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 liberated 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 rescued from the water at Marseilles a drowning youth; at forty-one, he saved a ship from burning on the ocean. He fought for ten years in America for the liberty of a strange 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 delivered Naples and Palermo in 1860; he fought again for Rome in 1867; he combated with 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 laboring 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, great, and good. He hated all oppressors, he loved all peoples, he protected all the weak; he had no other aspiration than 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 strong, blond, and handsome. On the field of battle he was a thunder-bolt, in his affections he was a child, in affliction a saint. Thousands of Italians have died for their country, happy, if, when dying, they saw him pass victorious in the distance; 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 understand 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 from them are no longer among the living, the generations will still behold on high his luminous head as a redeemer of the peoples, 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.
THY FATHER.
THE ARMY.
Sunday, 11th.
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 review of soldiers, whodefiled before the commandant of the army corps, between two vast linesof people. As they marched past to the sound of flourishes from trumpetsand bands, my father pointed out to me the Corps and the glories of thebanners. First, the pupils of the Academy, those who will becomeofficers in the Engineers and the Artillery, about three hundred innumber, dressed in black, passed with the bold and easy elegance ofstudents and soldiers. After them defiled the infantry, the brigade ofAosta, which fought at Goito and at San Martino, and the Bergamobrigade, which fought at Castelfidardo, four regiments of them, companyafter company, thousands of red aiguillettes, which seemed like so manydouble and very long garlands of blood-colored flowers, extended andagitated from the two ends, and borne athwart the crowd. After theinfantry, the soldiers of the Mining Corps advanced,--the workingmen ofwar, with their plumes of black horse-tails, and their crimson bands;and while these were passing, we beheld advancing behind them hundredsof long, straight plumes, which rose above the heads of the spectators;they were the mountaineers, the defenders of the portals of Italy, alltall, rosy, and stalwart, with hats of Calabrian fashion, and revers ofa beautiful, bright green, the color of the grass on their nativemountains. The mountaineers were still marching past, when a quiver ranthrough the crowd, and the _bersaglieri_, the old twelfth battalion, thefirst who entered Rome through the breach at the Porta Pia, bronzed,alert, brisk, with fluttering plumes, passed like a wave in a sea ofblack, making the piazza ring with the shrill blasts of their trumpets,which seemed shouts of joy. But their trumpeting was drowned by a brokenand hollow rumble, which announced the field artillery; and then thelatter passed in triumph, seated on their lofty caissons, drawn by threehundred pairs of fiery horses,--those fine soldiers with yellow lacings,and their long cannons of brass and steel gleaming on the lightcarriages, as they jolted and resounded, and made the earth tremble.
And then came the mountain artillery, slowly, gravely, beautiful in itslaborious and rude semblance, with its large soldiers, with itspowerful mules--that mountain artillery which carries dismay and deathwherever man can set his foot. And last of all, the fine regiment of theGenoese cavalry, which had wheeled down like a whirlwind on ten fieldsof battle, from Santa Lucia to Villafranca, passed at a gallop, withtheir helmets glittering in the sun, their lances erect, their pennonsfloating in the air, sparkling with gold and silver, filling the airwith jingling and neighing.
"How beautiful it is!" I exclaimed. My father almost reproved me forthese words, and said to me:--
"You are not to regard the army as a fine spectacle. All these youngmen, so full of strength and hope, may be called upon any day to defendour country, and fall in a few hours, crushed to fragments by bulletsand grape-shot. Every time that you hear the cry, at a feast, 'Hurrahfor the army! hurrah for Italy!' picture to yourself, behind theregiments which are passing, a plain covered with corpses, and inundatedwith blood, and then the greeting to the army will proceed from the verydepths of your heart, and the image of Italy will appear to you moresevere and grand."
ITALY.
Tuesday, 14th.
Salute your country thus, on days of festival: "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 a few years; thou who didst disseminate so great a light of intellect divine over the world, and for whom so many valiant men have died on the battle-field, and so many heroes on the gallows; august mother of three hundred cities, and thirty millions of sons; I, a child, who do not understand thee as yet, and who do not know thee in thy entirety, I venerate and love thee with all my soul, and I am proud of having been born of thee, and of calling myself thy son. I love thy splendid seas and thy sublime mountains; I love thy solemn monuments and thy immortal memories; I love thy glory and thy beauty; I love and venerate the whole of thee as that beloved portion of thee where I, for the first time, beheld the light and heard thy name. I love the whole of thee, 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 you with the uniform reverence of a son, gentle Florence and terrible Palermo, immense and beautiful Naples, marvellous and eternal Rome. I love thee, my sacred country! And I swear that I will love all thy sons like brothers; that I will always honor in my heart thy great men, living and dead; that I will be an industrious and honest citizen, constantly intent on ennobling myself, in order to render myself worthy of thee, to assist with my small powers in causing misery, ignorance, injustice, crime, to disappear one day from thy face, so that thou mayest live and expand tranquilly in the majesty of thy right and of thy strength. I swear that I will serve thee, 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 for
thee and my life, I will give my blood, and I will die, crying thy holy name to heaven, and wafting my last kiss to thy blessed banner."
THY FATHER.
"WE DESCENDED, RUNNING AND SINGING."--Page 30.]
THIRTY-TWO DEGREES.
Friday, 16th.
During the five days which have passed since the National Festival, theheat has increased by three degrees. We are in full summer now, andbegin to feel weary; all have lost their fine rosy color of springtime;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 upright in frontof him, so that the master may not see him. Crossi rests his red headagainst the bench in a certain way, so that it looks as though it hadbeen detached from his body and placed there separately. Nobis complainsthat there are too many of us, and that we corrupt the air. Ah, what aneffort it costs now to study! I gaze through the windows at thosebeautiful trees which cast so deep a shade, where I should be so glad torun, and sadness and wrath overwhelm me at being obliged to go and shutmyself up among the benches. But then I take courage at the sight of mykind mother, who is always watching me, scrutinizing me, when I returnfrom school, to see whether I am not pale; and at every page of my workshe says to me:--
"Do you still feel well?" and every morning at six, when she wakes mefor my lesson, "Courage! there are only so many days more: then you willbe free, and will get rested,--you will go to the shade of countrylanes."
Yes, she is perfectly right to remind me of the boys who are working inthe fields in the full heat of the sun, or among the white sands of theriver, which blind and scorch them, and of 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! And even in this respect, Derossi is at the head of all, for hesuffers neither from heat nor drowsiness; he is always wide awake, andcheery, with his golden curls, as he was in the winter, and he studieswithout effort, and keeps all about him alert, as though he freshenedthe air with his voice.
And there are two others, also, who are always awake and attentive:stubborn Stardi, who pricks his face, to prevent himself from going tosleep; 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 eatthe teacher; and that barterer of a Garoffi, who is wholly absorbed inmanufacturing fans out of red paper, decorated with little figures frommatch-boxes, which he sells at two centesimi apiece.
But the bravest of all is Coretti; poor Coretti, who gets up at fiveo'clock, to help his father carry wood! At eleven, in school, he can nolonger keep his eyes open, and his head droops on his breast. Andnevertheless, he shakes himself, punches himself on the back of theneck, asks permission to go out and wash his face, and makes hisneighbors shake and pinch him. But this morning he could not resist, andhe fell into a leaden sleep. The master called him loudly; "Coretti!" Hedid not hear. The master, irritated, repeated, "Coretti!" Then the sonof the charcoal-man, who lives next to him at home, rose and said:--
"He worked from five until seven carrying faggots." The teacher allowedhim to sleep on, and continued with the lesson for half an hour. Then hewent to Coretti's seat, and wakened him very, very gently, by blowing inhis face. On beholding the master in front of him, he started back inalarm. But the master took his head in his hands, and said, as he kissedhim on the hair:--
"I am not reproving you, my son. Your sleep is not at all that oflaziness; it is the sleep of fatigue."
MY FATHER.
Saturday, 17th.
Surely, neither your comrade Coretti nor Garrone would ever have answered their fathers as you answered yours this afternoon. Enrico! How is it possible? 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 infallibly 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 understand 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 moments he talks only of you; he has in his heart no other trouble than that of leaving you poor and without protection.
And how often, when meditating on this, does he enter your chamber 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; and 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, 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 forehead on his knees, and beseech him to pardon and to bless you.
THY MOTHER.
IN THE COUNTRY.
Monday, 19th.
My good father forgave me, even on this occasion, and allowed me to goon 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 hill air. It was a festival day.We met yesterday at two o'clock in the place of the Statuto, Derossi,Garrone, Garoffi, Precossi, Coretti, father and son, and I, with ourprovisions of fruit, sausages, and hard-boiled eggs; we had also leatherbottles and tin cups. Garrone carried a gourd filled with white wine;Coretti, his father's soldier-canteen, full of red wine; and littlePrecossi, in the blacksmith's blouse, held under his arm atwo-kilogramme loaf.
We went in the omnibus as far as Gran Madre di Dio, and then off, asbriskly as possible, to the hills. How green, how shady, how fresh itwas! We rolled over and over in the grass, we dipped our faces in therivulets, we leaped the hedges. The elder Coretti followed us at adistance, with his jacket thrown over his shoulders, smoking his claypipe, and from time to time threatening us with his hand, to prevent ourtearing holes in our trousers.
Precossi whistled; I had never heard him whistle before. The youngerCoretti did the same, as he went along. That little fellow knowshow to make everything with his jack-knife a finger's lengthlong,--mill-wheels, forks, squirts; and he insisted on carrying theother boys' things, and he was loaded down until he was dripping withperspiration, but he was still as nimble as a goat. Derossi halted everymoment to tell us the names of t
he plants and insects. I don'tunderstand how he manages to know so many things. And Garrone nibbled athis bread in silence; but he no longer attacks it with the cheery bitesof old, poor Garrone! now that he has lost his mother. But he is alwaysas good as bread himself. When one of us ran back to obtain the momentumfor leaping a ditch, he ran to the other side, and held out his hands tous; and as Precossi was afraid of cows, having been tossed by one whena child, Garrone placed himself in front of him every time that wepassed any. We mounted up to Santa Margherita, and then went down thedecline by leaps, rolls, and slides. Precossi tumbled into a thorn-bush,and tore a hole in his blouse, and stood there overwhelmed with shame,with the strip dangling; but Garoffi, who always has pins in his jacket,fixed it so that it was not perceptible, while the other kept saying,"Excuse 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 andsnails, and put every stone that glistened in the least into his pocket,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 dishevelled andbreathless at the crest of a hill, where we seated ourselves to take ourlunch on the grass.
We could see an immense plain, and all the blue Alps with their whitesummits. We were dying of hunger; the bread seemed to be melting. Theelder Coretti handed us our portions of sausage on gourd leaves. Andthen we all began to talk at once about the teachers, the comrades whohad not been able to come, and the examinations. Precossi was ratherashamed to eat, and Garrone thrust the best bits of his share into hismouth by force. Coretti was seated next his father, with his legscrossed; they seem more like two brothers than father and son, when seenthus together, both rosy and smiling, with those white teeth of theirs.The father drank with zest, emptying the bottles and the cups which weleft half finished, and said:--
"Wine hurts you boys who are studying; it is the wood-sellers who needit." Then he grasped his son by the nose, and shook him, saying to us,"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 hewent on, as he drank, "It's a shame, eh! now you are all good friendstogether, and in a few years, who knows, Enrico and Derossi will belawyers or professors or I don't know what, and the other four of youwill be in shops or at a trade, and the deuce knows where, andthen--good night comrades!"
"Nonsense!" rejoined Derossi; "for me, Garrone will always be Garrone,Precossi will always be Precossi, and the same with all the others, wereI to become the emperor of Russia: where they are, there I shall goalso."
"Bless you!" exclaimed the elder Coretti, raising his flask; "that's theway to talk, by Heavens! Touch your glass here! Hurrah for bravecomrades, and hurrah for school, which makes one family of you, of thosewho have and those who have not!"
We all clinked his flask with the skins and the cups, and drank for thelast 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 longdistances all arm in arm, and we arrived at the Po as twilight fell, andthousands of fireflies were flitting about. And we only parted in thePiazza dello Statuto after having agreed to meet there on the followingSunday, and go to the Vittorio Emanuele to see the distribution ofprizes 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 thestaircase of our house, almost in the dark, and, as soon as sherecognized me, she took both my hands, and whispered in my ear, "Goodby, Enrico; remember me!" I perceived that she was weeping. I went upand 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,gazing intently 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 Vittorio Emanuele,to view the distribution of prizes to the workingmen. The theatre wasadorned as on the 14th of March, and thronged, but almost wholly withthe families of workmen; and the pit was occupied with the male andfemale pupils of the school of choral singing. These sang a hymn to thesoldiers who had died in the Crimea; which was so beautiful that, whenit was finished, all rose and clapped and shouted, so that the song hadto be repeated from the beginning. And then the prize-winners beganimmediately to march past the mayor, the prefect, and many others, whopresented them with books, savings-bank books, diplomas, and medals. Inone corner of the pit I espied the little mason, sitting beside hismother; and in another place there was the head-master; and behind him,the red head of my master of the second grade.
The first to defile were the pupils of the evening drawing classes--thegoldsmiths, engravers, lithographers, and also the carpenters andmasons; then those of the commercial school; then those of the MusicalLyceum, among them several girls, workingwomen, all dressed in festalattire, who were saluted with great applause, and who laughed. Last camethe pupils of the elementary evening schools, and then it began to be abeautiful sight. They were of all ages, of all trades, and dressed inall sorts of ways,--men with gray hair, factory boys, artisans with bigblack beards. The little ones were at their ease; the men, a littleembarrassed. The people clapped the oldest and the youngest, but none ofthe spectators laughed, as they did at our festival: all faces wereattentive and serious.
Many of the prize-winners had wives and children in the pit, and therewere little children who, when they saw their father pass across thestage, called him by name at the tops of their voices, and signalled tohim with their hands, laughing violently. Peasants passed, and porters;they were from the Buoncompagni School. From the Cittadella School therewas 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 thatI had seen several times before. It was the father of the little mason,who had won the second prize. I remembered when I had seen him in thegarret, at the bedside of his sick son, and I immediately sought out hisson in the pit. Poor little mason! he was staring at his father withbeaming eyes, and, in order to conceal his emotion, he made his hare'sface. At that moment I heard a burst of applause, and I glanced at thestage: a little chimney-sweep stood there, with a clean face, but in hisworking-clothes, and the mayor was holding him by the hand and talkingto 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 myheart,--something like a great affection and a great respect, at thethought of how much those prizes had cost all those workingmen, fathersof families, full of care; how much toil added to their labors, how manyhours snatched from their sleep, of which they stand in such great need,and what efforts of intelligences not habituated to study, and of hugehands rendered clumsy with work!
A factory boy passed, and it was evident that his father had lent himhis jacket for the occasion, for his sleeves hung down so that he wasforced to turn them back 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. Severalartillery soldiers passed, from among those who attended evening schoolin our schoolhouse; then came custom-house guards and policemen, fromamong those who guard our schools.
At the conclusion, the pupils of the evening schools again sang the hymnto the dead in the Crimea, but this time with so much dash, with astrength of affection which came so directly from the heart, that theaudience hardly applauded at all, and all retired in deep emotion,slowly and noiselessly.
In a few moments the whole street was thronged. In front of theentrance to the theatre was the chimney-sweep, with his prize
book boundin red, and all around were gentlemen talking to him. Many exchangedsalutations from the opposite side of the street,--workmen, boys,policemen, teachers. My master of the second grade came out in the midstof the crowd, between two artillery men. And there were workmen's wiveswith babies in their arms, who held in their tiny hands their father'sdiploma, and exhibited it to the crowd in their pride.
MY DEAD SCHOOLMISTRESS.
Tuesday, 27th.
While we were at the Theatre Vittorio Emanuele, my poor schoolmistressdied. She died at two o'clock, a week after she had come to see mymother. The head-master came to the school yesterday morning to announceit to us; and he said:--
"Those of you who were her pupils know how good she was, how she lovedher boys: she was a mother to them. Now, she is no more. For a long timea terrible malady has been sapping her life. If she had not been obligedto work to earn her bread, she could have taken care of herself, andperhaps recovered. At all events, she could have prolonged her life forseveral months, if she had procured a leave of absence. But she wishedto remain among her boys to the very last day. On the evening ofSaturday, the seventeenth, she took leave of them, with the certaintythat she should never see them again. She gave them good advice, kissedthem all, and went away sobbing. No one will ever behold 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 together to the house ofthe dead woman, to accompany her to church. There was a hearse in thestreet, with two horses, and many people were waiting, and conversing ina low voice. There was the head-master, all the masters and mistressesfrom our school, and from the other schoolhouses where she had taught inbygone years. There were nearly all the little children in her classes,led by the hand by their mothers, who carried tapers; and there were avery great many from the other classes, and fifty scholars from theBaretti School, some with wreaths in their hands, some with bunches ofroses. A great many bouquets of flowers had already been placed on thehearse, upon which was fastened a large wreath of acacia, with aninscription in black letters: _The old pupils of the fourth grade totheir mistress_. And under the large wreath a little one was suspended,which the babies had brought. Among the crowd were visible manyservant-women, who had been sent by their mistresses with candles; andthere were also two serving-men in livery, with lighted torches; and awealthy gentleman, the father of one of the mistress's scholars, hadsent his carriage, lined with blue satin. All were crowded together nearthe 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 coffinslid into the hearse, and one began to shriek, as though he had onlythen comprehended that his mistress was dead, and he was seized withsuch a convulsive fit of sobbing, that they were obliged to carry himaway.
The procession got slowly into line and set out. First came thedaughters of the Ritiro della Concezione, dressed in green; then thedaughters of Maria, all in white, with a blue ribbon; then the priests;and behind the hearse, the masters and mistresses, the tiny scholars ofthe upper primary, and all the others; and, at the end of all, thecrowd. People came to the windows and to the doors, and on seeing allthose boys, and the wreath, they said, "It is a schoolmistress." Evensome of the ladies who accompanied the smallest children wept.
When the church was reached, the casket was removed from the hearse, andcarried to the middle of the nave, in front of the great altar: themistresses laid their wreaths on it, the children covered it withflowers, 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 asudden, when the priest had said the last _amen_, the candles wereextinguished, and all went away in haste, and the mistress was leftalone. Poor mistress, who was so kind to me, who had so much patience,who had toiled for so many years! She has left her little books to herscholars, and everything which she possessed,--to one an inkstand, toanother a little picture; and two days before her death, she said to thehead-master that he was not to allow the smallest of them to go to herfuneral, because she did not wish them to cry.
She has done good, she has suffered, she is dead! Poor mistress, leftalone in that dark church! Farewell! Farewell forever, my kind friend,sad and sweet memory of my infancy!
THANKS.
Wednesday, 28th.
My poor schoolmistress wanted to finish her year of school: she departedonly three days before the end of the lessons. Day after to-morrow we goonce more to the schoolroom to hear the reading of the monthly story,_Shipwreck_, and then--it is over. On Saturday, the first of July, theexaminations begin. And then another year, the fourth, is past! And ifmy mistress had not died, it would have passed well.
I thought over all that I had known on the preceding October, and itseems to me that I know a good deal more: I have so many new things inmy mind; I can say and write what I think better than I could then; Ican also do the sums of many grown-up men who know nothing about it, andhelp them in their affairs; and I understand much more: I understandnearly everything that I read. I am satisfied. But how many people haveurged me on and helped me to learn, one in one way, and another inanother, at home, at school, in the street,--everywhere where I havebeen and where I have seen anything! And now, I thank you all. I thankyou first, my good teacher, for having been so indulgent andaffectionate 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 companion, for your prompt and kind explanations, for youhave made me understand many of the most difficult things, and overcomestumbling-blocks at examinations; and you, too, Stardi, you brave andstrong boy, who have showed me how a will of iron succeeds ineverything: and you, kind, generous Garrone, who make all those whoknow you kind and generous too; and you too, Precossi and Coretti, whohave given me an example of courage in suffering, and of serenity intoil, I render thanks to you: I render thanks to all the rest. But aboveall, I thank thee, my father, thee, my first teacher, my first friend,who hast given me so many wise counsels, and hast taught me so manythings, whilst thou wert working for me, always concealing thy sadnessfrom me, and seeking in all ways to render study easy, and lifebeautiful to me; and thee, sweet mother, my beloved and blessed guardianangel, who hast tasted all my joys, and suffered all my bitternesses,who hast studied, worked, and wept with me, with one hand caressing mybrow, and with the other pointing me to heaven. I kneel before you, aswhen I was a little child; I thank you for all the tenderness which youhave instilled into my mind through twelve years of sacrifices and oflove.
SHIPWRECK.
(_Last Monthly Story._)
One morning in the month of December, several years ago, there sailedfrom the port of Liverpool a huge steamer, which had on board twohundred persons, including a crew of sixty. The captain and nearly allthe sailors were English. Among the passengers there were severalItalians,--three gentlemen, a priest, and a company of musicians. Thesteamer was bound for the island of Malta. The weather was threatening.
Among the third-class passengers forward, was an Italian lad of a dozenyears, small for his age, but robust; a bold, handsome, austere face,of Sicilian type. He was alone near the fore-mast, seated on a coil ofcordage, beside a well-worn valise, which contained his effects, andupon which he kept a hand. His face was brown, and his black and wavyhair descended to his shoulders. He was meanly clad, and had a tatteredmantle thrown over his shoulders, and an old leather pouch on across-belt. He gazed thoughtfully about him at the passengers, the ship,the sailors who were running past, and at the restless sea. He had theappearance of a boy who has recently issued from a great familysorrow,--the face of a child, the expression of a man.
A little after their departure, one of the steamer's crew, an Italianwith gray hair, made his appearance on the bow, holding by the hand alittle girl; and coming to a halt in front o
f the little Sicilian, hesaid to him:--
"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 surveyed each other.
"Where are you going?" asked the Sicilian.
The girl replied: "To Malta on the way of Naples." Then she added: "I amgoing to see my father and mother, who are expecting me. My name isGiulietta Faggiani."
The boy said nothing.
After the lapse of a few minutes, he drew some bread from his pouch, andsome dried fruit; the girl had some biscuits: they began to eat.
"Look sharp there!" shouted the Italian sailor, as he passed rapidly; "alively time is at hand!"
The wind continued to increase, the steamer pitched heavily; but the twochildren, who did not suffer from seasickness, paid no heed to it. Thelittle girl smiled. She was about the same age as her companion, but wasconsiderably taller, brown of complexion, slender, somewhat sickly, anddressed more than modestly. Her hair was short and curling, she wore ared kerchief over her head, and two hoops of silver in her ears.
As they ate, they talked about themselves and their affairs. The boy hadno longer either father or mother. The father, an artisan, had died afew days previously in Liverpool, leaving him alone; and the Italianconsul had sent him back to his country, to Palermo, where he had stillsome distant relatives left. The little girl had been taken to London,the year before, by a widowed aunt, who was very fond of her, and towhom her parents--poor people--had given her for a time, trusting in apromise of an inheritance; but the aunt had died a few months later, runover by an omnibus, without leaving a centesimo; and then she too hadhad recourse to the consul, who had shipped her to Italy. Both had beenrecommended to the care of the Italian sailor.--"So," concluded thelittle maid, "my father and mother thought that I would return rich, andinstead I am returning poor. But they will love me all the same. And sowill my brothers. I have four, all small. I am the oldest at home. Idress them. They will be greatly delighted to see me. They will come inon tiptoe--The sea is ugly!"
Then she asked the boy: "And are you going to stay with your relatives?"
"Yes--if they want me."
"Do not they 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 aroundthem. They remained near each other all day, exchanging a few words nowand then. The passengers thought them brother and sister. The girlknitted at a stocking, the boy meditated, the sea continued to growrougher. At night, as they parted to go to bed, the girl said to Mario,"Sleep well."
"No one will sleep well, my poor children!" exclaimed the Italian sailoras he ran past, in answer to a call from the captain. The boy was on thepoint of replying with a "good night" to his little friend, when anunexpected dash of water dealt him a violent blow, and flung him againsta seat.
"My dear, you are bleeding!" cried the girl, flinging herself upon 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 herhair, she bound it about his head, then pressed his head to her breastin order to knot the ends, and thus received a spot of blood on heryellow bodice 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 descended two neighboring setsof steps to their dormitories.
The sailor's prediction proved correct. Before they could get to sleep,a frightful tempest had broken loose. It was like the sudden onslaughtof furious great horses, which in the course of a few minutes split onemast, and carried away three boats which were suspended to the falls,and four cows on the bow, like leaves. On board the steamer there arosea confusion, a terror, an uproar, a tempest of shrieks, wails, andprayers, sufficient to make the hair stand on end. The tempest continuedto increase in fury all night. At daybreak it was still increasing. Theformidable waves dashing the craft transversely, broke over the deck,and smashed, split, and hurled everything into the sea. The platformwhich screened the engine was destroyed, and the water dashed in with aterrible roar; the fires were extinguished; the engineers fled; huge andimpetuous streams forced their way everywhere. A voice of thundershouted:
"To the pumps!" It was the captain's voice. The sailors rushed to thepumps. But a sudden burst of the sea, striking the vessel on the stern,demolished bulwarks and hatchways, and sent a flood within.
All the passengers, more dead than alive, had taken refuge in the grandsaloon. At last the captain made his appearance.
"Captain! Captain!" they all shrieked in concert. "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 beresigned."
One woman uttered a cry of "Mercy!" No one else could give vent to asound. Terror had frozen them all. A long time passed thus, in a silencelike that of the grave. All gazed at each other with blanched faces. Thesea continued to rage and roar. The vessel pitched heavily. At onemoment the captain attempted to launch one life-boat; five sailorsentered it; the boat sank; the waves turned it over, and two of thesailors were drowned, among them the Italian: the others contrived withdifficulty 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 height of the port-holes.
A terrible spectacle was presented meanwhile on the deck. Motherspressed their children to their breasts in despair; friends exchangedembraces and bade each other farewell; some went down into the cabinsthat they might die without seeing the sea. One passenger shot himselfin the head with a pistol, and fell headlong down the stairs to thecabin, where he expired. Many clung frantically to each other; womenwrithed in horrible convulsions. There was audible a chorus of sobs, ofinfantile laments, of strange and piercing voices; and here and therepersons were visible motionless as statues, in stupor, with eyes dilatedand sightless,--faces of corpses and madmen. The two children, Giuliettaand Mario, clung to a mast and gazed at the sea with staring eyes, asthough senseless.
The sea had subsided 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 fourteensailors and three passengers descended into it.
The captain remained on board.
"Come down 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 to him; "we shall be saved!Come down! you are lost!"
"I shall remain."
"There is room for one more!" shouted the sailors, turning to the otherpassengers. "A woman!"
A woman advanced, aided by the captain; but on seeing the distance atwhich the boat lay, she did not feel sufficient courage to leap down,and fell back upon the deck. The other women had nearly all fainted, andwere as dead.
"A boy!" shouted the sailors.
At that shout, the Sicilian lad and his companion, who had remained upto that moment petrified as by a supernatural stupor, were suddenlyaroused again by a violent instinct to save their lives. They detachedthemselves simultaneously from the mast, and rushed to the side of thevessel, shrieking in concert: "Take me!" and endeavoring in turn, todrive the other back, like furious beasts.
"The smallest!" shouted the sailors. "The boat is overloaded! Thesmallest!"
On hearing these words, the girl dropped her arms, as though struck bylightning, and stood motionless, staring at Mario with lustreless eyes.
Mario looked at her for a moment,--saw the spot of blood on herbodice,--remembered--The gleam of a divine
thought flashed across hisface.
"The smallest!" shouted the sailors in chorus, with imperiousimpatience. "We are going!"
And then Mario, with a voice which no longer seemed his own, cried: "Sheis 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 thearm, and dragged her into the boat.
The boy remained at the vessel's side, with his head held high, his hairstreaming in the wind,--motionless, tranquil, sublime.
The boat moved off just in time to escape the whirlpool which the vesselproduced as it sank, and which threatened to overturn it.
Then the girl, who had remained senseless until that moment, raised hereyes to the boy, and burst into a storm of tears.
"Good by, Mario!" she cried, amid her sobs, with her arms outstretchedtowards him. "Good by! Good by! Good by!"
"Good by!" replied the boy, raising his hand on high.
The boat went swiftly away across the troubled sea, beneath the darksky. No one on board the vessel shouted any longer. The water wasalready lapping the edge of the deck.
Suddenly the boy fell on his knees, with his hands folded and his eyesraised to heaven.
The girl covered her face.
When she raised her head again, she cast a glance over the sea: thevessel was no longer there.