NOVEMBER.
MY FRIEND GARRONE.
Friday, 4th.
THERE had been but two days of vacation, yet it seemed to me as though Ihad been a long time without seeing Garrone. The more I know him, thebetter I like him; and so it is with all the rest, except with theoverbearing, who have nothing to say to him, because he does not permitthem to exhibit their oppression. Every time that a big boy raises hishand against a little one, the little one shouts, "Garrone!" and the bigone stops striking him. His father is an engine-driver on the railway;he has begun school late, because he was ill for two years. He is thetallest 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,--apencil, rubber, paper, or penknife,--he lends or gives it; and heneither talks nor laughs in school: he always sits perfectly motionlesson a bench that is too narrow for him, with his spine curved forward,and his big head between his shoulders; and when I look at him, hesmiles 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 ashe is, he has a jacket, trousers, and sleeves which are too small forhim, and too short; a cap which will not stay on his head; a threadbarecloak; coarse shoes; and a necktie which is always twisted into a cord.Dear Garrone! it needs but one glance in thy face to inspire love forthee. All the little boys would like to be near his bench. He knowsarithmetic well. He carries his books bound together with a strap of redleather. He has a knife, with a mother-of-pearl handle, which he foundin the field for military manoeuvres, last year, and one day he cut hisfinger to the bone; but no one in school envies him it, and no onebreathes a word about it at home, for fear of alarming his parents. Helets us say anything to him in jest, and he never takes it ill; but woeto any one who says to him, "That is not true," when he affirms a thing:then fire flashes from his eyes, and he hammers down blows enough tosplit the bench. Saturday morning he gave a soldo to one of the upperfirst class, who was crying in the middle of the street, because his ownhad been taken from him, and he could not buy his copy-book. For thelast three days he has been working over a letter of eight pages, withpen ornaments on the margins, for the saint's day of his mother, whooften comes to get him, and who, like himself, is tall and large andsympathetic. The master is always glancing at him, and every time thathe passes near him he taps him on the neck with his hand, as though hewere a good, peaceable young bull. I am very fond of him. I am happywhen I press his big hand, which seems to be the hand of a man, in mine.I am almost certain that he would risk his life to save that of acomrade; that he would allow himself to be killed in his defence, soclearly can I read his eyes; and although he always seems to begrumbling with that big voice of his, one feels that it is a voice thatcomes from a gentle heart.
THE CHARCOAL-MAN AND THE GENTLEMAN.
Monday, 7th.
Garrone would certainly never have uttered the words which Carlo Nobisspoke yesterday morning to Betti. Carlo Nobis is proud, because hisfather is a great gentleman; a tall gentleman, with a black beard, andvery serious, 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 vehemently, "Your father is atattered beggar!" Betti reddened up to his very hair, and said nothing,but the tears came to his eyes; and when he returned home, he repeatedthe words to his father; so the charcoal-dealer, a little man, who wasblack all over, made his appearance at the afternoon session, leadinghis boy by the hand, in order to complain to the master. While he wasmaking his complaint, and every one was silent, the father of Nobis, whowas taking off his son's coat at the entrance, as usual, entered onhearing his name pronounced, and demanded an explanation.
"This workman has come," said the master, "to complain that your sonCarlo said to his boy, 'Your father is a tattered beggar.'"
Nobis's father frowned and reddened slightly. Then he asked his son,"Did you say that?"
His son, who was standing in the middle of the school, with his headhanging, in front of little Betti, made no reply.
Then his father grasped him by one arm and pushed him forward, facingBetti, so that they nearly touched, and said to him, "Beg his pardon."
The charcoal-man tried to interpose, saying, "No, no!" but the gentlemanpaid no heed to him, and repeated to his son, "Beg his pardon. Repeat mywords. 'I beg your pardon for the insulting, foolish, and ignoble wordswhich I uttered against your father, whose hand my father would feelhimself honored to press.'"
The charcoal-man made a resolute gesture, as though to say, "I will notallow it." The gentleman did not second him, and his son said slowly, ina very thread of a voice, without raising his eyes from the ground, "Ibeg your pardon--for the insulting--foolish--ignoble--words which Iuttered against your father, whose hand my father--would feel himselfhonored--to press."
Then the gentleman offered his hand to the charcoal-man, who shook itvigorously, and then, with a sudden push, he thrust his son into thearms of Carlo Nobis.
"Do me the favor to place them next each other," said the gentleman tothe master. The master put Betti on Nobis's bench. When they wereseated, 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, andfixed upon Nobis a look expressive of affection and regret, as though hewere desirous of saying something to him, but he did not say anything;he stretched out his hand to bestow a caress upon him, but he did notdare, and merely stroked his brow with his large fingers. Then he madehis way to the door, and turning round for one last look, hedisappeared.
"Fix what you have just seen firmly in your minds, boys," said themaster; "this is the finest lesson of the year."
MY BROTHER'S SCHOOLMISTRESS.
Thursday, 10th.
The son of the charcoal-man had been a pupil of that schoolmistressDelcati who had come to see my brother when he was ill, and who had madeus laugh by telling us how, two years ago, the mother of this boy hadbrought to her house a big apronful of charcoal, out of gratitude forher 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 whenshe 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 offlowers, inside of which there was a little hoard of soldi. We had beengreatly diverted in listening to her, and so my brother had swallowedhis medicine, which he had not been willing to do before. How muchpatience is necessary with those boys of the lower first, all toothless,like old men, who cannot pronounce their r's and s's; and one coughs,and another has the nosebleed, and another loses his shoes under thebench, and another bellows because he has pricked himself with his pen,and another one cries because he has bought copy-book No. 2 instead ofNo. 1. Fifty in a class, who know nothing, with those flabby littlehands, and all of them must be taught to write; they carry in theirpockets bits of licorice, buttons, phial corks, pounded brick,--allsorts of little things, and the teacher has to search them; but theyconceal these objects even in their shoes. And they are not attentive: afly enters through the window, and throws them all into confusion; andin summer they bring grass into school, and horn-bugs, which fly roundin circles or fall into the inkstand, and then streak the copy-books allover with ink. The schoolmistress has to play mother to all of them, tohelp them dress themselves, bandage up their pricked fingers, pick uptheir caps when they drop them, watch to see that they do not exchangecoats, and that they do not indulge in cat-calls and shrieks. Poorschoolmistresses! And then the mothers come to complain: "How comes it,signorina, that my boy has lost his pen? How does it happen that minelearns nothing? Why is not my boy mentioned honorably, when he knows somuch? Why don't you have that nail which tore my Piero's trousers, takenout of the bench?"
Sometimes my brother's teacher gets into a rage with the boys; and whensh
e can resist no longer, she bites her finger, to keep herself fromdealing a blow; she loses patience, and then she repents, and caressesthe 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 makethe little ones fast by way of punishment. Schoolmistress Delcati isyoung and tall, well-dressed, brown of complexion, and restless; shedoes everything vivaciously, as though on springs, is affected by a meretrifle, and at such times speaks with great tenderness.
"But the children become attached to you, surely," my mother said toher.
"Many do," she replied; "but at the end of the year the majority of thempay no further heed to us. When they are with the masters, they arealmost ashamed of having been with us--with a woman teacher. After twoyears of cares, after having loved a child so much, it makes us feel sadto 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 runto meet him; 'Oh, my child, my child!' And he turns his head away." Herethe teacher interrupted herself. "But you will not do so, little one?"she said, raising her humid eyes, and kissing my brother. "You will notturn aside your head, will you? You will not deny your poor friend?"
MY MOTHER.
Thursday, November 10th.
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, measuring your breathing, weeping blood in her anguish, and with her teeth chattering with terror, because she thought that she had lost you, and I feared that she would lose her reason; and at this thought I felt a sentiment of horror at you. You, to offend your mother! your mother, who would give a year of happiness 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 moment, 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 wretch! Hope for no peace in your life, if you have caused your mother grief. You will repent, you will beg her forgiveness, 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 escape 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 cancel 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; 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.
THY FATHER.
MY COMPANION CORETTI.
Sunday, 13th.
My father forgave me; but I remained rather sad and then my mother sentme, with the porter's big son, to take a walk on the Corso. Half-waydown the Corso, as we were passing a cart which was standing in front ofa shop, I heard some one call me by name: I turned round; it wasCoretti, my schoolmate, with chocolate-colored clothes and his catskincap, all in a perspiration, but merry, with a big load of wood on hisshoulders. A man who was standing in the cart was handing him an armfulof 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 armfulof wood, he began to repeat as he ran, "_The conjugation of theverb--consists in its variations according to number--according tonumber and person--_"
And then, throwing down the wood and piling it, "_according to thetime--according to the time to which the action refers._"
And turning to the cart for another armful, "_according to the mode inwhich the action is enunciated._"
It was our grammar lesson for the following day. "What would you have medo?" he said. "I am putting my time to use. My father has gone off withthe man on business; my mother is ill. It falls to me to do theunloading. In the meantime, I am going over my grammar lesson. It is adifficult lesson to-day; I cannot succeed in getting it into myhead.--My father said that he would be here at seven o'clock to give youyour money," he said to the man with the cart.
The cart drove off. "Come into the shop a minute," Coretti said to me. Iwent in. It was a large apartment, full of piles of wood and fagots,with a steelyard on one side.
"This is a busy day, I can assure you," resumed Coretti; "I have to domy work by fits and starts. I was writing my phrases, when somecustomers came in. I went to writing again, and behold, that cartarrived. I have already made two trips to the wood market in the PiazzaVenezia this morning. My legs are so tired that I cannot stand, and myhands 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 strawwhich covered the brick-paved floor.
"But where do you do your work, Coretti?" I inquired.
"Not here, certainly," he replied. "Come and see"; and he led me into alittle room behind the shop, which serves as a kitchen and dining-room,with a table in one corner, on which there were books and copy-books,and work which had been begun. "Here it is," he said; "I left the secondanswer unfinished: _with which shoes are made, and belts_. Now I willadd, _and valises_." And, taking his pen, he began to write in his finehand.
"Is there any one here?" sounded a call from the shop at that moment. Itwas 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 oldaccount-book, and returned to his work, saying, "Let's see if I canfinish that sentence." And he wrote, _travelling-bags, and knapsacks forsoldiers_. "Oh, my poor coffee is boiling over!" he exclaimed, and ranto the stove to take the coffee-pot from the fire. "It is coffee formamma," he said; "I had to learn how to make it. Wait a while, and wewill carry it to her; you'll see what pleasure it will give her. She hasbeen in bed a whole week.--Conjugation of the verb! I always scald myfingers with this coffee-pot. What is there that I can add after thesoldiers' knapsacks? Something more is needed, and I can think ofnothing. Come to mamma."
He opened a door, and we entered another small room: there Coretti'smother lay in a big bed, with a white kerchief wound round her head.
"Ah, brave little master!" said the woman to me; "you have come to visitthe sick, have you not?"
Meanwhile, Coretti was arranging the pillows behind his mother's back,readjusting the bedclothes, brightening up the fire, and driving the catoff the chest of drawers.
"Do you want anything else, mamma?" he asked, as he took the cup fromher. "Have you taken the two spoonfuls of syrup? When it is all gone, Iwill make a trip to the apothecary's. The wood is unloaded. At fouro'clock I will put the meat on the stove, as you told me; and when thebutter-woman passes, I will give
her those eight soldi. Everything willgo on well; so don't give it a thought."
"Thanks, my son!" replied the woman. "Go, my poor boy!--he thinks ofeverything."
She insisted that I should take a lump of sugar; and then Coretti showedme a little picture,--the photograph portrait of his father dressed as asoldier, with the medal for bravery which he had won in 1866, in thetroop of Prince Umberto: he had the same face as his son, with the samevivacious eyes and his merry smile.
We went back to the kitchen. "I have found the thing," said Coretti; andhe added on his copy-book, _horse-trappings are also made of it_. "Therest I will do this evening; I shall sit up later. How happy you are, tohave time to study and to go to walk, too!" And still gay and active, here-entered the shop, and began to place pieces of wood on the horse andto saw them, saying: "This is gymnastics; it is quite different fromthe _throw your arms forwards_. I want my father to find all this woodsawed when he gets home; how glad he will be! The worst part of it isthat after sawing I make T's and L's which look like snakes, so theteacher says. What am I to do? I will tell him that I have to move myarms about. The important thing is to have mamma get well quickly. Sheis better to-day, thank Heaven! I will study my grammar to-morrowmorning at cock-crow. Oh, here's the cart with logs! To work!"
A small cart laden with logs halted in front of the shop. Coretti ranout to speak to the man, then returned: "I cannot keep your company anylonger now," he said; "farewell until to-morrow. You did right to comeand hunt me up. A pleasant walk to you! happy fellow!"
And pressing my hand, he ran to take the first log, and began once moreto trot back and forth between the cart and the shop, with a face asfresh as a rose beneath his catskin cap, and so alert that it was apleasure to see him.
"Happy fellow!" he had said to me. Ah, no, Coretti, no; you are thehappier, because you study and work too; because you are of use to yourfather and your mother; because you are better--a hundred timesbetter--and more courageous than I, my dear schoolmate.
THE HEAD-MASTER.
Friday, 18th.
Coretti was pleased this morning, because his master of the secondclass, Coatti, a big man, with a huge head of curly hair, a great blackbeard, big dark eyes, and a voice like a cannon, had come to assist inthe work of the monthly examination. He is always threatening the boysthat he will break them in pieces and carry them by the nape of the neckto the quaestor, and he makes all sorts of frightful faces; but he neverpunishes any one, but always smiles the while behind his beard, so thatno one can see it. There are eight masters in all, including Coatti, anda little, beardless assistant, who looks like a boy. There is one masterof the fourth class, who is lame and always wrapped up in a big woollenscarf, and who is always suffering from pains which he contracted whenhe was a teacher in the country, in a damp school, where the walls weredripping with moisture. Another of the teachers of the fourth is old andperfectly white-haired, and has been a teacher of the blind. There isone well-dressed master, with eye-glasses, and a blond mustache, who iscalled the _little lawyer_, because, while he was teaching, he studiedlaw and took his diploma; and he is also making a book to teach how towrite letters. On the other hand, the one who teaches gymnastics is of asoldierly type, and was with Garibaldi, and has on his neck a scar froma sabre wound received at the battle of Milazzo. Then there is thehead-master, who is tall and bald, and wears gold spectacles, with agray beard that flows down upon his breast; he dresses entirely inblack, and is always buttoned up to the chin. He is so kind to the boys,that when they enter the director's room, all in a tremble, because theyhave been summoned to receive a reproof, he does not scold them, buttakes them by the hand, and tells them so many reasons why they oughtnot 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 theyall come out with red eyes, more confused than if they had beenpunished. Poor head-master! he is always the first at his post in themorning, waiting for the scholars and lending an ear to the parents; andwhen the other masters are already on their way home, he is stillhovering about the school, and looking out that the boys do not getunder the carriage-wheels, or hang about the streets to stand on theirheads, or fill their bags with sand or stones; and the moment he makeshis appearance at a corner, so tall and black, flocks of boys scamperoff in all directions, abandoning their games of coppers and marbles,and he threatens them from afar with his forefinger, with his sad andloving air. No one has ever seen him smile, my mother says, since thedeath of his son, who was a volunteer in the army: he always keeps thelatter's portrait before his eyes, on a little table in thehead-master's room. He wanted to go away after this misfortune; heprepared his application for retirement to the Municipal Council, andkept it always on his table, putting off sending it from day to day,because it grieved him to leave the boys. But the other day he seemedundecided; and my father, who was in the director's room with him, wasjust saying to him, "What a shame it is that you are going away, SignorDirector!" when a man entered for the purpose of inscribing the name ofa boy who was to be transferred from another schoolhouse to ours,because he had changed his residence. At the sight of this boy, thehead-master made a gesture of astonishment, gazed at him for a while,gazed at the portrait that he keeps on his little table, and then staredat the boy again, as he drew him between his knees, and made him hold uphis head. This boy resembled his dead son. The head-master said, "It isall right," wrote down his name, dismissed the father and son, andremained absorbed in thought. "What a pity that you are going away!"repeated my father. And then the head-master took up his application forretirement, 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 thereason why the head-master always goes to the Corso to see the soldierspass, when we come out of school. Yesterday a regiment of infantry waspassing, and fifty boys began to dance around the band, singing andbeating time with their rulers on their bags and portfolios. We werestanding in a group on the sidewalk, watching them: Garrone, squeezedinto his clothes, which were too tight for him, was biting at a largepiece of bread; Votini, the well-dressed boy, who always wears Florenceplush; Precossi, the son of the blacksmith, with his father's jacket;and the Calabrian; and the "little mason"; and Crossi, with his redhead; and Franti, with his bold face; and Robetti, too, the son of theartillery captain, the boy who saved the child from the omnibus, and whonow walks on crutches. Franti burst into a derisive laugh, in the faceof a soldier who was limping. But all at once he felt a man's hand onhis shoulder: he turned round; it was the head-master. "Take care," saidthe master to him; "jeering at a soldier when he is in the ranks, whenhe can neither avenge himself nor reply, is like insulting a man who isbound: it is baseness."
Franti disappeared. The soldiers were marching by fours, all perspiringand covered with dust, and their guns were gleaming in the sun. Thehead-master said:--
"You ought to feel kindly towards soldiers, boys. They are ourdefenders, who would go to be killed for our sakes, if a foreign armywere to menace our country to-morrow. They are boys too; they are notmany years older than you; and they, too, go to school; and there arepoor men and gentlemen among them, just as there are among you, and theycome from every part of Italy. See if you cannot recognize them by theirfaces; Sicilians are passing, and Sardinians, and Neapolitans, andLombards. 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 manyhave already died for our country around that banner twenty years beforeyou were born!"
"Here it is!" said Garrone. And in fact, not far off, the flag wasvisible, advancing, above the heads of the soldiers.
"Do one thing, my sons," said the head-master; "make your scholar'ssalute, 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 ourforeheads, all
together. The officer looked at us with a smile, andreturned our salute with his hand.
"Bravi, boys!" said some one behind us. We turned to look; it was an oldman who wore in his button-hole the blue ribbon of the Crimeancampaign--a pensioned officer. "Bravi!" he said; "you have done a finedeed."
In the meantime, the band of the regiment had made a turn at the end ofthe Corso, surrounded by a throng of boys, and a hundred merry shoutsaccompanied the blasts of the trumpets, like a war-song.
"Bravi!" repeated the old officer, as he gazed upon us; "he who respectsthe flag when he is little will know how to defend it when he is grownup."
NELLI'S PROTECTOR.
Wednesday, 23d.
Nelli, too, poor little hunchback! was looking at the soldiersyesterday, but with an air as though he were thinking, "I can never be asoldier!" He is good, and he studies; but he is so puny and wan, and hebreathes with difficulty. He always wears a long apron of shining blackcloth. His mother is a little blond woman who dresses in black, andalways comes to get him at the end of school, so that he may not comeout in the confusion with the others, and she caresses him. At firstmany of the boys ridiculed him, and thumped him on the back with theirbags, because he is so unfortunate as to be a hunchback; but he neveroffered any resistance, and never said anything to his mother, in ordernot to give her the pain of knowing that her son was the laughing-stockof his companions: they derided him, and he held his peace and wept,with his head laid against the bench.
But one morning Garrone jumped up and said, "The first person whotouches Nelli will get such a box on the ear from me that he will spinround three times!"
Franti paid no attention to him; the box on the ear was delivered: thefellow spun round three times, and from that time forth no one evertouched Nelli again. The master placed Garrone near him, on the samebench. 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 by, Garrone," and Garrone doesthe same with him.
When Nelli drops a pen or a book under the bench, Garrone stoopsquickly, to prevent his stooping and tiring himself, and hands him hisbook or his pen, and then he helps him to put his things in his bag andto twist himself into his coat. For this Nelli loves him, and gazes athim constantly; and when the master praises Garrone he is pleased, asthough he had been praised himself. Nelli must at last have told hismother all about the ridicule of the early days, and what they made himsuffer; and about the comrade who defended him, and how he had grownfond of the latter; for this is what happened this morning. The masterhad sent me to carry to the director, half an hour before the close ofschool, a programme of the lesson, and I entered the office at the samemoment with a small blond woman dressed in black, the mother of Nelli,who said, "Signor Director, is there in the class with my son a boynamed Garrone?"
"Yes," replied the head-master.
"Will you have the goodness to let him come here for a moment, as I havea word to say to him?"
The head-master called the beadle and sent him to the school, and aftera minute Garrone appeared on the threshold, with his big, close-croppedhead, in perfect amazement. No sooner did she catch sight of him thanthe woman flew to meet him, threw her arms on his shoulders, and kissedhim a great many times on the head, saying:--
"You are Garrone, the friend of my little son, the protector of my poorchild; it is you, my dear, brave boy; it is you!" Then she searchedhastily in all her pockets, and in her purse, and finding nothing, shedetached a chain from her neck, with a small cross, and put it onGarrone's neck, underneath his necktie, and said to him:--
"Take it! wear it in memory of me, my dear boy; in memory of Nelli'smother, who thanks and blesses you."
THE HEAD OF THE CLASS.
Friday, 25th.
Garrone attracts the love of all; Derossi, the admiration. He has takenthe first medal; he will always be the first, and this year also; no onecan compete with him; all recognize his superiority in all points. He isthe first in arithmetic, in grammar, in composition, in drawing; heunderstands everything on the instant; he has a marvellous memory; hesucceeds in everything without effort; it seems as though study wereplay to him. The teacher said to him yesterday:--
"You have received great gifts from God; all you have to do is not tosquander them." He is, moreover, tall and handsome, with a great crownof golden curls; he is so nimble that he can leap over a bench byresting one hand on it; and he already understands fencing. He is twelveyears old, and the son of a merchant; he is always dressed in blue, withgilt buttons; he is always lively, merry, gracious to all, and helps allhe can in examinations; and no one has ever dared to do anythingdisagreeable to him, or to say a rough word to him. Nobis and Frantialone look askance at him, and Votini darts envy from his eyes; but hedoes not even perceive it. All smile at him, and take his hand or hisarm, when he goes about, in his graceful way, to collect the work. Hegives away illustrated papers, drawings, everything that is given him athome; he has made a little geographical chart of Calabria for theCalabrian lad; and he gives everything with a smile, without paying anyheed 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 ineverything. Ah! I, too, envy him, like Votini. And I feel a bitterness,almost a certain scorn, for him, sometimes, when I am striving toaccomplish my work at home, and think that he has already finished his,at this same moment, extremely well, and without fatigue. But then, whenI return to school, and behold him so handsome, so smiling andtriumphant, and hear how frankly and confidently he replies to themaster's questions, and how courteous he is, and how the others all likehim, then all bitterness, all scorn, departs from my heart, and I amashamed of having experienced these sentiments. I should like to bealways near him at such times; I should like to be able to do all myschool tasks with him: his presence, his voice, inspire me with courage,with a will to work, with cheerfulness and pleasure.
The teacher has given him the monthly story, which will be readto-morrow, to copy,--_The Little Vidette of Lombardy_. He copied it thismorning, and was so much affected by that heroic deed, that his face wasall aflame, his eyes humid, and his lips trembling; and I gazed at him:how handsome and noble he was! With what pleasure would I not have saidfrankly to his face: "Derossi, you are worth more than I in everything!You are a man in comparison with me! I respect you and I admire you!"
THE LITTLE VIDETTE OF LOMBARDY.
(_Monthly Story._)
Saturday, 26th.
In 1859, during the war for the liberation of Lombardy, a few days afterthe battle of Solfarino and San Martino, won by the French and Italiansover the Austrians, on a beautiful morning in the month of June, alittle band of cavalry of Saluzzo was proceeding at a slow pace along aretired path, in the direction of the enemy, and exploring the countryattentively. The troop was commanded by an officer and a sergeant, andall were gazing into the distance ahead of them, with eyes fixed,silent, and prepared at any moment to see the uniforms of the enemy'sadvance-posts gleam white before them through the trees. In this orderthey arrived at a rustic cabin, surrounded by ash-trees, in front ofwhich stood a solitary boy, about twelve years old, who was removing thebark from a small branch with a knife, in order to make himself a stickof it. From one window of the little house floated a large tricoloredflag; there was no one inside: the peasants had fled, after hanging outthe 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, witha bold face and large blue eyes and long golden hair: he was in hisshirt-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 foundling. I do a littlework for everybody. I remained here to see the war."
"Have you seen any Austrians pass?"
"No; not for these three days."
The officer p
aused a while in thought; then he leaped from his horse,and leaving his soldiers there, with their faces turned towards the foe,he entered the house and mounted to the roof. The house was low; fromthe roof only a small tract of country was visible. "It will benecessary to climb the trees," said the officer, and descended. Just infront of the garden plot rose a very lofty and slender ash-tree, whichwas rocking its crest in the azure. The officer stood a brief space inthought, gazing now at the tree, and again at the soldiers; then, all ofa sudden, he asked the lad:--
"Is your sight good, you monkey?"
"Mine?" replied the boy. "I can spy a young sparrow a mile away."
"Are you good for a climb to the top of this tree?"
"To the top of this tree? I? I'll be up there in half a minute."
"And will you be able to tell me what you see up there--if there areAustrian soldiers in that direction, clouds of dust, gleaming guns,horses?"
"Certainly I shall."
"What do you demand for this service?"
"What do I demand?" said the lad, smiling. "Nothing. A fine thing,indeed! And then--if it were for the _Germans_, I wouldn't do it on anyterms; 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 hiscap on the grass, and clasped the trunk of the ash.
"Take care, now!" exclaimed the officer, making a movement to hold himback, as though seized with a sudden terror.
The boy turned to look at him, with his handsome blue eyes, as thoughinterrogating 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 thetrunk, with his legs among the leaves, but his body displayed to view,and the sun beating down on his blond head, which seemed to be of gold.The officer could hardly see him, so small did he seem up there.
"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 inclined his head towards him, and making a speaking-trumpet ofhis 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 somethingglittering. It seems to be bayonets."
"Do you see men?"
"No. They must be concealed in the grain."
At that moment a sharp whiz of a bullet passed high up in the air, anddied away in the distance, behind the house.
"Come down, my lad!" shouted the officer. "They have seen you. I don'twant 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?"
"Yes, to the left."
The lad turned his head to the left: at that moment, another whistle,more acute and lower than the first, cut the air. The boy was thoroughlyaroused. "Deuce take them!" he exclaimed. "They actually are aiming atme!" The bullet had passed at a short distance from him.
"Down!" shouted the officer, imperious and irritated.
"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, thrusting his body out in thatdirection, "yonder, where there is a chapel, I think I see--"
A third fierce whistle passed through the air, and almostinstantaneously the boy was seen to descend, catching for a moment atthe trunk and branches, and then falling headlong with arms outspread.
"Curse it!" exclaimed the officer, running up.
The boy landed on the ground, upon his back, and remained stretched outthere, with arms outspread and supine; a stream of blood flowed from hisbreast, on the left. The sergeant and two soldiers leaped from theirhorses; the officer bent over and opened his shirt: the ball had enteredhis 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"courage," he was pressing his handkerchief on the wound. The boy rolledhis eyes wildly and dropped his head back. He was dead. The officerturned pale and stood for a moment gazing at him; then he laid him downcarefully on his cloak upon the grass; then rose and stood looking athim; the sergeant and two soldiers also stood motionless, gazing uponhim: the rest were facing in the direction of the enemy.
"Poor boy!" repeated the officer. "Poor, brave boy!"
Then he approached the house, removed the tricolor from the window, andspread it in guise of a funeral pall over the little dead boy, leavinghis face uncovered. The sergeant collected the dead boy's shoes, cap,his little stick, and his knife, and placed them beside him.
They stood for a few moments longer in silence; then the officer turnedto the sergeant and said to him, "We will send the ambulance for him: hedied as a soldier; the soldiers shall bury him." Having said this, hewafted a kiss with his hand to the dead boy, and shouted "To horse!"All sprang into the saddle, the troop drew together and resumed itsroad.
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 forwardtowards the foe, and along the same road which had been traversed in themorning by the detachment of cavalry, there proceeded, in two files, aheavy battalion of sharpshooters, who, a few days before, had valiantlywatered the hill of San Martino with blood. The news of the boy's deathhad already 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 bodystretched at the foot of the ash-tree and covered with the tricoloredbanner, they made the salute to it with their swords, and one of thembent over the bank of the streamlet, which was covered with flowers atthat spot, plucked a couple of blossoms and threw them on it. Then allthe sharpshooters, as they passed, plucked flowers and threw them on thebody. In a few minutes the boy was covered with flowers, and officersand 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 andkissed his brow. And flowers continued to rain down on his bare feet, onhis blood-stained breast, on his golden head. And there he lay asleep onthe grass, enveloped in his flag, with a white and almost smiling face,poor boy! as though he heard these salutes and was glad that he hadgiven 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, 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 indifferently before misery 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 any bread even to-day!" When I give a soldo to a beggar, and he says to me, "God preserve your health,
and the health of all belonging 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 certain that such a good wish must 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, let me sometimes feel that good wish called forth, 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 together. Reflect that you lack nothing, and that they lack everything, that while you aspire to be happy, they are 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!
THY FATHER.