass their 
fingers over these, recognize the letters and pronounce 
the words. They read rapidly; and you should see 



THE BLIND BOYS 157 

them blush, poor little things, when they make a mis- 
take. And they write, too, without ink. They write 
on a thick, hard sort of paper with a metal bodkin, 
which makes a great many little hollows, grouped 
according to a special alphabet. These little 
punctures stand out in relief on the other side of the 
paper, so that, by turning the paper over and drawing 
their fingers across these projections, they can read 
what they have written, and also the writing of others; 
and thus they write compositions : and they write let- 
ters to each other. They write numbers in the sa-me 
way, and they make calculations; and they calculate 
mentally with an incredible ease, since their minds are 
not diverted by the sight of surro'unding objects, as 
ours are. And you should see how passionately fond 
they are of reading, how attentive they are, how well 
they remember everything, how they talk among them- 
selves, even the little ones, of things c'onnected with 
history and language, as they sit four or five on the 
same bench, without turning to each other, and con- 
verse, the first with the third, the second with the 
fourth, in a loud voice and all together, without losing 
a single word, so acute and prompt is their hearing. 

"And they attach more importance to the examin- 
ations than you do, I assure you, and they are fonder 
of their teachers. They recognize their teacher by 
his step and his odor; they perceive whether he is in 
a good or bad humor, whether he is well or ill, simply 
by the sound of a single word of his. They want the 
teacher to touch them when he encourages and praises 
them, and they feel of his hand and his arms in order 
to express their gratitude. They love each other, and 



158 FEBRUARY 

are good comrades to each other. In play time they 
are always together, according to their habit. In the 
girls' school, for instance, they form into groups 
according to the instrument on which they play, 
violinists, pianists, and flute-players, and they never 
separate. When they have become attached to any 
one, it is difficult for them to break it off. They take 
much comfort in friendship. They judge correctly 
among themselves. They have a clear and profound 
idea of good and evil. No one grows so enthusiastic 
as they over the story of a kind action, of a grand 
deed." 

Votini inquired if they played well. 

"They are ardently fond of music," replied the 
teacher. "It is their delight. Music is their life. 
Little blind children, when they first enter the Institute, 
are capable of standing three hours perfectly motion- 
less, to listen to playing. They learn easily: they 
play with fire. When the teacher tells one of them 
that he has no talent for music, he feels very sorrow- 
ful, but he sets to studying desperately. Ah! if you 
could hear the music there, if you could see them when 
they are playing, with their heads thrown back, a smile 
on their lips, their faces aflame, trembling with emo- 
tion, in ecstasies at listening to that harmony which re- 
plies to them in the obscurity which envelops them, you 
would feel what a divine consolation is music! And 
they shout for joy, they beam with happiness when a 
teacher says to them, 'You will become an artist.' The 
one who is first in music, who succeeds the best on the 
violin or piano, is like a king to them ; they love, they 
venerate him. If a quarrel arises between two of 



THE BLIND BOYS 159 

them, they go to him; if two friends fall out, it is he 
who reconciles them. The smallest pupils, whom he 
teaches to play, regard him as a father. Then all go 
to bid him good night before retiring to bed. And 
they talk constantly of music. They are finally in bed, 
late at night, wearied by study and work, and half 
asleep, and still they are discussing, in a low tone, 
operas, masters, instruments, and orchestras. It is so 
great a punishment for them to be deprived of the read- 
ing, or lesson in music, it causes them such sorrow 
that one hardly ever has the courage to punish them 
in that way. What light is to our eyes, music is to 
their hearts." 

Derossi asked if we could go to see them. 

"Yes," replied the teacher; "but you must not go 
there now. You shall go later on, when you are in a 
condition to appreciate the whole extent of this mis- 
fortune, and to feel all the compassion which it merits. 
It is a sad sight, my boys. You will sometimes see 
there boys seated in front of an open window, enjoying 
the fresh air, with immovable countenances, which 
seem to be gazing at the wide green expanse and the 
beautiful blue mountains your own eyes can see. But 
when you remember that they see nothing that they 
will never see anything of that vast loveliness, your 
soul is oppressed, as though you had yourselves become 
blind at that moment. 

"And then there are those who were born blind, 
who, as they have never seen the world, do not com- 
plain, because they do not possess the image of any- 
thing, and who, therefore, arouse less sympathy. But 
there -are lads who have been blind but a few months, 



160 FEBRUARY 

who still recall everything, who fully understand all 
that they have lost. And these have, in addition, the 
grief of feeling their minds obscured, the dearest im- 
ages grow.a little more dim in their minds day by day, 
of feeling the persons whom they have loved the most 
die out of their memories. One of these boys said to 
me one day, with inexpressible sadness, 'I should like 
to have my sight again, only for a moment, in order to 
see mamma's face once more, for I no longer 
remember it !' And when their mothers come to see 
them, the boys place their hands on their faces; they 
feel from brow to chin, and to ears, to see how they 
are made. They can hardly persuade themselves that 
they cannot see her, and they call her by name many 
times, to beseech her that she will allow them, that she 
will make them see her just once. 

"How many, even hard-hearted men, go away in 
tears! And when you go out, your case seems to 
you to be the exception, and the power to see people, 
houses, and the sky a hardly deserved privilege ! Oh ! 
there is not one of you, I am sure, who, on leaving, 
would not feel disposed to deprive himself of a portion 
of his own sight, in order to bestow a gleam at least 
upon all those poor children, for whom the sun has no 
light, for whom a mother has no face!" 

THE SICK TEACHER 

Saturday, 25th. 

Yesterday afternoon, on coming out of school, I 
went to pay a visit to my sick teacher. He made him- 
self ill by overworking. Five hours of teaching a 



THE SICK TEACHER 161 

day, then an hour of gymnastics, then two hours more 
of evening school, which is saying little sleep, getting 
his food by snatches, and working breathlessly from 
morning till night. He has ruined his health. That 
is what my mother says. My mother was waiting for 
me at the big door. I came out alone, and on the stairs 
I met the teacher with the black beard Coatti, the 
one who frightens every one and punishes no one. He 
stared at me with wide-open eyes, and made his voice 
like that of a lion, in jest, but without laughing. I 
was still laughing when I pulled the bell on the fourth 
floor; but I ceased very suddenly when the servant let 
me into a wretched, half -lighted room, where my 
teacher was lying. He was in a little iron bed. His 
beard was long. He put one hand to his brow in 
order to see better, and exclaimed in his affectionate 
voice : 

"Oh, Enrico!" 

I came to the bed. He laid one hand on my 
shoulder and said : 

"Good, my boy. You have done well to come and 
see your poor teacher. I am reduced to a sad state, as 
you see, my dear Enrico. And how fares the school? 
How are your comrades getting along? All well, eh? 
Even without me? You do very well without your 
old master, do you not?" 

I was on the point of saying "no r ," but he interrupted 
me. 

"Come, come, I know that you do not hate me!" 
and he heaved a sigh. 

I glanced at some photographs fastened to the wall. 

"Do you see?" he said to me. "All of them are of 



1 62 FEBRUARY 

boys who gave me their photographs more than twenty 
years ago. They were good boys. These are my 
souvenirs. When I die, my last glance will be at them; 
at those roguish urchins among whom my life has 
been passed. You will give me your portrait, also, 
will you not, when you have finished the elementary 
course?" Then he took an orange from his night- 
stand, and put it in my hand. 

"I have nothing else to give you," he said ; "it is the 
gift of a sick man." 

I looked at it, and my heart was heavy. 

"Listen to me," he began again. "I hope to get 
over this; but if I should not recover, see that you 
strengthen yourself in arithmetic, which is your weak 
point. Make an effort. It is merely a question of a 
first effort : because sometimes there is no lack of 
aptitude; there is merely an absence of a fixed purpose 
of stability, as it is called." 

But in the meantime he was breathing hard; and it 
was evident that he was suffering. 

"I am feverish," he sighed; "I am half gone; I beg 
of you, therefore, to apply yourself to arithmetic, to 
problems. If you don't succeed at first, rest a little 
and begin afresh. And press forward, but quietly, 
without fagging yourself, without straining your mind. 
Go! My respects to your mamma. And do not 
mount these stairs again. We shall see each other 
again in school. And if we do not, you must now and 
then call to mind your master of the third grade, who 
was fond of you." 

I felt like weeping at these words. 

"Bend down your head," he said. 



THE STREET 163 

I bent my head to his pillow; he kissed my hair. 
Then he said to me, "Go!" and turned his face to the 
wall. 

I flew down the stairs ; for I longed to embrace my 
mother. 



THE STREET 

Saturday, 25th. 

I was watching you from the window this afternoon, 
when you were on your way home from the master's; 
you ran against a woman. Take more heed to your 
manner of walking in the street. There are duties to be 
fulfilled even there. If you keep your steps and gestures 
within bounds in a private house, why should you not do 
the same in the street, which is everybody's house. Re- 
member this, Enrico. Every time that you meet a feeble 
old man, a poor person, a woman with a child in her arms, 
a cripple with his crutches, a man bending beneath a 
burden, a family dressed in mourning, make way for them 
respectfully. We must respect age, misery, maternal 
love, infirmity, labor, death. Whenever you see a per- 
son on the point of being run down by a vehicle, drag 
him away, if it is a child; warn him, if he is a man; 
always ask what ails the child who is crying all alone; 
pick up the aged man's cane, when he lets it fall. If two 
boys are fighting, separate them; if it is two men, go 
away : do not look on a scene of brutal violence, which 
offends and hardens the heart. And when a man passes, 
bound, and walking between a couple of policemen, do 
not add your curiosity to the cruel curiosity of the crowd; 
he may be innocent. 

Cease to talk with your companion, and to smile, when 



1 64 FEBRUARY 

you meet a hospital litter,, which is, perhaps, bearing a 
dying person, or a funeral procession; for one may issue 
from your own home on the morrow. Look with rever- 
ence upon all boys from the asylums, who walk two and 
two, the blind, the dumb, those afflicted with the rickets, 
orphans, abandoned children; reflect that it is misfortune 
and human charity which is passing by. Always pretend 
not to notice any one who has a repulsive or laughter- 
provoking deformity. Always extinguish every match 
that you find in your path; for it may cost some one his 
life. Always answer courteously a passer-by who asks 
you the way. Do not look at any one and laugh; do not 
run without necessity; do not shout. 

Respect the street. The education of a people is 
judged first of all by their behavior on the street. Where 
you find offences in the streets, you will find offences 
in the houses. And study the streets; study the city in 
which you live. If you were to be hurled far away from 
it to-morrow, you would be glad to have it clearly present 
in your memory, to be able to traverse it all again in 
memory. It is your own city, and your little country 
that which has been for so many years your world; 
where you took your first steps at your mother's side; 
where you experienced your first emotions, opened your 
mind to its first ideas, found your first friends. It has 
been a mother to you : it has taught you, loved you, pro- 
tected you. Study it in its streets and in its people, 
and love it; and when you hear it insulted, defend it. 

YOUR FATHER. 



MARCH 

THE EVENING SCHOOL 

Thursday, 2d. 

LAST night my father took me to see the evening 
school in our Baretti schoolhouse, which was all lighted 
up, and where the workingmen were already beginning 
to enter. On our arrival we found the principal and 
the teachers very indignant, because a little while be- 
fore the glass in one window had been broken by a 
stone. The beadle had darted forth and seized a boy, 
who was passing; but thereupon, Stardi, who lives in 
the house opposite, had come forward, and said : 

'This is not the right one; I saw it with my own 
eyes; it was Franti who threw it; and he said to me, 
'You'll catch it if you tell!' but I am not afraid." 

The principal declared that Franti should be ex- 
pelled for good. 

In the meantime I was watching the workingmen 
enter by twos and threes ; and more than two hundred 
had already entered. I have never seen anything so 
fine as the evening school. There were boys of twelve 
and upwards; bearded men who were on their way 
from their work, carrying their books and copy-books ; 
carpenters, engineers with black faces, masons with 
hands white with plaster, bakers' boys with their hair 
full of flour. And one could smell varnish, hides, 
fish, oil, odors of all the various trades. There also 

165 



1 66 MARCH 

entered a squad of artillery workmen, dressed like 
soldiers and headed by a corporal. They all filed 
briskly to their benches, removed the board underneath, 
on which we put our feet, and immediately bent their 
heads over their work. 

Some stepped up to the teachers to ask explanations, 
with their open copy-books in their hands. I caught 
sight of the young and well-dressed master, "the little 
lawyer," who had three or four workingmen clustered 
around the table, and who was making corrections 
with his pen ; and also the lame one, who was laughing 
with a dyer who had brought him a copy-book all 
adorned with red and blue dyes. My teacher, who 
had recovered, and who will return to school to- 
morrow, was there also. The doors of the school- 
room were open. I was amazed when the lessons be- 
gan, to see how attentive they all were, and how they 
kept their eyes fixed on their work. Yet the greater 
part of them, so the principal said, for fear of being 
late, had not even been home to eat a mouthful of 
supper, and they were hungry. 

But the younger ones, after half an hour of school, 
were falling off the benches with sleep ; some even went 
fast asleep with their heads on the bench, and the 
teacher awakened them by tickling their ears with a 
pen. But the grown-up men did nothing of the sort; 
they kept awake, and listened, with their mouths wide 
open, and without even winking. It seemed strange 
to me to see all those bearded men on our benches. 

We also went up to the floor above, and I ran to the 
door of my schoolroom where I saw in my seat a man 
with a big moustache and a bandaged hand, who 



THE FIGHT 167 

might have injured himself while at work about some 
machine ; but he was trying to write, though very, very 
slowly. 

What pleased me most was to behold in the seat of 
the ' 'little mason," on the very same bench and in the 
very same corner, his father, the mason, as huge as a 
gaint, who sat there all coiled up into a narrow space, 
with his chin on his fists and his eyes on his book, so ab- 
sorbed that he hardly breathed. And there was no 
chance about it, for it was he himself who said to the 
principal the first evening he came to the school : 

"Signer Director, do me the favor to place me in 
the seat of my 'hare's face.' For he always calls 
his son so. 

My father kept me there until the end, and in the 
street we saw many women with children in their arms, 
waiting for their husbands. At the entrance a change 
was effected : the husbands took the children in their 
arms, and the women took their books and copy-books ; 
and in this wise they proceeded to their homes. For 
several minutes the street was filled with people and 
with noise. Then it grew silent, and all we could 
see was the tall, weary form of the principal going 
away. 

THE FIGHT 

Sunday, 5th. 

It was what might have been expected. Franti, on 
being expelled by the principal, wanted to revenge him- 
self on Stardi, and after school he waited for Stardi at 
a corner, when he was passing with his sister, whom 



1 68 MARCH 

he escorts every day from an institute in the Dora 
Grossa street. 

My sister Sylvia, on leaving her schoolhouse, saw 
the whole affair, and came home thoroughly terrified. 
This is what took place. Franti, with his cap of waxed 
cloth tilted over one ear, ran up on tiptoe behind 
Stardi, and, in order to provoke him, gave a tug at his 
sister's braid of hair, a tug so violent that it almost 
threw her on the ground. The little girl uttered a 
cry; her brother whirled round. Franti, who is much 
taller and stronger than Stardi, thought: 

"He'll not utter a word, or I'll break his skin for 
him!" 

But Stardi never stopped to think. Small and ill- 
made as he is, he flung himself with one bound on that 
big fellow, and began to beat him with his fists. He 
could not hold his own, however, and he got more than 
he gave. There was no one in the street but girls, so 
there was no one who could separate them. Franti 
flung him on the ground ; but the other instantly got 
up, and then down he went on his back again, and 
Franti pounded away as though upon a door. In an 
instant he had torn away half an ear, and bruised one 
eye, and drawn blood from Stardi's nose. But Stardi 
was gritty; he roared: 

"You may kill me, but I'll make you pay for it!" 
Down went Franti again, kicking and cuffing, and 
Stardi under him, butting and striking out with his 
heels. A woman cried from a window, "Good for 
the little one!" Others said, "It is a boy defending 
his sister; courage! give it to him well!" And they 
screamed at Franti, "You bully! you coward!" But 



THE FIGHT 169 

Franti had grown savage; he held out his leg; Stardi 
tripped and fell, with Franti on top of him. 

"Surrender!" "No!" "Surrender!" "No!" 

In a flash Stardi was on his feet. He clasped Franti 
by the body, and, with one furious effort, hurled him 
to the pavement, and fell upon him with one knee on 
his breast. 

"Ah, the villain! he has a knife!" shouted a man, 
rushing up to disarm Franti. 

But Stardi, beside himself with rage, had already 
grasped Franti's arm with both hands, and bitten the 
fist so fiercely that the knife fell from it, and the hand 
began to bleed. More people had run up in the mean- 
time, separated them and set them on their feet. 
Franti took to his heels in a sorry plight, while Stardi 
stood still, with his face all scratched, and with a black 
eye, but triumphant, beside his weeping sister, 
while some of the girls collected the books and copy- 
books which were strewn over the street. 

"Bravo, little fellow!" said the bystanders; "he de- 
fended his sister!" 

But Stardi, who was thinking more of his satchel 
than of his victory, instantly set to examining the 
books and copy-books, one by one, to see whether any- 
thing was missing or injured. He rubbed them off 
with his sleeve, looked over his pen, put everything 
back in its place, and then, quiet and serious as usual, 
he said to his sister, "Let us go home quickly, for I 
have a hard lesson before me." 



170 MARCH 



THE BOYS' PARENTS 

Monday, 6th. 

This morning big Stardi, the father, came to wait 
for his son, fearing lest he should again meet Franti. 
But they say that Franti will not be seen again, because 
he will be put in the reform school. 

There were a great many parents there this morning. 
Among the rest there was the retail wood-dealer, the 
father of Coretti, the perfect image of his son, slender, 
brisk, with his moustache brought to a point, and a 
ribbon of two colors in the button-hole of his jacket. 
I know nearly all the parents of the boys, through con- 
stantly seeing them there. There is one crooked 
grandmother, with her white cap, who comes four 
times a day, whether it rains or snows or storms, to 
bring and to get her little grandson of the upper 
primary; and she takes off his little cloak and puts it 
on for him, straightens his necktie, brushes off the 
dust, and takes care of the copy-books. It is evident 
that she has no other thought, that she sees nothing 
in the world more beautiful. The captain of artillery 
also comes frequently, the father of Robetti, the lad 
with the crutches, who saved a child from the omnibus. 
And as all his son's companions salute him in passing, 
he returns a salute to every one, and he never forgets 
any ; he bends over all, and the poorer and more badly 
dressed they are, the more pleased he seems to be, and 
he thanks them. 

At times, however, sad sights are to be seen. A 
gentleman who had not come for a month because one 



NUMBER 78 171 

of his sons had died, and who had sent a maid-servant 
for the other, on coming yesterday and seeing the 
class, the comrades of his little dead boy, retired into 
a corner and burst into sobs, with both hands before 
his face. The principal took him by the arm and led 
him to his office. 

There are fathers and mothers who know all their 
sons' companions by name. There are girls from the 
neighboring schoolhouse, and scholars in the gym- 
nasium, who come to wait for their brothers. There is 
one old gentleman who was a colonel formerly, and 
who, when a boy drops a copy-book or a pen, picks 
it up for him. There are also to be seen well-dressed 
ladies, who discuss school matters with others who 
have kerchiefs on their heads, and baskets on their 
arms, and who say: 

"Oh ! the problem has been a difficult one this time." 
"That grammar lesson will never come to an end!" 

And when there is a sick boy in the class, they all 
know it; when he is better, they all rejoice. This 
morning there were eight or ten ladies, gentlemen and 
workingmen standing around Crossi's mother, the 
vegetable-vendor, making inquiries about a poor baby 
in my brother's class, who lives in her court, and who 
is in danger of his life. The school seems to make 
them all equals and friends. 

NUMBER 78 

Wednesday, 8th. 

I saw a touching scene yesterday afternoon. For 
several days, every time that the vegetable-vendor has 



172 MARCH 

passed Derossi she has gazed and gazed at him with 
an expression of great affection; for Derossi, since 
he made the discovery about that inkstand and prisoner 
Number 78, has acquired a love for her son, Crossi, 
the red-haired boy with the useless arm. Derossi 
helps him to do his work in school, suggests answers 
to him, gives him paper, pens, and pencils; in short, 
he behaves to him like a brother, as though to com- 
pensate him for his father's misfortune, which has 
affected him, although he does not know it. 

The vegetable-vendor had been watching Derossi 
for several days, and she seemed loath to take her 
eyes from him, for she is a good woman who lives 
only for her son; and Derossi, who assists him and 
makes him appear well, Derossi, who is a gentleman 
and the head of the school, seems to her a king, a 
saint. She continued to stare at him, and seemed 
desirous of saying something to him, yet was ashamed 
to do it. But at last, yesterday morning, she took 
courage, stopped him in front of a gate, and said to 
him : 

"I beg a thousand pardons, little master! Will 
you, who are so kind to my son, and so fond of him, 
do me the favor to accept this little memento from a 
poor mother?" and she pulled out of her vegetable- 
basket a little pasteboard box of white and gold. 

Derossi flushed up all over, and refused, saying 
with decision: "Give it to your son; I will accept 
nothing." 

The woman was mortified, and stammered an excuse : 
"I had no idea of offending you. It is only caramels." 



NUMBER 78 173 

But Derossi said "no," again, and shook his head. 

Then she timidly lifted from her basket a bunch 
of radishes, and said: "A'ccept these at least, they 
are fresh, and carry them to your mamma." 

Derossi smiled, and said : "No, thanks : I don't 
want anything; I shall always do all that I can for 
Crossi, but I cannot accept anything. I thank you 
all the same." 

"But you are not at all offended?" asked the woman, 
anxiously. 

Derossi said "No, no!" smiled, and went off, while 
she exclaimed in great delight: 

"Oh, what a good boy! I have never seen so fine 
and handsome a boy as he!" 

And that appeared to be the end of it. But in the 
afternoon, at four o'clock, instead of Crossi's mother, 
his father came up, with that gaunt, sad face of his. 
He stopped Derossi, and from the way in which he 
looked at the latter I instantly understood that he 
suspected Derossi of knowing his secret. He looked 
at him intently, and said in his tender, touching voice : 

"You are fond of my son. Why do you like him 
so much?" 

Derossi's face turned the color of fire. He would 
have liked to say: "I am fond of him because he 
has been unfortunate; because you, his father, have 
been more unfortunate than guilty, and have 
nobly expiated your crime, and are a -man of heart." 

But he had not the courage to say it, for at bottom 
he still felt fear and almost dread in the presence of this 
man who had shed another's blood, and had been 



174 MARCH 

six years in prison. But the latter divined it all, 
and lowering his voice, he said in Derossi's ear, almost 
trembling the while: 

"You love the son; but you do not hate, do not 
wholly despise the father, do you?" 

"Ah, no, no ! Quite the reverse !" exclaimed Derossi, 

*^ 

with a soulful impulse. The man made an impetuous 
movement, as though to throw one arm round his neck ; 
but he dared not, and instead he took one of the lad's 
golden curls between two of his fingers, stroked it 
and let it go; then he kissed his palm to him, gazing 
at Derossi with moist eyes, as though to say that 
this kiss was for him. After which he took his son 
by the hand, and went away at a rapid pace. 

A LITTLE DEAD BOY 

Monday, I3th. 

The little boy who lived in the vegetable-vendor's 
court, the one who belonged to the upper primary, and 
was the companion of my brother, is dead. School- 
mistress Delcati came in great affliction, on Satur- 
day afternoon, to inform the master of it; and in- 
stantly Garrone and Coretti volunteered to carry the 
coffin. 

He was a fine little lad. He had won the medal 
last week. He was fond of my brother, and had given 
him a broken money-box. My mother always petted 
him when she met him. He wore a cap with two 
stripes of red cloth. His father is a porter on the rail- 
way. 

Yesterday (Sunday) afternoon, at half -past four 



A LITTLE DEAD BOY 175 

o'clock, we went to his house, to go with the funeral 
to the church. 

They live on the ground floor. Many boys of the 
upper primary, with their mothers, all holding candles, 
were there. Five or six teachers and several neighbors 
were already collected in the courtyard. The mistress 
with the red feather and Mistress Delcati had gone 
inside, and through an open window we beheld them 
weeping. We could hear the mother of the child 
sobbing loudly. Two ladies, mothers of two school 
companions of the dead child, had brought garlands 
of flowers. 

Exactly at five o'clock we set out. In front went a 
boy carrying a cross, then a priest, then the coffin, 
a very, very small coffin, poor child! covered with 
a black cloth, and round it were wound the garlands 
brought by the two ladies. On the black cloth, on one 
side, were fastened the medal and honorable mentions 
which the little boy had won in the course of the year. 
Garrone, Coretti, and two boys from the courtyard 
bore the coffin. Behind the coffin first came mistress 
Delcati, who wept as though the little dead boy were 
her own ; behind her the other schoolmistresses ; and 
behind the mistresses, the boys, among whom were 
some very little ones, who carried bunches of violets 
in one hand, and who stared wonderingly at the bier, 
while their other hand was held by their mothers, who 
carried candles. I heard one of them say, "And shall 
I not see him at school again?' 1 

When the coffin came from the court, a despairing 
cry was heard from the window. It was the child's 
mother; but they made her draw back into the room 



176 MARCH 

immediately. On arriving in the street, we met the 
boys from a college, who were passing in double file; 
and on catching sight of the coffin with the medal and 
the schoolmistresses, they all pulled off their hats. 

Poor little boy! he went to sleep forever with his 
medal. We shall never see his red cap again. He 
was in perfect health; in four days he was dead. On 
the last day he made an effort to rise and study his 
lesson, and he insisted on keeping his medal on his bed 
for fear it would be taken from him. No one will 
ever take it from you again, poor boy! Farewell, 
farewell! We shall always remember you at the 
Baretti School! Sleep in peace, dear little boy! 

THE EVE OF THE FOURTEENTH OF 

MARCH 

To-day has been more cheerful than yesterday. 
The thirteenth of March ! The eve of the distribution 
of prizes at the Theatre Victor Emanuel, the great- 
est and most beautiful festival of the whole year! 
But this time the boys who are to go upon the stage and 
give the certificates of the prizes to the gentlemen who 
are to present them are not to be taken at haphazard. 
The principal came in this morning, at the close of 
school, and said: 

"Good news, boys!" Then he called "Coraci!" the 
Calabrian. The Calabrian rose. : 'Would you like 
to be one of those to carry the certificates of the prizes 
to the authorities in the theatre to-morrow?" The 
Calabrian answered that he should. 

"That is well," said the principal; "then there will 



EVE OF THE FOURTEENTH 177 

also be a representative of Calabria there; and that will 
be a fine thing. The municipal council is desirous 
that this year the ten or twelve lads who hand the 
prizes should be from all parts of Italy, and selected 
from all the public school buildings. We have twenty 
buildings, with five annexes seven thousand pupils. 
Among such a multitude there has been no difficulty 
in finding one boy for each region of Italy. Two rep- 
resentatives of the Islands were found in the Torquato 
Tasso schoolhouse, a Sardinian, and a Sicilian; the 
Boncompagni School furnished a little Florentine, the 
son of a wood-carver; there is a Roman, a native of 
Rome, in the Tommaseo building; several Venetians, 
Lombards, and natives of Romagna have been found ; 
the Monviso School gives us a Neapolitan, the son of 
an officer; we furnish a Genoese and a Calabrian, 
you, Coraci. With the Piedmontese that will make 
twelve. Does not this strike you as nice? It will be 
your brothers "from all quarters of Italy who will 
give you your prizes. Mind! the whole twelve will 
appear on the stage together. Receive them with 
hearty applause. They are only boys, but they rep- 
resent the country just as though they were men. A 
small tricolored flag is thesymbol of Italy as much as 
a huge banner, is it not ? 

"Applaud them warmly, then. Let it be seen that 
your little hearts are all aglow, that your souls of ten 
years grow enthusiastic in the presence of the sacred 
image of your fatherland." 

Having spoken thus, he went away, and the teacher 
said, with a smile, "So, Coraci, you are to be the 
deputy from Calabria." 



1 78 MARCH 

And then all clapped their hands and laughed; and 
when we got into the street, we surrounded Coraci, 
seized him by the legs, lifted him on high, and set out 
to carry him in triumph, shouting, "Hurrah for the 
Deputy of Calabria!" by way of making a noise, of 
course ; and not in jest, but quite the contrary, for the 
sake of making a celebration for him, and with a good 
will, for he is a boy who pleases every one; and he 
smiled. And thus we bore him as far as the corner, 
where we ran into a gentleman with a black beard, who 
began to laugh. The Calabrian said, "That is my 
father." Then the boys placed his son in his arms 
and ran away in all directions. 

THE DISTRIBUTION OF PRIZES 

March I4th. 

Towards two o'clock the great theatre was crowded, 
pit, gallery, boxes, stage, all were thronged; thou- 
sands of faces, boys, gentlemen, teachers, working- 
men, women of the people, babies. There was a mov- 
ing of heads and hands, a flutter of feathers, ribbons, 
and curls, and a loud and merry murmur which in- 
spired cheerfulness. The theatre was decorated with 
festoons of white, red, and green cloth. In the pit two 
little stairways had been erected : one on the right, 
which the winners of prizes were to ascend in order 
to reach the stage; the other, on the left, which they 
were to descend after receiving their prizes. On the 
front of the platform was a row of red chairs; and 
from the back of the one in the centre hung two laurel 
crowns. At the back of the stage was a trophy of 




'HURRAH FOR THE DEPUTY OF CALABRIA!" 



THE DISTRIBUTION OF PRIZES 179 

flags ; on one side stood a small green table, and upon 
it lay all the certificates of premiums, tied with the 
tricolored ribbons. The band was stationed in the pit, 
under the stage; the schoolmasters and mistresses 
filled all one side of the first balcony, which had been 
reserved for them ; the benches and passages of the pit 
were crammed with hundreds of boys, who were to 
sing, and who carried the music in their hands. At 
the back and all about, masters and mistresses could 
be seen going to and fro, arranging the prize scholars 
in lines; and it was full of parents who were giving a 
last touch to their hair and the last pull to their neck- 
ties. 

No sooner had I gone in a box with my family than 
I perceived in the opposite box the young mistress 
with the red feather, who was smiling and showing all 
the pretty dimples in her cheeks ; and with her my 
brother's teacher and "the little nun," dressed wholly 
in black, and my kind mistress of the upper first; but 
she was so pale, poor thing! and coughed so hard 
that she could be heard all over the theatre. In the 
pit I instantly espied Garrone's dear, big face and the 
little blonde head of Nelli, who was clinging close to 
the other's shoulder. A little further on I saw Garoffi, 
with his owl's beak nose, who was making great efforts 
to collect the printed catalogues of the prize-winners. 
He already had a large bundle of them which he could 
put to some use in his bartering we shall find out 
what it is to-morrow. Near the door was the wood- 
seller with his wife, both dressed in holiday attire, 
together with their boy, who has a third prize in the 
second grade. I was amazed at no longer beholding 



180 MARCH 

the catskin cap and the chocolate-colored jerkin: on 
this occasion he was dressed like a little gentleman. 
In one balcony I caught a momentary glimpse of Vo- 
tini, with a large lace collar ; then he disappeared. In 
a proscenium box, filled with people, was the artillery 
captain, the father of Robetti, the boy with the crutches. 

On the stroke of two the band struck up, and at the 
same moment the mayor, the prefect, the judge, the 
assessor, and many other gentlemen, all dressed in 
black, mounted the stairs on the right, and seated them- 
selves on the red chairs at the front of the platform. 
The band ceased playing. The director of singing in 
the schools advanced with a baton in his hand. At a 
signal from him all the boys in the pit rose to their 
feet; at another sign they began to sing. There were 
seven hundred singing a very beautiful song, seven 
hundred boys' voices singing together; how beautiful! 
All listened motionless: it was a slow, sweet, limpid 
song which seemed like a church chant. When they 
ceased, every one applauded ; then they all became very 
still. The distribution of the prizes was about to 
begin. 

My little master of the second grade, with his red 
head and his quick eyes, who was to read the names 
of the prize-winners, had already advanced to the front 
of the stage. The entrance of the twelve boys who 
were to present the certificates was what they were 
waiting for. The newspapers had already stated that 
there would be boys from all the provinces of Italy. 
Every one knew it, and was watching for them and 
gazing curiously towards the spot where they were 



THE DISTRIBUTION OF PRIZES 181 

to enter ; and the mayor and the other gentlemen gazed 
also, and the whole theatre was silent. 

All at once the whole twelve arrived on the stage at 
a run, and remained standing there in line, with a 
smile. The whole theatre, three thousand persons, 
sprang up as one, breaking into applause which 
sounded like a clap of thunder. The boys stood for 
a moment as though disconcerted. "Behold Italy!" 
said a voice on the stage. I recognized Coraci, the 
Calabrian, dressed in black as usual. A gentleman be- 
longing to the municipal council, who was with us and 
who knew them all, pointed them out to my mother. 
'That little blonde is the representative of Venice. 
The Roman is that tall, curly-haired lad, yonder." 
Two or three of them were dressed like gentlemen; 
the others were sons of workingmen, but all were 
neatly clad and clean. The Florentine, who was the 
smallest, had a blue scarf round his body. 

They all passed in front of the mayor, who kissed 
them, one after the other, on the brow, while a gentle- 
man seated next to him smilingly told him the names 
of their cities : "Florence, Naples, Bologna, Palermo." 
And as each passed by, the whole theatre clapped. 
Then they all ran to the green table, to take the certif- 
icates. The master began to read the list, mentioning 
the schoolhouses, the classes, the names ; and the prize- 
winners began to mount the stage and to file past. 

The foremost ones had hardly reached the stage, 
when behind the scenes was heard a very, very faint 
music of violins, which did not cease during the whole 
time that they were filing past a soft and always 



1 82 MARCH 

even air, like the murmur of many subdued voices, 
the voices of all the mothers, and all the masters and 
mistresses, giving counsel in concert, and beseeching 
and administering loving reproofs. And meanwhile, 
the prize-winners passed one by one in front of the 
seated gentlemen, who handed them their certificates, 
and said a word or bestowed a caress on each. 

The boys in the pit and the balconies applauded 
loudly every time there passed a very small lad, or one 
who seemed, from his garments, to be poor; and also 
for those who had abundant curly hair, or who were 
clad in red or white. Some of those who filed past 
belonged to the upper primary, and, once arrived there, 
they became confused and did not know where to turn, 
and the whole theatre laughed. One passed, three 
hands high, with a big knot of pink ribbon on his back, 
so that he could hardly walk, and he got entangled 
in the carpet and tumbled down ; the prefect set him on 
his feet again, and all laughed and clapped. Another 
rolled headlong down the stairs, when going back to 
the pit : cries arose, but he had not hurt himself. Boys 
of all sorts passed, boys with roguish faces, with 
frightened faces, with faces as red as cherries; comical 
little fellows, who laughed in every one's face: and no 
sooner had they got back into the pit, than they were 
seized upon by their fathers and mothers, who carried 
them away. 

When our schoolhouse's turn came, how interested 
I was ! Many whom I knew passed. Coretti filed by, 
dressed in new clothes from head to foot, with his fine, 
merry smile, which displayed all his white teeth; but 
who knows how many loads of wood he had already 



THE DISTRIBUTION OF PRIZES 183 

carried that morning ! The mayor, on presenting him 
with his certificate, inquired the meaning of a red 
mark on his forehead, and as he did so, laid one hand 
on his shoulder. I looked in the pit for his father 
and mother, and saw them laughing, while they covered 
their mouths with one hand. Then Derossi passed, 
all dressed in bright blue, with shining buttons, with 
all those golden curls, slender, easy, with his head held 
high, so handsome and fine, that I could have blown 
him a kiss; and all the gentlemen wanted to speak to 
him and to shake his hand. 

Then the master cried, "Giulio Robetti!" and we 
saw the captain's son come forward on his crutches. 
Hundreds of boys knew the occurrence; a word ran 
round in an instant; a salvo of applause broke forth, 
and of shouts, which made the theatre shake. Men 
sprang to their feet, ladies began to wave their hand- 
kerchiefs, and the poor boy halted in the middle of 
the stage, amazed and trembling. The mayor drew 
him to him, gave him his prize and a kiss, and remov- 
ing the two laurel crowns which were hanging from 
the back of the chair, he strung them on the crossbars 
of his crutches. Then he led him to the stage box, 
where his father, the captain, was seated; and the 
latter lifted him bodily and set him down inside, amid 
an indescribable tumult of bravos and hurrahs. 

Meanwhile, the soft and gentle music of the violins 
did not cease, and the boys continued to file by,- 
those from the Consolata School, nearly all the sons 
of petty merchants ; those from the Vanchiglia School, 
the sons of workingmen; those from the Boncompagni 
School, many of whom were the sons of peasants; 



1 84 MARCH 

those of the Rayneri, which was the last. As soon 
as it was over, the seven hundred boys in the pit sang 
another very beautiful song; then the mayor spoke, 
and after him the judge, who ended by saying to the 
boys : 

"Do not leave this place without greeting those who 
toil so hard for you; who have consecrated to you all 
the strength of their intelligence and of their hearts; 
who live and die for you. There they are; behold 
them!" And he pointed to the balcony of teachers. 

Then, from the balconies, from the pit, from the 
boxes, the boys rose, and extended their arms towards 
the masters and mistresses, with a shout, and the 
latter responded by waving their hands, their hats, and 
handkerchiefs, as they all stood up, much moved. 
After this, the band played once more, and the audience 
sent a last noisy salute to the twelve lads of all the 
provinces of Italy, who presented themselves at the 
front of the stage, all drawn up in line, with their 
hands joined, beneath a shower of flowers. 

THE QUARREL 

Monday, 26th. 

It was not out of envy, because he got the prize and 
I did not, that I quarrelled with Coretti this morning. 
No, it was not out of envy. Still I was in the wrong. 
The teacher had placed him beside me, and I was writ- 
ing in my copy-book when he jogged my elbow and 
made me blot and soil the monthly story, Blood of 
Romagna, which I was to copy for the "little mason," 
who is ill. I got angry, and said a rude word to him. 



THE QUARREL 185 

He replied, with a smile, "I did not do it on pur- 
pose." 

I should have believed him, because I know him; 
but it displeased me that he should smile, and I 
thought: "Oh! now that he has had a prize, he has 
grown saucy!"; and a little while afterwards, to 
revenge myself, I gave him a jog which made him 
spoil his page. 

Then, all crimson with wrath, "You did that on 
purpose," he said to me, and raised his hand. The 
teacher saw it; he drew it back. But he added: "I 
shall wait for you outside !" 

I felt ill at ease; my wrath had simmered away; I 
repented. No; Coretti could not have done it 
intentionally. He is good, I thought. I recalled how 
I had seen him in his own home; how he had worked 
and helped his sick mother; and then how heartily he 
had been welcomed in my house; and how he had 
pleased my father. What would I not have given not 
to have said that word to him; not to have insulted 
him! And I thought of the advice that my father had 
given to me: "Have you done wrong?" "Yes." 
"Then beg his pardon." But this I did not dare to do; 
I was ashamed to humiliate myself. I looked at him 
out of the corner of my eye, and I saw his coat ripped 
on the shoulder, perhaps because he had carried too 
much wood, and I felt that I loved him. I said to 
myself, "Courage!" But the words, "pardon me," 
stuck in my throat. 

He looked at me askance from time to time, but 
seemed more grieved than angry. And I looked 
crossly at him, to show him that I was not afraid. 



i86 MARCH 

He repeated, "We shall meet outside !" And I said, 
'We shall meet outside!" But I was thinking of what 
my father had once said to me, "If you are in the 
wrong, defend yourself, but do not fight." 

And I said to myself, "I will defend myself, but I 
will not fight/' But I was discontented, and I no 
longer listened to the master. 

At last the moment of dismissal arrived. When I 
was alone in the street I perceived that he was follow- 
ing me. I stopped and waited for him, ruler in hand. 
He came up; I raised my ruler. 

"No, Enrico," he said, with his kindly smile, wav- 
ing the ruler aside with his hand; "let us be friends 
again, as before." 

I stood still in amazement, and then I felt what 
seemed to be a push on my shoulders, and I found my- 
self in his arms. 

He kissed me, and said: "We'll have no more 
quarrels, will we?" 

"Never again! never again!" I replied. And we 
parted content. But when I went home, and told my 
father all about it, thinking to give him pleasure, his 
face clouded over, and he said : 

"You should have been the first to offer your hand, 
since you were in the wrong." Then he added, "You 
should not raise your ruler at a comrade who is better 
than you are at the son of a soldier! " ; and snatching 
the ruler from my hand, he broke it in two, and hurled 
it against the wall. 



MY SISTER 187 



MY SISTER 

Friday, 24th. 

Why, Enrico, after father had already reproved you 
for behaving badly to Coretti, were you so unkind to 
me? You cannot imagine the pain that you caused me. 
Do you not know that when you were a baby, I stood for 
hours and hours beside your cradle, instead of playing with 
my companions, and that when you were ill, I got out of 
bed every night to feel whether your forehead was burn- 
ing ? Do you not know, you who grieve your sister, that 
if a dreadful misfortune should overtake us, I should be a 
mother to you and love you like my son? Do you not 
know that when our father and mother are no longer here, 
I shall be your best friend, the only person with whom 
you can talk about our dead and your childhood, and 
that, should it be necessary, I shall work for you, Enrico, 
to earn your bread and to pay for your studies, and that I 
shall always love you when you are grown up; that I 
shall follow you in thought when you go far away, always 
because we grew up together and have the same blood? 

Enrico, be sure of this when you are a man, that if 
misfortune happens to you, if you are alone, be very sure 
that you will seek me, that you will come to me and say : 
"Sylvia, sister, let me stay with you ; let us talk of the 
days when we were happy do you remember? Let us 
talk of our mother, of our home, of those beautiful days 
that are so far away." O Enrico, you will always find 
your sister with her arms wide open. Yes, dear Enrico ; 
and you must forgive me for the reproof I am giving now. 

1 shall never recall any wrong of yours ; and if you should 
give me other sorrows, what matters it? You will always 
be my brother, the same brother ; I shall never recall you 



1 88 MARCH 

otherwise than as having held you in my arms when a 
baby, of having loved our father and mother with you, 
of having watched you grow up, of having been for years 
your most faithful companion. But do you write me a 
kind word in this same copy-book, and I will come for it 
and read it before the evening. In the meanwhile, to 
show you that I am not angry with you, and noting that 
you are weary, I have copied for you the monthly story, 
Blood of Romagna, which you were to have copied for the 
little sick mason. Look in the left drawer of your table; 
I have been writing all night, while you were asleep. 
Write me a kind word, Enrico, I beg of you. 

YOUR SISTER SYLVIA. 
I am not worthy to kiss your hands. ENRICO. 

BLOOD OF ROMAGNA 

(Monthly Story.) 

That evening the house of Ferruccio was more 
silent than was its wont. The father, who kept a 
little dry-goods shop, had gone to Forli to make some 
purchases, and his wife had accompanied him, with 
Luigina, a baby, whom she was taking to a doctor, that 
he might operate on a diseased eye; they were not to 
return until the following morning. It was almost 
midnight. The woman who came to do the work by 
day had gone away at nightfall. 

In the house there was only the grandmother with 
the paralyzed legs, and Ferruccio, a lad of thirteen. 
It was a small house of but one story, situated on the 
highway, at a gunshot's distance from a village not 



BLOOD OF ROMAGNA 189 

far from Forli, a town of Romagna; and there was 
near it an uninhabited house, ruined two months 
previously by fire, and on which the sign of an inn was 
still to be seen. Behind the tiny house was a small 
garden surrounded by a hedge, upon which a rustic 
gate opened. The door of the shop, which also served 
as the house door, opened on the highway. All 
around spread the solitary country, wide, cultivated 
fields, planted with mulberry-trees. 

It was nearly midnight. It was raining and blow- 
ing. Ferruccio and his grandmother were still up, 
sitting in the dining-room, between which and the 
garden was a small, closet-like room, with old furni- 
ture. Ferruccio had returned home only at eleven 
o'clock, after an absence of many hours, and his grand- 
mother had watched for him with eyes wide open, filled 
with anxiety. She sat in the large arm-chair, upon 
which she was accustomed to pass the entire day, and 
often the whole night as well, since a difficulty of 
breathing did not allow her to lie down in bed. 

The wind and rain beat against the window-panes: 
the night was very dark. Ferruccio had returned 
weary, muddy, with his jacket torn, and the livid mark 
of a stone on his forehead. He had engaged in a 
stone fight with his comrades ; they had come to blows, 
as usual; and in addition he had gambled, and lost all 
his soldi, and left his cap in a ditch. 

Although the kitchen was lighted only by a small 
oil-lamp, placed on the corner of the table, near the 
arm-chair, his poor grandmother had instantly seen 
the wretched condition of her grandson, and had partly 



190 MARCH 

divined, partly brought him to confess, his misdeeds. 

She loved this boy with all her soul. When she 
had learned all, she began to cry. 

"Ah, no!" she said, after a long silence, "you have 
no heart for your poor grandmother. You have no 
feeling, to take advantage in this manner of the absence 
of your father and mother, to cause me sorrow. You 
have left me alone the whole day long. You had 
not the slightest compassion. Take care, Ferruccio! 
You are entering on an evil path which leads you to a 
sad end. I have seen others begin like you, and come 
to a bad end. If you begin by running away from 
home, by getting into brawls with the other boys, by 
losing soldi, then, gradually, from stone fights you will 
come to knives, from gambling to other vices, and 
from other vices to theft." 

Ferruccio stood listening three paces away, leaning 
against a cupboard, with his chin on his breast and his 
brows knit, being still hot with wrath from the brawl. 
A lock of fine chestnut hair fell across his forehead, 
and his blue eyes were motionless. 

"From gambling to theft!" repeated his grand- 
mother, continuing to weep. 'Think of it, Ferruccio ! 
Think of that scourge of the country about here, of that 
Vito Mozzoni, who is now playing the vagabond in the 
town; who, at the age of twenty- four, has been twice 
in prison, and has made that poor woman, his mother, 
die of a broken heart. I knew her. And his father 
has fled to Switzerland in despair. Think of that 
bad fellow, whose salute your father is ashamed to 
return : he is always roaming with miscreants worse 
than himself, and some day he will go to the galleys. 



BLOOD OF ROMAGNA 191 

Well, I knew him as a boy, and he began as you are 
doing. Reflect that you will reduce your father and 
mother to the same end as his." 

Ferruccio held his peace. He was not bad at heart ; 
quite the reverse. His pranks arose rather from an 
overflow of life and boldness than from an evil mind. 
And his father had managed him badly just here, for 
he gave him great liberty, because he knew him to be 
good-hearted and capable, at bottom, of the finest 
sentiments; so he left the bridle loose upon the boy's 
neck, and waited for him to acquire judgment for 
himself. The lad was good rather than perverse, but 
stubborn; and it was hard for him, even when his 
heart was repentant, to allow those good words which 
win pardon to escape his lips, "If I have done wrong, I 
will do so no more; I promise it. Forgive me." His 
soul was full of tenderness at times; but pride would 
not permit it to show itself. 

"Ah, Ferruccio," continued his grandmother, seeing 
that he was silent, "not a word of penitence to me! 
You see to what a condition I am reduced, so that I 
am as good as actually buried. You ought not to have 
the heart to make me suffer so, to make the mother of 
your mother, who is so old and so near her last day, 
weep; the poor grandmother who has always loved 
you so, who rocked you all night long, night after 
night, when you were a baby a few months old, and 
who did not eat in order to play with you, you do 
not know that! I always said, 'This boy will be my 
consolation !' And now you are killing me ! I would 
willingly give the little life that remains to me if I 
could see you become a good boy, and an obedient boy, 



192 MARCH 

as you were in those days when I used to lead you to 
the sanctuary do you remember, Ferruccio? You 
used to fill my pockets with pebbles and weeds, and I 
carried you home in my arms, fast asleep. You used 
to love your poor grandma then. And now I am a 
paralytic, and in need of your affection as of the air 
to breathe, since I have no one else in the world, poor, 
half-dead woman that I am." 

Ferruccio was on the point of running to his grand- 
mother, overcome with sorrow, when he fancied that 
he heard a slight noise, a creaking in the small adjoin- 
ing room, the one which opened on the garden. But 
he could not make out whether it was the window- 
shutters rattling in the wind, or something else. 

He bent his head and listened. 

The rain beat down noisily. 

The sound was repeated. His grandmother heard 
it also. 

"What is it?" she asked anxiously, after a pause. 

'The rain," murmured the boy. 

'Then, Ferruccio," said the old woman, drying her 
eyes, "you promise me that you will be good, that you 
will not make your poor grandmother weep again " 

Another faint sound interrupted her. 

"But it seems to me that it is not the rain!" she 
exclaimed, turning pale. "Go and see !" 

But she instantly added, "No; stay here!" and 
seized Ferruccio by the hand. 

Both remained as they were, and held their breath. 
All they heard was the sound of the water. 

Then both were seized with a shivering fit. 



BLOOD OF ROMAGNA 193 

It seemed to them that they heard footsteps in the 
next room. 

"Who's there?" demanded the lad, recovering his 
breath with an effort. 

No one replied. 

"Who is it?'' asked Ferruccio again, chilled with 
terror. 

But hardly had he pronounced these words when 
both uttered a shriek of terror. Two men sprang into 
the room. One of them grasped the boy and placed 
one hand over his mouth; the other clutched the old 
woman by the throat. 

The first said: "Silence, unless you want to die!" 

The second said: "Be quiet!" and raised aloft a 
knife. 

Both had dark cloths over their faces, with holes 
for the eyes. 

For a moment nothing was heard but the gasping 
breath of all four and the patter of the rain. The 
old woman rattled in her throat, and her eyes were 
starting from her head. 

The man who held the boy said in his ear, ' 'Where 
does your father keep his money?" 

The lad replied faintly, between chattering teeth, 
"Yonder in the cupboard." 

"Come with me," said the man. 

And he dragged him into the closet room, holding 
him securely by the throat. There was a dark lantern 
standing on the floor. 

"Where is the cupboard?" he demanded. 

The gasping boy pointed it out. 



194 MARCH 

Then, in order to make sure of the boy, the man 
flung him on his knees in front of the cupboard, press- 
ing his neck closely between his own legs, in such a 
way that he could throttle him if he shouted. Holding 
his knife in his teeth and his lantern in one hand, with 
the other he pulled from his pocket a pointed iron, 
drove it into the lock, fumbled about, broke it, threw 
the doors wide open, tumbled everything over in a 
perfect fury of haste, filled his pockets, shut the cup- 
board again, opened it again, made another search ; then 
he seized the boy by the windpipe, and pushed him 
to where the other man was still grasping the old 
woman, who was in a swoon, with her head thrown 
back and her mouth open. 

That one asked in a low voice, "Did you find it?" 

His companion replied, "I found it." And he 
added, "See to the door." 

The one that was holding the old woman ran to the 
door of the garden to see if there were any one 
there, and called in from the little room, in a voice that 
resembled a hiss, "Come!" 

The one who stayed behind, and who was still hold- 
ing Ferruccio fast, showed his knife to the boy and 
the old woman, who had opened her eyes again, and 
said, "Not a sound, or I'll come back and cut your 
throat." 

And he glared at the two for a moment. 

At this juncture, they heard a song sung by many 
voices far off on the highway. 

The robber turned his head hastily towards the door, 
and the violence of the movement caused the cloth to 
fall from his face. 




SEARCHING THE CUPBOARD 



BLOOD OF ROMAGNA 195 

The old woman gave a shriek; "Mozzoni!" 

"Accursed woman," roared the robber, on finding 
himself recognized, "you shall die!" 

He hurled himself, with his knife raised, against 
the old woman, and she fainted away. 

The assassin dealt the blow. 

But Ferruccio, with an exceedingly rapid move- 
ment, and uttering a cry of desperation, had rushed to 
his grandmother, and covered her body with his own. 
The assassin fled, stumbling against the table and over- 
turning the light, which was extinguished. 

The boy slipped slowly from above his grandmother, 
fell on his knees, and remained in that attitude, with 
his arms around her body and his head upon her breast. 

Several moments passed. It was very dark. The 
song of the peasants gradually died away. The old 
woman recovered her senses. 

"Ferruccio!" she cried, with chattering teeth, in a 
voice that was barely intelligible. 

"Grandmother !" replied the lad. 

The old woman made an effort to speak; but terror 
had paralyzed her tongue. She remained silent for 
a while, quivering violently. 

At last she succeeded in asking: 'They are not 
here now?" 

"No." 

"They did not kill me," murmured the old woman 
in a stifled voice. 

"No; you are safe," said Ferruccio, in a weak voice. 
"You are safe, dear grandmother. They carried off 
the money. But father had taken nearly all of it with 
him." 



196 MARCH 

His grandmother drew a deep breath. 

"Grandmother," said Ferruccio, still kneeling, and 
pressing her close to him, "dear grandmother, you love 
me, don't you?" 

"O Ferruccio! my poor little son!" she replied, plac- 
ing her hands on his head; "what a fright you must 
have had! O Lord God of mercy! Light the lamp. 
No; let us remain in the dark! I am still afraid." 

"Grandmother," resumed the boy, "I have always 
caused you grief." 

"No, Ferruccio, you must not say such things; I 
shall never think of that again; I have forgotten every- 
thing, I love you so dearly !" 

"I have always caused you grief," pursued Ferruccio, 
with difficulty, and his voice shook; "but I have always 
loved you. Do you forgive me ? Forgive me, grand- 
mother." 

"Yes, my son, I forgive you with all my heart. 
Think, how could I help forgiving you! Rise from 
your knees, my child. I will never scold you again. 
You are so good, so good ! Let us light the lamp. 
Let us take courage a little. Rise, Ferruccio." 

"Thanks, grandmother," said the boy, and his voice 
was still weaker. "Now I am content. You will 
remember me, grandmother will you not? You will 
always remember me your Ferruccio?" 

"My Ferruccio!" exclaimed his grandmother, 
amazed and alarmed, as she laid her hands on his 
shoulders and bent her head, as though to look him in 
the face. 

"Remember me," murmured the boy once more, in 
a voice that seemed like a breath. "Give a kiss to my 



LITTLE MASON ON HIS SICK-BED 197 

mother to my father to Luigina Good-bye, grand- 
mother." 

"In the name of Heaven, what is the matter with 
you?" shrieked the old woman, feeling the boy's head 
anxiously, as it lay upon her knees; and then with all 
the power of voice of which her throat was capable, 
and in desperation: "Ferruccio! Ferruccio! Fer- 
ruccio! My child! My love! Angels of Paradise, 
come to my aid !" 

But Ferruccio made no reply. The little hero, the 
savior of the mother of his mother, stabbed in the 
back by a blow from a knife, had given up his noble, 
daring soul to God. 

THE LITTLE MASON ON HIS SICK-BED 

Tuesday, i8th. 

Poor "Muratorino" is seriously ill; the master told 
us to go and see him; and Garrone, Derossi, and I 
agreed to go together. Stardi would have come also, 
but the teacher had assigned us the description of The 
Monument to Cavour, he told us that he must go and 
see the monument, in order that his description might 
be more exact. So, by way of experiment, we invited 
that puffed-up-fellow, Nobis, who replied "No," and 
nothing more. Votini also excused himself, perhaps 
because he was afraid of soiling his clothes with plaster. 

We went there when we came out of school at four 
o'clock. It was raining in torrents. On the street 
Garrone halted, and said, with his mouth full of 
bread : 

"What shall I buy?" and he rattled a couple of soldi 



198 MARCH 

in his pocket. We gave two soldi each, and bought 
three big oranges. We went up to the garret. At 
the door Derossi took off his medal and put it in his 
pocket. I asked him why. 

"I don't know," he answered; "in order not to put 
on airs : it strikes me as more delicate to go in without 
my medal." 

We knocked; the father, that big man who looks 
like a giant, opened to us ; his face was sad and drawn. 

"Who are you?" he asked. 

Garrone replied : "We are Antonio's school-mates, 
and we have brought him some oranges." 

"Ah, poor Tonino!" exclaimed the mason, shaking 
his head, "I fear that he will never eat your oranges !" 
and he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. 

He made us come in. We entered an attic room, 
where we saw "the little mason" asleep in a little iron 
bed; his mother hung dejectedly over the bed, with 
her face in her hands, and she hardly turned to look at 
us. On one side hung brushes, a trowel, and a plaster- 
sieve. Over the feet of the sick boy was spread the 
mason's jacket, white with lime. 

The poor boy was thin and very, very white; his 
nose was pointed, and his breath was short. O dear 
Tonino, my little comrade ! you who were so kind and 
merry, how it pains me! what would I not give to see 
you make the hare's face once more, poor little mason ! 

Garrone laid an orange on his pillow, close to his 
face ; the odor waked him ; he grasped it instantly ; then 
let go of it, and gazed intently at Garrone. 

"It is I," said the latter; "Garrone: do you know 
me?" He smiled faintly, lifted his stubby hand with 



LITTLE MASON ON HIS SICK-BED 199 

difficulty from the bed and held it out to Garrone, who 
took it between his, and laid it against his cheek, 
saying : 

"Courage, courage, little mason; you are going to 
get well soon and come back to school, and the teacher 
will put you next to me; will that please you?" 

But the little mason made no reply. His mother 
burst into sobs : "Oh, my poor Tonino ! My poor 
Tonino ! He is so brave and good, and God is going 
to take him from us!" 

"Silence!" cried the mason; "silence, for the love of 
God, or I shall lose my reason!" 

Then he said to us, with anxiety : "Go, go, boys, I 
thank you ; go ! what could you do here ? I thank you ; 
go home!" 

The boy had closed his eyes again, and appeared to 
be dead. 

"Do you need any assistance?" asked Garrone. 

"No, my good boy, thank you," the mason answered. 
And so saying, he pushed us out on the landing, and 
shut the door. But we were not half-way down the 
stairs, when we heard him calling, "Garrone! 
Garrone !" 

We all three mounted the stairs once more in haste. 

"Garrone!" shouted the mason, with a changed 
countenance, "he has called you by name ; it is two days 
since he spoke ; he has called you twice ; he wants you ; 
come quickly! Ah, holy God, if this is only a good 
sign!" 

"Farewell for the present," said Garrone to us; "I 
shall remain," and he ran in with the father. 

Derossi's eyes were full of tears. 



200 MARCH 



"Are you crying for the little mason?" I said. "He 
has spoken; he will recover." 

"I believe it," replied Derossi; "but I was not think- 
ing of him. I was thinking how good Garrone is, and 
what a beautiful soul he has." 



COUNT CAVOUR 

Wednesday, 29th. 

You are to write a description of the monument to 
Count Cavour. You can do it. But who was Count 
Cavour? You cannot understand at present. For the 
present this is all you know : he was for many years the 
prime minister of Piedmont. It was he who sent the 
Piedmontese army to the Crimea to raise once more, 
with the victory of the Cernaia, our military glory, which 
had fallen with the defeat at Novara ; it was he who made 
one hundred and fifty thousand Frenchmen descend from 
the Alps to chase the Austrians from Lombardy ; it was 
he who governed Italy in the most solemn period of our 
revolution ; who gave, during those years, the most potent 
impulse to the holy enterprise of the unification of our 
country, he with his brilliant mind, with his invincible 
perseverance, with his more than human industry. 

Many generals have passed terrible hours on the field 
of battle ; but he passed more terrible ones in his cabinet, 
when his enormous work might suffer destruction at any 
moment, like a fragile edifice at the tremor of an earth- 
quake. Hours, nights of struggle and anguish did he 
pass, sufficient to make him issue from it with reason 
deranged and death in his heart. And it was this gigantic 
and stormy work which shortened his life by twenty 
years. Nevertheless, devoured by the fever which was 



COUNT CAVOUR 201 

to cast him into his grave, he yet contended desperately 
with the malady in order to accomplish something for his 
country. "It is strange," he said sadly on his death-bed, 
"I no longer know how to read ; I cannot read." 

While they were bleeding him, and the fever was 
increasing, he was thinking of his country, and he said 
imperiously : "Cure me ; my mind is clouding over ; I 
have need of all my faculties to manage important 
affairs." During his last moments, when the whole city 
was in a tumult, and the king stood at his bedside, he said 
anxiously, "I have many things to say to you, Sire, many 
things to show you; but I am ill; I cannot, I cannot;" 
and he was in despair. 

His feverish thoughts hovered ever round the State, 
round the new Italian provinces which had been united 
with us, round the many things which still remained to 
be done. While the delirium seized him, "Educate the 
children !" he exclaimed, between his gasps for breath,- 
"educate the children and the young people govern with 
liberty !" 

His delirium increased ; death hovered over him. And 
with burning words he invoked General Garibaldi, with 
whom he had had disagreements, and Venice and Rome, 
which were not yet free : he had vast visions of the future 
of Italy and of Europe; he dreamed of a foreign inva- 
sion ; he inquired where the corps of the army were, and 
the generals ; he still trembled for us, for his people. His 
great sorrow was not, you understand, that he felt that 
his life was going, but to see himself fleeing his country, 
which still had need of him, and for which he had, in a 
few years, worn out the measureless forces of his won- 
derful constitution. He died with the battle-cry in his 
throat, and his death was as great as his life. 

Now reflect a little, Enrico, what sort of a thing is our 



202 MARCH 

labor, which nevertheless so weighs us down; what are 
our griefs, our death itself, in the face of the toils, the 
terrible anxieties, the tremendous agonies of these men 
upon whose hearts rests a world ! Think of this, my son, 
when you pass before that marble image, and say, 
"Glory !" in your heart. 

YOUR FATHER. 



APRIL 

SPRING 

Saturday, ist. 

THE first of April! Only three months more! 
This has been one of the most beautiful mornings of 
the year. I was happy in school because Coretti told 
me to come day after to-morrow to see the King make 
his entrance. We will go with his father, who knows 
him. Also my mother had promised to take me the 
same day to visit the Infant Asylum in the Corso 
Valdocco. I was pleased, too, because "the little 
mason" is better, and because the teacher said to my 
father yesterday evening as he was passing, "He is 
doing well; he is doing well." 

And then it was a beautiful spring morning. From 
the school windows we could see the blue sky, the trees 
of the garden all covered with buds, and the wide-open 
windows of the houses, with their boxes and vases 
already growing green. The teacher did not laugh, 
because he never laughs; but he was in good humor, 
so that the wrinkle hardly ever appeared on his brow ; 
and he explained a problem on the blackboard, and 
jested. And it was plain that he felt a pleasure in 
breathing the air of the gardens which entered through 
the open window, redolent with the fresh odor of 
earth and leaves, which suggested thoughts of country 

rambles. 

203 



204 APRIL 

While he was explaining, we could hear in a neigh- 
boring street a blacksmith hammering on his anvil, and 
in the house opposite a woman singing to lull her baby 
to sleep. Far away, in the Cernaia barracks, the 
trumpets were sounding. Every one seemed glad, 
even S.tardi. Presently the blacksmith began to 
hammer more vigorously, the woman to sing more 
loudly. The teacher paused and lent an ear. Then 
he said, slowly, as he gazed out of the window: 

"The smiling sky, a singing mother, an honest man 
at work, boys at study, these are beautiful things." 

When we left school, we saw that every one else was 
cheerful also. All walked in a line, stamping loudly 
with their feet, and humming, as though on the eve of 
a four days' vacation, The schoolmistresses were 
playful; the one with the red feather tripped along 
behind the children like a schoolgirl. The parents of 
the boys were chatting together and smiling, and 
Crossi's mother, the vegetable-vendor, had so many 
bunches of violets in her basket, that they filled the 
whole large hall with perfume. 

I have never felt so glad as this morning on catch- 
ing sight of my mother, who was waiting for me in 
the street. And I said to her as I ran to meet her : 

"Oh, I am happy ! what is it that makes me so happy 
to-day?" 

And my mother answered smilingly that it was the 
beautiful season and a good conscience. 



KING UMBERTO 205 

KING UMBERTO 

Monday, 3d. 

At ten o'clock precisely my father, looking from the 
window, saw Coretti, the wood-seller, and his son 
waiting for me in the square. So he said : 

'There they are, Enrico; go and see your King." 

I went like a flash. Both father and son were even 
more alert than usual, and they never seemed to> me to 
resemble each other so strongly as this morning. The 
father wore on his jacket the medal for valor between 
two commemorative medals, and his moustaches were 
curled and as pointed as two pins. 

We at once set out for the railway station, where the 
King was to arrive at half-past ten. Coretti, the fa- 
ther, smoked his pipe and rubbed his- hands. "Do you 
know," said he, "I have not seen him since the war of 
'sixty-six? A trifle of fifteen years and six months. 
First, three years in France, and then at Mondovi, and 
here, where I might have seen him, I have never had 
the good luck of being in the city when he came. Such 
a piece of luck!" 

He called the King "Umberto," like a comrade. 
Umberto commanded the i6th division; Umberto was 
twenty-two years and so many days old; Umberto 
mounted a horse thus and o. 

"Fifteen years!" he said vehemently, quickening his 
pace. "I really have a great desire to see him again. 
I left him a prince; I see him once more, a king. And 
I, too, have changed. From a soldier I have become 
a hawker of wood." And he laughed. 



206 APRIL 

"If he were to see you, would he remember you?" 
asked his son. 

He began to laugh. 

"You are crazy!" he answered. "That's quite an- 
other thing. He, Umberto, was one single man; we 

were as thick as flies. And then, he never looked at 



us one by one." 

We turned into the Course Victor Emanuel; there 
were many people on their way to the station. A 
company of Alpine soldiers passed with their trumpets. 
Two armed policemen passed by on horseback at a 
gallop. The day was calm and glorious. 

'Yes!" exclaimed the elder Coretti, growing 
animated, "it is a real pleasure to me to see him once 
more, the general of my division. Ah, how quickly I 
have grown old! It seems as though it were only the 
other day that I had my knapsack on my shoulders and 
my gun in my hands, at that affair of the 24th of June, 
when we were on the point of coming to blows. 
Umberto was going to and fro with his officers, while 
the cannon were thundering in the distance ; and every 
one was gazing at him and saying, 'May there not be 
a bullet for him also !' I was a thousand miles from 
thinking that I should soon find myself so near him, 
in front of the lances of the Austrian uhlans ; actually, 
only four paces from each other, boys. That was a 
fine day ; the sky was like a mirror ; but so hot ! Let 
us see if we can get in." 

We had arrived at the station; there was a great 
crowd, carriages, policemen, carabineers, societies 
with banners. A regimental band was playing. The 



KING UMBERTO 207 

elder Coretti attempted to enter the portico, but he was 
stopped. Then it occurred to him to force his way 
into the front row of the crowd which formed an open- 
ing at the entrance; and making way with his elbow, 
he succeeded in thrusting us forward also. But the 
shifting crowd flung us hither and thither. The wood- 
seller got his eye upon the first pillar of the portico, 
where the police did not allow any one to stand ; "Come 
with me," he said suddenly, dragging us by the hand; 
and he crossed the empty space 'in two- bounds, and 
went and planted himself there, .with his back against 
the wall. 

A police brigadier instantly hurried up and said to 
him, "You can't stand here." 

"I belong to the fourth battalion of the forty-ninth," 
replied Coretti, touching his medal. 

The brigadier glanced at it, and said, "Stay where 
you are." 

"Didn't I say so!" exclaimed Coretti triumphantly; 
"it's a magic word, that fourth of the forty-ninth! 
Haven't I the right to see my general with some little 
comfort, I, who was in that squadron? I saw him 
close at hand then ; it seems right that I should see him 
close at hand now. And I say general ! He was my 
battalion commander for a good half -hour; for at such 
times, while the racket was going, he commanded the 
battalion himself, and not Major Ubrich, by Heavens!" 

In the meantime, in the reception-room and outside, 
a great mixture of officers and gentlemen was visible, 
and in front of the door, the carriages, with the lackeys 
dressed in red, were drawn up in a line. 



208 APRIL 

Coretti asked his father whether Prince Umberto 
had carried his sword in his hand when he was in a 
battle. 

"Certainly, he held his sword in his hand," the latter 
replied, "to ward off a blow from a lance, which might 
strike him as well as another. Ah ! those unchained 
demons ! They came down on us like the wrath of 
God. They swept between the platoons, the squadrons, 
the cannon, as though tossed by a hurricane, crushing 
down everything. There was a whirl of light cavalry 
of Alessandria, of lancers of Foggia, of infantry, of 
sharp-shooters, a pandemonium in which nothing could 
be understood. I heard the shout, 'Your Highness ! 
your Highness!' I saw the lowered lances approach- 
ing; we discharged our guns; a cloud of smoke hid 
everything. Then the smoke cleared away. The 
ground was covered with horses and uhlans, wounded 
or dead. I turned round, and beheld Umberto in our 
midst, on horseback, gazing tranquilly about, with the 
air of demanding, 'Have any of my lads received a 
scratch?' And we shouted, 'Hurrah!' right in his 
face, like madmen. Heavens, what a moment that 
was! Here's the train coming!" 

The band struck up; the officers hastened forward; 
the crowd stood on tiptoe. 

"Eh, he won't come out in a hurry," said a police- 
man; "they are presenting him with an address now." 

The elder Coretti was beside himself with impatience. 

"Ah ! when I think of it," he said, "I always see him 
there. Of course, there is cholera and there are earth- 
quakes; and in them, too, he bears himself bravely; 
but I always have him before my mind as I saw him 



KING UMBERTO 209 

then, among us, with that quiet face. I am sure that 
he too recalls the fourth of the forty-ninth, even now 
that he is King; and that it would give him pleasure 
to have for once, at a table together, all those whom 
he saw about him at such moments. Now, he has 
generals, and great gentlemen, and courtiers; then, 
there was no one but us poor soldiers. If we could 
only exchange a few words alone! Our general of 
twenty-two; our prince, who was intrusted to our 
bayonets ! I have not seen him for fifteen years. Our 
Umberto ! that's what he is ! Ah ! that music stirs my 
blood, on my word of honor!" 

An outburst of shouts interrupted him; thousands of 
hats rose in the air; four gentlemen dressed in black 
got into the first carriage. 

" 'Tis he!" cried Coretti, and stood as though en- 
chanted. Then he said softly, "By our lady, how gray 
he has grown!" 

We all three uncovered our heads. The carriage 
advanced slowly through the crowd, who shouted and 
waved their hats. I looked at the elder Coretti. He 
seemed to me another man ; he seemed to have become 
taller, graver, rather pale, and fastened bolt upright 
against the pillar. 

The carriage arrived in front of us, a pace distant 
from the pillar. "Hurrah !" shouted many voices. 

"Hurrah!" shouted Coretti, after the others. 

The King glanced at his face, and his eye dwelt for 
a moment on his three medals. 

Then Coretti lost his head, and roared, The fourth 
battalion of the forty-ninth!" 

The King, who had turned away, turned towards 



210 APRIL 

us again, and looking Coretti straight in the eye, 
reached his hand out of the carriage. 

Coretti gave one leap forwards and clasped it. The 
carriage passed on; the crowd broke in and separated 
us; we lost sight of the elder Coretti. But it was only 
for a moment. We found him again directly, pant- 
ing, with wet eyes, calling for his son by name, and 
holding his hand on high. His son flew towards him, 
and he said, "Here, little one, while my hand is still 
warm!" and he passed his hand over the boy's face, 
saying, "This is a caress from the King." 

And there he stood, as though in a dream, with his 
eyes fixed on the distant carriage, smiling, with his 
pipe in his hand, in the centre of a group of curious 
people, who were staring at him. "He's one of the 
fourth battalion of the forty-ninth!" they said. "He 
is a soldier that knows the King." "And the King 
recognized him." "And he offered him his hand." 
"He gave the King a petition," said one, more loudly. 

"No," replied Coretti, whirling round abruptly; 
T did not give him any petition. But there is some- 
thing else that I would give him, if he were to ask it 
of me." 

They all stared at him. 

"My blood," he said simply. 

THE INFANT ASYLUM 

Tuesday, 4th. 

After breakfast yesterday my mother took me, as 
she had promised, to the Infant Asylum in the Corso 
Valdocco, in order to recommend to the directress a 



THE INFANT ASYLUM 211 

little sister of Precossi. I had never seen an asylum 
and I was greatly amused ! There were two hundred 
of them, boy-babies and girl-babies, and so small that 
the children in our lower primary schools are men in 
comparison. 

We arrived just as they were going into the refect- 
ory in two files, where there were two very long tables, 
with a great many round holes, and in each hole a 
black bowl filled with rice and beans, and a tin spoon 
beside it. On entering, some of the tots grew con- 
fused and remained on the floor until the mistress ran 
and picked them up. Many halted in front of a bowl, 
thinking it was their proper place, and had already 
swallowed a spoonful, when a mistress came up and 
said, "Go on!" and then they went on three or four 
paces and got down another spoonful, and then ad- 
vanced again, until they reached their own places, 
after having eaten half a portion more than was due 
them. At last, by dint of pushing and crying, "Make 
haste! make haste!" they were all got into order, and 
the prayer was begun. But all those on the inner 
line, who had to turn their backs on the bowls for the 
prayer, twisted their heads round to keep an eye on 
them, lest some one might meddle. They said their 
prayer thus, with hands clasped and their eyes on the 
ceiling, but with their hearts on their food. Then 
they set to eating. 

Ah, what a charming sight it was! One ate with 
two spoons, another with his hands; many picked up 
the beans one by one, and thrust them into their 
pockets; others wrapped them tightly in their little 
aprons, and pounded them to reduce them to a paste. 



212 APRIL 

There were even some who did not eat, because they 
were watching the flies flying, and others coughed and 
sprinkled a shower of rice all around them. It 
looked like a poultry-yard. But it was fine. The 
two rows of babies formed a pretty sight, with their 
hair all tied on the tops of their heads with red, green, 
and blue ribbons. 

One teacher asked a row of eight children, " Where 
does rice grow?" The whole eight opened their 
mouths wide, filled as they were with the pottage, and 
replied in concert, in a sing-song, "It grows in the 
water." Then the teacher gave the order, "Hands 
up!" and it was delightful to see all those little arms 
fly up, which a few months ago were in swaddling- 
clothes, and all those little hands waving, which looked 
like so many white and pink butterflies. 

Then they all went to play; but first they took their 
little baskets, which were hanging on the wall with 
their lunches in them. They went out into the 
garden and scattered around and got out their provi- 
sions, bread, stewed plums, a tiny bit of cheese, a 
hard-boiled egg, little apples, a handful of boiled 
vetches, or a wing of chicken. In an instant the whole 
garden was strewn with crumbs, as though they had 
been scattered from their feed by a flock of birds. 
They ate in all the queerest ways, like rabbits, like 
rats, like cats, nibbling, licking, sucking. There was 
one child who held a bit of rye bread hugged closely 
to his breast, and who was rubbing it with a medlar, 
as though he were polishing a sword. Some of the 
little ones crushed in their fists small cheeses, which 
trickled between their fingers like milk, and ran down 



THE INFANT ASYLUM 213 

inside their sleeves, and they were utterly unconscious 
of it. 

They ran and chased each other with apples and 
rolls in their teeth, like dogs. I saw three of them 
digging out a hard-boiled egg with a straw, thinking 
to discover treasures, and they spilled half of it on 
the ground, and then picked the crumbs up again one 
by one with great patience, as though they had been 
pearls. And those who had anything unusual were 
surrounded by eight or ten others, who stood staring 
at the baskets with bent heads, as you would look at 
the moon in a well. There were twenty round a mite 
of a fellow who had a paper horn of sugar, and they 
were going through all sorts of ceremonies with him 
for the privilege of dipping their bread in it, and he 
gave it to some, while, after many prayers, he only 
let others put a finger in. 

In the meantime, my mother had come into the 
garden and was petting now one and now another. 
Many hung about her, and even on her back, begging 
for a kiss, with faces upturned as though to a third 
story, and with mouths that opened and shut like birds 
asking for food. One offered her the quarter of an 
orange which had been bitten, another a small crust 
of bread. One little girl gave her a leaf; another 
showed her, with all seriousness, the tip of her fore- 
finger, a minute examination of which revealed a mi- 
croscopic swelling, which had been caused by touch- 
ing the flame of a candle on the day before. They 
placed before her eyes, as great marvels, very tiny in- 
sects, which I cannot understand their being able to 
see and catch, the halves of corks, shirtbuttons, and 



214 APRIL 

flowerets pulled from the vases. One child, with a 
bandaged head, who was determined to be heard at 
any cost, stammered out to her some story about a 
head-over-heels tumble, not one word of which was 
intelligible; another insisted that my mother should 
bend down, and then whispered in her ear, "My father 
makes brushes." 

And all this while a thousand accidents were hap- 
pening here and there which caused the teachers to 
hasten up. Children wept because they could not 
untie a knot in their handkerchiefs. Others disputed, 
with scratches and shrieks, the halves of an apple. 
One child, who had fallen face downward over a little 
bench which had been overturned, wept amid the 
ruins, and could not rise. 

Before her departure my mother took three or four 
of them in her arms, and they ran up from all quarters 
to be taken also, their faces smeared with yolk of egg 
and orange juice. One caught her hands; another 
her finger, to look at her ring; another tugged at her 
watch chain; another tried to seize her by the hair. 

"Take care," the teacher said to her; "they will tear 
your clothes all to pieces." 

But my mother cared nothing for her dress, and she 
continued to kiss them, and they pressed closer and 
closer to her : those who were nearest, with their arms 
held out as though they were desirous of climbing; 
the more distant trying to make their way through the 
crowd, and all crying: 

"Good-bye! good-bye! good-bye!" 

At last she succeeded in escaping from the garden. 
And they all ran and thrust their faces through the 



GYMNASTICS 215 

railings to see her pass, and to put their arms through 
to greet her, once more offering her bits of bread, bites 
of apple, cheese-rinds, and all screaming together: 

"Good-bye! good-bye! good-bye! Come back to- 
morrow! Come again!" 

As my mother made her escape, she passed her 
hand once more over those hundreds of tiny out- 
stretched hands as over a garland of living roses, and 
finally reached the street in safety, covered with 
crumbs and spots, rumpled and dishevelled, with one 
hand full of flowers and her eyes swelling with tears, 
and happy as though she had come from a festival. 
And inside there was still audible a sound like the 
twittering of birds, saying: 

"Good-bye! good-bye! Come again, lady!" 

GYMNASTICS 

Wednesday, 5th. 

As the weather stays fine, they have made us pass 
from indoor gymnastics to gymnastics with ap- 
paratus in the garden. 

Gar rone was in the principal's office yesterday when 
Nelli's mother, that blonde woman dressed in black, 
came in to get her son excused from the new exercises. 
Every word cost her an effort; and as she spoke, she 
held one hand on her son's head. 

"He is not able to do it," she said to the principal. 
But Nelli seemed hurt at this exclusion from the ap- 
paratus, at having this added humiliation imposed 
upon him. 



216 APRIL 

'You will see, mamma," he said, "that I shall do 
like the rest." 

His mother gazed at him in silence, with an air of 
pity and affection. Then she remarked, in a hesitat- 
ing way, T fear lest his companions ' 

What she meant to say was, "lest they should make 
sport of him." But Nelli replied : 

"They will not do anything to me and then, there 
is Garrone. It is enough for him to be present, to 
prevent their laughing." 

So he was allowed to come. The teacher with the 
wound on his neck, who was with Garibaldi, led us at 
once to the vertical bars, which are very high, and we 
had to climb to the very top, and stand upright on the 
cross plank. Derossi and Coretti went up like 
monkeys; even little Precossi mounted briskly, in spite 
of the fact that he was hindered by that jacket which 
extends to his knees ; and in order to make him laugh 
while he was climbing, all the boys repeated his con- 
stant expression, "Excuse me! excuse me!" Stardi 
puffed, turned as red as a turkey-cock, and set his teeth 
until he looked like a mad dog; but he would have 
reached the top at the expense of bursting, 
and he actually did get there; and so did Nobis, 
who, when he reached the summit, assumed the 
attitude of an emperor. But Votini slipped back 
twice, notwithstanding his fine new suit with blue 
stripes, which had been made expressly for gymnastics. 

In order to climb the more easily, all the boys had 
daubed their hands with resin, which they call colo- 
phony, and as a matter of course it is that trader of 
a Garoffi who provided every one with it, selling it at 



GYMNASTICS 217 

a soldo the paper hornful, and turning a pretty penny. 

Then it was Garrone's turn, and up he went, chew- 
ing away at his bread as though it were nothing out 
of the common; and I believe that he would have 
been capable of carrying one of us up on his shoulders, 
for he is as muscular and strong as a young bull. 

After Garrone came Nelli. No sooner did the boys 
see him grasp the bars with those long, thin hands of 
his, than many of them began to laugh and to sing; 
but Garrone crossed his great arms on his breast, and 
darted round a glance which was so expressive, which 
so clearly said that he did not mind dealing out half a 
dozen punches, even in the master's presence, that they 
all ceased laughing on the instant. Nelli began to 
climb. He tried hard, poor little fellow ; his face grew 
purple, he breathed with difficulty, and the perspira- 
tion poured from his brow. The master said, "Come 
down !" But he would not. He strove and persisted. 
I expected every moment to see him fall headlong, 
half dead. Poor Nelli! I thought, what if I had 
been like him, and my mother had seen me! How 
she would have suffered, poor mother! And as I 
thought of that I felt so tenderly towards Nelli that 
I could have given anything to help him climb those 
bars, or boost him from below without being seen. 

Meanwhile Garrone, Derossi, and Coretti were say- 
ing: "Up with you, Nelli, up with you!" Try 
one effort more courage!" And Nelli made one 
more violent effort, utering a groan as he did so, and 
found himself within two spans of the plank. 

"Bravo!" shouted the others. "Courage one dash 
more!" and behold! Nelli was clinging to the plank. 



218 APRIL 

All clapped their hands. "Bravo!" said the teacher. 
:< But that will do now. Come down." 

But Nelli wished to go to the top like the rest, and 
after a little exertion he succeeded in getting his el- 
bows on the plank, then his knees, then his feet; at 
last he stood upright, panting and smiling, and gazed 
at us. 

We began to clap again, and then he looked into the 
street. I turned in that direction, and through the 
plants which cover the iron railing of the garden I 
caught sight of his mother, passing along the sidewalk 
without daring to look. Nelli came down, and we all 
made much of him. He was excited and rosy, his eyes 
sparkled, and he no longer seemed like the same boy. 

At the close of school, when his mother came to meet 
him, and inquired with some anxiety, as she embraced 
him, "Well, my poor son, how did it go? how did it 
go?" all his comrades replied, "He did well he 
climbed like the rest of us he's strong, you know 
he's active he does exactly like the others." 

And the joy of that woman was a sight to see. She 
tried to thank us, and could not; she shook hands with 
three or four, patted Garrone, and carried off her son ; 
and we watched them for a while, walking fast, talk- 
ing and gesticulating, both perfectly happy, as though 
no one were looking at them. 

MY FATHER'S TEACHER 

Tuesday, nth. 

What a fine trip I took yesterday with my father! 
This is the way it came about. 



MY FATHER'S TEACHER 219 

Day before yesterday, at dinner, as my father was 
reading the newspaper, he suddenly gave an exclama- 
tion of surprise. Then he said: 

"And I thought him dead twenty years ago! Do 
you know that my old first elementary teacher, Vin- 
cenzo Crosetti, is eighty-four years old? I see here 
that the minister has conferred on him the medal of 
merit for sixty years of teaching. Sixty years, you 
understand ! And it is only two years since he stopped 
teaching school. Poor Crosetti ! He lives an hour's 
journey from here by rail, at Condove, in the country 
of our old gardener's wife, of the town of Chieri." 
And he added, "Enrico, we will go to see him." 

He talked of nothing but him the whole evening. 
The name of his primary teacher recalled to his mind 
a thousand things which had happened when he was a 
boy, his early companions, his dead mother. "Cro- 
setti !" he exclaimed. "He was forty when I was with 
him. I seem to see him now. He was a small man, 
somewhat bent even then, with bright eyes, and al- 
ways cleanly shaven. Severe, but in a good way ; for 
he loved us like a father, and forgave us more than 
one offence. He had risen from a peasant by virtue 
of study and privations. He was a fine man. My 
mother was attached to him, and my father treated 
him like a friend. How comes it that he has gone to 
end his days at Condove, near Turin? He certainly 
will not know me. Never mind; I shall know him. 
Forty-four years have elapsed, forty-four years, En- 
rico! and we will go to see him to-morrow." 

So yesterday morning, at nine o'clock, we were at 
the Susa railway station. I should have liked to have 



220 APRIL 

Garrone come too; but he could not, because his 
mother is ill. 

It was a beautiful spring day. The train ran 
through green fields and hedgerows in blossom, and 
the air we breathed was perfumed. My father was 
delighted, and every little while he would put his arm 
round my neck and talk to me like a friend, as he 
gazed out over the country. 

"Poor Crosetti!" he said; "he was the first man, 
after my father, to love me and do me good. I have 
never forgotten certain of his good counsels, and also 
certain sharp reprimands which caused me to go home 
with a lump in my throat. His hands were large 
and stubby. I can see him now, as he used to enter 
the schoolroom, place his cane in a corner and hang 
his coat on the peg, always with the same gesture. 
And every day he was in the same humor, always 
conscientious, full of good will, and attentive, as 
though each day he were teaching school for the first 
time. I remember him as well as though I heard him 
now when he called to me : 'Bottini ! eh, Bottini ! The 
fore and middle fingers on that pen!' He must have 
changed greatly in these four and forty years." 

As soon as we reached Condove, we went in search 
of our old gardener's wife of Chieri, who keeps a 
stall in an alley. We found her with her boys : she 
made much of us and gave us news of her husband, 
who is soon to return from Greece, where he has been 
working these three years ; and of her eldest daughter, 
who is in the Deaf-mute Institute in Turin. Then 
she pointed out to us the street which led to the 
teacher's house for every one knows him. 



MY FATHER'S TEACHER 221 

We left the town, and turned into a steep lane 
flanked by blossoming hedges. 

My father no longer talked, but appeared entirely 
lost in his reminiscences; and every now and then he 
smiled, and shook his head. 

Suddenly he halted and said: "Here he is. I will 
wager that this is he." Down the lane towards us a 
little old man with a white beard and a large hat came, 
leaning on a cane. He dragged his feet along, and his 
hands trembled. 

"It is he!" repeated my father, hastening his steps. 

When we were close to him, we stopped. The old 
man stopped also and looked at my father. His face 
was still fresh colored, and his eyes were clear and 
bright. 

"Are you," asked my father, raising his hat, "Vin- 
cenzo Crosetti, the schoolmaster?" 

The old man raised his hat also, and replied: "I 
am," in a voice that was somewhat tremulous, but 
full. 

. "Well, then," said my father, taking one of his 
hands, "permit one of your old scholars to shake your 
hand and to inquire how you are. I have come from 
Turin to see you." 

The old man stared at him in amazement. Then 
he said: "You do me much honor. I do not know 
when were you my scholar? Excuse me; your 
name, if you please." 

My father told his name, Alberto Bottini, and the 
year in which he had attended school, and where, and 
he added : "It is natural that you should not remember 
me. But I recall you perfectly!" 



222 APRIL 

The master bent his head and gazed at the ground 
in thought, and muttered my father's name three or 
four times; the latter, meanwhile, watched him with 
intent and smiling eyes. 

All at once the old man raised his face, with his 
eyes opened widely, and said slowly : "Alberto Bottini ? 
the son of Bottini, the engineer? the one who lived in 
the Piazza della Consolata?" 

"The same," replied my father, holding out his 
hands. 

"Then," said the old man, "permit me, my dear 
sir, permit me;" and advancing, he embraced my 
father : his white head hardly reached the latter s 
shoulder. My father pressed his cheek to his brow. 

"Have the goodness to come with me," said the 
teacher. And without speaking any further he turned 
about and took the road to his dwelling. 

In a few minutes we arrived at a garden plot in 
front of a tiny house with two doors, round one of 
which there was a fragment of whitewashed wall. 

The teacher opened the second and ushered us into 
a room. There were four white walls : in one corner 
a cot bed with a blue-and-white checked coverlet; in 
another, a small table with a little library ; four chairs, 
and an old map nailed to the wall. A pleasant odor 
of apples was noticeable. 

We seated ourselves, all three. My father and his 
teacher were silent for several minutes. 

"Bottini!" exclaimed the master at length, fixing 
his eyes on the brick floor where the sunlight formed 
a checker-board. "Oh ! I remember well ! Your 
mother was such a good woman ! For a while, during 



MY FATHER'S TEACHER 223 

your first year, you sat on a bench to the left near the 
window. Let us see whether I do not recall it. I can 
still see your curly head." Then he thought for a while 
longer. "You were a lively lad, eh? Very. The 
second year you had an attack of croup. I remember 
when they brought you back to school, thin and 
wrapped up in a shawl. Forty years have gone by 
since then, have they not? You are very kind to 
remember your poor teacher. And do you know, 
others of my old pupils have come hither in years 
gone by to seek me out : there was a colonel, and there 
were some priests, and several gentlemen." He asked 
my father what his profession was. Then he said, 
"I am glad, heartily glad. I thank you. It is quite 
a while now since I have seen any one. I very much 
fear that you will be the last, my dear sir." 

"Don't say that," exclaimed my father. 'You are 
well and still vigorous. You must not say that." 

"Eh, no!" replied the master; " do you see this 
trembling?" and he showed us his hands. 'This is a 
bad sign. It seized on me three years ago, while I 
was still teaching school. At first I paid no attention 
to it; I thought it would pass off. But instead of that, 
it stayed and kept on increasing. A day came when 
I could no longer write. Ah! that day on which I, 
for the first time, made a blot on the copy-book of one 
of my scholars was a stab in the heart for me, my 
dear sir. I did drag on for a while longer ; but I was 
at the end of my strength. After sixty years of 
teaching I was forced to bid farewell to my school, to 
my scholars, to work. And it was hard, you under- 
stand, hard. The last time that I gave a lesson, all 



224 APRIL 

the scholars accompanied me home, and made much 
of me; but I was sad; I understood that my life was 
finished. I had lost my wife the year before, and my 
only son. I had only two peasant grandchildren left. 
Now I am living on a pension of a few hundred lire. 
I no longer do anything; it seems to me as though the 
days would never come to an end. My only occupa- 
tion, you see, is to turn over my old schoolbooks, my 
scholastic journals, and a few volumes that have been 
given to me. There they are," he said, indicating his 
little library; "there are my memories, my whole past; 
I have nothing else left to me in the world." 

Then in a tone that was suddenly joyous, "I want 
to give you a surprise, my dear Signor Bottini." 

He rose, and approaching his desk, he opened a 
long casket holding numerous little parcels, all tied 
up with a slender cord, and each bearing a date in 
four figures. 

After a little search, he opened one, turned over 
several papers, drew forth a yellowed sheet, and 
handed it to my father. It was some of his school 
work of forty years before. 

At the top was written, Alberto Bottini, Dictation, 
April 3, 1838. My father instantly recognized his 
own large, schoolboy hand, and began to read it with 
a smile. But all at once his eyes grew moist. I rose 
and inquired the cause. 

He drew one arm around my body, and pressing me 
to his side, he said : "Look at this sheet of paper. Do 
you see? These are the corrections made by my poor 
mother. She always strengthened my I's and my 's. 



MY FATHER'S TEACHER 225 

And the last lines are entirely hers. She had learned 
to imitate my letters ; and when I was tired and sleepy, 
she finished my work for me. My sainted mother!" 

And he kissed the page. 

"See here," said the teacher, showing him the other 
packages; "these are my mementoes. Each year I 
laid aside one piece of work of each of my pupils; and 
they are all here, dated and arranged in order. Every 
time that I open them thus, and read a line here and 
there, a thousand things recur to my mind, and I seem 
to be living once more in the days that are past. How 
many of them have passed, my dear sir ! I close my 
eyes, and I see behind me face after face, class after 
class, hundreds and hundreds of boys, and who knows 
how many of them are already dead! Many of them 
I remember well. I recall distinctly the best and the 
worst: those who gave me the greatest pleasure, and 
those who caused me to pass sorrowful moments; for 
I have had serpents, too, among that vast number! 
But now, you understand, it is as though I were al- 
ready in the other world, and I love them all equally." 

He sat down again, and took one of my hands in 
his. 

"And tell me," my father said, with a smile, "do 
you recall any of my roguish tricks?' 1 

"Of yours, sir?" replied the old man, also with a 
smile. "No; not just at this moment. But that does 
not in the least mean that you never played any. 
However, you had good judgment; you were serious 
for your age. I remember your mother's great love 
for you. But it is very kind and courteous of you to 



226 APRIL 

have come to seek me out. How could you leave 
your business, to come and see a poor old school- 
master?'' 

''Listen, Signor Crosetti," responded my father with 
vivacity. "I recollect the first time that my poor 
mother accompanied me to school. It was to be her 
first parting- from me for two hours; of letting me 
out of the house alone, in other hands than my fath- 
er's; in the hands of a stranger, in short. To this 
good creature my entrance into school was like my 
entrance into the world, the first of a long series of 
necessary and painful separations; it was society 
which was tearing her son from her for the first time, 
never again to return him to her entirely. She was 
much affected; so was I. I bade her farewell with a 
trembling voice, and then, as she went away, I saluted 
her once more through the glass in the door, with my 
eyes full of tears. And just at that point you made 
a gesture with one hand, laying the other on your 
breast, as though to say, 'Trust me, madam.' Well, 
the gesture, the glance, from which I saw that you 
had understood all the feelings, all the thoughts of my 
mother ; that look which seemed to say, 'Courage !' that 
gesture which was an honest promise of protection, of 
affection, of indulgence, I have never forgotten ; it has 
remained forever engraved on my heart; and it is that 
memory which induced me to set out from Turin. 
And here I am, after the lapse of four and forty years, 
for the purpose of saying to you, 'I thank you, my 
dear teacher.' 

The master did not reply; he stroked my hair with 
his hand, and his hand shook, and glided from my hair 



MY FATHER'S TEACHER 227 

to my forehead, from my forehead to my shoulder. 

In the meantime, my father was noticing the bare 
walls, the wretched bed, the morsel of bread and the 
little phial of oil which lay on the window-sill ; and he 
seemed desirous of saying, "Poor master! after sixty 
years of teaching, is this all your reward?" 

But the good old man was content, and began once 
more to talk gayly of our family, of the other teachers 
of that day, and of my father's schoolmates; some of 
them he remembered, and some of them he did not. 
And each told the other news of this one or of that one. 
When my father interrupted the conversation, to beg 
the old man to come down into town and lunch with 
us, he replied effusively, "I thank you, I thank you," but 
he seemed undecided. My father took him by both 
hands, and insisted. 

"But how should I manage to eat," said the master, 
"with these poor hands which shake in this way? It 
is a penance for others also." 

"We will help you, master," said my father. And 
then he accepted, as he shook his head and smiled. 

"This is a beautiful day," he said, as he closed the 
outer door, "a beautiful day, dear Signor Bottini! 
I assure you that I shall remember it as long as I 
live." 

My father gave one arm to the master, and the 
latter took me by the hand, and we walked down the 
lane. We met two little barefooted girls leading some 
cows, and a boy who passed us on a run, with a huge 
load of straw on his shoulders. The master told us 
that they were scholars of the second grade; that in the 
morning they led the cattle to pasture, and worked in 



228 APRIL 

the fields barefoot; and in the afternoon they put on 
their shoes and went to school. It was nearly mid- 
day. We met no one else. In a few minutes we 
reached the inn, seated ourselves at a large table, with 
the master between us, and began our lunch. The 
inn w r as silent as a convent. The teacher was very 
merry, and his excitement increased his palsy : he could 
hardly eat. But my father cut up his meat, broke his 
bread, and put salt on his plate. In order to drink, 
he was obliged to hold the glass with both hands, and 
even then he struck his teeth. But he talked 
constantly, and with ardor, of the reading-books of 
his young days; of schools of the present day; of the 
praises bestowed on him by his superiors; of the rules 
of late years: and all with that serene countenance, a 
trifle redder than at first, and with that gay voice of his, 
and that laugh which was almost the laugh of a young 
man. And my father gazed and gazed at him, with 
that same expression with which I sometimes catch 
him looking at me, at home, when he is thinking and 
smiling to himself, with his face turned aside. 

The teacher let some wine trickle down on his 
breast ; my father rose, and wiped it off with his nap- 
kin. "No, sir; I cannot permit this," the old man 
said, and smiled. He said some words in Latin. 
And, finally, he raised his glass, which wavered about 
in his hand, and said very gravely. "To your 
health, my dear signer, to that of your children, to the 
memory of your good mother!" 

"To yours, my good master!" replied my father, 
pressing his hand. And at the end of the room stood 
the innkeeper and several others, watching us, and 



MY FATHER'S TEACHER 229 

smiling as though they were pleased at this attention 
which was being shown to the teacher from their parts. 

At a little after two o'clock we came out, and the 
teacher wanted to escort us to the station. My father 
gave him his arm once more, and he again took me 
by the hand: I carried his cane for him. The people 
paused to look on, for they all knew him : some saluted 
him. At one point in the street we heard, through an 
open window, many boys' voices, reading together, and 
spelling. The old man halted, and seemed to be sad- 
dened by it. 

"This, my dear Signor Bottini," he said, "is what 
pains me. To hear the voices of boys in school, and 
not to be there any more ; to think that another man is 
there. I have heard that music for sixty years, and 
I have grown to love it. Now I am deprived of my 
family. I have no sons." 

"No, master," my father said to him, starting on 
again; "you still have many sons, scattered about the 
world, who remember you, as I have always remem- 
bered you." 

"No, no," replied the master sadly; "I no longer 
have a school; I no longer have any sons. And with- 
out sons, I shall not live much longer. My hour will 
soon strike." 

"Do not say that, master; do not think it," said my 
father. "You have done so much good in every way ! 
You have put your life to such a noble use!" 

The aged teacher bent his hoary head for an instant 
on my father's shoulder, and pressed my hand. 

We entered the station. The train was on the point 
of starting. 



230 APRIL 

"Farewell, master!" said my father, kissing him on 
both cheeks. 

"Farewell! thanks! farewell!" replied the master, 
taking one of my father's hands in his two trembling 
hands, and pressing it to his heart. 

Then I kissed him and felt that his face was bathed 
in tears. My father pushed me into the railway 
carriage, and at the moment of starting he quickly re- 
moved the coarse cane from the schoolmaster's hand, 
and in its place he put his own handsome one, with a 
silver handle and his initials, saying, "Keep it in 
memory of me." 

The old man tried to return it and to recover his own ; 
but my father was already inside and had closed the 
door. 

"Farewell, my kind master!" 

"Farewell, my son!" responded the teacher as the 
train moved off; "and may God bless you for the 
consolation which you have afforded to a poor old 
man!" 

"Until we meet again!" cried my father, in a voice 
full of emotion. 

But the teacher shook his head, as much as to say, 
"We shall never see each other more." 

"Yes, yes," repeated my father, "until we meet 
again!" 

And the other replied by raising his trembling hand 
to heaven, "Up there !" 

And thus he disappeared from our sight, with his 
hand on high. 



CONVALESCENCE 231 



CONVALESCENCE 

Thursday, 2Oth. 

Who could have told me, when I returned from that 
delightful trip with my father, that for ten days I 
should not see the country or the sky again? I have 
been very ill in danger of my life. I have heard 
my mother sobbing I have seen my father very, very 
pale, gazing intently at me; and my sister Sylvia and 
my brother talking in a low voice ; and the doctor, with 
his spectacles, who was there every moment, and who 
said things to me that I did not understand. In truth, 
I have been on the verge of saying a final farewell to 
every one. Ah, my poor mother! I passed three or 
four days at least, of which I recollect almost nothing, 
as though I had been in a dark and perplexing dream. 
I thought I beheld at my bedside my kind schoolmistress 
of the upper primary, who was trying to stifle her 
cough in her handkerchief in order not to disturb me. 
In the same manner I confusedly recall my teacher, 
who bent over to kiss me, and who pricked my face a 
little with his beard; and I saw, as in a mist, the red 
head of Crossi, the golden curls of Derossi, the Cala- 
brian clad in black, all pass by, and Garrone, who 
brought me a mandarin orange with its leaves, and ran 
away in haste because his mother is ill. 

Then I awoke as from a very long dream, and under- 
stood that I was better from seeing my father and 
mother smiling, and hearing Sylvia singing softly. 
Oh, what a sad dream it was! Then I began to im- 
prove every day. The "little mason" came and made 



232 APRIL 

me laugh once more for the first time, with his hare's 
face; and how well he does it, now that his face is 
somewhat lengthened through illness, poor fellow! 
And Coretti came. And Garoffi came to present me 
with two tickets in his new lottery of "a penknife with 
five surprises/' which he purchased of a second-hand 
dealer in the Via Bertola. Then, yesterday, while I 
was asleep, Precossi came and laid his cheek on my 
hand without waking me; and as he came from his 
father's workshop, with his face covered with coal 
dust, he left a black print on my sleeve, the sight of 
which caused me great pleasure when I awoke. 

How green the trees have become in these few days ! 
And how I envy the boys whom I see running to school 
with their books when my father carries me to the 
window! But I shall go back there soon myself. I 
am so impatient to see all the boys once more, and my 
seat, the garden, the streets ; to know all that has taken 
place during the interval ; to apply myself to my books 
again, and to my copy-books, which I seem not to have 
seen for a year! 

How pale and thin my poor mother has grown! 
Poor father! how weary he looks! And my kind 
companions who came to see me and walked on tiptoe 
and kissed my brow ! It makes me sad, even now, to 
think that one day we must part. Perhaps I shall 
continue my studies with Derossi and with some others ; 
but how about all the rest? When the fourth grade 
is once finished, then good-bye! we shall never see 
each other again : I shall never see them again at my 
bedside when I am ill, Garrone, Precossi, Coretti, who 



FRIENDS AMONG WORKINGMEN 233 

are such fine boys and kind and dear comrades, never 
more! 

FRIENDS AMONG THE WORKINGMEN 

Thursday, 2Oth. 

Why "never more," Enrico? That will depend on 
yourself. When you have finished the fourth grade, you 
will go to the High School, and they will become work- 
ingmen; but you will remain in the same city for many 
years, perhaps. Why, then, will you never meet again? 
When you are in the University of the Lyceum, you will 
seek them out in their shops or their workrooms, and it 
will be a great pleasure for you to meet the companions 
of your youth once more, as men at work. 

I should wonder to see you neglecting to look up 
Coretti or Precossi, wherever they may be! And you 
will go to them, and you will pass hours in their company, 
and you will see, when you come to study life and the 
world, how many things you can learn from them, which 
no one else is capable of teaching you, both about their 
arts and their society and your own country. And have 
a care; for if you do not preserve these friendships, it 
will be extremely difficult for you to acquire other similar 
ones in the future, friendships, I mean to say, outside 
of the class to which you belong; and thus you will live 
in one class only; and the man who associates with but 
one social class is like the student who reads but one 
book. 

Let it be your firm resolve, then, from this day forth, 
that you will keep these good friends even after you shall 
be separated, and from this time forth, cultivate precisely 
these by preference because they are the sons of work- 



234 APRIL 

ingmen. You see, men of the upper classes are the of- 
ficers, and men of the lower classes are the soldiers of toil ; 
and thus in society as in the army, not only is the soldier 
no less noble than the officer, since nobility consists in 
work and not in wages, in valor and not in rank ; but if 
there is also a superiority of merit, it is on the side of the 
soldier, of the workmen, who draw the lesser profit from 
the work. 

Therefore love and respect above all others, among 
your companions, the sons of the soldiers of labor ; honor 
in them the toil and the sacrifices of their parents; dis- 
regard the differences of fortune and of class, upon which 
the base alone regulate their sentiments and courtesy; 
reflect that from the veins of laborers in the shops and 
in the country issued nearly all that blessed blood which 
has redeemed your country; love Garrone, love Coretti, 
love Precossi, love your "little mason," who, in their little 
workingmen's breasts, possess the hearts of princes; and 
take an oath to yourself that no change of fortune shall 
ever wipe out these friendships of childhood from your 
soul. Swear to yourself that forty years hence, if, while 
passing through a railway station, you recognize your old 
Garrone in the garments of an engineer, with a black 
face, ah! I cannot think what to tell you to swear. I 
am sure that you will jump upon the engine and fling 
your arms round his neck, though you were even a sen- 
ator of the kingdom. 

YOUR FATHER. 

GARRONE'S MOTHER 

Saturday, 29th. 

On my return to school, the first thing I heard was 
some bad news. Garrone had not been there for 



GARRONE'S MOTHER 235 

several days because his mother was seriously ill. She 
died on Saturday. Yesterday morning, as soon as 
we came into school, the teacher said to us : 

"The greatest misfortune that can happen to a boy 
has happened to poor Garrone : his mother is dead. 
He will return to school tO'-morrow. I beseech you, 
boys, respect the terrible sorrow that is now rending 
his soul. When he enters, greet him with affection, 
and gravely; let no one jest, let no one laugh at him, 
I beg of you." 

And this morning poor Garrone came in, a little 
later than the rest; I felt a blow at my heart at the 
sight of him. His face was haggard, his eyes were 
red, and he was unsteady on his feet; it seemed as 
though he had been ill for a month. I hardly rec- 
ognized him; he was dressed all in black; he aroused 
our pity. No one even breathed; all gazed at him. 
No sooner had he entered than at the first sight of that 
schoolroom whither his mother had come to get him 
nearly every day, of that bench over which she had 
bent on so many examination days to give him a last 
bit of advice, and where he had so many times thought 
of her, in his impatience to run? out and meet her, he 
burst into a desperate fit of weeping. The teacher 
drew him aside to his own place, and pressed him to 
his breast, and said to him : 

"Weep, weep, my poor boy but take courage. 
Your mother is no longer here; but she sees you, she 
still loves you, she still lives by your side, and one 
day you will behold her once again, for you have a 
good and noble soul like her own. Take courage !" 

Having said this, he accompanied him to the bench 



236 APRIL 

near me. I dared not look at him. He drew out his 
copy-books and his books, which he had not opened 
for many days, and as he opened the reading-book at 
a place where there was a cut representing a mother 
leading her son by the hand, he burst out crying again, 
and laid his head on his arm. The master made us a 
sign to leave him thus, and began the lesson. I should 
have liked to say something to him, but I did not know 
what. I laid one hand on his arm, and whispered in 
his ear: 

"Don't cry, Garrone." 

He made no reply, and without raising his head from 
the bench he laid his hand on mine and kept it there 
a while. At the close of school, no one spoke to him; 
all hovered round him respectfully, and in silence. I 
saw my mother waiting for me, and ran to embrace 
her ; but she held me back, and gazed at Garrone. For 
the moment I could not understand why; but then I 
saw that Garrone was standing apart by himself and 
looking at me ; and he had a look of indescribable sad- 
ness, which seemed to say : "You are embracing your 
mother, and I shall never embrace mine again! You 
still have a mother, and mine is dead!" And then I 
knew why my mother had thrust me back, and I went 
out without taking her hand. 

GIUSEPPE MAZZINI 

Saturday, 29th. 

This morning, also, Garrone came to school with 
a pale face and his eyes swollen with weeping, and he 



" ' GIUSEPPE M AZZINI 237 

hardly cast a glance at the little gifts which we had 
placed on his desk to console him. But the teacher 
had brought a page from a book to read to him, in 
order to encourage him. He first informed us that 
we are to go to-morrow at one o'clock to the town- 
hall to witness the award of the medal for civic valor 
to a boy who has saved a little child from the Po, and 
that on Monday he will dictate the description of the 
festival to us instead of the monthly story. Then 
turning to Garrone, who was standing with drooping 
head, he said to him: 

"Make an effort, Garrone, and write down what I 
dictate to you as well as the rest." 

We all took our pens, and the teacher dictated. 

"Giuseppe Mazzini was born in Genoa in 1805 and 
died in Pisa in 1872, a grand, patriotic soul, the mind 
of a great writer, the first inspirer and apostle of the 
Italian Revolution; who, out of love for his country, 
lived for forty years poor, exiled, persecuted, a fugitive 
heroically steadfast in his principles and in his 
resolutions. Giuseppe Mazzini, who adored his 
mother, and who derived from her all that there was 
noblest and purest in her strong and gentle soul, wrote 
as follows to a faithful friend of his, to console him 
in the greatest of misfortunes. These are almost his 
exact words : 

" 'My friend, you will never more behold your 
mother on this earth. That is the terrible truth. I 
do not attempt to see you, because yours is one of those 
solemn and sacred sorrows which each must suffer 
and conquer for himself. Do you understand what 



238 APRIL 

I mean to convey by the words, One must conquer 
sorrow conquer the least sacred, the least purifying 
part of sorrow, that which, instead of rendering the 
soul better, weakens and debases it? But the other 
part of sorrow, the noble part that which enlarges 
and elevates the soul that must remain and never 
leave you more. Nothing here below can take the 
place of a good mother. In griefs, in the consolations 
which life may still bring you, you will never forget 
her. But you must recall her, love her, mourn her 
death, in a manner which is worthy of her. 

" 'O my friend, hearken to me ! Death exists not ; 
it is nothing. It cannot even be understood. Life is 
life, and it follows the law of life progress. Yes- 
terday you had a mother on earth ; to-day you have an 
angel elsewhere. All that is good will survive the life 
of the earth with increased power. Hence, also, the 
love of your mother. She loves you now more than 
ever. And you are responsible for your actions to 
her more, even, than before. It depends upon you, 
upon your actions, to meet her once more, to see her 
in another existence. You must, therefore, out of love 
and reverence for your mother, grow better and cause 
her to joy for you. Henceforth you must say at 
every act, "Would my mother approve this?" Her 
transformation has placed a guardian angel in the 
world for you, to whom you must refer in all your 
affairs, in everything that pertains to you. Be strong 
and brave; fight against desperate and vulgar grief; 
have the tranquillity of great suffering in great souls; 
and that is what she would have. 1 : 

"Garrone," added the teacher, "be strong and Iran- 



CIVIC VALOR 239 

quit, for that is what she would have. Do you under- 
stand ?" 

Garrone nodded assent, while great and fast-flow- 
ing tears streamed over his hands, his copy-book, and 
his desk. 



CIVIC VALOR 

(Monthly Story.) 

At one o'clock we went with our schoolmaster to 
the front of the town-hall, to see the medal for civic 
valor bestowed on the lad who had saved one of his 
comrades from the Po. 

On the front terrace waved a huge tricolored flag. 

We entered the courtyard of the palace. 

It was already full of people. At the further end 
of it was visible a table with a red cover, and papers on 
it, and behind it a row of gilded chairs for the mayor 
and the council; the ushers of the municipality were 
there, with their under-waistcoats of sky-blue and 
their white stockings. To the right of the courtyard 
a detachment of policemen, who had a great many 
medals, was drawn up in line ; and beside them a detach- 
ment of custom-house officers; on the other side were 
the firemen in festive array ; and numerous soldiers not 
in line, who had come to look on, cavalry-men, sharp- 
shooters, artillery-men. Then all around were gentle- 
men, country people, and some officers and women and 
boys who had assembled. 

We crowded into a corner where many scholars from 
other buildings were already collected with their 



240 APRIL 

teachers. Near us was a group of boys, between ten 
and eighteen years of age, belonging to the common 
people, who were talking and laughing loudly; and 
we made out that they were all from Borgo Po, com- 
rades or acquaintances of the boy who was to receive 
the medal. Above, all the windows were thronged 
with the employees of the city government; the bal- 
cony of the library was also filled with people, who 
pressed against the balustrade; and in the one on the 
opposite side, which is over the entrance gate, stood 
a crowd of girls from the public schools, and many 
Daughters of Soldiers, with their pretty blue veils. It 
looked like a theatre. All were talking merrily, glanc- 
ing every now and then at the red table, to see whether 
any one had made his appearance. A band of music 
was playing softly at the end of the portico. The sun 
beat down on the lofty walls. It was beautiful. 

All at once every one began to clap their hands, from 
the courtyard, from the balconies, from the windows. 

I raised myself on tiptoe to look. 

The crowd which stood behind the red table had 
parted, and a man and woman had come forward. 
The man was leading a boy by the hand. 

This was the lad who had saved his comrade. 

The man was his father, a mason, dressed in his 
best. The woman, his mother, small and blonde, had 
on a black gown. The boy, also small and blonde, had 
on a gray jacket. 

At the sight of all those people, and at the sound of 
that thunder of applause, all three stood still, not daring 
to look or move. A municipal usher pushed them 
along to the side of the table on the right. 



CIVIC VALOR 241 

All remained quiet for a moment, and then once 
more the applause broke out on all sides. The boy 
glanced up at the windows, and then at the balcony 
with the Daughters of Soldiers; he held his cap in his 
hand, and did not seem to understand very thoroughly 
where he was. It struck me that he looked a little like 
Coretti, in the face; but he was redder. His father 
and mother kept their eyes fixed on the table. 

In the meantime, all the boys from Borgo Po who 
were near us were making motions to their comrade, 
to attract his attention, and hailing him in a low tone : 
"Pin! Pin! Pinot!" At last they made themselves 
heard. The boy glanced at them, and hid his smile 
behind his cap. 

At a certain moment the guards drew themselves 
up to attention. The mayor entered, accompanied by 
numerous gentlemen. The mayor, all white, with a 
big tricolored scarf, placed himself beside the table, 
standing; all the others took their places behind and 
beside him. 

The band ceased playing; the mayor made a sign, 
and every one grew quiet. 

He began to speak. I did not understand the first 
words perfectly; but I gathered that he was telling the 
story of the boy's feat. Then he raised his voice, and 
it rang out so clear and sonorous through the whole 
court, that I did not lose another word: "When he 
saw, from the shore, his comrade struggling in the 
river, already overcome with fear of death, he tore the 
clothes from his back, and hastened to his assistance, 
without hesitating an instant. They shouted to him, 
'You will be drowned!' he made no reply; they 



242 APRIL 

caught hold of him he freed himself; they called 
him by name he was already in the water. The river 
was swollen; the risk terrible, even for a man. But 
he flung himself to meet death with all the strength 
of his little body and his great heart ; he reached the 
unfortunate fellow and seized him just in time, when 
he was already under water, and dragged him to the 
surface; he fought furiously with the waves, which 
strove to overwhelm him, with his companion who 
tried to cling to him ; and several times he disappeared 
beneath the water, and rose again with a desperate 
effort, obstinate, invincible in his purpose, not like 
a boy who was trying to save another boy, but like a 
man, like a father who is struggling to save his son, 
who is his hope and his life. In short, God did not 
permit so generous a prowess to be displayed in vain. 
The child swimmer tore the victim from the gigantic 
river, and brought him to land, and with the assistance 
of others, rendered him his first succor; after which he 
returned home quietly and alone, and ingenuously 
narrated his deed. 

"Gentlemen, beautiful, and worthy of veneration is 
heroism in a man ! But in a child, in whom there can 
be no prompting of ambition or of profit whatever; in 
a child, who must have all the more ardor in proportion 
as he has less strength; in a child, from whom we re- 
quire nothing, who is bound to nothing, who already 
appears to us so noble and lovable, not when he acts, 
but when he merely understands, and is grateful for 
the sacrifices of others ; in a child, heroism is divine ! 
I will say nothing more, gentlemen. I do not care to 
deck, with superfluous praises, such simple grandeur. 



CIVIC VALOR 243 

Here before you stands the noble and valorous rescuer. 
Soldiers, greet him as a brother; mothers, bless 
him like a son; children, remember his name, 
engrave on your minds his visage, that it may never- 
more be erased from your memories and from your 
hearts. Approach, my boy. In the name of the king 
of Italy, I give you the medal for civic valor." 

An extremely loud hurrah, uttered at the same 
moment by many voices, made the palace ring. 

The mayor took the medal from the table, and 
fastened it on the boy's breast. Then he embraced 
and kissed him. The mother placed one hand over 
her eyes ; the father held his chin on his breast. 

The mayor shook hands with both; and taking the 
decree of decoration, which was bound with a ribbon, 
he handed it to the woman. 

Then he turned to the boy again, and said: "May 
the memory of this day, which is such a glorious one 
for you, such a happy one for your father and mother, 
keep you all your life in the path of virtue and honor! 
Farewell !" 

The mayor withdrew, the band struck up, and every- 
thing seemed to be at an end, when the detachment of 
firemen opened, and a lad of eight or nine years, pushed 
forwards by a woman who instantly concealed herself, 
rushed towards the boy with the decoration, and flung 
himself in his arms. 

Another outburst of hurrahs and applause made the 
courtyard echo; every one had instantly understood 
that this was the boy who had been saved from the Po, 
and who had come to thank his rescuer. After kissing 
him, he clung to one arm, in order to accompany him 



244 APRIL 

out. These two, with the father and mother following 
behind, took their way towards the door, making a 
path with difficulty among the people who formed in 
line to let them pass, policemen, boys, soldiers, 
women, all mingled together in confusion. All 
pressed forwards and raised on tiptoe to see the boy. 
Those who stood near him as he passed, touched his 
hand. When he passed before the schoolboys, they 
all waved their caps in the air. Those from Borgo 
Po made a great uproar, pulling him by the arms and 
by his jacket and shouting, "Pin! hurrah for Pin! 
bravo, Pinot!" I saw him as he passed very close to 
me. His face was all aflame and happy ; his medal had 
a red, white, and green ribbon. His mother was cry- 
ing and smiling; his father was twirling his moustache 
with one hand, which quivered violently, as though he 
had a fever. And from the windows and the balconies 
the people continued to lean out and applaud. 

All at once, when they were on the point of entering 
the portico, there fell from the balcony of the 
Daughters of Soldiers a veritable shower of pansies, 
of bunches of violets and daisies, which dropped upon 
the head of the boy, and of his father and mother, and 
scattered over the ground. Many people stooped to 
pick them up and hand them to the mother. And the 
band at the further end of the courtyard played, very, 
very softly, a most entrancing air, which seemed like 
a song by a great many silvery voices fading slowly 
into the distance on the banks of a river. 



MAY 

CHILDREN WITH THE RICKETS 

Friday, 5th. 

TO-DAY I took a vacation, because I was not well, 
and my mother took me to the Institution for Children 
with the Rickets, whither she went to recommend a 
child belonging to our porter ; but she did not allow me 
to go into the school. 

Did you not understand, Enrico, why I did not permit 
you to enter? It was in order not to place before the 
eyes of those unfortunates, there in the midst of the 
school, as though on exhibition, a strong, healthy boy: 
they have already but too many opportunities for making 
painful comparisons. What a sad thing! Tears rushed 
from my heart when I went in. There were sixty of 
them, boys and girls. Poor tortured bones ! Poor hands, 
poor little shrivelled and distorted feet! Poor little 
deformed bodies! I found many charming faces, with 
eyes full of intelligence and affection. There was one 
little child's face with the pointed nose and sharp chin of 
an old woman ; but it wore a smile of celestial sweetness. 
Some, viewed from the front, are handsome, and appear 
to be without defects; but when they turn round they 
cast a weight upon your soul. The doctor was there, 
visiting them. He set them upright on their benches and 
pulled up their little garments, to feel their swollen stom- 
achs and enlarged joints; but they did not show the least 
shame, poor creatures ! It was evident that they were 

245 



246 MAY 

children who were used to being undressed, examined, 
turned round on all sides. And to think that they are 
now in the best stage of their malady, when they hardly 
suffer at all any more! But who can say what they 
suffered during the first stage, while their bodies were 
undergoing the process of deformation, when with the 
increase of their infirmity, they saw affection decrease 
around them, poor children! saw themselves left alone 
for hour after hour in a corner of the room or the court- 
yard, badly nourished, and at times scoffed at, or tor- 
mented for months by bandages and by useless orthopedic 
apparatus ! 

Now, however, thanks to care and good food and 
gymnastic exercises, many are improving. Their school- 
mistress makes them practise gymnastics. It was a 
pitiful sight to see them, at a certain command, extend 
all those bandaged legs under the benches, squeezed as 
they were between splints, knotty and deformed; limbs 
which should have been covered with kisses! Some 
could not rise from the bench, but remained there, with 
their heads resting on their arms, stroking their crutches 
with their hands ; others, on making the thrust with their 
arms, felt their breath fail them, and fell back on their 
seats, pale, but smiling to conceal their panting. 

Ah, Enrico ! you other children do not prize your good 
health, and it seems to you so small a thing to be well! 
I thought of the strong and thriving lads, whom their 
mothers carry about in triumph, proud of their beauty; 
and I could have clasped all those poor little heads, I 
could have pressed them to my heart, in despair ; I could 
have said, had I been alone, "I will never stir from here 
again; I wish to consecrate my life to you, to serve you, 
to be a mother to you all, to my last day." 

And in the meantime, they sang ; sang in peculiar, thin, 



SACRIFICE 247 

sweet, sad voices, which penetrated the soul. When their 
teacher praised them, they looked happy; and as she 
passed among the benches, they kissed her hands and 
wrists ; for they are very grateful for what is done for 
them, and very affectionate. These little angels have 
good minds, and study well, the teacher told me. The 
teacher is young and gentle, with a face full of kindness, 
but with a certain expression of sadness, like a reflection 
of the misfortunes which she caresses and comforts. 
Dear girl ! Among all the human creatures who earn 
their livelihood by fail, there is not one who earns it more 
holily than you ! 

YOUR MOTHER. 

SACRIFICE 

Tuesday, 9th. 

My mother is good, and my sister Sylvia is like her, 
and has a large and noble heart. Yesterday evening 
I was copying a part of the monthly story, From the 
Apennines to the Andes, which the teacher has given 
out to us all in small portions to copy, because it is so 
long, when Sylvia entered on tiptoe, and said to me 
hastily, and in a low voice : 

"Come to mamma with me. I heard her and papa 
talking together this morning: some affair has gone 
wrong with papa, and he was sad; mamma was en- 
couraging him. We are in difficulties do you under- 
stand? We have no more money. Papa said that 
it would be necessary to make sacrifices in order to 
recover himself. Now we must make sacrifices, too, 
must we not ? Are you ready to do it ? Well, I will 



1C 

t i ' 



248 MAY 

speak to mamma, and do you agree, and promise her 
on your honor that you will do everything that I shall 
say." 

So saying, she took me by the hand and led me to 
our mother, who was sewing, lost in thought. I 
sat down on one end of the sofa, Sylvia on the other, 
and she immediately began: 

"Listen, mamma, I have something to say to you. 
Both of us have something to say to you." Mamma 
stared at us in surprise, and Sylvia began: 
'Papa has no money, has he?" 
'What do you mean? 1 ' replied mamma, turning 
crimson. "Has he not indeed! What do you know 
about it? Who has told you?" 

"I know it," said Sylvia, resolutely. "Well, then, 
listen, mamma; we must make some sacrifices, too. 
You promised me a fan at the end of May, and Enrico 
was expecting his box of paints. We don't want any- 
thing now; we don't want to waste a soldo; we shall 
be just as well pleased, you know." 

Mamma tried to speak; but Sylvia said: "No; it 
must be this way. We have decided. And until 
papa has money again, we don't want any fruit or 
anything else ; broth will be enough for us, and we will 
eat bread in the morning for breakfast : so we shall 
spend less on the table, for we already spend too much. 
And we promise you that you will always find us 
perfectly contented. Is it not so, Enrico?" 
I replied that it was. 

"Always as contented," repeated Sylvia, closing 
mamma's mouth with one hand. "And if there are 
any other sacrifices to be made, either in the matter of 



THE FIRE 249 

clothing or anything else, we will make them gladly. 
We would even sell our presents. I would give up 
all my things, and serve you as your maid. We will 
not have anything done out of the house any more, I 
will work all day long with you, I will do everything 
you wish, I am ready for anything! for anything!" 
she exclaimed, throwing her arms around my mother's 
neck, "if papa and mamma can only be saved further 
troubles, if I can only see you both once more at ease, 
and in good spirits, as in former days, between your 
Sylvia and your Enrico, who love you so dearly, who 
would give their lives for you !" 

Ah! I have never seen my mother so happy as she 
was on hearing these words ; she never before kissed 
us on the brow in that way, weeping and laughing, 
and unable to speak. Then she assured Sylvia that she 
had not understood rightly; that we were not in the 
least reduced circumstances, as she imagined. And 
she thanked us a hundred times, and was cheerful all 
the evening, until my father came in, when she told 
him all about it. He did not open his mouth, poor 
father ! But this morning, as we sat at the table, I felt 
at once both a great pleasure and a great sadness : 
under my napkin I found my box of colors, and under 
hers, Sylvia found her fan. 

THE FIRE 

Thursday, nth. 

This morning I had finished copying my share of the 
story, From the Apennines to the Andes, and was seek- 
ing for a theme for the original composition which the 



250 MAY 

teacher had assigned us to write, when I heard an 
unusual talking on the stairs, and shortly after two 
firemen entered the house, and asked permission of 
my father to inspect the stoves and chimneys, because 
a chimney was on fire on the roof, and they could not 
tell to whom it belonged. 

My father said, 'Tray do so." And although we 
had no fire burning anywhere, they began to make the 
round of our apartments, and to lay their ears to the 
walls, to hear if the fire were roaring in the flues which 
run up to the other floors of the house. 

While they were going through the rooms, my father 
said to me, "Here is the theme for your composition, 
Enrico, the firemen. Try to write down what I am 
about to tell you. 

"I saw them at work two years ago, one evening, 
when I was coming out of the Balbo Theatre late at 
night. On entering the Via Roma* I saw an unusual 
light, and a crowd of people collecting. A house was 
on fire. Tongues of flame and clouds of smoke were 
bursting from the windows and the roof; men and 
women appeared at the windows and then disappeared, 
uttering shrieks of despair. There was a dense throng 
in front of the door. The crowd was shouting : 'They 
will be burned alive ! Help ! The firemen !' At that 
moment a carriage arrived, four firemen sprang out 
of it the first who had reached the town-hall and 
rushed into the house. They had already gone in 
when a horrible thing happened : a woman ran to a 
window of the third story, with a scream, clutched the 
balcony, climbed down it, and remained thus clinging, 
almost suspended in space, with her back outwards, 



THE FIRE 251 

bending beneath the flames, which flashed out from 
the room and almost licked her head. The crowd 
uttered a cry of horror. The firemen, who had been 
stopped on the second floor by mistake by the terrified 
lodgers, had already broken through a wall and into 
a room, when a hundred shouts gave them warning: 

" 'On the third floor! On the third floor!' 

"They flew to the third floor. There they found 
an infernal uproar, beams from the roof crashing 
in, corridors filled with a suffocating smoke. In order 
to reach the rooms where the lodgers were imprisoned, 
there was no other way left but to pass over the roof. 
They instantly sprang upon it, and a moment later 
something which resembled a black phantom appeared 
on the tiles, in the midst of the smoke. It was the 
corporal of the firemen, who had been the first to 
arrive. But in order to get from the roof to the small 
set of rooms cut off by the fire, he was forced to pass 
over an extremely narrow space between a dormer 
window and the eaves-trough. All the rest was in 
flames, and that tiny space was covered with snow and 
ice, and there was no place to hold on. 

" Tt is impossible for him to pass !' shouted the 
crowd below. 

"The corporal advanced along the edge of the roof. 
All shuddered, and began to observe him with bated 
breath. He passed. A tremendous hurrah rose to- 
wards heaven. The corporal resumed his way, 
and on arriving at the point which was threatened, 
be began to break away, with furious blows of his axe, 
beams, tiles, and rafters, in order to open a hole 
through which to descend into the house. 



252 MAY 

"Meanwhile, the woman was hanging outside the 
window. The fire raged with increased violence over 
her head; another moment, and she would have fallen 
into the street. 

"The hole was opened. We saw the corporal pull 
off his shoulder-belt and lower himself inside: the 
other firemen, who had arrived, followed. 

"At that instant a very lofty Porta ladder, which 
had just arrived, was placed against the house, in front 
of the windows whence issued flames, and maniacal 
howls. But it seemed as though they were too late. 

" 'No one can be saved now !' they shouted. 'The 
firemen are burning! The end has come! They are 
dead !' 

"All at once the black form of the corporal came in 
sight at the window with the balcony, lighted up by the 
flames overhead. The woman clasped him round the 
neck ; he caught her with both arms, drew her up, and 
laid her down inside the room. 

"The crowd set up a shout a thousand voices strong, 
which rose above the roar of the conflagration. 

"But the others? And how were they to get down? 
The ladder which leaned against the roof on the front 
of another window was at a good distance from them. 
How could they get hold of it? 

"While the people were saying this to themselves, 
one of the firemen stepped out of the window, set his 
right foot on the window-sill and his left on the ladder; 
standing thus upright in the air, he grasped the lodgers, 
one after the other, as the other men handed them 
to him from within, passed them on to a comrade, who 
had climbed up from the street, and who, after secur- 



THE FIRE 253 

ing a firm grasp for them on the rungs, sent them down, 
one after the other, with the assistance of more fire- 
men. 

"First came the woman who had clung to the bal- 
cony, then a baby, then another woman, then an old 
man. All were saved. After the old man, the fire- 
men who had remained inside descended. The last to 
come down was the corporal who had been the first to 
hasten up. The crowd received them all with a burst 
of applause; but when the last made his appearance, the 
vanguard of the rescuers, the one who had faced the 
abyss in advance of the rest, the one who would have 
perished had it been fated that one should perish, the 
crowd saluted him like a conqueror, shouting and 
stretching out their arms, with an affectionate impulse 
of admiration and of gratitude, and in a few minutes 
his obscure name Giuseppe Robbino rang from a 
thousand throats. 

"Have you understood? That is courage the 
courage of the heart, which does not reason, which 
does not waver, which dashes blindly on, like a light- 
ning flash, wherever it hears the cry of a dying man. 
One of these days I will take you to the exercises of 
the firemen, and I will point out to you Corporal Rob- 
bino ; for you would be very glad to know him, would 
you not?" 

I replied that I should. 

"Here he is," said my father. 

I turned round with a start. The two firemen, hav- 
ing completed their inspection, were crossing the room 
to the door. 

My father pointed to the smaller of the men, who 



254 MAY 

had straps of gold braid, and said, "Shake hands 
with Corporal Robbino." 

The corporal stopped, smiled, and offered me his 
hand; I shook it; he made a salute and withdrew. 

"Do not forget it," said my father; "for out of the 
thousands of hands which you will shake in the course 
of your life there will probably not be ten which possess 
the worth of his." 



FROM THE APENNINES TO THE ANDES 

(Monthly Story.) 

Many years ago a Genoese lad of thirteen, the son 
of a workingman, went from Genoa to America all 
alone to seek his mother. 

She had gone two years before to Buenos Ay res, a 
city, the capital of the Argentine Republic, to take 
service in a wealthy family, in order to earn in a short 
time enough to place her family once more in easy 
circumstances, they having fallen, through various 
misfortunes, into poverty and debt. There are coura- 
geous women not a few who take this long voyage 
with this object in view, and who, thanks to the large 
wages which people in service receive there, return 
home at the end of a few years with several thousand 
lire. The poor mother had wept bitterly at parting 
from her children, the one aged eighteen, the other, 
eleven; but she had set out full of courage and hope. 

The voyage was pleasant: and she had no sooner 
arrived at Buenos Ayres than she found, through a 
Genoese shopkeeper, a cousin of her husband, who had 



FROM APENNINES TO THE ANDES 255 

been established there for a very long time, a good 
Argentine family, which gave high wages and treated 
her well. For a short time she kept up a regular 
correspondence with her family. As it had been 
settled between them, her husband addressed his letters 
to his cousin, who forwarded them to the woman, and 
the latter handed her replies to him, and he dispatched 
them to Genoa, adding a few lines of his own. As 
she was earning eighty lire a month and spending 
nothing for herself, she sent home a handsome sum 
every three months, with which her husband, who was 
a man of honor, gradually paid off their most urgent 
debts, and thus regained his good reputation. In the 
meantime, he worked away and was satisfied with the 
state of his affairs, since he also cherished the hope that 
his wife would shortly return; for the house seemed 
empty without her, and the younger son in particular, 
who was extremely attached to his mother, was very 
much depressed, and could not be reconciled to hav- 
ing her so far away. 

But a year had elapsed since they had parted; after 
a brief letter, in which she said that her health was 
not very good, they heard nothing more. They wrote 
twice to the cousin; the cousin did not reply. They 
wrote to the Argentine family where the woman was 
at service ; but it is possible that the letter never reached 
them, for they had mispelled the name in addressing 
it : they received no answer. Fearing some misfortune, 
they wrote to the Italian Consulate at Buenos Ayres 
to have inquiries made, and after a lapse of three 
months they received a response from the consul, to 
the effect that in spite of advertisements in the news- 



256 MAY 

papers no one had presented herself or sent any word. 
And it could not have happened otherwise, for this 
reason if for no other: that with the idea of sparing 
the good name of her family, which she fancied she 
was discrediting by becoming a servant, the good 
woman had not given her real name to the Argentine 
family. 

Several months more passed by with no news. The 
father and sons were in consternation; the youngest 
was oppressed by a melancholy which he could not 
conquer. What was to be done? To whom should 
they have recourse? The father's first thought had 
been to set out, to go to America in search of his wife. 
But his work? Who would support his sons? And 
neither could the eldest son go, for he had just then 
begun to earn something, and he was necessary to the 
family. In this anxiety they lived, repeating each 
day the same sad speeches, or gazing at each other in 
silence; when, one evening, Marco, the youngest, de- 
clared with decision, "I am going to America to look 
for my mother." 

His father shook his head sorrowfully and made no 
reply. It was an affectionate thought, but an im- 
possible thing. To make a journey to America, which 
required a month alone, at the age of thirteen! But 
the boy patiently insisted. He persisted that day, the 
day after, every day, with great calmness, reasoning 
with the good sense of a man. 

"Others have gone there," he said; "and smaller 
boys than I, too. Once on board the ship, I shall get 
there like anybody else. Once arrived there, I have 
only to hunt up our cousin's shop. There are plenty 



FROM APENNINES TO THE ANDES 257 

of Italians there who will show me the street. After 
finding our cousin, my mother is found; and if I do not 
find him, I shall go to the consul: I shall search out 
that Argentine family. Whatever happens, there is 
work for all there; I shall find work also; sufficient at 
least, to earn enough to get home.'' 

And thus little by little he almost succeeded in per- 
suading his father. His father esteemed him ; he 
knew that he had good judgment and courage; that he 
was inured to privations and sacrifices; and that all 
these good qualities had acquired double force in his 
heart in consequence of the sacred project of finding 
his mother, whom he adored. In addition to this, the 
captain of a steamer, the friend of an acquaintance 
of his, having heard the plan mentioned, under- 
took to procure a free third-class passage for the 
Argentine Republic. 

Finally, after a little hesitation, the father gave his 
consent. The voyage was decided on. They filled a 
sack with clothes for him, put a few crowns in his 
pocket, and gave him the address of the cousin; and 
one fine evening in April they saw him on board. 

"Marco, my son," his father said to him, as he gave 
him his last kiss, with tears in his eyes, on the plank 
of the steamer, which was on the point of starting, 
"take courage. You have set out on a holy u'ndertak- 
ing, and God will aid you/' 

Poor Marco ! His heart was strong and prepared 
for the hardest trials of this voyage; but when he be- 
held his beautiful Genoa disappear on the horizon, and 
found himself on the open sea on that huge steamer 
thronged with emigrating peasants, alone, unacquainted 



258 MAY 

with any one, with that little bag which held his entire 
fortune, a sudden discouragement assailed him. For 
two days he remained crouching like a dog on the 
bows, hardly eating, and oppressed with a great de- 
sire to weep. Every kind of sad thought passed 
through his mind, and the saddest, the most terrible, 
was the one which was the most persistent in its return, 
the thought that his mother was dead. In his 
broken and painful slumbers he constantly beheld a 
strange face, which surveyed him with an air of com- 
passion, and whispered in his ear, "Your mother is 
dead!" And then he awoke, stifling a shriek. 

Nevertheless, after passing the Straits of Gilbraltar, 
at the first sight of the Atlantic Ocean he recovered his 
spirits a little, and his hope. But it was only a brief 
respite. That vast but always smooth sea, the increas- 
ing heat, the misery of all those poor people who sur- 
rounded him, the consciousness of his own loneliness, 
overwhelmed him once more. The empty and monot- 
onous days which succeeded each other became con- 
founded in his memory, as is the case with sick people. 
It seemed to him that he had been at sea a year. And 
every morning, on waking, he felt surprised at finding 
himself there alone on that vast watery expanse, on 
his way to America. The beautiful flying fish which 
fell on deck every now and then, the marvellous sun- 
sets of the tropics, with their enormous clouds colored 
like flame and blood, and those nocturnal phosphor- 
escences which made the ocean seem all on fire like a 
sea of lava, did not produce on him the effect of real 
things, but of marvels beheld in a dream. 

There were days of bad weather, during which he 



FROM APENNINES TO THE ANDES 259 

remained constantly in the cabin, where everything 
was rolling and crashing, in the midst of a terrible 
chorus of cries and curses, and he thought that his 
last hour had come. There were other days, when the 
sea was calm and yellowish, of insupportable heat, of 
infinite tediousness; interminable and wretched hours, 
during which the enervated passengers, stretched 
motionless on the planks, seemed all dead. And the 
voyage was endless ; sea and sky, sky and sea ; to-day 
the same as yesterday, to-morrow like to-day, and so on, 
always, eternally. 

And for long hours he stood leaning on the bulwarks, 
gazing at that boundless sea in wonder, thinking 
vaguely of his mother until his eyes closed and his head 
was drooping with sleep; and then again he be- 
held that unknown face which gazed upon him with 
an air of sympathy, and repeated in his ear, 
"Your mother is dead !'' and at the sound of that voice 
he awoke with a start, to resume his dreaming with 
wide-open eyes, and to gaze at the unchanging horizon. 

The voyage lasted twenty-seven days. But the last 
days were the best. The weather was fine, and the air 
cool. He had made the acquaintance of a good old 
man, a Lombard, who was going to America to find 
his son, an agriculturist in the vicinity of the town of 
Rosario; he had told him his whole story, and the old 
man kept repeating every little while, as he tapped him 
on the nape of the neck with his hand, "Courage, my 
lad; you will find your mother well and happy." 

This companionship comforted him; his sad pre- 
sentiments were turned into joyous ones. Seated on 
the bow, beside the aged peasant, who was smoking 



260 MAY 

his pipe, beneath the beautiful starry heaven, in the 
midst of a group of singing peasants, he imagined to 
himself in his own mind a hundred times his arrival 
at Buenos Ay res; he saw himself in a certain street; he 
found the shop, he flew to his cousin. "How is my 
mother? Come, let us go at once! Let us go at 
once!" They hurried on together; they ascended a 
staircase ; a door opened. And here his mute soliloquy 
came to an end; his imagination was swallowed up in 
a feeling of inexpressible tenderness, which made him 
secretly pull forth a little medal that he wore on his 
neck, and murmur his prayers as he kissed it. 

On the twenty-seventh day after their departure they 
arrived. It was a beautiful, rosy May morning, when 
the steamer cast anchor in the immense river of the 
Plata, near the shore along which stretches the vast 
city of Buenos Ayres, the capital of the Argentine 
Republic. This splendid weather seemed to him to 
be a good omen. He was beside himself with joy and 
impatience. His mother was only a few miles from 
him! In a few hours more he would have seen her! 
He was in America, in the New World, and he had had 
the daring to come alone! The whole of that ex- 
tremely long voyage now seemed to him to have passed 
in an instant. It seemed to him that he had flown 
hither in a dream, and that he had that moment waked. 
And he was so happy, that he hardly experienced any 
surprise or distress when he felt in his pockets and 
found only one of the two little heaps into which he 
had divided his little treasure, in order to be the more 
sure of not losing the whole of it. He had been 
robbed; he had only a few lire left; but what mattered 



FROM APENNINES TO THE ANDES 261 

that to him, when he was near his mother ? With his 
bag in his hand, he descended, in company with many 
other Italians, to the tug-boat which carried him within 
a short distance of the shore; clambered down from the 
tug into a boat which bore the name of Andrea Doria; 
was landed on the wharf; saluted his old Lombard 
friend, and directed his course, in long strides, to- 
wards the city. 

On arriving at the entrance of the first street, he 
stopped a man who was passing by, and begged him 
to show him in what direction he should go in order 
to reach the street of los Artes. He chanced to have 
stopped an Italian workingman. The latter surveyed 
him with curiosity, and inquired if he knew how to 
read. The lad nodded, "Yes." 

"Well, then," said the laborer, pointing to the street 
from which he had just emerged, "keep straight on 
through there, reading the names of all the streets on 
the corners ; you will end by finding the one you want." 

The boy thanked him, and turned into the street 
which opened before him. 

It was a straight and endless but narrow street, 
bordered by low white houses, which looked like so 
many little villas, filled with people, with carriages, with 
carts which made a deafening noise; here and there 
floated enormous banners of various hues, with 
announcements as to the departure of steamers for 
strange cities inscribed upon them in large letters. At 
every little distance along the street, on the right and 
left, he perceived two other streets which ran straight 
away as far as he could see, also bordered by low 
white houses, filled with people and vehicles, and 



262 MAY 

bounded at their extremity by the level line of the 
measureless plains of America, like the horizon at sea. 
The city appeared infinite to him; it se'emed to him 
that he might wander for days or weeks, seeing other 
streets like these, on one hand and on the other, and 
that all America must be covered with them. He 
looked attentively at the names of the streets : strange 
names which cost him an effort to read. At every 
fresh street, he felt his he'art beat, at the thought that it 
might be the one he was in search of. He stared at all 
the women, with the thought that he might meet his 
mother. He caught sight of one in front of him who 
made his blood leap ; he overtook her : she was a negro. 
And quickening his pace, he walked on and on. On 
arriving at one cross-street, he read, and stood as 
though rooted to the sidewalk. It was the street of 
los Artes. He turned into it, and saw the number 
117; his cousin's shop was No. 175. He quickened his 
pace still more, and almost ran; at No. 171 he had to 
pause to regain his breath. And he said to himself, 
"O my mother! my mother! Is it really true that I 
shall see you in another moment?" He ran on; he 
arrived at a little haberdasher's shop. This was it. 
He stepped up close to it. He saw a woman with gray 
hair and spectacles. 

"What do you want, boy?" she asked him in Spanish. 

"Is not this," said the boy, making an effort to utter 
a sound, "the shop of Francesco Merelli?" 

"Francesco Merelli is dead," replied the woman in 
Italian. 

The boy felt as though he had received a blow on 
his breast. 



FROM APENNINES TO THE ANDES 263 

"When did he die ?" 

"Eh? quite a while ago," replied the woman. 
"Months ago. His affairs were in a bad state, and 
he ran away. They say he went to Bahia Blanca, 
very far from here. And he died ju-st after he reached 
there. The shop is mine." 

The boy turned pale. 

Then he said quickly, "Merelli knew my mother; 
my mother who was at service with Signer Mequinez. 
He alone could tell me where she is. I have come to 
America to find my mother. Merelli sent her our 
letters. I must find my mother." 

"Poor boy!" said the woman; "I don't know. I 
can ask the boy in the courtyard. He knew the young 
man who did Merelli's errands'. He may be able to 
tell us something." 

She went to the end of the shop and called the lad, 
who came at once. "Tell me," asked the shop-woman, 
"do you remember whether Merelli's young man went 
occasionally to carry letters to a woman in service, in 
the house of a country-man?" 

"To Signor Mequinez," replied the lad; "yes, 
signora, sometimes he did. At the end of the street 
of los Artes." 

"Ah ! thanks, signora !" cried Marco. "Tell me the 
number; don't you know it? Send some one with 
me; come with me without delay; I have a few soldi 
left." 

And he said this with so much warmth, that with- 
out waiting for the woman to request him, the boy 
replied. "Come," and at once set out at a rapid pace. 

They went almost at a run, without saying a word, 



264 MAY 

to the end of the extremely long street, made their way 
into the entrance of a little white house, and halted in 
front of a handsome iron gate, through which they 
could see a small yard, filled with vases of flowers. 
Marco gave a tug at the bell. 

A young woman made her appearance. 
"The Mequinez family live here, do they not?" asked 
the lad anxiously. 

"They did live here," replied the young lady, pro- 
nouncing her Italian in Spanish fashion. "Now we, 
the Zeballos, live here." 

"And where have the Mequinez family gone?" 
asked Marco, his heart throbbing. 
"They have gone to Cordova." 
"Cordova !" exclaimed Marco. "Where is Cordova? 
And the person whom they had in their service? 
The woman, my mother! Their servant was my 
mother! Have they taken my mother away, too?" 
The young lady looked at him and said: "I do 
not know. Perhaps my father may know, for he 
knew them when they went away. Wait a moment." 
She ran away, and soon returned with her father, 
a tall gentleman, with a gray beard. He looked in- 
tently for a minute at this appealing type of a little 
Genoese sailor, with his golden hair and his aquiline 
nose, and asked him in broken Italian, "Is your mother 
a Genoese?" 

Marco replied that she was. 

"Well, then, the Genoese maid went with them; 
that I know for certain." 

"And where have they gone?" 
"To Cordova, a city." 



FROM APENNINES TO THE ANDES 265 

The boy gave vent to a sigh ; then he said resignedly, 
"Then I Avill go to Cordova." 

"Ah, poor child!" exclaimed the gentleman in 
Spanish; "poor boy! Cordova is hundreds of miles 
from here." 

Marco turned as white as a corpse, and clung with 
one hand to the railings. 

"Let us see, let us see," said the gentleman, moved 
to pity, and opening the door; "come inside a mo- 
ment; let us see if anything can be done." He sat 
down, gave the boy a seat, and made him tell his 
story, listening to it very attentively, meditated a little, 
then said resolutely, "You have no money, have you-?" 

"I still have a little," answered Marco. 

The gentleman reflected for five minutes more; then 
seated himself at a desk, wrote a letter, sealed it, and 
handing it to the boy, he said to him : 

"Listen to me, little Italian. Take this letter to 
Boca. That is a little city which is half Genoese, and 
lies two hours' journey from here. Any one will be 
able to show you the road. Go there and find the 
gentleman to whom this letter is addressed, and whom 
every one knows. Carry the letter to him. He will 
send you off to the town of Rosario to-morrow, and 
will recommend you to some one there, who will think 
out a way of enabling you to pursue your journey to 
Cordova, where you will find the Mequinez family 
and your mother. In the meanwhile, take this." 
And he placed in his hand a few lire. "Go, and keep 
up your courage; you will find fellow-countrymen of 
yours in every direction, and you will not be forsaken. 
Farewell !" 



266 MAY 

The boy said, "Thank you," without finding any 
other words, went out with his bag, and having taken 
leave of his little guide, he set out slowly and sadly 
in the direction of Boca, filled with amazement at the 
great and noisy town. 

Everything that happened to him from that mo- 
ment until the evening of that day ever afterwards 
lingered in his memory in a confused and uncertain 
form, like the wild vagaries of a person in a fever, so 
weary was he, so troubled, so despondent. And at 
nightfall on the following day, after having slept over 
night in a poor little chamber in a house in Boca, be- 
side a harbor porter, after having passed nearly the 
whole of that day seated on a pile of beams, and, as 
in delirium, in sight of thousands of ships and boats 
and tugs, he found himself on the poop of a large 
sailing vessel, loaded with fruit, which was setting out 
for the town of Rosario, and was managed by three 
robust Genoese, who were bronzed by the sun; and 
their voices and the dialect which they spoke put a little 
comfort into his heart once more. 

The voyage lasted three days and four nights, and 
it was a continual amazement to the little traveller. 
Three days and four nights on that wonderful river 
Parana, in comparison with which our great Po is 
but a rivulet; and the length of Italy quadrupled does 
not equal that of its course. The barge advanced 
slowly against this immeasurable mass of water. It 
threaded its way among long islands, once the haunts 
of serpents and tigers, covered with orange-trees and 
willows, like floating coppices. Now they passed 
through narrow canals, from which it seemed as though 



FROM APENNINES TO THE ANDES 267 

they could never issue forth; now they sailed out on 
vast expanses of water, having the aspect of great 
tranquil lakes, then among islands again, through the 
intricate channels of an archipelago, amid enormous 
masses of vegetation. A 'profound silence reigned. 
For long stretches the shores and vast, solitary waters 
produced the impression of an unknown stream, upon 
which this poor little sail was the first in all the world 
to venture itself. 

The further they advanced, the more this monstrous 
river dismayed him. He imagined that his mother 
was at its source, and that their navigation must last 
for years. Twice a day he ate a little bread and 
salted meat with the boatmen, who, perceiving that 
he was sad, never addressed a word to him. At night 
he slept on deck and woke every little while with a 
start, astounded by the limpid light of the moon, which 
silvered the immense expanse 'of water and the distant 
shores; and then his heart sank within him. "Cor- 
dova!" He repeated that name, "Cordova!" like the 
name of one of those mysterious cities of which he 
had heard in fables. But then he thought, "My 
mother passed this spot; she saw these islands, these 
shores"; and then these places upon which the glance 
of his mother had fallen no longer seemed strange and 
solitary to him. 

At night one of the boatmen sang. That voice re- 
minded him of his mother's songs, when she had 
lulled him to sleep as a little child. On the last night, 
when he heard that song, he sobbed. The boatman 
interrupted his song. Then he cried, "Courage, cour- 
age, my son! What the deuce! A Genoese crying 



268 MAY 

because he is far from home ! The Genoese go round 
the world, gallantly and triumphantly !" 

And at these words he shook himself, he heard the 
voice of the Genoese blood, and he raised his head 
aloft with pride, dashing his fists down on the rudder. 
'Yes," he said to himself; "and if I am also obliged to 
travel for years and years to come, over the world, and 
to traverse hundreds of miles on foot, I will go on until 
I find my mother, were I to arrive in a dying condition, 
and fall dead at her feet! If only I can see her once 
again! Courage!" And in this frame of mind he 
arrived at daybreak, on a cool rosy morning, in front 
of the city of Rosario, situated on the high bank of the 
Parana, where the flags and yards of a hundred vessels 
of every land were mirrored in the waves. 

Shortly after landing, he went to the town, bag in 
hand, to seek the Argentine gentleman for whom his 
protector in Boca had intrusted him with a visiting- 
card, with a few words of recommendation. On enter- 
ing Rosario, it seemed to him that he was coming into 
a city with which he was already familiar. There were 
the straight, endless streets, bordered with low white 
houses, traversed in all directions above the roofs by 
great bundles of telegraph and telephone wires, which 
looked like enormous spiders' webs; and a great con- 
fusion of people, of horses, and of vehicles. His head 
grew confused; he almost thought that he had got 
back to Buenos Ayres, and must hunt up his cousin 
once more. He wandered about for nearly an hour, 
making one turn after another, and seeming always to 
come back to the same street; and after much inquiring, 
he found the house of his new protector. He pulled 



FROM APENNINES TO THE ANDES 269 

the bell. There came to the door a big, light-haired, 
gruff man, who had the air of a steward, and who de- 
manded awkwardly, with a foreign accent: 

"What do you want?" 

The boy mentioned the name of his patron. 

'The master has gone away," replied the steward; 
"he set out yesterday afternoon for Buenos Ay res, 
with his whole family." 

The boy was speechless a moment. Then he 
stammered, "But I I have no one here ! I am alone !" 
and he offered the card. 

The steward took it, read it, and said surlily : "I 
don't know what to do for you. I'll give it to him 
when he returns a month hence." 

"But I, I am alone; I am in need!" exclaimed the 
lad, in a supplicating voice. 

"Eh? come now," said the other; "just as though 
there were not a plenty of your sort from your country 
in Rosario! Be off, and do your begging in Italy!" 
And he slammed the door in his face. 

The boy stood there as though he had been turned 
to stone. 

Then he picked up his bag again slowly, and went 
out, his heart torn with anguish, his mind in a whirl, 
assailed all at once by a thousand anxious thoughts. 
What was to be done? Where was he to go? From 
Rosario, to Cordova was a day's journey, by rail. He 
had only a few lire left. After subtracting what he 
should be obliged to spend that day, he would have 
next to nothing left. Where was he to find the money 
to pay his fare? He could work but how? To 
whom should he apply for .work ? Ask alms ? Ah, 



270 MAY 

no! To be repulsed, insulted, humiliated, as he had 
been a little while ago? No; never, never more 
rather would he die ! And at this idea, and at the sight 
of the very long street which was lost in the distance 
of the boundless plain, he felt his courage desert him 
once more, flung his bag on the sidewalk, sat down 
with his back against the wall, and bent his head be- 
tween his hands, in an attitude of despair. 

People jostled him with their feet as they passed; 
the vehicles filled the road with noise; several boys 
stopped to look at him. He remained thus for a 
while. Then he was startled by a voice saying to him 
in a mixture of Italian and Lombard dialect, "What 
is the matter, little boy?" 

He raised his face at these words, and instantly 
sprang to his feet, uttering an exclamation of wonder; 
"You here!" 

It was the old Lombard peasant with whom he had 
struck up a friendship during the voyage. 

The amazement of the peasant was no less than his 
own; but the boy did not leave him time to question 
him. He rapidly told his story concluding: 

"Now I am without a soldo. I must go to work. 
Find me work, that I may get together a few lire. I 
will do anything ; I will carry rubbish, I will sweep the 
streets; I can run on errands, or even work in the 
country ; I am content to live on black bread ; but only 
let it be so that I may set out quickly, that I may find 
my mother once more. Do me this charity, and find 
me work, find me work, for the love of God, for I can 
do no more!" 

"The deuce you say!" said the peasant, looking 



FROM APENNINES TO THE ANDES 271 

about him, and scratching his chin. "What a story is 
this ! To work, to work ! that is soon said. Let us 
look about a little. Is there no way of finding thirty 
lire among so many fellow-countrymen?" 

The boy looked at him consoled by a ray of hope. 

"Come with me," said the peasant. 

"Where?" asked the lad, gathering up his bag again. 

"Come with me." 

The peasant started on; Marco followed him. 
They traversed a long stretch of street together with- 
out speaking. The peasant halted at the door of an 
inn which had for its sign a star, and an inscription 
beneath, The Star of Italy. He thrust his face in, and 
turning to the boy, he said cheerfully, "We have 
arrived just at the right moment." 

They entered a large room, where there were numer- 
ous tables, and many men seated, drinking and talk- 
ing loudly. The old Lombard approached the first 
table, and from the manner in which he saluted the 
six guests who were gathered around it, it was evident 
that he had been in their company until a short time 
previously. They were red in the face, and were clink- 
ing their glasses, and vociferating and laughing. 

"Comrades," said the Lombard, without any pre- 
face, remaining on his feet, and presenting Marco, 
"here is a poor lad, our fellow-countryman, who has 
come alone from Genoa to Buenos Ayres to seek his 
mother. At Buenos Ayres they told him, 'She is not 
here; she is in Cordova.' He came in a bark to Ros- 
ario, three days and three nights on the way, with a 
couple of lines of recommendation. He presents the 
card; they make an ugly face at him: he hasn't a 



272 MAY 

centesimo to bless himself with. He is here alone and 
in despair. He is a lad full of heart. Let us see a bit. 
Can't we find enough to pay for his ticket to go to 
Cordova in search of his mother? Are we to leave 
him here like a dog?" 

"Never in the world, by Heavens ! That shall never 
be said!" they all shouted at once, hammering on the 
table \vith their fists. "A fellow-countryman of ours ! 
Come hither, little fellow ! We are emigrants ! See 
what a handsome young rogue! Out with your 
coppers, comrades! Bravo! Come along! He has 
pluck! Drink a sup, compatriot! We'll send you to 
your mother; never fear!" 

And one pinched his cheek, another slapped him on 
the shoulder, a third relieved him of his bag; other 
emigrants rose from the neighboring tables, and 
gathered about; the boy's story made the round of the 
inn; three Argentine guests hurried in from the ad- 
joining room; and in less than ten minutes the Lom- 
bard peasant, who was passing round the hat, had col- 
lected forty-two lire. 

"Do you see," he then said, turning to the boy, 
"how fast things are done in America?" 

"Drink!" cried another to him, offering him a glass 
of wine; "to the health of your mother!" 

All raised their glasses, and Marco repeated, 'To 
the health of my " but a sob of joy choked him, and, 
setting the glass on the table, he flung himself on the 
old man's neck. 

At daybreak on the following morning he set out 
for Cordova, ardent and smiling, filled with thoughts 
of happiness. But there is no cheerfulness that rules 



FROM APENNINES TO THE ANDES 273 

for long in the face of certain sinister aspects of 
nature. The weather was close and dull; the train, 
which was nearly empty, ran through an immense 
plain, destitute of every sign of habitation. He found 
himself alone in a very long car, which resembled 
those on trains for the wounded. He gazed to the 
right, he gazed to the left, and he saw nothing but an 
endless waste, strewn with tiny, deformed trees, with 
contorted trunks and branches, in attitudes such as 
were never seen before, almost of wrath and anguish, 
and a sparse and melancholy vegetation, which gave to 
the plain the aspect of a ruined cemetery. 

He dozed for half an hour; then resumed his 
survey: the spectacle was still the same. The rail- 
way stations were deserted, like the dwellings of 
hermits. When the train stopped not a sound was 
heard; it seemed to him that he was alone in a lost 
train, abandoned in the middle of a desert. It seemed 
to him as though each station must be the last, and 
that he should then enter the mysterious regions of the 
savages. An icy breeze nipped his face. On embark- 
ing at Genoa, towards the end of April, it had not oc- 
curred to him that he should find winter in America, 
and he was dressed for summer. 

After several hours of this he began to suffer from 
cold, and in connection with the cold, from the fa- 
tigue of the days he had recently passed through, filled 
as they had been with violent emotions, and from 
sleepless and harrassing nights. He fell asleep, slept 
a long time, and awoke benumbed. He felt ill. Then 
a vague terror of falling ill, of dying on the journey, 
seized upon him; a fear of being thrown out there, in 



274 MAY 

the middle of that desolate prairie, where his body 
would be torn in pieces by dogs and birds of prey, like 
the corpses of horses and cows which he had caught 
sight of every now and then beside the track, and 
from which he had turned aside his eyes in disgust. 
In this state of anxious illness, in the midst of that 
dark silence of nature, his imagination grew excited, 
and looked on the dark side of things. 

Was he quite sure, after all, that he should find his 
mother at Cordova? And what if she had not gone 
there? What if that gentleman in the Via del los 
Artes had made a mistake? And what if she were 
dead? Thus meditating, he fell asleep again, and 
dreamed that he was in Cordova, and it was night, and 
that he heard cries from all the doors and all the 
windows : "She is not here ! She is not here ! She 
is not here !" This roused him with a start, in terror, 
and he saw at the other end of the car three bearded 
men enveloped in shawls of various colors who were 
staring at him and talking together in a low tone ; and 
the suspicion flashed across him that they were assas- 
sins, and that they wanted to kill him for the sake of 
stealing his bag. Fear was added to his consciousness 
of illness and to the cold; his fancy, already upset, be- 
came unbalanced, distorted. 

The three men kept on staring at him; one of them 
moved towards him. Then his reason wandered, and 
rushing towards him with arms wide open, he shrieked, 
"I have nothing; I am a poor boy; I have come from 
Italy ; I am in search of my mother ; I am alone : do 
not do me any harm !" 

They instantly understood the situation; they took 



FROM APENNINES TO THE ANDES 275 

pity on him, petted and soothed him, speaking to him 
many words which he did not hear nor comprehend. 
And seeing that his teeth were chattering with cold, 
they wrapped one of their shawls around him, and 
made him sit down again, so that he might go to sleep. 
And he did fall asleep once more, as night was falling. 
When they aroused him, he was at Cordova. 

Ah, what a deep breath he drew, and with what im- 
petuosity he flew from the car! He inquired of one 
of the station employees where the house of the en- 
gineer Mequinez was situated. The latter mentioned 
the name of a church; it stood beside the church. 
The boy hastened away. 

It was night. He entered the city, and it seemed to 
him that he was entering Rosario once more; that he 
again beheld those straight streets, flanked with little 
white houses, and intersected by other very long and 
straight streets. But there were very few people, and 
under the light of the rare street lanterns, he en- 
countered strange faces of a hue unknown to him, 
between black and greenish ; and raising his head from 
time to time, he saw churches of bizarre architecture 
outlined black and vast against the sky. The city was 
dark and silent, but after having traversed that im- 
mense desert, it appeared lively to him. He inquired 
his way of a priest, speedily found the church and the 
house, pulled the bell with one trembling hand, and 
pressed the other on his breast to repress the beating 
of his heart, which was leaping into his throat. 

An old woman, with a light in her hand, opened the 
door. 

The boy could not speak at once. 



276 MAY 

"Whom do you want?" demanded the dame in 
Spanish. 

"The engineer Mequinez," replied Marco. 

The old woman made a motion to cross her arms on 
her breast, and replied, with a shake of the head : "So 
you, too, have dealings with the engineer Mequinez ! 
It strikes me that it is time to stop this. We have 
been worried for the last three months. It is not 
enough that the newspapers have said it. W T e shall 
have to have it printed on the corner of the street, that 
Signor Mequinez has gone to live at Tucuman!" 

The boy made a gesture of despair. Then he gave 
way to an outburst of passion. 

"So there is a curse upon me! I am doomed to 
die on the road, without having found my mother! 
I shall go mad! I shall kill myself! Heavens! what 
is the name of that country? Where is it? At what 
distance is it situated?" 

"Eh, poor boy," replied the old woman, touched 
with pity ; "a mere trifle ! We are four or five 
hundred miles from there, at least." 

The boy covered his face with his hands; then he 
asked with a sob, "And now what am I to do !" 

"What am I to say to you, my poor child?" re- 
sponded the dame : "I don't know." 

But suddenly an idea struck her, and she added 
hastily : "Listen, now that I think of it. There is one 
thing that you can do. Go down this street, to the 
right, and at the third house you will find a courtyard ; 
there you will find a capataz, a trader, who is setting 
out to-morrow for Tucuman, with his wagons and his 
oxen. Go and see if he will take you, and offer him 



FROM APENNINES TO THE ANDES 277 

your services; perhaps he will give you a place on his 
wagons : go at once." 

The lad grasped his bag, thanked her as he ran, and 
two minutes later found himself in a vast courtyard, 
lighted by lanterns, where a number of men were en- 
gaged in loading sacks of grain on certain enormous 
carts which resembled the movable houses of mounte- 
banks, with rounded tops, and very tall wheels. A 
tall man with moustaches, enveloped in a sort of 
mantle of black and white check, and with big boots, 
was directing the work. 

The lad approached this man, and timidly proffered 
his request, saying that he had come from Italy, and 
that he was in search of his mother. 

The capataz, which signifies the head (the head con- 
ductor of this convoy of wagons), surveyed him from 
head to foot with a keen glance, and replied drily, "I 
have no place." 

"I have fifteen lire," answered the boy in a supplicat- 
ing tone ; "I will give you my fifteen lire. I will work 
on the journey; I will fetch the water and fodder for 
the animals; I will do anything. A little bread will 
suffice for me. Make a place for me, signer." 

The capataz looked him over again, and replied with 
a better grace, "There is no room ; besides, we are not 
going to Tucuman; we are going to another town, 
Santiago dell' Estero. We should have to leave you 
at a certain point, and you would still have a long way 
to go on foot." 

"Ah, I would make twice as long a journey!" ex- 
claimed Marco; "I can walk; do not worry about 
that ; I shall get there by some means or other : make 



278 MAY 

a little room for me, signer, out of charity; for pity's 
sake, do not leave me here alone!" 

"Beware; it is a journey of twenty days." 

"It matters nothing to me." 

"It is a hard journey." 

"I will endure everything." 

"You will have to travel alone." 

"I fear nothing, if I can only find my mother. Have 
compassion!" 

The capataz drew his face close to a lantern, and 
scrutinized him. Then he said, 'Very well." 

The lad kissed his hand. 

"You shall sleep in one of the wagons to-night," 
added the capataz, as he quitted him; "to-morrow 
morning, at four o'clock, I will wake you. Good 
night." 

At four o'clock in the morning, by the light of the 
stars, the long string of wagons was set in motion 
with a great noise; each cart was drawn by six oxen, 
and all were followed by a great number of spare 
animals for a change. 

The boy, who had been awakened and placed in one 
of the carts, on the sacks, instantly fell again into a 
deep sleep. When he awoke, the convoy had halted 
in a solitary spot, full in the sun, and all the men 
the peones were seated round a quarter of calf, 
which was roasting in the open air beside a large 
fire, that flickered in the wind. They all ate together, 
took a nap, and then set out again; and thus the 
journey continued, regulated like a march of soldiers. 
Every morning they set out on the road at five o'clock, 
halted at nine, set out again at five o'clock in the even- 



FROM APENNINES TO THE ANDES 279 

ing, and halted again at ten. The peones rode on 
horseback, and prodded the oxen with long goads. 
The boy lighted the fire for the roasting, gave the 
beasts their fodder, polished up the lanterns, and 
brought water for drinking. 

The landscape passed before him like an indistinct 
vision : vast groves of little brown trees ; villages con- 
sisting of a few scattered houses, with red and battle- 
mented fagades; very vast tracts, possibly the ancient 
beds of great salt lakes, which gleamed white with 
salt as far as the eye could reach ; and on every hand, 
and always, the prairie, solitude, silence. On very 
rare occasions they met two or three travellers on 
horseback, followed by a herd of picked horses, who 
passed them at a gallop, like a whirlwind. The days 
were all alike, as at sea, lengthy and wearisome; but 
the weather was fine. 

But the peones became more and more exacting 
every day, as though the lad were their bond slave; 
some of them treated him brutally, and threatened him ; 
all forced him to serve them without mercy. They 
made him carry great bundles of forage; they sent 
him to get water at long distances; and he, broken 
with fatigue, could not even sleep at night, continually 
tossed about as he was by the violent jolts of the 
wagon, and the deafening groaning of the wheels 
and wooden axles. In addition to this, the wind 
having risen, a fine, reddish, greasy dust, which en- 
veloped everything, penetrated the wagon, made its 
way under the covers, filled his eyes and mouth,, 
robbed him of sight and breath, constantly, op- 
pressively, insupportably. 



280 MAY 

Worn out with toil and lack of sleep, reduced to 
rags and dirt, reproached and ill treated from morn- 
ing till night, the poor boy grew every day more de- 
jected, and would have lost heart entirely if the capataz 
had not addressed a kind word to him now and then. 
He often wept, unseen, in a corner of the wagon, with 
his face against his bag, which no longer contained 
anything but rags. Every morning he rose weaker 
and more discouraged, and as he looked out over the 
country, and beheld always the same boundless and 
implacable plain, like a terrestrial ocean, he said to 
himself: "Ah, I shall not hold out until to-night! I 
shall not hold out until to-night! To-day I shall die 
on the road!" 

And his toil increased, his ill treatment was re- 
doubled. One morning, in the absence of the capataz, 
one of the men struck him, because he had delayed in 
fetching the water. And then they all began to take 
turns at it, when they gave him an order, dealing him 
a kick, saying: "Take that, you vagabond! Carry 
that to your mother!" 

His heart was breaking. He fell ill ; for three days 
he remained in the wagon, with a coverlet over him, 
fighting a fever, and seeing no one except the capataz, 
who came to give him his drink and feel his pulse. 
And then he believed that he was lost, and invoked 
his mother in despair, calling her a hundred times by 
name: "O my mother! my mother! Help me! 
Come to me, for I am dying! Oh, my poor mother, 
I shall never see you again! My poor mother, who 
will find me dead beside the way!" 

And he folded his hands over his bosom and prayed. 




HE STOOD WATCHING 



THE CONVOY 
TO SIGHT 



UNTIL IT WAS LOST 



FROM APENNINES TO THE ANDES. 281 

Then he grew better, thanks to the care of the capaiaz, 
and recovered; but with his recovery arrived the most 
terrible day of his journey, the day on which he was to 
be left to his own devices. They had been on the way 
for more than two weeks; when they arrived at the 
point where the road to Tucuman parted from that 
which leads to Santiago dell' Estero, the capatas told 
him that they must separate. He gave him some in- 
structions with regard to the road, tied his bag on his 
shoulders in a manner which would not annoy him as 
he walked, and, breaking off short, as though he 
feared that he should be affected, he bade him farewell. 
The boy had barely time to kiss him on one arm. The 
other men, too, who had treated him so harshly, seemed 
to feel a little pity at the sight of him left thus alone, 
and they made signs of farewell to him as they moved 
away. And he returned the salute with his hand, 
stood watching the convoy until it was lost to sight in 
the red dust of the plain, and then set out sadly on his 
road. 

One thing, on the other hand, comforted him a 
little from the first. After all those days of travel 
across that endless plain, which was forever the same, 
he saw before him a chain of mountains very high 
and blue, with white summits, which reminded him 
of the Alps, and gave him the feeling of having drawn 
near to his own country once more. They were the 
Andes, the dorsal spine of the American continent, 
that immense chain which extends from Tierra del 
Fuego to the glacial sea of the Arctic pole, through a 
hundred and ten degrees of latitude. And he was 
also comforted by the fact that the air seemed to him 



282 MAY 

to grow constantly warmer. This happened, because, 
in ascending towards the north, he was slowly ap- 
proaching the tropics. At great distances apart there 
were tiny groups of houses with a petty shop, where 
he bought something to eat. He met men on horse- 
back ; every now and then he saw women and children 
seated on the ground, motionless and grave, with faces 
entirely new to him, of an earthen hue, with oblique 
eyes and prominent cheek-bones, who looked at him 
fixedly, following him with their gaze, and turning 
their heads slowly like automatons. They were 
Indians. 

The first day he walked as long as his strength 
would permit, and slept under a tree. On the second 
day he made considerably less progress, and with less 
spirit. His shoes were tattered, his feet wounded, 
his stomach weakened by bad food. Towards evening 
he began to be alarmed. He had heard, in Italy, that 
in this land there were serpents; he fancied that he 
heard them crawling; he halted, then set out on a run, 
and with cold chills in all his bones. At times he 
was seized with a profound pity for himself, and he 
wept silently as he walked. Then he thought, "Oh 
how much my mother would suffer if she knew that I 
am afraid!" and this thought restored his courage. 
Then, in order to distract his thoughts from fear, he 
thought of her; he recalled to mind her words when 
she had set out from Genoa, and the movement with 
which she had arranged the coverlet beneath his chin 
when he was in bed, and when he was a baby; for 
every time that she took him in her arms, she said to 
him, "Stay here a little while with me;" and thus she 



FROM APENNINES TO THE ANDES 283 

remained for a long time, with her head resting on 
his, thinking, thinking. 

And he said to himself: "Shall I see you again, 
dear mother? Shall I arrive at the end of my 
journey, my mother?" And he walked on and on, 
among strange trees, vast plantations of sugar-cane, 
and fields without end, always with those blue moun- 
tains in front of him, which cut the sky with their ex- 
ceedingly lofty crests. Four days, five days a week, 
passed. His strength was rapidly declining, his feet 
were bleeding. Finally, one evening at sunset, they 
said to him : 

"Tucuman is fifty miles from here." 

He uttered a cry of joy, and hastened his steps, 
as though he had, in that moment, regained all his 
lost vigor. But it was a brief illusion. His forces 
suddenly abandoned him, and he fell upon the brink 
of a ditch, exhausted. But his heart was beating with 
content. The heaven, thickly sown with the most 
brilliant stars, had never seemed so beautiful to him. 
He contemplated it, as he lay stretched out on the 
grass to sleep, and thought that, perhaps, at that very 
moment, his mother was gazing at him. And he 
said : 

"O my mother, where are you? What are you 
doing at this moment? Do you think of your son? 
Do you think of your Marco, who is so near to you?" 

Poor Marco! If he could have seen in what a 
case his mother was at that moment, he would have 
made a superhuman effort to proceed on his way, 
and to reach her a few hours earlier. She was ill in 
bed, in a ground-floor room of a lordly mansion, where 



284 MAY 

dwelt the entire Mequinez family. The latter had be- 
come very fond of her, and had helped her a great 
deal. The poor woman had already been ailing when 
the engineer Mequinez had been obliged unexpect- 
edly to set out from Buenos Ayres, and she had not 
benefited at all by the fine air of Cordova. But then, 
the fact that she had received no response to her letters 
from her husband, nor from her cousin, the presenti- 
ment, always lively, of some great misfortune, the 
continual anxiety in which she had lived, between the 
parting and staying, expecting every day some bad 
news, had caused her to grow worse rapidly. 

Finally, a very serious malady had declared itself, 
a strangulated internal rupture. She had not risen 
from her bed for a fortnight. A surgical operation 
was necessary to save her life. And at precisely the 
moment when Marco was apostrophizing her, the 
master and mistress of the house were standing be- 
side her bed, arguing with her, with great gentleness, 
to persuade her to allow herself to be operated on, and 
she was persisting in her refusal, and weeping. A 
good physician of Tucuman had come in vain a week 
before. 

"No, my dear master," she said; "do not count upon 
it ; I have not the strength to resist ; I should die under 
the surgeon's knife. It is better to allow me to die 
thus. I no longer cling to life. All is at an end for 
me. It is better to die before learning what has hap- 
pened to my family." 

And her master and mistress opposed her, and said 
that she must take courage, that she would receive a 
reply to the last letters, which had been sent directly 



FROM APENNINES TO THE ANDES 285 

to Genoa ; that she must allow the operation to be per- 
formed ; that it must be done for the sake of her family. 
But this suggestion of her children only aggravated 
her profound discouragement, which had for a long 
time prostrated her, with increasing anguish. At these 
words she burst into tears. 

"O my sons! my sons!" she exclaimed, wringing 
her hands; "perhaps they are no longer alive! It is 
better that I should die also. I thank you, my good 
master and mistress ; I thank you from my heart. But 
it is better that I should die. At all events, I am cer- 
tain that I should not be cured by this operation. I 
thank you for all your care, my good master and mis- 
tress. It is useless for the doctor to come again after 
to-morrow. I wish to die. It is my fate to die here. 
I have decided." 

Then they began again to console her, and to repeat, 
"Don't say that," and to take her hand and be- 
seech her. 

But she closed her eyes in exhaustion, and fell into 
a doze, so that she appeared to be dead. And her 
master and mistress remained there a little while, by 
the faint light of a taper, watching with great com- 
passion that admirable mother, who for the sake of 
saving her family, had come to die six thousand miles 
from her country, to die after having toiled so hard, 
poor woman! and she was so honest, so good, so un- 
fortunate. 

Early on the morning of the following day, Marco, 
bent and limping, with his bag on his back, entered 
the city of Tucuman, one of the youngest and most 
flourishing towns of the Argentine Republic. It 



286 MAY 

seemed to him that he again beheld Cordova, Rosario, 
Buenos Ayres : there were the same straight and ex- 
tremely long streets, the same low white houses, but 
on every hand there was a new and magnificent vege- 
tation, a perfumed air, a marvelous light, a sky limpid 
and profound, such as he had never seen even in Italy. 
As he advanced through the streets, he experienced 
once more the feverish agitation which had seized on 
him at Buenos Ayres; he stared at the windows and 
doors of all the houses ; he stared at all the women who 
passed him, with an anxious hope that he might meet 
his mother ; he would have liked to question every one, 
but he did not dare to stop any one. All the people 
who were standing at their doors turned to gaze after 
the poor, tattered, dusty lad, who showed that he had 
come from afar. And he was seeking, among all 
these people, a countenance which should inspire him 
with confidence, in order to direct to its owner that 
tremendous query, when his eyes fell upon the sign 
of an inn upon which was inscribed an Italian name. 
Inside were a man with spectacles, and two women. 
He approached the door slowly, and summoning up a 
resolute spirit, he inquired : 

"Can you tell me, signor, where the family 
Mequinez lives?" 

"The engineer Mequinez?" asked the innkeeper in 
his turn. 

"The engineer Mequinez," replied the lad in a faint 
voice. 

"The Mequinez family is not in Tucuman," replied 
the innkeeper. 

A cry of desperate pain, like that of one who 



FROM APENNINES TO THE ANDES 287 

has been stabbed, formed an echo to those words. 

The innkeeper and the woman rose, and some 
neighbors ran up. 

''What's the matter? what ails you, my boy?" said 
the innkeeper, drawing him into the shop and making 
him sit down. "There's no reason for despairing! 
The Mequinez family is not here, but at a little distance 
off, a few hours from Tucuman." 

"Where? where?" shrieked Marco, springing up 
like one restored to life. 

"Fifteen miles from here," continued the man, "on 
the river at Saladillo, in a place where a big sugar 
factory is being built, and a cluster of houses. Signor 
Mequinez's house is there; every one knows it: you 
can reach it in a few hours." 

"I was there a month ago," said a youth, who had 
hastened up at the cry. 

Marco stared at him with wide-open eyes, and asked 
him hastily, turning pale as he did so, "Did you see 
the servant of Signor Mequinez the Italian?" 

"The Genoese? Yes; I saw her." 

Marco burst into a convulsive sob, which was half 
a laugh and half a sob. Then, with an impulse of 
violent resolution: "Which way am I to go? quick, 
the road ! I shall set out instantly ; show me the way !" 

"But it is a day's march," they all told him, in one 
breath. "You are weary; you should rest; you can set 
out to-morrow." 

"Impossible! impossible!" replied the lad. Tell 
me the way; I shall not wait another moment; I shall 
set out at once, were I to die on the road!" 

On perceiving him so inflexible, they no longer 



288 MAY 

opposed him. "May God accompany you!" they said 
to him. "Look out for the path through the forest. 
A fair journey to you, little Italian!" A man went 
with him outside of the town, pointed out to him the 
road, gave him some counsel, and stood still to watch 
him start. At the end of a few minutes, the lad dis- 
appeared, limping, with his bag on his shoulders, be- 
hind the thick of trees which lined the road. 

That night was a dreadful one for the poor sick 
woman. She suffered cruel pain, which wrung from 
her shrieks that were enough to burst her veins, and 
rendered her delirious at times. The women waited 
on her. She lost her head. Her mistress ran in, from 
time to time, in affright. All began to fear that, even 
if she had decided to allow herself to be operated on, 
the doctor, who was not to come until the next day, 
would have arrived too late. During the moments 
when she was not raving, however, it was evident that 
her most terrible torture arose not from her bodily 
pains, but from the thought of her distant family. 
Emaciated, wasted away, with changed visage, she 
thrust her hands through her hair, with a gesture of 
desperation, and shrieked : 

"My God! My God! To die so far away, to die 
without seeing them again! My poor children, who 
will be left without a mother, my poor little creatures, 
my poor darlings! My Marco, who is still so small! 
only as tall as this, and so good and affectionate! You 
do not know what a boy he was! If you only knew, 
signora! I could not tear him from my neck when 
I set out; he wept in a way to move your pity; he 
sobbed; it seemed as though he knew that he would 



FROM APENNINES TO THE ANDES 289 

never behold his poor mother again. Poor Marco, 
my poor baby ! I thought that my heart would break ! 
Ah, if I had only died then, died while they were bid- 
ding me farewell ! If I had but dropped dead ! With- 
out a mother, my poor child, he who loved me so 
dearly, who needed me so much! without a mother, 
in misery, he will be forced to beg! He, Marco, my 
Marco, will stretch out his hand, starving! O eternal 
God! No! I will not die! The doctor! Call him 
at once! let him come, let him cut me, let him cleave 
my breast, let him drive me mad ; but let him save my 
life! I want to recover; I want to live, to depart, 
to flee, to-morrow, at once ! The doctor ! Help ! help !" 

And the \vomen seized her hands an'd soothed her, 
and made her calm herself little by little, and spoke to 
her of God and of hope. And then she fell back again 
into a mortal agony, wept with her hands clutched in 
her gray hair, moaned like an infant, uttering a pro- 
longed lament, and murmuring from time to time : 

"O my Genoa! My house! All that sea! O my 
Marco, my poor Marco ! Where is he now, my poor 
darling?" 

It was midnight; and her poor Marco, after having 
passed many hours on the brink of a ditch, his strength 
exhausted, was then walking through a forest of 
gigantic trees, monsters of vegetation, huge boles like 
the pillars of a cathedral, which interlaced their 
enormous crests, silvered by the moon, at a wonder- 
ful height. Vaguely, amid the half gloom, he caught 
glimpses of myriads of trunks of all forms, upright, 
inclined, twisted, crossed in strange postures of menace 
and of conflict; some overthrown on the earth, like 



290 MAY 

towers which had fallen bodily, and covered with a 
dense and confused mass of vegetation, which seemed 
like a furious throng, disputing the ground span by 
span; others collected in great groups, vertical and 
serrated, like trophies of titanic lances, whose tips 
touched the clouds; a superb grandeur, a prodigious 
disorder of colossal forms, the most majestically 
terrible spectacle which vegetable nature ever pre- 
sented. 

At times he was overwhelmed by a great stupor. 
But his mind instantly took flight again towards his 
mother. He was worn out, with bleeding feet, alone 
in the middle of this formidable forest, where it was 
only at long intervals that he saw tiny human habita- 
tions, which at the foot of these trees seemed like the 
ant-hills, or some buffalo asleep beside the road; he 
was exhausted, but he was not conscious of his ex- 
haustion; he was alone, yet he felt no fear. The 
grandeur of the forest rendered his soul grand ; his 
nearness to his mother gave him the strength and the 
hardihood of a man; the memory of the ocean, of the 
alarms and the sufferings which he had undergone and 
vanquished, of the toil which he had endured, of the 
iron constancy which he had displayed, caused him to 
uplift his brow. All his strong and noble Genoese 
blood flowed back to his heart in an ardent tide of joy 
and audacity. And a new thing took place within 
him, while he had, up to this time, borne in his mind 
an image of his mother, dimmed and paled somewhat 
by the two years of absence, at that moment the image 
grew clear; he again beheld her face, perfect and dis- 



FROM APENNINES TO THE ANDES 291 

tinct, as he had not beheld it for a long time ; he beheld 
it close to him, shining, speaking; he again beheld the 
most fleeting motions of her eyes, and of her lips, 
all her attitudes, all the shades of her thoughts; and 
urged on by these pursuing recollections, he hastened 
his steps. A new affection, an unspeakable tender- 
ness, grew in him, grew in his heart, making sweet 
and quiet tears to flow down his face. As he ad- 
vanced through the gloom, he spoke to her, he said to 
her the words which he would murmur in her ear in a 
little while more : 

"I am here, my mother; behold me here. I will 
never leave you again; we will return home together, 
and I will remain always beside you on board the ship, 
close beside you, and no one shall ever part me from 
you again, no one, never more, so long as I have life!" 

And in the meantime he did not observe how the 
silvery light of the moon was dying away on the sum- 
mits of the gigantic trees in the delicate whiteness of 
the dawn. 

At eight o'clock on that morning, the doctor from 
Tucuman, a young Argentine, was already by the bed- 
side of the sick woman, in company with an assistant, 
endeavoring, for the last time, to persuade her to 
permit herself to be operated on; and the engineer 
Mequinez and his wife added their warmest persua- 
sions to those of the former. But all was in vain. 
The woman, feeling her strength exhausted, had no 
longer any faith in the operation; she was perfectly 
certain that she should die under it, or that she should 
only survive it a few hours, after having suffered in 



292 MAY 

vain pains that were more poignant than those of which 
she should die in any case. The doctor lingered to 
tell her once more : 

"But the operation is a safe one; your safety is 
certain, provided you exercise a little courage! And 
your death is equally certain if you refuse!" It was 
a sheer waste of words. 

"No," she replied in a faint voice, "I still have 
courage to die ; but I no longer have any to suffer use- 
lessly. Leave me to die in peace." 

The doctor was discouraged and said no more. 
No one pleaded further. Then the woman turned 
her face towards her mistress, and addressed to her 
her last prayers in a dying voice. 

"Dear, good signora," she said with a great effort, 
sobbing, "you will send this little money and my poor 
effects to my family through the consul. I hope 
that they may all be alive. My heart presages well in 
these, my last moments. You will do me the favor to 
write that I have always thought of them, that I 
have always toiled for them for my children that 
my sole grief was not to have seen them once more 
but that I died courageously with resignation 
blessing them; and that I recommend to my husband 
and to my elder son the youngest, my poor Marco 
that I bore him in my heart until the last mo- 
ment " suddenly she became excited, and shrieked, as 
she clasped her hands : "My Marco, my baby, my baby ! 
My life!" 

But on casting her tearful eyes round her, she per- 
ceived that her mistress was no longer there; she had 
been secretly called away. She sought her master; he 



FROM APENNINES TO THE ANDES 293 

had disappeared. No one remained with her except 
the two nurses and the assistant. She heard in the 
adjoining room the sound of hurried footsteps, a 
murmur of hasty and subdued voices, and repressed 
exclamations. The sick woman fixed her glazing eyes 
on the door, in expectation. At the end of a few 
minutes she saw the doctor appear with an unusual 
expression on his face; then her mistress and master, 
with their countenances also altered. All three gazed 
at her with a singular expression, and exchanged a 
few words in a low tone. She fancied that the doctor 
said to her mistress, "Better let it be at once." She 
did not understand. 

"Josefa," said her mistress to the sick woman, in a 
trembling voice, "I have some good news for you. 
Prepare your heart for good news," 

The woman observed her narrowly. 

"News/' pursued the lady, with increasing agita- 
tion, "which will give you great joy." 

The sick woman's eyes dilated. 

"Prepare yourself," continued her mistress, "to see 
a person of whom you are very fond." 

The woman raised her head with a vigorous move- 
ment, and began to gaze in rapid succession, first at 
the lady and then at the door, with flashing eyes. 

"A person," added the lady, turning pale, "who has 
just arrived unexpectedly." 

"Who is it?" shrieked the woman, with a strange 
and choked voice, like that of a person in terror. An 
instant later she gave vent to a shrill scream, sprang 
into a sitting posture in her bed, and remained motion- 
less, with starting eyes, and her hands pressed to her 



294 MAY 

temples, as in the presence of a supernatural appari- 
tion. 

Marco, tattered and dusty, stood there on the thresh- 
old, held back by the doctor's hand on one arm. 

The woman uttered a cry, "Marco! my son!" 

Marco rushed forward; she stretched out to him 
her fleshless arms, and straining him to her heart with 
the strength of a tiger, she burst into a violent laugh, 
broken by deep, tearless sobs, which caused her to 
fall back, choking on her pillow. 

But she speedily recovered herself, and mad with 
joy, she shrieked as she covered his head with kisses : 
'How do you come here? Why? Is it you? How 
you have grown ! Who brought you ? Are you 
alone? You are not ill? It is you, Marco! It is 
not a dream! Speak to me!" 

Then she suddenly changed her tone: "No! Be 
silent! Wait!" And turning to the doctor, she said 
hurriedly: "Quick, doctor! this instant! I want to get 
well. I am ready. Do not lose a moment. Take 
Marco away, so that he may not hear. Marco, my 
love, it is nothing. I will tell you about it. One 
more kiss. Go! Here I am, doctor." 

Marco was taken away. The master, mistress, and 
women retired in haste; the surgeon and his assistant 
remained behind, and closed the door. 

Signor Mequinez attempted to lead Marco to a dis- 
tant room, but it was impossible ; he seemed rooted to 
the pavement. 

"What is it," he asked. "What is the matter with 
my mother? What are they doing to her?" 

And then Mequinez said softly, still trying to draw 



SUMMER 295 

him away: "Here! Listen to me. I will tell you 
now. Your mother is ill; she must undergo a little 
operation; I will explain it all to you: come with me." 

"No," replied the lad resisting; "I want to stay here. 
Explain it to me here." 

The engineer heaped words on words, as he drew 
him away; the boy began to grow terrified and to 
tremble. 

Suddenly an acute cry, like that of one wounded to 
the death, rang through the whole house. 

The boy responded with another desperate shriek, 
"My mother is dead!" 

The doctor appeared on the threshold and said, 
"Your mother is saved." 

The boy gazed at him for a moment, and then flung 
himself at his feet, sobbing, "I thank you, doctor!" 

But the doctor raised him with a gesture, saying: 
"Rise! It is you, you heroic child, who have saved 
your mother!" 



SUMMER 

Wednesday, 24th. 

Marco, the Genoese, is the last little hero but one 
whose acquaintance we shall make this year; only one 
remains for the month of June. There are but two 
more monthly examinations, twenty-six days of les- 
sons, six Thursdays, and five Sundays. 

The air of the end of the year is already felt. The 
trees of the garden, leafy and in blossom, cast a fine 
shade on the gymnastic apparatus. The scholars are 
already dressed in summer clothes. And it is beauti- 



296 MAY 

ful, at the close of school and the exit of the classes, 
to see how different everything is from what it was 
in the months that are past. The long locks which 
touched the shoulders have disappeared; all heads are 
closely shorn; bare legs and throats are to be seen; 
there are little straw hats of every shape, with ribbons 
that fall over the backs of the wearers; shirts and 
neckties are of every hue; all the little children wear 
something red or blue about them, a facing, a border, 
a tassel, a scrap of some vivid color tacked on some- 
where by the mother, so that even the poorest may 
make a good figure ; and many come to school without 
any hats, as though they had run away from home. 
Some wear the white gymnasium suit. There is one 
of Schoolmistress Delcati's boys who is red from head 
to foot, like a boiled lobster. Several are dressed like 
sailors. 

But the finest of all is the little mason, who has 
donned a big straw hat, which gives him the appear- 
ance of a half-candle with a shade over it; and it is 
ridiculous to see him make his hare's face beneath it. 
Coretti, too, has given up his catskin cap, and wears 
an old travelling-cap of gray silk. Votini has a sort 
of Scotch dress, all decorated ; Crossi displays his bare 
breast; Precossi is lost inside of a blue blouse belong- 
ing to the blacksmith. 

And Garoffi? Now that he has been obliged to 
discard the cloak beneath which he hid his wares, all 
his pockets are visible, bulging with all sorts of huck- 
ster's trifles, and the lists of his lotteries force them- 
selves out. Now all his pockets allow their contents 
to be seen, fans made of half a newspaper, knobs of 



THE POETIC SIDE 297 

canes, darts to fire at birds, herbs, and maybugs which 
creep out of his pockets and crawl slowly over the 
jackets. 

Many of the little fellows carry bunches of flowers 
to the mistresses. The mistresses are dressed in 
summer garments also, of cheerful tints all except 
the "little nun," who is always in black; and the 
mistress with the red feather still has her red feather, 
and a knot of red ribbon at her neck, all tumbled with 
the little hands of her scholars, who always make her 
laugh and then run. 

It is the season, too, of cherry-trees, of butterflies, 
of music in the streets, and of rambles in the country; 
many of the fourth grade run away to bathe in the Po; 
all have their hearts already set on the vacation; each 
day they issue forth from school more gay and impa- 
tient than the day before. Only it pains me to see 
Garrone in mourning, and my poor mistress of the 
primary, who is thinner and whiter than ever, and who 
coughs with an ever-increasing violence. She \valks 
all bent over now, and greets me so sadly ! 

THE POETIC SIDE 

Friday, 26th. 

You are now beginning to understand the poetry of 
school, Enrico ; but at present you only survey the school 
from within. It will seem much more beautiful and 
more poetic to you twenty years from now, when you go 
there to escort your own boys ; and you will then survey 
it from the outside, as I do. While waiting for school 
to close, I wander about the silent street, near by, and 



298 MAY 

listen at the windows of the ground floor, which are 
screened by Venetian blinds. At one window I hear the 
voice of a school-mistress saying: 

"Ah, what a shape for a t\ It won't do, my dear boy ! 
What would your father say to it?" 

At the next window there resounds the heavy voice of 
a master, saying : 

"I will buy fifty metres of cloth at four lire and a 
half the metre and sell it again 

Further on there is the mistress with the red feather, 
who is reading aloud : 

"Then Pietro Micca, with the lighted train of pow- 
der" 

From the adjoining class-room comes the chirping of a 
thousand birds, which signifies that the master has 
stepped out for a moment. I proceed onward, and as I 
turn the corner, I hear a scholar weeping, and the voice 
of the mistress reproving and comforting him. From 
the lofty windows issue verses, names of great and good 
men, fragments of sentences which teach virtue, the love 
of country, and courage. Then ensue moments of 
silence, in which one would declare that the building is 
empty, and it does not seem possible that there should be 
seven hundred boys within. Noisy outbursts of hilarity 
are heard again, provoked by the jest of a master in a 
good humor. And the people who are passing halt, and 
glance with sympathy towards that pleasing school, which 
contains so much youth and so many hopes. 

Then a sudden dull sound is heard, a clapping to of 
books and satchels, a shuffling of feet, a buzz which 
spreads from room to room, and from the lower to the 
higher, as at the sudden spread of a bit of good news : it 
is the beadle, who is making his rounds, announcing the 
dismissal of school. And at that sound a throng of 



THE DEAF-MUTE 299 

women, men, girls, and youths press closer around the 
door, waiting for their sons, brothers, or grandchildren ; 
while from the doors of the class-rooms little boys shoot 
forth into the big hall, as from a spout, seize their little 
capes and hats, creating a great confusion with them on 
the floor, and dancing all about, until the beadle chases 
them forth one after the other. At length they come forth, 
in long files, stamping their feet. And then from all the 
relatives comes a shower of questions : ''Did you know 
your lesson? How much work did they give you? 
What have you to do for to-morrow ? When does the 
monthly examination come?" 

Then even the poor mothers who do not know how to 
read, open the copy-books, gaze at the problems, and ask 
particulars : "Only eight ? Ten with commendation ? 
Nine for the lesson?" 

And they grow uneasy, and rejoice, and question the 
masters, and talk of the prospect for the examinations. 
How beautiful all this is, and how great its promise to 
the world! 

YOUR MOTHER. 



THE DEAF-MUTE 

Sunday, 28th. 

The month of May could not have had a better 
ending than my visit this morning. We heard a jing- 
ling of the bell, and all ran to see what it meant. I 
heard my father say in a tone of astonishment: 

"You here, Giorgio?" 

Giorgio was our gardener in Chieri, who now has 
his family at Condove, and had just arrived from 
Genoa, where he had disembarked on the preceding 



300 MAY 

day, on his return from Greece, after working on the 
railway there for the last three years. Hfe had a big 
bundle in his arms. He has grown a little older, but 
his face is still red and jolly. 

My father asked him in; but he refused, and sud- 
denly inquired, assuming a serious look : "How is my 
family? How is Gigia?" 

"She was well a few days ago," replied my mother. 

Giorgio uttered a deep sigh. 

"Oh, God be praised! I did not have the courage 
to present myself at the Deaf-mute Institution until I 
had heard about her. I will leave my bundle here, 
and run to get her. It is three years since I have 
seen my poor little daughter! Three years since I 
have seen any of my people !" 

My father told me to go with him. 

"Excuse me; one word more," said the gardener, 
from the landing. 

My father interrupted him, "How are your affairs?" 

"All right," the other replied. "Thanks to God, I 
have brought back a few soldi. But I wanted to in- 
quire. Tell me how the education of the little dumb- 
girl is getting on. When I left her, she was like a 
little animal, poor thing! I don't put much faith in 
those colleges. Has she learned how to make signs? 
My wife did write to me, to be sure, 'She is learning 
to speak; she is making progress/ But I said to my- 
self, What is the use of her learning to talk if I don't 
know how to make signs myself? How shall we 
manage to understand each other, poor child! It is 
well enough for them to understand each other, one 



THE DEAF-MUTE 301 

unfortunate with another unfortunate. How is she 
getting on, then? How is she?" 

My father smiled, and replied: 

"I shall not tell you anything about it ; you will see ; 
go, go ; don't waste another minute !" 

We started. The institute is close by. As we went 
along at a great pace, the gardener talked to me, and 
grew sad. 

"Ah, my poor Gigia ! To be born with such an in- 
firmity ! To think that I have never heard her call 
me father; that she has never heard me call her my 
daughter; that she has never either heard or spoken a 
single word since she has been in the world! And it 
is lucky that a charitable gentleman was found to pay 
the expenses of the institution. But that is all she 
could not enter there until she was eight years old. 
She has not been at home for three years. She is now 
going on eleven. And she has grown? Tell me, she 
has grown? She is in good spirits?" 

"You will see in a moment, you will see in a mo- 
ment/' I replied, hastening my pace. 

"But where is this institution ?" he demanded. "My 
wife went with her after I was gone. It seems to me 
that it ought to be near here." 

We had just reached it. We at once entered the 
parlor. An attendent came to meet us. 

"I am the father of Gigia Voggi," said the gardener; 
"send for my daughter at once." 

"They are at play," replied the attendant : "I will go 
and inform the matron." And he hastened away. 

The gardener could no longer speak nor stand still ; 



302 MAY 

he stared at all four walls, without seeing any- 
thing. 

The door opened; a teacher entered, dressed in 
black, holding a little girl by the hand. 

Father and daughter gazed at each other for an 
instant ; then flew into each other's arms, with a cry. 

The girl was dressed in a white and reddish striped 
material, with a gray apron. She is a little taller than 
I. She cried, and clung to her father's neck with 
both arms. 

Her father disengaged himself, and began to look 
her over from head to foot, panting as though he had 
run a long way ; and he exclaimed : "Ah, how she has 
grown! How pretty she has become! Oh, my dear, 
poor Gigia! My poor mute child! Are you her 
teacher, signora? Tell her to make some of her signs 
to me; for I shall be able to understand something, 
and then I will learn little by little. Tell her to make 
me understand something with her gestures." 

The teacher smiled, and said in a low voice to the 
girl, "Who is this man who has come to see you?" 

And the girl replied with a smile, in a coarse, strange, 
harsh voice, like that of a savage who was speaking 
for the first time in our language, but with a distinct 
pronunciation, "He is my fa-ther." 

The gardener fell back a pace, and shrieked like 
a madman: "She speaks. Is it possible! Is it 
possible! She speaks! Can you speak, rny child? 
can you speak? Say something to me: you can 
speak?" and he embraced her afresh, and kissed her 
thrice on the brow. "But it is not with signs that 



THE DEAF-MUTE 303 

she talks, signora; it is not with her fingers? What 
does this mean?" 

"No, Signer Voggi," rejoined the teacher, "it is 
not with signs. That was the old way. Here we 
teach the new method, the oral method. How is it 
that you did not know it?" 

"I knew nothing about it!" replied the gardener, 
lost in amazement. "I have been abroad for the last 
three years. Oh, they wrote to me, and I did not 
understand. I am a blockhead. Oh, my daughter, 
you understand me, then? Do you hear my voice? 
Answer me : do you hear me ? Do you hear what I 
say?" 

"Why, no, my good man," said the teacher; "she 
does not hear your voice, because she is deaf. She 
understands from the movements of your lips what 
the words are that you utter ; this is the way the thing 
is managed. But she does not hear your voice any 
more than she does the words she speaks to you; she 
pronounces them, because we have taught her, letter 
by letter, how she must place her lips and move her 
tongue, and what effort to make with her chest and 
throat, in order to emit a sound." 

The gardener did not understand, and stood with 
his mouth wide open. He did not yet believe it. 

"Tell me, Gigia," he asked his daughter, whisper- 
ing in her ear, "are you glad that your father has come 
back?" and he raised his face again, and stood await- 
ing her reply. 

The girl looked at him thoughtfully, and said 
nothing. 



304 MAY 

Her father was troubled. 

The teacher laughed. Then she said: "My good 
man, she does not answer you, because she did not see 
the movements of your lips; you spoke in her ear! 
Repeat your question, keeping your face well before 
hers." 

The father, gazing straight in her face, repeated, 
"Are you glad that your father has come back? that 
he is not going away again?" 

The girl, who had watched his lips closely, seeking 
even to see inside his mouth, replied frankly: 

"Yes, I am de-light-ed that you have returned, that 
you are not go-ing a-way a-gain nev-er a-gain." 

Her father embraced her impetuously, and then in 
great haste, in order to make quite sure, he over- 
whelmed her with questions. 

"What is mamma's name?" 

"An-to-nia." 

"What is the name of your little sister?" 

"Ad-e-laide." 

"What is the name of this college?" 

"The Deaf-mute Insti-tution." 

"How many are two times ten?" 

"Twen-ty." 

While we thought that he was laughing for joy, he 
suddenly burst out crying. But it was from joy. 

'Take courage," said the teacher to him; "you have 
reason to rejoice, not to weep. You see that you are 
making your daughter cry also. You are pleased, 
then?" 

The gardener grasped the teacher's hand and kissed 
it two or three times, saying : "Thank you f a hundred 



THE DEAF-MUTE 305 

times, a thousand times, dear Signora Teacher! and 
forgive me for not knowing how to say anything 
else!" 

"But she not only speaks," said the teacher; "your 
daughter also knows how to write. She knows how 
to reckon. She knows the names of all common 
objects. She knows a little history and geography. 
She is now in the regular class. When she has passed 
through the two remaining classes, she will know much 
more. When she leaves here, she will be in a condition 
to adopt a profession. We already have deaf-mutes 
who stand in the shops to serve customers, and they 
perform their duties like any one else." 

Again the gardener was astounded. It seemed as 
though his ideas were becoming confused again. He 
stared at his daughter and scratched his head. His 
face demanded another explanation. 

Then the teacher turned to the attendant and said to 
him : 

"Call a child of the preparatory class for me." 

The attendant returned, in a short time, with a 
deaf-mute of eight or nine years, who had entered the 
institution a few days before. 

"This girl," said the mistress, "is one of those whom 
we are instructing in the first elements. This is the 
way it is done. I want to make her say e. Pay 
attention." 

The teacher opened her mouth, as one opens it to 
pronounce the vowel e, and motioned to the child to 
open her mouth in the same manner. Then the mis- 
tress made her a sign to throw out her voice. She did 
so; but instead of e, she pronunced o. 



306 MAY 

"No," said the mistress, "that is not right." And 
taking the child's hands, she placed one of them on her 
own throat and the other on her chest, and repeated 



"e." 



The child felt with her hands the movements of the 
mistress's throat and chest, opened her mouth again 
as before, and pronounced "e" correctly. 

In* the same manner, the mistress made her pro- 
nounce c and d, still keeping the two little hands on 
her own throat and chest. 

"Now do you understand?" she inquired. 

The father understood; but he seemed more as- 
tonished than before. 

"And they are taught to speak in the same way?" 
he asked, after a moment of reflection, gazing at the 
teacher. 'You have the patience to teach them to 
speak in that manner, little by little, and so many of 
them? one by one through years and years. But you 
are saints; that's what you are! You are angels of 
paradise ! There is not in the world a reward that is 
worthy of you! What is there that I can say? Ah! 
leave me alone with my daughter a little while now. 
Let me have her to myself for five minutes." 

And drawing her to a seat apart he began to question 
her, and she to reply, and he laughed with beaming 
eyes, slapping his fists down on his knees. He took 
his daughter's hands, and stared at her, beside him- 
self with delight at hearing her, as though her voice 
had been one which came from Heaven ; then he asked 
the teacher, "Would the Signer Director permit me to 
thank him?" 

"The director is not here," replied the mistress; 



THE DEAF-MUTE 307 

"but there is another person whom you should thank. 
Every little girl here is given into the charge of an 
older companion, who acts the part of sister or mother 
to her. Your little girl has been intrusted to the care 
of a deaf-mute of seventeen, the daughter of a baker, 
who is kind to and very fond of her; she has been 
assisting her for two years to dress herself every 
morning; she combs her hair, she teaches her to sew, 
she mends her clothes, she is good company for her. 
Luigia, what is the name of your mamma in the 
institute ?" 

The girl smiled, and said, "Ca-te-rina Gior-dano." 
Then she said to her father, "She is ve-ry, ve-ry good." 

The attendant, who had withdrawn at a signal from 
the mistress, returned almost at once with a light- 
haired deaf-mute, a robust girl, with a cheerful coun- 
tenance, and also dressed in the red and white striped 
stuff, with a gray apron. She paused at the door and 
blushed; then she bent her head with a smile. She 
had the figure of a woman, but seemed like a girl. 

Giorgio's daughter instantly ran to her, took her 
by the arm, like a child, and drew her to her father, 
saying, in her heavy voice, "Ca-te-rina Gior-dano." 

"Ah, what a good girl!" exclaimed her father; and 
he stretched out one hand to caress her, but drew it 
back again, and repeated, "Ah, what a good girl! 
May God bless her, may He grant her all good fortune, 
all consolations; may He make her and hers always 
happy, since she has been so good to my poor Gigia! 
It is an honest workingman, the poor father of a 
family, who wishes you this with all his heart." 

The big girl petted the little one, still keeping her 



308 MAY 

face bent, and smiling, and the gardener continued to 
gaze at her, as at a madonna. 

'You can take your daughter with you for the day," 
said the mistress. 

"Won't I take her, though!" rejoined the gardener. 
"Fll take her to Condove, and fetch her back to- 
morrow morning. Think for a bit whether I won't 
take her !" 

The girl ran off to dress. 

"It is three years since I have seen her!" repeated 
the gardener. "Now she speaks! I will take her to 
Condove with me this minute. But first I shall take 
a walk about Turin, with my deaf-mute on my arm, 
so that all may see her, and I shall take her to see some 
of my friends! Ah, what a beautiful day! This is 
consolation indeed! Here's your father's arm, my 
Gigia." 

The girl, who had returned with a little mantle and 
cap on, took his arm. 

"And thanks to all!" said the father, as he reached 
the threshold. "Thanks to all, with my whole soul! 
I shall come back another time to thank you all again." 

He stood for a moment in thought, then turned 
abruptly from the girl, came back, fumbling in his 
waistcoat with his hand, and shouted like a man in a 
fury : 

"Come now, I am not a poor devil! So here, I 
leave twenty lire for the institution, a fine new gold 
piece." 

And with a tremendous bang, he left his gold piece 
on the table. 

"No, no, my good man," said the mistress, with 



THE DEAF-MUTE 309 

emotion. "Take back your money. I cannot accept 
it. Take it back. It is not my place. You shall 
see about that when the director is here. But he will 
not accept anything either; be sure of that. You have 
toiled too hard to earn it, poor man. We shall be 
greatly obliged to you, all the same." 

"No; I shall leave it," replied the gardener, ob- 
stinately; "and then we will see." 

But the mistress put his money back in his pocket, 
without leaving him time to reject it. So he gave up 
with a shake of the head; and then, throwing a kiss 
to the mistress and to the older girl, he quickly took 
his daughter's arm again, and hurried with her out of 
the door, saying: 

"Come, come my daughter, my poor dumb child, my 
treasure !" 

And the girl exclaimed in her harsh voice : 

"Oh, how beau-ti-ful the sun is!" 



JUNE 

GARIBALDI 

June 3d. 
To-morrow is the National Festival Day. 

TO-DAY is a day of national mourning. Garibaldi died 
last night. Do you know who he is? He is the man 
who freed ten millions of Italians from the tyranny of 
the Bourbons. He died at the age of seventy-five. He 
was born at Nice, the son of a ship captain. At eight 
years of age, he saved a woman's life; at thirteen, he 
dragged into safety a boat-load of his companions who 
were shipwrecked; at twenty-seven, he saved a drowning 
youth, at Marseilles; at forty-one, he saved a ship from 
burning on the ocean. He fought for ten years in 
America for the liberty of a foreign people ; he fought in 
three wars against the Austrians, for the liberation of 
Lombardy and Trentino; he defended Rome from the 
French in 1849; he liberated Naples and Palermo in 
1860; he fought again for Rome in 1867; and fought 
against the Germans in defence of France in 1870. He 
was possessed of the flame of heroism and the genius of 
war. He was engaged in forty battles, and won thirty- 
seven of them. 

When he was not fighting, he was working for his 
living, or he shut himself up in a solitary island, and 
tilled the soil. He was teacher, sailor, workman, trader, 
soldier, general, dictator. He was simple, reat, and 
good. He hated all oppressors, he loved all people, he 
protected all the weak; he had no other aspiration than 

310 



THE ARMY 311 

good, he refused honors, he scorned death, he adored 
Italy. When he uttered his war-cry, legions of valorous 
men hastened to him from all quarters ; gentlemen left 
their palaces, workmen their ships, youths their schools, 
to go and fight in the sunshine of his glory. In time of 
war he wore a red shirt. He was a blonde, strong and 
handsome. On the field of battle he was a thunder-bolt; 
in his affections he was a child, in affliction he was a saint. 
Thousands of Italians have died for their country, happy, 
if, when dying, they saw him pass victorious in the dis- 
tance; thousands would have allowed themselves to be 
killed for him; millions have blessed and will bless him. 

He is dead. The whole world mourns him. You do 
not appreciate him now. But you will read of his deeds, 
you will constantly hear him spoken of in the course of 
your life; and gradually, as you grow up, his image will 
grow before you; when you become a man, you will 
behold him as a giant ; and when you are no longer in 
the world, when your sons' sons and those who shall be 
born of them are no longer among the living, the gen- 
erations will still behold on high his luminous head as a 
redeemer of the people, crowned by the names of his 
victories as with a circlet of stars ; and the brow and the 
soul of every Italian will beam when he utters his name. 

YOUR FATHER. 

THE ARMY 

Sunday, nth. 

The National Festival Day. Postponed for a 
week on account of the death of Garibaldi. 

We have been to the Piazza Castello, to see the re- 



312 JUNE 

view of soldiers, who filed before the commandant of 
the army corps, between two long lines of people. As 
they marched past to the sound of trumpets and bands, 
my father pointed out to me the Corps and the glories 
of the banners. 

First, the pupils of the Academy, those who will 
become officers in the Engineers and the Artillery, 
about three hundred in number, dressed in black, 
passed with the bold easy elegance of students and 
soldiers. After them defiled the infantry, the brigade 
of Aosta, which fought at Goito and at San Martino, 
and the Bergamo brigade, which fought at Castelfi- 
dardo, four regiments of them, company after com- 
pany, thousands of red aiguillettes, which seemed like 
so many double and very long garlands of blood- 
colored flowers, extended and shaken from the two 
ends, and borne across the crowd. 

After the infantry, the soldiers of the Mining Corps 
advanced, the workingmen of war, with their plumes 
of black horse-tails, and their crimson bands ; and while 
these were passing, we beheld advancing behind them 
hundreds of long, straight plumes, which rose above 
the heads of the spectators; they were the Alpine 
troops, the defenders of the portals of Italy, all tall, 
rosy, and stalwart, with hats of Calabrian fashion, and 
lapels of a beautiful, bright green, the color of the 
grass on their native mountains. 

The mountaineers were still marching past, when 
a stir ran through the crowd, and the "bersaglieri," 
the old twelfth battalion, the first to enter Rome 
through the breach at the Porta Pia, bronzed, alert, 
brisk with fluttering plumes, passed like a wave in a 



THE ARMY 313 

sea of black, making the piazza ring with the shrill 
blasts of their trumpets, which seemed like shouts of 
joy. But their trumpeting was drowned by a broken 
and hollow rumble, which announced the field artillery ; 
and the latter passed in triumph, seated on their lofty 
caissons, drawn by three hundred teams of fiery horses, 
those fine soldiers with yellow lacings, and their 
long cannons of brass and steel gleaming on the light 
carriages, as they jolted and resounded, and made the 
earth tremble. 

Then came the mountain artillery, slowly, gravely, 
fine in its heavy, solid way, with its large soldiers, 
and its powerful mules that mountain artillery which 
carries dismay and death wherever man can set his 
foot. And last of all, the fine regiment of the Genoese 
cavalry, which had wheeled down like a whirlwind on 
ten fields of battle, from Santa Lucia to Villa franca, 
passed at a gallop, their helmets glittering in the sun, 
their lances erect, their pennons floating in the air, 
sparkling with gold and silver, filling the air with 
jingling and neighing. 

"How beautiful it is!" I exclaimed. My father 
almost reproved me for the words, and said : 

"You are not to regard the army as a fine show. 
All these young men, so full of strength and hope, 
may be called upon any day to defend our country, and 
fall in a few hours, crushed to fragments by bullets 
and grape-shot. Every time that you hear the cry, 
at a feast, 'Hurrah for the army! hurrah for Italy!' 
picture to yourself, behind the regiments which are 
passing, a plain covered with corpses, and red with 
blood, and then the greeting to the army will proceed 



JUNE 

from the very depths of your heart, and the image of 
Italy will appear to you more severe and grand." 

ITALY 

Tuesday, I3th. 

Salute your country on days of festivals, thus : "Italy, 
my country, dear and noble land, where my father and 
my mother were born, and where they will be buried, 
where I hope to live and die, where my children will 
grow up and die; beautiful Italy, great and glorious for 
many centuries, united and free for the past few years; 
who has scattered so great a light of intellect divine over 
the world, and for whom so many valiant men have die3 
on the battle-field, and so many heroes on the gallows; 
august mother of three hundred cites, and thirty millions 
of sons ; I, a child, who do not understand you as yet, and 
who do not know you in your entirety, venerate and love 
you with all my soul, and am proud of having been born 
of you, and of calling myself your son. I love your 
splendid seas and sublime mountains ; I love your solemn 
monuments and immortal memories; I love your glory 
and beauty ; I love and venerate the whole of you as much 
as that beloved portion where I, for the first time, beheld 
the light and heard your name. I love the whole of you, 
with a single affection and with equal gratitude, Turin 
the valiant, Genoa the superb, Bologna the learned, 
Venice the enchanting, Milan the mighty; I love with 
the reverence of a son, gentle Florence and terrible 
Palermo, immense and beautiful Naples, marvellous and 
eternal Rome. I love you, my sacred country! And I 
swear that I will love all your sons like brothers; that I 
will always honor in my heart your great men, living and 
dead; that I will be an industrious and honest citizen, 



THIRTY-TWO DEGREES 315 

constantly intent on ennobling myself, in order to render 
myself worthy of you, to assist with my small powers 
in causing misery, ignorance, injustice, crime, to disappear 
one day from your face, so that you may live and grow 
quietly in the majesty of your right and of your strength. 
I swear that I will serve you, as it may be granted to me, 
with my mind, with my arm, with my heart, humbly, 
ardently; and that, if the day should dawn in which I 
should be called on to give my blood and my life for you, 
I will give my blood, and I will die, crying your holy 
name to heaven, and wafting my last kiss to your blessed 
banner." 

YOUR FATHER. 

THIRTY-TWO DEGREES 

Friday, i6th. 

During the five days which have passed since the 
National Festival, the heat has increased by three 
degrees. We are in full summer now, and begin to 
feel weary ; all have lost their fine rosy color of spring- 
time; necks and legs are growing thin, heads droop 
and eyes close. Poor Nelli, who suffers much from 
the heat, has turned the color of wax in the face ; he 
sometimes falls into a heavy sleep, with his head on 
his copy-book. But Garrone is always watchful, and 
places an open book in front of him, so that the master 
can not see him. Crossi rests his red head against the 
bench in a certain way, so that it looks as though it 
had been taken from his body and placed there sepa- 
rately. Nobis complains that there are too many of 
us, and that we spoil the air. 

Ah, what an effort it costs now to study! I gaze 



316 JUNE 

through the windows at those beautiful trees which 
cast so deep a shade, where I should be so glad to run, 
and sadness and impatience overwhelm me at being 
obliged to go and shut myself up among the benches. 
But then I take courage at the sight of my kind mother, 
who is always watching me, when I return from 
school, to see whether I am not pale; and at every 
page of my work she says to me: 

"Do you still feel well?" and every morning at six, 
when she wakes me for my lesson, "Courage! there 
are only so many days more : then you will be free, 
and will get rested, you will go to the shade of 
country lanes." 

Yes, she is perfectly right to remind me of the boys 
who are working in the fields in the full heat of the 
sun, or -among the white sands of the river, which 
blind and scorch them, and those in the glass-factories, 
who stand all day long, motionless, with head bent over 
a flame of gas; and all of them rise earlier than we 
do, and have no vacations. Courage, then! 

Even in this respect, Derossi is at the head of all, 
for he surfers neither from heat nor drowsiness; he 
is always wide awake, and cneery, with his golden curls, 
as he was in the winter, and he studies without effort, 
and keeps all about him alert, as though he freshened 
the air with his voice. 

There are two others, also, who are always awake 
and attentive : stubborn Stardi, who pinches his face, 
to keep from going to sleep ; and the more weary and 
heated he is, the more he sets his teeth, and he opens 
his eyes so wide that it seems as though he wanted 
to eat the teacher; and that trader of a Garoffi, who is 



MY FATHER 317 

wholly absorbed in manufacturing fans out of red 
paper, decorated with little figures from match-boxes, 
which he sells at two centesimi apiece. 

But the bravest of all is Coretti; poor Coretti, who 
gets up at five o'clock, to help his father carry wood! 
At eleven, in school, he can no longer keep his eyes 
open, and his head droops on his breast. Neverthe- 
less, he shakes himself, punches himself on the back 
of the neck, asks permission to go out and wash his 
face, and makes his neighbors shake and pinch him. 
But this morning he could not resist, -and fell into a 
heavy sleep. The teacher called him loudly: "Co- 
retti" He did not hear. The teacher, irritated, re- 
peated, "Coretti !" Then the son of the charcoal-man, 
who lives next to him at home, rose and said : 

"He worked from five until seven carrying wood." 

The teacher allowed him to sleep on, and continued 
with the lesson for half an hour. Then he went to 
Coretti's seat, and awakened him very, very gently, 
by blowing in his face. On seeing the master in front 
of him, he started back in alarm. But the master took 
his head in his hands, and said, as he stroked his 
hair : 

"I am not reproving you, my son. Your sleep is 
not at all that of laziness; it is the sleep of fatigue." 



MY FATHER 

Saturday, I7th. 

Surely, neither your comrade Coretti nor Garrone 
would ever have answered their fathers as you answered 
yours this afternoon. Enrico! How is it possible? 






3 i8 JUNE 

You must promise me solemnly that this shall never 
happen again so long as I live. Every time that an 
impertinent reply flies to your lips at a reproof from your 
father, think of that day which will surely come when 
he will call you to his bedside to tell you, "Enrico, I am 
about to leave you." Oh, my son, when you hear his 
voice for the last time, and for a long while afterwards, 
when you weep alone in his deserted room, in the midst 
of those books which he will never open again, then, on 
recalling that you have at times been wanting in respect 
to him, you, too, will ask yourself, "How is it possible?'* 
Then you will understand that he has always been your 
best friend, that when he was constrained to punish you, 
it caused him more suffering than it did you, and that 
he never made you weep except for the sake of doing 
you good ; and then you will repent, and you will kiss with 
tears that desk at which he worked so much, at which he 
wore out his life for his children. You do not under- 
stand now; he hides from you all of himself, except his 
kindness and his love. You do not know that he is 
sometimes so broken down with toil that he thinks he 
has only a few more days to live, and that at such mo- 
ments he talks only of you; he has in his heart no other 
trouble than that of leaving you poor and without protec- 
tion. 

And how often, when meditating on this, does he enter 
your room while you are asleep, and stand there, lamp 
in hand, gazing at you ; and then he makes an effort, and 
weary and sad as he is, he returns to his labor. Neither 
do you know that he often seeks you and remains with 
you because *he has a bitterness in his heart, sorrows 
which attack all men in the world, and he seeks you as 
a friend, to obtain consolation himself and forgetfulness, 
and he feels the need of taking refuge in your affection, 



IN THE COUNTRY 319 

to recover his serenity and his courage. Think, then, 
what must be his sorrow, when instead of finding in you 
affection, he finds coldness and disrespect! Never again 
stain yourself with this horrible ingratitude ! Reflect, 
that were you as good as a saint, you could never repay 
him sufficiently for what he has done and for what he is 
constantly doing for you. And reflect, also, we cannot 
count on life; a misfortune might remove your father 
while you are still a boy, in two years, in three months, 
to-morrow. 

Ah, my poor Enrico, when you see all about you 
changing, how empty, how desolate the house will appear, 
with your poor mother clothed in black ! Go, my son, go 
to your father ; he is in his room at work. Go on tiptoe, 
so that he may not hear you enter ; go and lay your fore- 
head on his knees, and ask him to pardon and to bless 
you. 

YOUR MOTHER. 

IN THE COUNTRY 

Monday, iQth. 

My good father forgave me on this occasion also, 
and allowed me to go on an expedition to the country, 
which had been arranged on Wednesday, with the 
father of Coretti, the wood-peddler. We were all 
in need of a mouthful of mountain air. 

It was a holiday. We met at two o'clock in the place 
of the Statue Derossi, Garrone, Garoffi, Precossi, 
Coretti, father and son, and I with our provisions of 
fruit, sausages, and hard-boiled eggs ; we also carried 
leather bottles and tin cups. Garrone carried a gourd 
filled with white wine; Coretti, his father's soldier- 



320 JUNE 

canteen, full of red wine; and little Precossi, in the 
blacksmith's blouse, held under his arm a two-kilo- 
gramme loaf. 

We went in the omnibus as far as Gran Madre di 
Dio, and then off, as briskly as possible, to the hills. 
How green, how shady, how fresh it was ! We rolled 
over and over in the grass, we dipped our faces in the 
rivulets, we leaped the hedges. The elder Coretti 
followed us at a distance, with his jacket thrown over 
his shoulders, smoking his clay pipe, and from time 
to time threatening us with his hand, to prevent our 
tearing holes in our trousers. 

Precossi whistled; I had never heard him whistle 
before. The younger Coretti did the same, as he went 
along. That little fellow can make everything with 
his jack-knife, mill-wheels, forks, squirts. He in- 
sisted on carrying the other boys' things, and he was 
loaded down until he was dripping with perspiration 1 , 
but he was still as nimble as a goat. Derossi halted 
every moment to tell us the names of the plants and 
insects. I don't see how he manages to know so many 
things. 

Garrone nibbled at his bread in silence; but he no 
longer attacks it with the cheery bites of old, poor 
Garrone ! now that he has lost his mother. But he is 
always as good as bread himself. When one of us 
went back for a running start to leap a ditch, he ran 
to the other side, and held out his hands to us; and 
since Precossi is afraid of cows, having been tossed 
by one when a child, Garrone placed himself in front 
of him every time that we passed any. We mounted 
up to Santa Margherita, and then went down the de- 



IN THE COUNTRY 321 

cline by leaps, rolls, and slides. Precossi tumbled into 
a thorn-bush, and tore a hole in his blouse, and stood 
there shamefacedly, with the strip dangling; but Ga- 
roffi, who always has pins in his jacket, fixed it so that 
it was not to be seen, while the other kept saying, ''Ex- 
cuse me, excuse me," and then he set out to run once 
more. 

Garoffi did not waste his time on the way; he 
picked salad herbs and snails, and put every stone that 
glistened the least bit into his packet, supposing that 
there was gold and silver in it. And on we went, 
running, rolling, and climbing through the shade and 
in the sun, up and down, through all the lanes 
and cross-roads, until we arrived tumbled and breath- 
less at the crest of a hill, where we seated ourselves 
to take our lunch on the grass. 

We could see an immense plain, and all the blue Alps 
with their white summits. We were almost dying of 
hunger; the bread seemed to be melting. The elder 
Coretti handed us our portions of sausage on gourd 
leaves. And then we all began to talk at once about 
the teachers, the comrades who had not been able to 
come, and the examinations. Precossi was rather 
ashamed to eat, and Garrone thrust the best bits of 
his share into his mouth by force. Coretti was seated 
next his father, with his legs crossed; they seemed 
more like two brothers than father and son, when 
seen thus together, both rosy and smiling, with those 
white teeth of theirs. The father drank with zest, 
emptying the bottles and the cups which we left half 
finished, and said : 

"Wine hurts you boys, who are studying; it is the 



322 JUNE 

wood-sellers who need it." Then he grasped his son 
by the nose, and shook him, remarking, ''Boys, you 
must love this fellow, for he is a flower of a man of 
honor; I tell you so myself!" And then we all 
laughed, except Garrone. And he went on, as he 
drank, "It is a shame, eh ! now you are all good friends' 
together, and in a few years, who knows, Enrico and 
Derossi will be lawyers or professors or I don't know 
what, and the other four of you will be in shops or 
at a trade, and the deuce knows where, and then good 
night, comrades!" 

"Nonsense!" rejoined Derossi; "for me, Garrone 
will always be Garrone, Precossi will always be Pre- 
cossi, and the same with all the others, were I to be- 
come the emperor of Russia: where they are, there I 
shall go also." 

"Bless you!" exclaimed the elder Coretti, raising 
his flask ; "that's the way to talk, by Heavens ! Touch 
your glass here! Hurrah for brave comrades, and 
hurrah for school, which makes one family of you, of 
those who have and those who have not!" 

We all clinked his flask with the skins and the cups, 
and drank for the last time. 

"Hurrah for the fourth of the 49th!" he cried, as 
he rose to his feet, and swallowed the last drop; "and 
if you have to do with squadrons too, see that you 
stand firm, like us old ones, my lads!" 

It was already late. We descended, running and 
singing, and walking long distances all arm in arm, and 
we arrived at the Po as twilight fell, and thousands 
of fireflies were flitting about. And we only parted 
in the Piazza, dello Statuto after having agreed to meet 



THE DISTRIBUTION OF PRIZES 323 

there on the following Sunday, and go to the Victor 
Emanuel to see the distribution of prizes to the 
graduates of the evening schools. 

What a beautiful day! How happy I should have 
been on my return home, had I not encountered my 
poor schoolmistress! I met her coming down the 
staircase of our house, almost in the dark, and, as soon 
as she recognized me, she took both my hands, and 
whispered in my ear, "Good-bye, Enrico; remember 
me!" I saw that she was weeping. I went up and 
told my mother about it. 

"I have just met my schoolmistress/' 

"She was just going to bed," replied my mother, 
whose eyes were red. And then she added very sadly, 
looking straight at me, "Your poor teacher is very 
ill." 



THE DISTRIBUTION OF PRIZES TO THE 

WORKINGMEN 

Sunday, 25th. 

As we had agreed, we all went together to the 
Theatre Victor Emanuel, to view the distribution 
of prizes to the workingmen. The theatre was 
adorned as on the I4th of March, and thronged, but 
almost wholly with the families of workmen; and the 
pit was occupied by the male and female pupils of the 
school of choral singing. They sang a hymn to the 
soldiers who had died in the Crimea, which was so 
beautiful that, when it was finished, all rose and 
clapped and shouted, so that the song had to be repeated 
from the beginning. Then the prize-winners began to 



3 2 4 JUNE 

march past the mayor, the prefect, and ma'ny others, 
who presented them with books, savings-bank books, 
diplomas, and medals. In 'one corner of the pit I 
espied the "little mason," sitting beside his mother. 
In another place there was the principal; behind him, 
the red head of my teacher of the second grade. 

The first to pass were the pupils of the evening 
drawing classes the goldsmiths, engravers, lithog- 
raphers, carpenters, and masons; then those of the 
commercial school; then those of the Musical Lyceum, 
among them several girls, workingwomen, all dressed 
in festival attires an-d smiling, who were saluted with 
great applause. Last came the pupils of the ele- 
mentary evening schools. It was a fine sight. They 
were of all ages, of all trades, and dressed in all sorts 
of ways, men with gray hair, factory boys, artisans 
with big black beards. The little ones were at their 
ease; the men, a little embarrassed. The people 
clapped the oldest and the youngest but none of the 
spectators laughed, as they did at our festival : all faces 
were attentive and serious. 

Many of the prize-winners had wives and children 
in the pit, and there were little children who, when 
they saw their father pass across the stage, called him 
by name at the tops of their voices, and signalled to 
him with their hands, laughing loudly. Peasants 
passed, and porters; they were from the Buoncom- 
pagni School. From the Cittadella School there was 
a bootblack whom my father knew, and the prefect 
gave him a diploma. After him I saw approaching a 
man as big as a giant, whom I fancied that I had seen 
several times before. It was the father of the "little 



THE DISTRIBUTION OF PRIZES 325 

mason," who had won the second prize. I remem- 
bered when I had seen him in the garret, at the 
bedside of his sick son, and I immediately sought 
out his son in the pit. Poor "little mason" ! he was 
staring at his father with beaming eyes, and, in order 
to hide his feelings, he made his hare's face. At that 
moment I heard a burst of applause, and I glanced at 
the stage: a little chimney-sweep stood there, with a 
clean face, but in his working-clothes, and the mayor 
was holding him by the hand and talking to him. 

After the chimney-sweep came a cook; then came 
one of the city sweepers, from the Raineri School, to 
get a prize. I felt I know not what in my heart, 
something like a great affection and a great respect, at 
the thought of how much those prizes had cost all 
those workingmen, fathers of families, full of care; 
how much toil added to their labors, how many hours 
snatched from their sleep, of which they stand in such 
great need, and what efforts of minds not used to 
study, and of huge hands made clumsy with work ! 

A factory boy passed, and it was evident that his 
father had lent him his jacket for the occasion, for his 
sleeves hung down so that he was forced to turn them 
back while on the stage, in order to receive his prize : 
and many laughed; but the laugh was speedily stifled 
by the applause. Next came an old man with a bald 
head and a white beard. Several artillery soldiers 
passed, from among those who attended evening 
school in our schoolhouse; then came custom-house 
guards and policemen, from among those who guard 
our schools. 

At the conclusion, the pupils of the evening schools 



326 JUNE 

again sang the hymn to the dead in the Crimea, but 
this time with so much dash, with a strength of 
affection which came so directly from the heart, that 
the audience hardly applauded at all, but went away 
in deep emotion, slowly and quietly. 

In a few moments the whole street was thronged. 
In front of the entrance to the theatre was the chimney- 
sweep, with his prize book bound in red, and all around 
were "gentlemen talking to him. Many exchanged 
greetings from the opposite side of the street, work- 
men, boys, policemen, teachers. My teacher of the 
second grade came out in the midst of the crowd, 
between two artillery-men. And there were work- 
men's wives with babies in their arms, who held in 
their tiny hands their father's diploma, and exhibited 
it to the crowd in their pride. 

MY DEAD SCHOOLMISTRESS 

Tuesday, 2/th. 

While we were at the Theatre Victor Emanuel, 
my poor schoolmistress died. She died at two o'clock, 
a week after she had come to see my mother. The 
principal came to the school yesterday morning to 
announce it to us; and he said: 

'Those of you who were her pupils know how good 
she was, how she loved her boys; she was a mother 
to them. Now, she is no more. For a long time a 
terrible malady has been sapping her life. If she had 
not been obliged to work to earn her bread, she could 
have taken care of herself, arid perhaps recovered. At 
all events, she could have prolonged her life for several 



MY DEAD SCHOOLMISTRESS 327 

months, if she had obtained a leave of absence. But 
she wished to remain among her boys to the very last 
day. On the evening of Saturday, the seventeenth, 
she took leave of them, with the certainty that she 
should never see them again. She gave them good 
advice, kissed them all, and went away sobbing. No 
one will ever see her again. Remember her, my boys !" 

Little Precossi, who had been one of her pupils in 
the upper primary, dropped his head on his desk and 
began to cry. 

Yesterday afternoon, after school, we all went to- 
gether to the house of the dead woman, to accompany 
her body to church. There was a hearse in the street, 
with two horses, and many people were waiting, and 
conversing in a low voice. There was the principal, 
and all the masters and mistresses from our school, 
and from the other schoolhouses where she had taught 
in bygone years. There were nearly all the little 
children in her classes, led by the hand by their mothers, 
who carried tapers ; and there were a very great many 
from the other classes, and fifty scholars from the Ba- 
retti School, some with wreaths in their hands, some 
with bunches of roses. 

A great many bouquets of -flowers had already been 
placed on the hearse, upon which was fastened a large 
wreath of acacia, with an inscription in black letters: 
The old pupils of the fourth grade to their mistress. 
And under the large wreath a little one was suspended, 
which the babies had brought. Among the crowd 
were seen many servant-women, who had been sent by 
their mistresses with candles ; and there were also two 
serving-men in livery, with lighted torches; and a 



328 JUNE 

wealthy gentleman, the father of one of the mistress's 
scholars, had sent his carriage, lined with blue satin. 
All were crowded together near the door. Several 
girls were wiping away their tears. 

We waited for a while in silence. At length the 
casket was brought out. Some of the little ones began 
to cry loudly when they saw the coffin put into the 
hearse, and one began to shriek, as though he had 
only then realized that his mistress was dead; and he 
was seized with such a convulsive fit of sobbing, that 
they were obliged to carry him away. 

The procession got slowly into line and set out. First 
came the daughters of the Ritiro della Concezione, 
dressed in green; then the daughters of Maria, all in 
white, with a blue ribbon ; then the priests ; and behind 
the hearse, the masters and mistresses, the tiny scholars 
of the upper primary, and all the others; and, at the 
end of all, the crowd. People came to the windows 
and to the doors, and on seeing all those boys, and the 
wreath, they said, "It is a schoolmistress." Even 
some of the ladies who went with the smallest children 
wept. 

When the church was reached, the casket was re- 
moved from the hearse, and carried to the middle of 
the nave, in front of the great altar: the mistresses 
laid their wreaths on it, the children covered it with 
flowers, and the people all about, with lighted candles 
in their hands, began to chant the prayers in the vast 
and gloomy church. Then, all of a sudden, when the 
priest had said the last amen, the candles were ex- 
tinguished, and all went away in haste, and the mis- 
tress was left alone. Poor mistress, who was so kind 



THANKS 329 

to me, who had so much patience, who had toiled for 
so many years f She has left to her scholars her little 
books and everything which she possessed, to one an 
inkstand, to another a little picture. Two days before 
her death, she said to the headmaster that he was not 
to allow the smallest of them to go to her funeral, be- 
cause she did not wish them to cry. 

She has done good, she has suffered, she is dead! 
Poor mistress, left alone in that dark church! Fare- 
well ! Farewell forever, my kind friend, sad and sweet 
memory of my childhood! 

THANKS 

Wednesday, 28th. 

My poor schoolmistress wanted to finish her year of 
school : she departed only three days before the end of 
the lessons. Day after to-morrow we go once more 
to the schoolroom to hear the reading of the monthly 
story, The Shipwreck, and then it is over. On Sat- 
urday, the first of July, the examinations begin. And 
then another year, the fourth, is past! If my mis- 
tress had not died, it would have passed well. 

I thought over all that I had known on the preced- 
ing October, and it seems to me that I know a good 
deal more : I have so many new things in my mind. 
I can say and write what I think better than I could 
then; I can also do the sums of many grown-up men 
who know nothing about it, and help them in their af- 
fairs. I understand much more: I remember nearly 
everything that I read. I am satisfied. 

But how many people have urged me on and helped 



330 JUNE 

me to learn, one in one way, and another in another, 
at home, at school, in the street, everywhere where 
I have been and where I have seen anything! And 
now, I thank you all. 

I thank you first, my good teacher, for having been 
so indulgent and affectionate with me; for you every 
new acquisition of mine was a labor, for which I now 
rejoice and of which I am proud. I thank you, 
Derossi, my admirable friend, for your prompt and 
kind explanations, for you have made me understand 
many of the most difficult things, and overcome stum- 
bling-blocks at examinations ; and you, too, Stardi, you 
brave and strong boy, who have showed me how a 
will of iron succeeds in everything; and you, kind, 
good Garrone, who make all those who know you 
kind and good too ; and you too, Precossi and Coretti, 
who have given me an example of courage in suffer- 
ing, and of serenity in toil. I return thanks to you, 
and thanks to all the rest. 

But above all, I thank you, my father, my first 
teacher, my first friend, who have given me so many 
wise counsels, and taught me so many things, while 
you were working for me, always concealing your sad- 
ness from me, and seeking in all ways to render study 
easy, and life beautiful to me; and you, sweet mother, 
my beloved and blessed guardian angel, who have 
tasted all my joys, and suffered all my bitternesses, 
who have studied, worked, and wept with me, with 
one hand on my brow, and with the other pointing me 
to Heaven. I kneel before you, as when I was a little 
child; I thank you for all the tenderness which you 



THE SHIPWRECK 331 

have instilled into my mind through twelve years of 
sacrifices and love. 



THE SHIPWRECK 

(Last Monthly Story.) 

One morning in the month of December, several 
years ago, there sailed from the port of Liverpool a 
huge steamer, which had on board two hundred 
persons, including a crew of seventy. The captain 
and nearly all the sailors were English. Among the 
passengers there were several Italians, three gentle- 
men, a priest, and a company of musicians. The 
steamer was bound for the island of Malta. The 
weather was threatening. 

Among the third-class passengers forward, was an 
Italian lad of twelve, small for his age, but robust; a 
bold, handsome, stern face, of Sicilian type. He was 
alone near the fore-mast, seated on a coil of cordage, 
beside a well-worn valise, which contained his effects, 
and upon which he kept a hand. His complexion was 
brown, and his black and wavy hair descended to his 
shoulders. He was meanly clad, and had a tattered 
mantle thrown over his shoulders, and an old leather 
pouch on a cross-belt. He gazed thoughtfully about 
him at the passengers, the ship, the sailors who were 
running past, and at the restless sea. He had the ap- 
pearance of a boy who had lately gone through a 
great family sorrow, the face of a child, the expres- 
sion of a man. 

A little after their departure, one of the steamer's 



332 JUNE 

crew, an Italian with gray hair, made his appearance 
on the bow, holding by the hand a little girl ; and com- 
ing to a halt in front of the little Sicilian, he said : 

"Here's a travelling companion for you, Mario." 
Then he went away. 

The girl seated herself on the pile of cordage beside 
the boy. They looked at each other. 

''Where are you going?" asked the Sicilian. 

The girl replied : "To Malta on the way to Naples," 
Then she added: "I am going to see my father and 
mother, who are expecting me. My name is Giulietta 
Faggiani." 

The boy said nothing. 

After the lapse of a few minutes, he drew some 
bread from his pouch, and some dried fruit; the girl 
had some biscuits : they began to eat. 

"Look sharp there!" shouted the Italian sailor, as 
he passed rapidly; "a lively time is at hand!" 

The wind continued to increase, the steamer pitched 
heavily ; but the two children, who did not suffer from 
seasickness, paid no heed to it. The little girl smiled. 
She was about the same age as her companion, but 
was considerably taller, brown of complexion, slender, 
somewhat sickly, and dressed very plainly. Her hair 
was short and curling, she wore a red kerchief over 
her head, and silver rings in her ears. 

While they ate, they talked about themselves and 
their affairs. The boy had lost both father and 
mother. The father, an artisan, had died a few 
days previously in Liverpool, leaving him alone; and 
the Italian consul had sent him back to his country, to 
Palermo, where he had some distant relatives. 



THE SHIPWRECK 333 

The little girl had been taken to London, the year 
before, by a widowed aunt, who was very fond of her, 
and to whom her parents poor people had given her 
for a time, trusting in the promise of an inheritance. 
But the aunt had died a few months later, run over by 
an omnibus, without leaving a centesimo; and then 
she too had had recourse to the consul, who had 
shipped her to Italy. Both had been recommended to 
the care of the Italian sailor. 

"So," concluded the little maid, "my father and 
mother thought that I would return rich, and instead 
I am returning poor. But they will love me all the 
same. And so will my brothers. I have four, all 
small. I am the oldest at home. I dress them. 
They will be glad to see me. I will come in on tip-toe 
the sea is ugly!" 

Then she asked the boy : "And are you going to stay 
with your relatives?" 

"Yes if they want me." 

"Do they not love you?" 

"I don't know." 

"I shall be thirteen at Christmas," said the girl. 

Then they began to talk about the sea, and the 
people on board around them. They remained near 
each other all day, exchanging a few words now and 
then. The passengers thought them brother and 
sister. The girl knitted at a stocking, the boy medi- 
tated, the sea continued to grow rougher. At night, 
as they parted, the girl said to Mario, "Sleep well." 

"No one will sleep well, my poor children!" ex- 
claimed the Italian sailor as he ran past, in answer to 
a call from the captain. The boy was on the point of 



334 JUNE 

replying with a "good night" to his little friend, when 
an unexpected dash of water dealt him a violent blow, 
and flung him against a seat. 

"Dear me, you are bleeding!" cried the girl, run- 
ning to him. The passengers who were making their 
escape below, paid no heed to them. The child knelt 
down beside Mario, who had been stunned by the blow, 
wiped the blood from his brow, and pulling the red 
kerchief from her hair, she bound it about his head, 
then pressed his head to her breast in order to knot the 
ends, and thus received a spot of blood on her yellow 
dress just above the girdle. Mario shook himself and 
rose: 

"Are you better?" asked the girl. 

"I no longer feel it," he replied. 

"Sleep well," said Giulietta. 

"Good night," responded Mario. And they de- 
scended two sets of steps to their dormitories. 

The sailor's prediction proved correct. Before they 
could get to sleep, a frightful tempest had broken 
loose. It was a sudden onslaught of furious billows, 
which in the course of a few minutes split one mast, 
and carried away three boats that were suspended to 
the falls, and four cows on the bow, like leaves. On 
board the steamer there arose a confusion, a terror, an 
uproar, a tempest of shrieks, wails, and prayers, suffi- 
cient to make the hair stand on end. The storm con- 
tinued in fury all night. At daybreak it was still in- 
creasing. The formidable waves dashing the craft 
transversely, broke over the deck, and smashed, split, 
hurled everything into the sea. The platform which 



THE SHIPWRECK 335 

screened the engine was destroyed, and the water 
dashed in with a terrible roar; the fires were put out; 
the engineers fled; huge and raging streams forced 
their way everywhere. A voice of thunder shouted: 

"To the pumps!" 

It was the captain's voice. The sailors rushed to 
the pumps. But a sudden burst of the sea, striking 
the vessel on the stern, demolished bulwarks and hatch- 
ways, and sent a flood within. 

All the passengers, more dead than alive, had taken 
refuge in the grand saloon. At last the captain ap- 
peared. 

"Captain! Captain!" they all shrieked together. 
"What is taking place? Where are we? Is there any 
hope? Save us!" 

The captain waited until they were silent, then said 
coolly; "Let us be resigned." 

One woman uttered a cry of "Mercy!" No one 
else could give vent to a sound. Terror had frozen 
them all. A long time passed thus, in a silence like 
that of the grave. All gazed at each other with 
blanched faces. The sea continued to rage and roar. 
The vessel pitched heavily. At one moment the 
captain attempted to launch one life-boat; five sailors 
entered it. The boat sank; the waves turned it over, 
and two of the sailors were drowned, among them the 
Italian. The others contrived with difficulty to catch 
hold of the ropes and draw themselves up again. 

After this, the sailors themselves lost all courage. 
Two hours later, the vessel was sunk in the water to 
the port-holes. 



336 JUNE 

A terrible scene was presented meanwhile on the 
deck. Mothers pressed their children to their breasts 
in despair. Friends embraced and bade each other 
farewell. Some went down into the cabins that they 
might die without seeing the sea. One passenger shot 
himself in the head with a pistol, and fell headlong 
down the stairs to the cabin, where he expired. 
Many clung frantically to each other. Women 
writhed in convulsions. Above all was heard a chorus 
of sobs, of infantile laments, of strange and piercing 
voices. And here and there persons stood motionless 
as statues, in stupor, with eyes dilated and sightless, 
faces of corpses and madmen. The two children, 
Giulietta and Mario, clung to a mast and gazed at the 
sea with staring eyes, as though senseless. 

The sea had calmed a little ; but the vessel continued 
to sink slowly. Only a few minutes remained to 
them. 

"Launch the long-boat!" shouted the captain. 

A boat, the last that remained, was thrown into the 
water, and fourteen sailors and three passengers got 
into it. 

The captain remained on board. 

"Come with us!" they shouted to him from below. 

"I must die at my post," replied the captain. 

"We shall meet a vessel," the sailors cried; "we 
shall be saved! Come down! you are lost!" 

"I shall remain." 

"There is room for one more !" shouted the sailors, 
turning to the other passengers. "A woman!" 

A woman advanced, aided by the captain; but on 



THE SHIPWRECK 337 

seeing the distance at which the boat lay, she did not 
have the courage to leap down, but fell back upon the 
deck. The other women had nearly all fainted, and 
were as dead. 

"A boy !" shouted the sailors. 

At that shout, the Sicilian lad and his companion, 
who had remained up to that moment petrified in a 
supernatural stupor, were suddenly aroused again by a 
violent instinct to save their lives. They left the mast, 
and rushed together to the side of the vessel, shriek- 
ing: "Take me!" and trying in turn, to drive the other 
back, like furious beasts. 

"The smaller!" shouted the sailors. "The boat is 
overloaded! The smaller!" 

On hearing these words, the girl dropped her arms, 
as though struck by lightning, and stood motionless, 
staring at Mario with lustreless eyes. 

Mario looked at her for a moment, saw the spot 
of blood on her bodice, remembered . The gleam 
of a divine thought flashed across his face. 

"The smaller!" shouted the sailors again impa- 
tiently. "We are going!" 

And then Mario, with a voice which no longer 
seemed his own, cried : "She is the lighter ! It is for 
you, Giulietta ! You have a father and mother ! I am 
alone! I give you my place! Go down!" 

"Throw her into the sea!" shouted the sailors. 

Mario seized Giulietta by the body, and threw her 
into the sea. 

The girl uttered a cry and made a splash; a sailor 
Seized her by the arm, and dragged her into the boat. 



338 JUNE 

The boy remained at the vessel's side, with his head 
held high, his hair streaming in the wind, motionless, 
tranquil, sublime. 

The boat moved off just in time to escape the whirl- 
pool made by the vessel as it sank, and which threat- 
ened to overturn it. 

Then the girl, who had been stunned until that mo- 
ment, raised her eyes to the boy, and burst into a 
storm of tears. 

"Good-bye, Mario!" she cried, amid her sobs, with 
her arms outstretched towards him. "Good-bye! 
Good-bye ! Good-bye !" 

"Good-bye!" replied the boy, raising his hand. 

The boat went swiftly away across the troubled sea, 
beneath the dark sky. No one on board the vessel 
shouted any longer. The water was lapping the edge 
of the deck. 

Suddenly the boy fell on his knees, with his hands 
folded and his eyes raised to heaven. 

The girl covered her face. 

When she raised it again, she cast a glance over the 
sea. 

The vessel was gone. 



JULY 

THE LAST PAGE FROM MY MOTHER 

Saturday, ist. 

So the year has come to an end, Enrico, and it is well 
that you should be left on the last day with the image 
of the sublime child, who gave his life for his friend. 
You are now about to part from your teachers and 
companions, and I must impart to you some sad news. 
The separation will not last three months, but forever. 
Your father, for reasons connected with his profession, 
is obliged to leave Turin, and we are all to go with him. 

We shall go next autumn. You will have to enter a 
new school. You are sorry for this, are you not? For 
I am sure that you love your old school, where twice a 
day, for the space of four years, you have felt the 
pleasure of working ; where for so long a time, you have 
seen, at stated hours, the same boys, the same teachers, 
the same parents, and your own father or mother await- 
ing you with a smile; your old school, where your mind 
first unclosed, where you have found -so many kind 
companions, where every word that you have heard has 
had your good for its object, and where you have not 
suffered a single trial which has not been useful to you ! 

Then bear this affection with you, and bid the boys a 
hearty farewell. Some of them will undergo misfor- 
tunes, they will soon lose their fathers and mothers; 
others will die young; others, perhaps, will nobly shed 
their blood in battle; many will become brave and honest 
workmen, the fathers of good and industrious workmen 

339 



340 JULY 

like themselves; and who knows whether there may not 
also be among them one who will render great services 
to his country, and make his name glorious. Then part 
from them with affection; leave a portion of your soul 
here, in this great family into which you entered as a 
baby, and from which you emerge a young lad, and which 
your father and mother loved so dearly, because you were 
so much beloved by it. 

School is a mother, my Enrico. It took you from my 
arms when you could hardly speak, and now it returns 
you to me, strong, good, studious ; blessings on it, and 
may you never forget it more, my son. Oh, it is impos- 
sible that you should forget it ! You will become a man, 
you will make the tour of the world, you will see immense 
cities and wonderful monuments, and you will remember 
many among them; but that modest white edifice, with 
those closed shutters and that little garden, where the 
first flower of your intelligence budded, you will remem- 
ber until the last day of your life, as I shall remember the 
house in which I heard your voice for the first time. 

YOUR MOTHER. 

THE EXAMINATIONS 

Tuesday, 4th. 

Here are the examinations at last! Nothing else 
is to be heard, in the streets in the vicinity of the 
school, from boys, fathers, mothers, and even tutors; 
examinations, points, themes, averages, dismissals, 
promotions: all utter the same words. Yesterday 
morning there was composition; this morning there 
is arithmetic. It was touching to see all the parents, 
as they took their sons to school, giving them their 



THE EXAMINATIONS 341 

last advice in the street, and many mothers went with 
their sons to their seats, to see whether the inkstand 
was filled, and to try their pens, and they still contin- 
ued to hover round the entrance, and to say : 
"Courage! Attention! I entreat you." 
Our assistant master was Coatti, the one with the 
black beard, who mimics the voice of a lion, and never 
punishes any one. There were boys who were white 
with fear. When the teacher broke the seal of the 
letter from the town-hall, and drew out the problem, 
not a breath was audible. He read it loudly, star- 
ing now at one, now at another, with terrible eyes; 
but we knew that had he been able to announce the 
answer also, so that we might all get promoted, he 
would have been delighted. 

After an hour of work many began to grow weary, 
for the problem was difficult. One cried. Crossi 
dealt himself blows on the head. And many of them 
are not to blame, poor boys, for not knowing, for they 
have not had much time to study, and have been neg- 
lected by their parents. 

Stardi remained motionless for more than an hour, 
with his eyes on the problem, and his fists on his 
temples, and then he finished the whole thing in five 
minutes. The master made his round among the 
benches, saying: 

"Be calm ! Be calm ! I advise you to be calm !" 
And when he saw that any one was discouraged, he 
opened his mouth, as though about to devour him, 
like a lion, in order to make him laugh and inspire 
him with courage. Towards eleven o'clock, peeping 
down through the blinds, I saw many parents pacing 



342 JULY 

the street in their impatience. There was Precossi's 
father, in his blue blouse, who had deserted his shop, 
with his face still quite black. There was Crossi's 
mother, the vegetable-vendor; and Nelli's mother, 
dressed in black, who could not stand still. 

A little before midday, my father arrived and raised 
his eyes to my window ; my dear father ! At noon we 
had all finished. And it was a sight at the close of 
school! Every one ran to meet the boys, to ask 
questions, to turn over the leaves of the copy-books to 
compare them with the work of their comrades. 

"How many sums? What is the total? And sub- 
traction? And the answer? And the marking off of 
decimals ?" 

All the masters were running about, summoned in 
a hundred directions. 

My father took from my hand the rough copy, 
looked at it, and said, "Very well, indeed." 

Beside us was the blacksmith, Precossi, who was 
also inspecting his son's work, but rather uneasily, 
and not comprehending it. He turned to my father : 

"Will you do me the favor to tell me the total?" 

My father read the number. The other gazed and 
reckoned. "Brave little one!" he exclaimed, in per- 
fect content. And my father and he looked at each 
other for a moment with a kindly smile, like two 
friends. My father offered his hand, and the other 
shook it; and they parted, saying, "Until the oral 
examination." "Until the oral examination." 

After walking a few paces, we heard a falsetto 
voice which made us turn our heads. It was the black- 
smith singing. 



THE LAST EXAMINATION 343 



THE LAST EXAMINATION 

Friday, 7th. 

This morning we had our oral examinations. At 
eight o'clock we were all in the schoolroom, and at a 
quarter past they began to call us, four at a time, into 
the big hall, where there was a large table covered 
with a green cloth. Around it were seated the 
principal and four other teachers, among them our 
own. I was one of the first called out. 

Dear teacher! how plainly I saw this morning that 
you are really fond of us! While they were question- 
ing the others, he had no eyes for any one but us. 
He was troubled when we were uncertain in our 
replies; he grew serene when we gave a fine answer; 
he heard everything, and made us a thousand signs 
with his hand and head, to say to us, "Good ! no ! 
pay attention ! slower ! courage !" 

He would have suggested everything to us, had he 
been able to talk. If the fathers of all these pupils 
had been in his place, one after the other, they could 
not have done more. I could have cried 'Thank 
you!" ten times over, in the face of them all. And 
when the other masters said to me, 'That is well; 
you may go," his eyes beamed with pleasure. 

I returned at once to the schoolroom to wait for my 
father. Nearly all were still there. I sat down be- 
side Garrone. I was not at all cheerful ; I was think- 
ing that it was the last time that we should be near 
each other for an hour. I had not yet told Garrone 



344 JULY 

that I should not go through the fourth grade with 
him, that I was to leave Turin with my father. He 
knew nothing. And he sat there, doubled up together, 
with his big head resting on the desk, making orna- 
ments round the photograph of his father, who was 
dressed like a machinist, and who is a tall, large man. 
with a bull neck and a serious, honest look, like him- 
self. And as he sat thus bent together, with his blouse 
a little open in front, I saw on his bare and robust 
breast the gold cross which Nelli's mother had 
presented to him, when she learned that he had pro- 
tected her son. But I must tell him sometime that I 
was going away. So I said : 

"Garrone, my father is going away from Turin this 
autumn, for good." 

He asked me if I were going, also. I replied that 
I was. 

"You will not go through the fourth grade with 
us?" he said. 

I answered, "No." 

He did not speak for a while, but went on with his 
drawing. Then, without raising his head, he in- 
quired : 

"And shall you remember your comrades of the 
third grade?" 

"Yes," I told him, "all of them; but you more than 
all the rest. Who can forget you?" 

He looked at me fixedly and seriously, with a gaze 
that said a thousand things, but he uttered no word. 
He only offered me his left hand, pretending to con- 
tinue his drawing with the other; and I pressed it 



THE LAST EXAMINATION 345 

between mine, that strong and loyal hand. At that 
moment the teacher entered hastily, with a red face, 
and said, in a low, quick voice, with a joyful in- 
tonation : 

"Good, all is going well now, let the rest come for- 
ward; bravi, boys! Courage! I am extremely well 
satisfied." 

And, in order to show us his contentment, and to 
cheer us, as he went out in haste, he made a motion of 
stumbling and of catching at the wall, to prevent a 
fall; he whom we had never seen laugh! The thing 
appeared so strange, that, instead of laughing, we 
were dumbfounded; all smiled, but no one laughed. 

Well, I do not know, that act of childish joy 
caused both pain and tenderness. All his reward was 
that moment of cheerfulness, it was the compensation 
for nine months of kindness, patience, and even 
sorrow ! For that he had toiled so long ; for that he 
had so often gone to give lessons to a sick boy, poor 
teacher! That and nothing more was what he de- 
manded of us, in exchange for so much affection and 
so much care! 

And, now, it seems to me that I shall always see 
him in that act, when I recall him through many 
years ; when I have become a man, if he be alive, and 
we meet, I shall tell him about that deed which touched 
my heart; and I shall give him a kiss on his white 
head. 



346 JULY 

FAREWELL 

Monday, loth. 

At one o'clock we all assembled once more for the 
last time at the school, to hear the results of the ex- 
aminations, and to take our little promotion-books. 
The street was thronged with parents, who had even 
invaded the big hall, and many had made their way 
into the class-rooms, pushing up as far as the master's 
desk. In our room they filled the entire space be- 
tween the wall and the front benches. 

There were Garrone's father, Derossi's mother, the 
blacksmith Precossi, Coretti, Signora Nelli, the vege- 
table-vendor, the father of the "little mason," Stardi's 
father, and many others whom I had never seen ; and 
on all sides could be heard a whispering and a hum, 
that seemed to come from the square outside. 

The teacher entered, and a deep silence ensued. He 
had the list in his hand, and began to read at once. 

"Abatucci, promoted, sixty seventieths, Archini, 
promoted, fifty-five seventieths." The "little mason" 
promoted; Crossi promoted. Then he read loudly: 

"Ernesto Derossi, promoted, seventy seventieths, 
and the first prize." 

All the parents who were there and they all knew 
him said: "Bravo, bravo, Derossi!" 

And he shook his golden curls, with his easy and 
beautiful smile, and looked at his mother, who waved 
to him with her hand. 

GarofH, Garrone, and the Calabrian promoted. 
Then three or four sent back ; and one of them began 
to cry because his father, who was at the entrance, 



FAREWELL 347 

made a menacing gesture at him. But the master 
said to the father: 

"No, sir, excuse me; it is not always the boy's 
fault; it is often his misfortune. And that is the case 
here." Then he read : 

"Nelli, promoted, sixty-two seventieths." His 
mother sent him a kiss from her fan. Stardi, pro- 
moted, with sixty-seven seventieths! but, at hearing 
this fine fate, he did not smile, or remove his fists from 
his temples. The last was Votini, who had come very 
finely dressed and brushed, promoted. After read- 
ing the last name, the master rose and said: 

"Boys, this is the last time that we shall find our- 
selves assembled together in this room. We have been 
together a year, and now we part good friends, do we 
not? I am sorry to part from you, my dear boys." 
He interrupted himself, then he resumed: "If I 
have sometimes failed in patience, if sometimes, with- 
out intending it, I have been unjust, or too severe, 
forgive me." 

"No, no!" cried the parents and many of the 
scholars, "You have ever been kind!" 

"Forgive me," repeated the master, "and think well 
of me. Next year you will not be with me; but I 
shall see you again, and you will always abide in my 
heart. Farewell until we meet again, boys !" 

So saying, he stepped forward among us, and we all 
offered him our hands, as we stood up on the seats, and 
grasped him by the arms, and by the skirts of his coat. 
Many kissed him ; fifty voices cried : 

"Farewell until we meet again, teacher! We thank 



34 8 JULY 



you, teacher ! May your health be good ! Remember 
us!" 

When I went away, I felt oppressed by the com- 
motion. We all ran out confusedly. Boys were com- 
ing from all the other class-rooms also. There was a 
great mixing and tumult of boys and parents, bidding 
the masters and mistresses good-bye, and exchanging 
greetings among themselves. The mistress with the 
red feather had four or five children close to her, and 
twenty around her, depriving her of breath; and they 
had half torn off the little nun's bonnet, and had thrust 
a dozen bunches of flowers in the button-holes of her 
black dress, and in her pockets. Many were making 
much of Robetti, who had that day, for the first time, 
abandoned his crutches. On all sides one could 
hear : 

"Good-bye until next year! Until the twentieth of 
October !" 

We greeted each other, too. Ah ! now all disagree- 
ments were forgotten! Votini, who had always been 
so jealous of Derossi, was the first to throw himself 
on him with open arms. I embraced the "little mason/' 
and kissed him, just at the moment when he was mak- 
ing me his last hare's face, dear boy! I embraced 
Precossi. I embraced Garoffi, who announced to me 
the approach of his last lottery, and gave me a little 
weight of majolica, with a broken corner. I said 
farewell to all the others. It was fine to see poor Nelli 
clinging to Garrone, so that he could not be taken from 
him. All crowded around Garrone, and it was, "Fare- 
well, Garrone! Good-bye until we meet again!" 
And they touched him, and pressed his hands, and 



FAREWELL 349 

made much of him, that brave, noble boy. His father 
was perfectly amazed, as he looked on and smiled. 

Garrone was the last one whom I embraced in the 
street, and I stifled a sob against his breast. He kissed 
my brow. Then I ran to my father and mother. 

My father asked me : "Have you spoken to all your 
comrades?" 

I replied that I had. 

"If there is any one of them whom you have 
wronged, go and asked his pardon, and beg him to for- 
get it. Is there no one?" 

"No one," I answered. 

"Farewell, then," said my father with a voice full 
of emotion, bestowing a last glance on the schoolhouse. 

"Farewell!" my mother repeated. 

I could not say anything. 



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