DECEMBER.
THE TRADER.
Thursday, 1st.
MY father wishes me to have some one of my companions come to the houseevery holiday, or that I should go to see one of them, in order that Imay gradually become friends with all of them. Sunday I shall go to walkwith Votini, the well-dressed boy who is always polishing himself up,and who is so envious of Derossi. In the meantime, Garoffi came to thehouse 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 isthe son of a grocer; he is an eccentric fellow; he is always countingthe soldi that he has in his pocket; he reckons them on his fingersvery, very rapidly, and goes through some process of multiplicationwithout any tables; and he hoards his money, and already has a book inthe Scholars' Savings Bank. He never spends a soldo, I am positive; andif he drops a centesimo under the benches, he is capable of hunting forit for a week. He does as magpies do, so Derossi says. Everything thathe finds--worn-out pens, postage-stamps that have been used, pins,candle-ends--he picks up. He has been collecting postage-stamps for morethan two years now; and he already has hundreds of them from everycountry, in a large album, which he will sell to a bookseller later on,when he has got it quite full. Meanwhile, the bookseller gives him hiscopy-books gratis, because he takes a great many boys to the shop. Inschool, he is always bartering; he effects sales of little articlesevery day, and lotteries and exchanges; then he regrets the exchange,and wants his stuff back; he buys for two and gets rid of it for four;he plays at pitch-penny, and never loses; he sells old newspapers overagain to the tobacconist; and he keeps a little blank-book, in which hesets down his transactions, which is completely filled with sums andsubtractions. At school he studies nothing but arithmetic; and if hedesires the medal, it is only that he may have a free entrance into thepuppet-show. But he pleases me; he amuses me. We played at keeping amarket, with weights and scales. He knows the exact price of everything;he understands weighing, and makes handsome paper horns, likeshopkeepers, with great expedition. He declares that as soon as he hasfinished school he shall set up in business--in a new business which hehas invented himself. He was very much pleased when I gave him someforeign postage-stamps; and he informed me exactly how each one sold forcollections. My father pretended to be reading the newspaper; but helistened to him, and was greatly diverted. His pockets are bulging, fullof his little wares; and he covers them up with a long black cloak, andalways appears thoughtful and preoccupied with business, like amerchant. But the thing that he has nearest his heart is his collectionof postage-stamps. This is his treasure; and he always speaks of it asthough he were going to get a fortune out of it. His companions accusehim of miserliness and usury. I do not know: I like him; he teaches mea great many things; he seems a man to me. Coretti, the son of thewood-merchant, says that he would not give him his postage-stamps tosave his mother's life. My father does not believe it.
"Wait a little before you condemn him," he said to me; "he has thispassion, but he has heart as well."
VANITY.
Monday, 5th.
Yesterday I went to take a walk along the Rivoli road with Votini andhis father. As we were passing through the Via Dora Grossa we sawStardi, the boy who kicks disturbers, standing stiffly in front of thewindow of a book-shop, with his eyes fixed on a geographical map; and noone knows how long he had been there, because he studies even in thestreet. He barely returned our salute, the rude fellow! Votini was welldressed--even too much so. He had on morocco boots embroidered in red,an embroidered coat, small silken frogs, a white beaver hat, and awatch; and he strutted. But his vanity was destined to come to a bad endon this occasion. After having run a tolerably long distance up theRivoli road, leaving his father, who was walking slowly, a long way inthe rear, we halted at a stone seat, beside a modestly clad boy, whoappeared to be weary, and was meditating, with drooping head. A man, whomust have been his father, was walking to and fro under the trees,reading the newspaper. We sat down. Votini placed himself between me andthe boy. All at once he recollected that he was well dressed, and wantedto make his neighbor admire and envy him.
"STOP THAT, YOU LITTLE RASCALS!"--Page 60.]
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 latterpaid no attention to them.
Then he dropped his foot, and showed me his silk frogs, glancing askanceat the boy the while, and said that these frogs did not please him, andthat he wanted to have them changed to silver buttons; but the boy didnot look at the frogs either.
Then Votini fell to twirling his very handsome white castor hat on thetip of his forefinger; but the boy--and it seemed as though he did it onpurpose--did not deign even a glance at the hat.
Votini, who began to become irritated, drew out his watch, opened it,and showed me the wheels; but the boy did not turn his head. "Is it ofsilver gilt?" I asked him.
"No," he replied; "it is gold."
"But not entirely 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 heldthe watch before his face, and said to him, "Say, look here! isn't ittrue that it is entirely of gold?"
The boy replied curtly, "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 lookedsteadily at the lad for a moment, then said sharply to his son, "Holdyour tongue!" and, bending down to his ear, he added, "he is blind!"
Votini sprang to his feet, with a shudder, and stared the boy in theface: the latter's eyeballs were glassy, without expression, withoutsight.
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 andmelancholy smile, "Oh, it's no matter!"
Well, he is vain; but Votini has not at all a bad heart. He neverlaughed again during the whole of the walk.
THE FIRST SNOW-STORM.
Saturday, 10th.
Farewell, walks to Rivoli! Here is the beautiful friend of the boys!Here is the first snow! Ever since yesterday evening it has been fallingin thick flakes as large as gillyflowers. It was a pleasure this morningat school to see it beat against the panes and pile up on thewindow-sills; even the master watched it, and rubbed his hands; and allwere glad, when they thought of making snowballs, and of the ice whichwill come later, and of the hearth at home. Stardi, entirely absorbed inhis lessons, and with his fists pressed to his temples, was the only onewho paid no attention to it. What beauty, what a celebration there waswhen we left school! All danced down the streets, shouting and tossingtheir arms, catching up handfuls of snow, and dashing about in it, likepoodles in water. The umbrellas of the parents, who were waiting forthem outside, were all white; the policeman's helmet was white; all oursatchels were white in a few moments. Every one appeared to be besidehimself with joy--even Precossi, the son of the blacksmith, that paleboy who never laughs; and Robetti, the lad who saved the little childfrom the omnibus, poor fellow! he jumped about on his crutches. TheCalabrian, 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 ofthe vegetable-vendor, filled his satchel with it; and the little masonmade us burst with laughter, when my father invited him to come to ourhouse to-morrow. He had his mouth full of snow, and, not daring eitherto spit it out or to swallow it, he stood there choking and staring atus, and made no answer. Even the schoolmistress came out of school on arun, laughing; and my mistress of the first upper class, poor littlething! ran through the drizzling snow, covering her face with her greenveil, and coughing; and meanwhile, hundreds of girls from theneighboring schoolhouse passed by, screaming and frolicking on thatwhite carpet; and the masters and the beadles and the policemen shouted,"Home! home!" swallowing flakes of snow, and whitening their moustachesand
beards. But they, too, laughed at this wild hilarity of thescholars, 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 chilblains a bit of wood to warm the schoolroom. There 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 without cessation 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.
THY FATHER.
THE LITTLE MASON.
Sunday, 11th.
The little mason came to-day, in a hunting-jacket, entirely dressed inthe cast-off clothes of his father, which were still white with lime andplaster. My father was even more anxious than I that he should come. Howmuch pleasure he gives us! No sooner had he entered than he pulled offhis ragged cap, which was all soaked with snow, and thrust it into oneof his pockets; then he advanced with his listless gait, like a wearyworkman, turning his face, as smooth as an apple, with its ball-likenose, from side to side; and when he entered the dining-room, he cast aglance round at the furniture and fixed his eyes on a small picture ofRigoletto, a hunchbacked jester, and made a "hare's face."
It is impossible to refrain from laughing when one sees him make thathare's face. We went to playing with bits of wood: he possesses anextraordinary skill at making towers and bridges, which seem to stand asthough by a miracle, and he works at it quite seriously, with thepatience of a man. Between one tower and another he told me about hisfamily: they live in a garret; his father goes to the evening school tolearn 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 fromthe cold, with neatly mended clothes, and with his necktie nicely tiedby his mother's hands. His father, he told me, is a fine man,--a giant,who has trouble in getting through doors, but he is kind, and alwayscalls 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 onthe sofa; and when we rose, I do not know why, but my father did notwish me to brush off the back, which the little mason had spotted withwhite, from his jacket: he restrained my hand, and then rubbed it offhimself on the sly. While we were playing, the little mason lost abutton from his hunting-jacket, and my mother sewed it on, and he grewquite red, and began to watch her sew, in perfect amazement andconfusion, holding his breath the while. Then we gave him some albums ofcaricatures to look at, and he, without being aware of it himself,imitated the grimaces of the faces there so well, that even my fatherlaughed. He was so much pleased when he went away that he forgot to puton his tattered cap; and when we reached the landing, he made a hare'sface at me once more in sign of his gratitude. His name is AntonioRabucco, 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 companion was looking on would have been almost the same as administering a reproof to 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 is contracted while at work is not dirt; it is dust, lime, varnish, whatever you like, but it is not dirt. Labor does not engender dirt. Never say of a laborer coming from his work, "He is filthy." You should say, "He has on his garments 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.
THY FATHER.
A SNOWBALL.
Friday, 16th.
It is still snow, snow. A shameful thing happened in connection with thesnow this morning when we came out of school. A flock of boys had nosooner got into the Corso than they began to throw balls of that waterysnow which makes missiles as solid and heavy as stones. Many personswere passing along the sidewalks. A gentleman called out, "Stop that,you little rascals!" and just at that moment a sharp cry rose fromanother part of the street, and we saw an old man who had lost his hatand was staggering about, covering his face with his hands, and besidehim a boy who was shouting, "Help! help!"
People instantly ran from all directions. He had been struck in the eyewith a ball. All the boys dispersed, fleeing like arrows. I was standingin front of the bookseller's shop, into which my father had gone, and Isaw several of my companions approaching at a run, mingling with othersnear me, and pretending to be engaged in staring at the windows: therewas Garrone, with his penny roll in his pocket, as usual; Coretti, thelittle mason; and Garoffi, the boy with the postage-stamps. In themeantime a crowd had formed around the old man, and a policeman andothers 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 theboys' hands to see whether they were wet with snow.
Garoffi was standing beside me. I perceived that he was trembling allover, and that his face was as white as that of a corpse. "Who was it?Who did it?" the crowd continued to cry.
Then I overheard Garrone say in a low voice to Garoffi, "Come, go andpresent yourself; it would be cowardly to allow any one else to bearrested."
"But I did not do it on purpose," replied Garoffi, trembling like aleaf.
"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 thanever: "Who was it? Who did it? One of his glasses has been driven intohis 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 thrusthim forward, supporting him as though he had been a sick man. The peoplesaw, and instantly understood, and several persons ran up with theirfists 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 ledhim, pushing aside the crowd as he went, to a pastry-cook's shop, wherethe wounded man had been carried. On catching sight of him, I suddenlyrecognized him as the old employee who lives on the fourth floor of ourhouse with his grandnephew. He was stretched out on a chair, with ahandkerchief over his eyes.
"I did not do it intentionally!" sobbed Garoffi, half dead with terror;"I did not do it intentionally!"
Two or three persons thrust him violently into the shop, crying, "Yourface 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 aresolute voice said:--
"No, gentlemen!" It was our head-master, who had seen it all. "Since hehas had the courage to present himself," he added, "no one has the rightto humiliate him." All stood silent. "Ask his forgiveness," said thehead-master to Garoffi. Garoffi, bursting into tears, embraced the oldman's knees, and the latter, having felt for the boy's head with hishand, caressed his hair. Then all said:--
"Go away, boy! go, return home."
And my father drew me out of the crowd, and said to me as we passedalong the street, "Enrico, would you have had the courage, under similarcircumstances, to do your duty,--to go and confess your fault?"
I told him that I should. And he said, "Give me your word, as a lad ofheart and honor, that you would do it." "I give thee my word, fathermine!"
THE MISTRESSES.
Saturday, 17th.
Garoffi was thoroughly terrified to-day, in the expectation of a severepunishment from the teacher; but the master did not make his appearance;and as the assistant was also missing, Signora Crom
i, the oldest of theschoolmistresses, came to teach the school; she has two grown-upchildren, and she has taught several women to read and write, who nowcome to accompany their sons to the Baretti schoolhouse.
She was sad to-day, because one of her sons is ill. No sooner had theycaught sight of her, than they began to make an uproar. But she said, ina slow and tranquil tone, "Respect my white hair; I am not only aschool-teacher, I am also a mother"; and then no one dared to speakagain, in spite of that brazen face of Franti, who contented himselfwith jeering at her on the sly.
Signora Delcati, my brother's teacher, was sent to take charge ofSignora Cromi's class, and to Signora Delcati's was sent the teacher whois called "the little nun," because she always dresses in dark colors,with a black apron, and has a small white face, hair that is alwayssmooth, very bright eyes, and a delicate voice, that seems to be forevermurmuring prayers. And it is incomprehensible, my mother says; she is sogentle and timid, with that thread of a voice, which is always even,which is hardly audible, and she never speaks loud nor flies into apassion; but, nevertheless, she keeps the boys so quiet that you cannothear them, and the most roguish bow their heads when she merelyadmonishes them with her finger, and her school seems like a church; andit is for this reason, also, that she is called "the little nun."
But there is another one who pleases me,--the young mistress of thefirst lower, No. 3, that young girl with the rosy face, who has twopretty dimples in her cheeks, and who wears a large red feather on herlittle bonnet, and a small cross of yellow glass on her neck. She isalways cheerful, and keeps her class cheerful; she is always calling outwith that silvery voice of hers, which makes her seem to be singing, andtapping her little rod on the table, and clapping her hands to imposesilence; then, when they come out of school, she runs after one andanother like a child, to bring them back into line: she pulls up thecape of one, and buttons the coat of another, so that they may not takecold; she follows them even into the street, in order that they may notfall to quarrelling; she beseeches the parents not to whip them at home;she brings lozenges to those who have coughs; she lends her muff tothose who are cold; and she is continually tormented by the smallestchildren, who caress her and demand kisses, and pull at her veil and hermantle; but she lets them do it, and kisses them all with a smile, andreturns home all rumpled and with her throat all bare, panting andhappy, with her beautiful dimples and her red feather. She is also thegirls' drawing-teacher, and she supports her mother and a brother by herown labor.
IN THE HOUSE OF THE WOUNDED MAN.
Sunday, 18th.
The grandnephew of the old employee who was struck in the eye byGaroffi's snowball is with the schoolmistress who has the red feather:we saw him to-day in the house of his uncle, who treats him like a son.I had finished writing out the monthly story for the coming week,--_TheLittle 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 eyeis."
We entered a room which was almost dark, where the old man was sittingup in bed, with a great many pillows behind his shoulders; by thebedside sat his wife, and in one corner his nephew was amusing himself.The old man's eye was bandaged. He was very glad to see my father; hemade us sit down, and said that he was better, that his eye was not onlynot 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 havecaused that poor boy." Then he talked to us about the doctor, whom heexpected 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, in his long cloak,standing, with bowed head, on the threshold, and without the courage toenter.
"Who is it?" asked the sick man.
"It is the boy who threw the snowball," said my father. And then the oldman said:--
"Oh, my poor boy! come here; you have come to inquire after the woundedman, have you not? But he is better; be at ease; he is better and almostwell. Come here."
Garoffi, who did not perceive us in his confusion, approached the bed,forcing himself not to cry; and the old man caressed him, but could notspeak.
"Thanks," said the old man; "go and tell your father and mother that allis 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 hedared not utter.
"What have you to say to me? What is it that you want?"
"I!--Nothing."
"Well, good by, until we meet again, my boy; go with your heart inpeace."
Garoffi went as far as the door; but there he halted, turned to thenephew, who was following him, and gazed curiously at him. All at oncehe 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 aflash.
The boy carried the object to his uncle; we saw that on it was written,_I give you this_; we looked inside, and uttered an exclamation ofsurprise. It was the famous album, with his collection ofpostage-stamps, which poor Garoffi had brought, the collection of whichhe was always talking, upon which he had founded so many hopes, andwhich had cost him so much trouble; it was his treasure, poor boy! itwas the half of his very blood, which he had presented in exchange forhis pardon.
THE LITTLE FLORENTINE SCRIBE.
(_Monthly Story._)
He was in the fourth elementary class. He was a graceful Florentine ladof twelve, with black hair and a white face, the eldest son of anemployee on the railway, who, having a large family and but small pay,lived in straitened circumstances. His father loved him and wastolerably kind and indulgent to him--indulgent in everything except inthat which referred to school: on this point he required a great deal,and showed himself severe, because his son was obliged to attain such arank as would enable him to soon obtain a place and help his family; andin order to accomplish anything quickly, it was necessary that he shouldwork a great deal in a very short time. And 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 beforehis time. Nevertheless, in order to provide for the necessities of hisfamily, in addition to the toil which his occupation imposed upon him,he obtained special work here and there as a copyist, and passed a goodpart of the night at his writing-table. Lately, he had undertaken, inbehalf of a house which published journals and books in parts, to writeupon the parcels the names and addresses of their subscribers, and heearned three lire[1] for every five hundred of these paper wrappers,written in large and regular characters. But this work wearied him, andhe often complained of it to his family at dinner.
[1] Sixty cents.
"My eyes are giving out," he said; "this night work is killing me." Oneday his son said to him, "Let me work instead of you, papa; you knowthat 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 thingthan my wrappers; I feel remorse at robbing you of a single hour; Ithank 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 hisfather, and he did not persist; but this is what he did. He knew thatexactly at midnight his father stopped writing, and quitted his workroomto go to his bedroom; he had heard him several times: as soon as thetwelve strokes of the clock had sounded, he had heard the sound of achair drawn back, and the slow step of his father. One night he waiteduntil the latter was in bed, then dressed himself very, very softly, andfelt his way to the little workroom, lighted the petroleum lamp again,seated himself at the writing-table, where lay a pile of white wrappersand the list of addresses, and began to write, imitating exactly hisfather's handwriting. And he wrote with a will, gladly, a little infear, and the wrappers piled up, and from time to time he dropped thepen to rub his hands, and then began again with increased alacrity,listening and smi
ling. He wrote a hundred and sixty--one lira! Then hestopped, placed the pen where he had found it, extinguished the light,and went back to bed on tiptoe.
At noon that day his father sat down to the table in a good humor. Hehad perceived nothing. He performed the work mechanically, measuring itby the hour, and thinking of something else, and only counted thewrappers he had written on the following day. He seated himself at thetable in a fine humor, and slapping his son on one shoulder, he said tohim:--
"Eh, Giulio! Your father is even a better workman than you thought. Intwo hours I did a good third more work than usual last night. My hand isstill nimble, and my eyes still do their duty." And Giulio, silent butcontent, said to himself, "Poor daddy, besides the money, I am givinghim some satisfaction in the thought that he has grown young again.Well, courage!"
Encouraged by these good results, when night came and twelve o'clockstruck, he rose once more, and set to work. And this he did for severalnights. And his father noticed nothing; only once, at supper, he utteredthis exclamation, "It is strange how much oil has been used in thishouse lately!" This was a shock to Giulio; but the conversation ceasedthere, and the nocturnal labor proceeded.
However, by dint of thus breaking his sleep every night, Giulio did notget sufficient rest: he rose in the morning fatigued, and when he wasdoing his school work in the evening, he had difficulty in keeping hiseyes open. One evening, for the first time in his life, he fell asleepover his copy-book.
"Courage! courage!" cried his father, clapping his hands; "to work!"
He shook himself and set to work again. But the next evening, and on thedays following, the same thing occurred, and worse: he dozed over hisbooks, he rose later than usual, he studied his lessons in a languidway, he seemed disgusted with study. His father began to observe him,then to reflect seriously, and at last to reprove him. He should neverhave done it!
"Giulio," he said to him one morning, "you put me quite beside myself;you are no longer as you used to be. I don't like it. Take care; all thehopes of your family rest on you. I am dissatisfied; do you understand?"
At this reproof, the first severe one, in truth, which he had everreceived, the boy grew troubled.
"Yes," he said to himself, "it is true; it cannot go on so; this deceitmust come to an end."
But at dinner, on the evening of that very same day, his father saidwith much cheerfulness, "Do you know that this month I have earnedthirty-two lire more at addressing those wrappers than last month!" andso saying, he drew from under the table a paper package of sweets whichhe had bought, that he might celebrate with his children thisextraordinary profit, and they all hailed it with clapping of hands.Then Giulio took heart again, courage again, and said in his heart, "No,poor papa, I will not cease to deceive you; I will make greater effortsto work during the day, but I shall continue to work at night for youand for the rest." And his father added, "Thirty-two lire more! I amsatisfied. But that boy there," pointing at Giulio, "is the one whodispleases me." And Giulio received the reprimand in silence, forcingback two tears which tried to flow; but at the same time he felt a greatpleasure in his heart.
And he continued to work by main force; but fatigue added to fatiguerendered it ever more difficult for him to resist. Thus things went onfor two months. The father continued to reproach his son, and to gaze athim with eyes which grew constantly more wrathful. One day he went tomake inquiries of the teacher, and the teacher said to him: "Yes, hegets along, he gets along, because he is intelligent; but he no longerhas the good will which he had at first. He is drowsy, he yawns, hismind is distracted. He writes short compositions, scribbled down in allhaste, in bad chirography. Oh, he could do a great deal, a great dealmore."
That evening the father took the son aside, and spoke to him words whichwere graver than any the latter had ever heard. "Giulio, you see how Itoil, how I am wearing out my life, for the family. You do not second myefforts. You have no heart for me, nor for your brothers, nor for yourmother!"
"Ah no! don't say that, father!" cried the son, bursting into tears, andopening his mouth to confess all. But his father interrupted him,saying:--
"You are aware of the condition of the family; you know that good willand 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 fromthe railway company this month, and this morning I have learned that Ishall receive nothing!"
At this information, Giulio repressed the confession which was on thepoint of escaping from his soul, and repeated resolutely to himself:"No, papa, I shall tell you nothing; I shall guard my secret for thesake of being able to work for you; I will recompense you in another wayfor the sorrow which I occasion you; I will study enough at school towin promotion; the important point is to help you to earn our living,and to relieve you of the fatigue which is killing you."
And so he went on, and two months more passed, of labor by night andweakness by day, of desperate efforts on the part of the son, and ofbitter reproaches on the part of the father. But the worst of it was,that the latter grew gradually colder towards the boy, only addressedhim rarely, as though he had been a recreant son, of whom there wasnothing any longer to be expected, and almost avoided meeting hisglance. And Giulio perceived this and suffered from it, and when hisfather's back was turned, he threw him a furtive kiss, stretching forthhis face with a sentiment of sad and dutiful tenderness; and betweensorrow and fatigue, he grew thin and pale, and he was constrained tostill further neglect his studies. And he understood well that theremust be an end to it some day, and every evening he said to himself, "Iwill not get up to-night"; but when the clock struck twelve, at themoment when he should have vigorously reaffirmed his resolution, he feltremorse: it seemed to him, that by remaining in bed he should be failingin a duty, and robbing his father and the family of a lira. And he rose,thinking that some night his father would wake up and discover him, orthat he would discover the deception by accident, by counting thewrappers twice; and then all would come to a natural end, without anyact of his will, which he did not feel the courage to exert. And thus hewent on.
But one evening at dinner his father spoke a word which was decisive sofar as he was concerned. His mother looked at him, and as it seemed toher 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 isill. 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 thatproduces his bad health. He was not thus when he was a studious scholarand a loving son."
"But he is ill!" exclaimed the mother.
"I don't care anything about him any longer!" replied the father.
This remark was like a stab in the heart to the poor boy. Ah! he carednothing any more. His father, who once trembled at the mere sound of acough from him! He no longer loved him; there was no longer any doubt;he was dead in his father's heart. "Ah, no! my father," said the boy tohimself, his heart oppressed with anguish, "now all is over indeed; Icannot live without your affection; I must have it all back. I will tellyou all; I will deceive you no longer. I will study as of old, come whatwill, if you will only love me once more, my poor father! Oh, this timeI am quite sure of my resolution!"
Nevertheless he rose that night again, by force of habit more thananything else; and when he was once up, he wanted to go and salute andsee once more, for the last time, in the quiet of the night, that littlechamber where he toiled so much in secret with his heart full ofsatisfaction and tenderness. And when he beheld again that little tablewith the lamp lighted and those white wrappers on which he was nevermore to write those names of towns and persons, which he had come toknow by heart, he was seized with a great sadness, and with an impetuousmovement he grasped the pen to recommence his accustomed toil. But inreaching out his hand he struck a book, and the book fell. The bloodrushed to his heart. What if his father had waked! Certainly he wouldnot have discovered him in the commission of a bad deed: he had h
imselfdecided to tell him all, and yet--the sound of that step approaching inthe darkness,--the discovery at that hour, in that silence,--his mother,who would be awakened and alarmed,--and the thought, which had occurredto him for the first time, that his father might feel humiliated in hispresence on thus discovering all;--all this terrified him almost. Hebent his ear, with suspended breath. He heard no sound. He laid his earto the lock of the door behind him--nothing. The whole house was asleep.His father had not heard. He recovered his composure, and he set himselfagain to his writing, and wrapper was piled on wrapper. He heard theregular tread of the policeman below in the deserted street; then therumble of a carriage which gradually died away; then, after an interval,the rattle of a file of carts, which passed slowly by; then a profoundsilence, broken from time to time by the distant barking of a dog. Andhe wrote on and on: and meanwhile his father was behind him. He hadrisen on hearing the fall of the book, and had remained waiting for along time: the rattle of the carts had drowned the noise of hisfootsteps and the creaking of the door-casing; and he was there, withhis white head bent over Giulio's little black head, and he had seen thepen flying over the wrappers, and in an instant he had divined all,remembered all, understood all, and a despairing penitence, but at thesame time an immense tenderness, had taken possession of his mind andhad held him nailed to the spot suffocating behind his child. SuddenlyGiulio uttered a piercing shriek: two arms had pressed his headconvulsively.
"Oh, papa, papa! forgive me, forgive me!" he cried, recognizing hisparent by his weeping.
"Do you forgive me!" replied his father, sobbing, and covering his browwith kisses. "I have understood all, I know all; it is I, it is I whoask your pardon, my blessed little creature; come, come with me!" and hepushed or rather carried him to the bedside of his mother, who wasawake, 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 wasearning our bread!" The mother pressed him to her breast and held himthere, without the power to speak; at last she said: "Go to sleep atonce, my baby, go to sleep and rest.--Carry him to bed."
The father took him from her arms, carried him to his room, and laid himin his bed, still breathing hard and caressing him, and arranged hispillows and coverlets for him.
"Thanks, papa," the child kept repeating; "thanks; but go to bedyourself now; I am content; go to bed, papa."
But his father wanted to see him fall asleep; so he sat down beside thebed, took his hand, and said to him, "Sleep, sleep, my little son!" andGiulio, being weak, fell asleep at last, and slumbered many hours,enjoying, for the first time in many months, a tranquil sleep, enlivenedby pleasant dreams; and as he opened his eyes, when the sun had alreadybeen shining for a tolerably long time, he first felt, and then saw,close to his breast, and resting upon the edge of the little bed, thewhite head of his father, who had passed the night thus, and who wasstill asleep, with his brow against his son's heart.
WILL.
Wednesday, 28th.
There is Stardi in my school, who would have the force to do what thelittle Florentine did. This morning two events occurred at the school:Garoffi, 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, who took thesecond medal; Stardi the next in the class after Derossi! All wereamazed at it. Who could ever have foretold it, when, in October, hisfather brought him to school bundled up in that big green coat, and saidto the master, in presence of every one:--
"You must have a great deal of patience with him, because he is veryhard of understanding!"
Every one credited him with a wooden head from the very beginning. Buthe said, "I will burst or I will succeed," and he set to work doggedly,to studying day and night, at home, at school, while walking, with setteeth and clenched fists, patient as an ox, obstinate as a mule; andthus, by dint of trampling on every one, disregarding mockery, anddealing kicks to disturbers, this big thick-head passed in advance ofthe rest. He understood not the first thing of arithmetic, he filled hiscompositions with absurdities, he never succeeded in retaining a phrasein his mind; and now he solves problems, writes correctly, and sings hislessons like a song. And his iron will can be divined from the seeinghow he is made, so very thickset and squat, with a square head and noneck, with short, thick hands, and coarse voice. He studies even onscraps of newspaper, and on theatre bills, and every time that he hasten soldi, he buys a book; he has already collected a little library,and in a moment of good humor he allowed the promise to slip from hismouth that he would take me home and show it to me. He speaks to no one,he plays with no one, he is always on hand, on his bench, with his fistspressed to his temples, firm as a rock, listening to the teacher. How hemust have toiled, poor Stardi! The master said to him this morning,although he was impatient and in a bad humor, when he bestowed themedals:--
"Bravo, Stardi! he who endures, conquers." But the latter did not appearin the least puffed up with pride--he did not smile; and no sooner hadhe returned to his seat, with the medal, than he planted his fists onhis temples again, and became more motionless and more attentive thanbefore. But the finest thing happened when he went out of school; forhis father, a blood-letter, as big and squat as himself, with a hugeface and a huge voice, was there waiting for him. He had not expectedthis medal, and he was not willing to believe in it, so that it wasnecessary for the master to reassure him, and then he began to laughheartily, and tapped his son on the back of the neck, sayingenergetically, "Bravo! good! my dear pumpkin; you'll do!" and he staredat him, astonished and smiling. And all the boys around him smiled too,except Stardi. He was already ruminating the lesson for to-morrowmorning in that huge head of his.
GRATITUDE.
Saturday, 31st.
Your comrade Stardi never complains of his teacher; I am sure of that. "The master was in a bad temper, was impatient,"--you say it in a tone of resentment. Think an instant how often you give way to acts of impatience, and towards whom? towards your father and your mother, towards whom 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 ignored his toils; and that, between 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 goes to give a lesson to a sick boy, all alone, 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 fatigue 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 behaved badly to 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 growing up with you; the laborers, hardly recognized and poorly recompensed, 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 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 your father, is the noblest, the sweetest name which one man can apply to another man.
THY FATHER.