FEBRUARY.
A MEDAL WELL BESTOWED.
Saturday, 4th.
THIS morning the superintendent of the schools, a gentleman with a whitebeard, and dressed in black, came to bestow the medals. He entered withthe head-master a little before the close and seated himself beside theteacher. He questioned a few, then gave the first medal to Derossi, andbefore giving the second, he stood for a few moments listening to theteacher and the head-master, who were talking to him in a low voice. Allwere asking themselves, "To whom will he give the second?" Thesuperintendent said aloud:--
"Pupil Pietro Precossi has merited the second medal this week,--meritedit by his work at home, by his lessons, by his handwriting, by hisconduct in every way." All turned to look at Precossi, and it wasevident that all took pleasure in it. Precossi rose in such confusionthat he did not know where he stood.
"Come here," said the superintendent. Precossi sprang up from his seatand stepped up to the master's table. The superintendent lookedattentively at that little waxen face, at that puny body enveloped inturned and ill-fitting garments, at those kind, sad eyes, which avoidedhis, but which hinted at a story of suffering; then he said to him, in avoice full of affection, as he fastened the medal on his shoulder:--
"I give you the medal, Precossi. No one is more worthy to wear it thanyou. I bestow it not only on your intelligence and your good will; Ibestow it on your heart, I give it to your courage, to your character ofa brave and good son. Is it not true," he added, turning to the class,"that he deserves it also on that score?"
"Yes, yes!" all answered, with one voice. Precossi made a movement ofthe throat as though he were swallowing something, and cast upon thebenches a very sweet look, which was expressive of immense gratitude.
"Go, my dear boy," said the superintendent; "and may God protect you!"
It was the hour for dismissing the school. Our class got out before theothers. As soon as we were outside the door, whom should we espy there,in the large hall, just at the entrance? The father of Precossi, theblacksmith, pallid as was his wont, with fierce face, hair hanging overhis eyes, his cap awry, and unsteady on his legs. The teacher caughtsight of him instantly, and whispered to the superintendent. The lattersought out Precossi in haste, and taking him by the hand, he led him tohis father. The boy was trembling. The boy and the superintendentapproached; many boys collected around them.
"Is it true that you are the father of this lad?" demanded thesuperintendent of the blacksmith, with a cheerful air, as though theywere friends. And, without awaiting a reply:--
"I rejoice with you. Look: he has won the second medal over fifty-fourof his comrades. He has deserved it by his composition, his arithmetic,everything. He is a boy of great intelligence and good will, who willaccomplish great things; a fine boy, who possesses the affection andesteem of all. You may feel proud of him, I assure you."
The blacksmith, who had stood there with open mouth listening to him,stared at the superintendent and the head-master, and then at his son,who was standing before him with downcast eyes and trembling; and asthough he had remembered and comprehended then, for the first time, allthat he had made the little fellow suffer, and all the goodness, theheroic constancy, with which the latter had borne it, he displayed inhis countenance a certain stupid wonder, then a sullen remorse, andfinally a sorrowful and impetuous tenderness, and with a rapid gesturehe caught the boy round the head and strained him to his breast. We allpassed before them. I invited him to come to the house on Thursday, withGarrone and Crossi; others saluted him; one bestowed a caress on him,another touched his medal, all said something to him; and his fatherstared at us in amazement, as he still held his son's head pressed tohis breast, while the boy sobbed.
GOOD RESOLUTIONS.
Sunday, 5th.
That medal given to Precossi has awakened a remorse in me. I have neverearned one yet! For some time past I have not been studying, and I amdiscontented with myself, and the teacher, my father and mother arediscontented with me. I no longer experience the pleasure in amusingmyself that I did formerly, when I worked with a will, and then sprangup from the table and ran to my games full of mirth, as though I hadnot played for a month. Neither do I sit down to the table with myfamily with the same contentment as of old. I have always a shadow in mysoul, an inward voice, that says to me continually, "It won't do; itwon't do."
In the evening I see a great many boys pass through the square on theirreturn from work, in the midst of a group of workingmen, weary butmerry. They step briskly along, impatient to reach their homes andsuppers, and they talk loudly, laughing and slapping each other on theshoulder with hands blackened with coal, or whitened with plaster; and Ireflect that they have been working since daybreak up to this hour. Andwith them are also many others, who are still smaller, who have beenstanding all day on the summits of roofs, in front of ovens, amongmachines, and in the water, and underground, with nothing to eat but alittle bread; and I feel almost ashamed, I, who in all that time haveaccomplished nothing but scribble four small pages, and thatreluctantly. Ah, I am discontented, discontented! I see plainly that myfather is out of humor, and would like to tell me so; but he is sorry,and he is still waiting. My dear father, who works so hard! all isyours, all that I see around me in the house, all that I touch, all thatI wear and eat, all that affords me instruction and diversion,--all isthe fruit of your toil, and I do not work; all has cost you thought,privations, trouble, effort; and I make no effort. Ah, no; this is toounjust, and causes me too much pain. I will begin this very day; I willapply myself to my studies, like Stardi, with clenched fists and setteeth. I will set about it with all the strength of my will and myheart. I will conquer my drowsiness in the evening, I will come downpromptly in the morning, I will cudgel my brains without ceasing, Iwill chastise my laziness without mercy. I will toil, suffer, even tothe extent of making myself ill; but I will put a stop, once for all, tothis languishing and tiresome life, which is degrading me and causingsorrow to others. Courage! to work! To work with all my soul, and all mynerves! To work, which will restore to me sweet repose, pleasing games,cheerful meals! To work, which will give me back again the kindly smileof my teacher, the blessed kiss of my father!
THE ENGINE.
Friday, 10th.
Precossi came to our house to-day with Garrone. I do not think that twosons of princes would have been received with greater delight. This isthe first time that Garrone has been here, because he is rather shy, andthen he is ashamed to show himself because he is so large, and is stillin the third grade. We all went to open the door when they rang. Crossidid not come, because his father has at last arrived from America, afteran absence of seven years. My mother kissed Precossi at once. My fatherintroduced Garrone to her, saying:--
"Here he is. This lad is not only a good boy; he is a man of honor and agentleman."
And the boy dropped his big, shaggy head, with a sly smile at me.Precossi had on his medal, and he was happy, because his father has goneto work again, and has not drunk anything for the last five days, wantshim to be always in the workshop to keep him company, and seems quiteanother man.
We began to play, and I brought out all my things. Precossi wasenchanted with my train of cars, with the engine that goes of itself onbeing wound up. He had never seen anything of the kind. He devoured thelittle red and yellow cars with his eyes. I gave him the key to playwith, and he knelt down to his amusement, and did not raise his headagain. I have never seen him so pleased. He kept saying, "Excuse me,excuse me," to everything, and motioning to us with his hands, that weshould not stop the engine; and then he picked it up and replaced thecars with a thousand precautions, as though they had been made of glass.He was afraid of tarnishing them with his breath, and he polished themup again, examining them top and bottom, and smiling to himself. We allstood around him and gazed at him. We looked at that slender neck, thosepoor little ears, which I had seen bleeding one day, that jacket withthe sleeves turned up, from which projected two sickly little arms,whi
ch had been upraised to ward off blows from his face. Oh! at thatmoment I could have cast all my playthings and all my books at his feet,I could have torn the last morsel of bread from my lips to give to him,I could have divested myself of my clothing to clothe him, I could haveflung myself on my knees to kiss his hand. "I will at least give you thetrain," I thought; but--was necessary to ask permission of my father. Atthat moment I felt a bit of paper thrust into my hand. I looked; it waswritten in pencil by my father; it said:
"Your train pleases Precossi. He has no playthings. Does your heartsuggest nothing to you?"
Instantly I seized the engine and the cars in both hands, and placed thewhole in his arms, saying:--
"Take this; it is yours."
He looked at me, and did not understand. "It is yours," I said; "I giveit to you."
Then he looked at my father and mother, in still greater astonishment,and asked me:--
"But why?"
My father said to him:--
"Enrico gives it to you because he is your friend, because he lovesyou--to celebrate your medal."
Precossi asked timidly:--
"I may carry it away--home?"
"Of course!" we all responded. He was already at the door, but he darednot go out. He was happy! He begged our pardon with a mouth that smiledand quivered. Garrone helped him to wrap up the train in a handkerchief,and as he bent over, he made the things with which his pockets werefilled rattle.
"Some day," said Precossi to me, "you shall come to the shop to see myfather at work. I will give you some nails."
My mother put a little bunch of flowers into Garrone's buttonhole, forhim to carry to his mother in her name. Garrone said, "Thanks," in hisbig voice, without raising his chin from his breast. But all his kindand noble soul shone in his eyes.
PRIDE.
Saturday, 11th.
The idea of Carlo Nobis rubbing off his sleeve affectedly, when Precossitouches him in passing! That fellow is pride incarnate because hisfather is a rich man. But Derossi's father is rich too. He would like tohave a bench to himself; he is afraid that the rest will soil it; helooks down on everybody and always has a scornful smile on his lips: woeto him who stumbles over his foot, when we go out in files two by two!For a mere trifle he flings an insulting word in your face, or a threatto get his father to come to the school. It is true that his father didgive him a good lesson when he called the little son of the charcoal-mana ragamuffin. I have never seen so disagreeable a schoolboy! No onespeaks to him, no one says good by to him when he goes out; there is noteven a dog who would give him a suggestion when he does not know hislesson. And he cannot endure any one, and he pretends to despise Derossimore than all, because he is the head boy; and Garrone, because he isbeloved by all. But Derossi pays no attention to him when he is by; andwhen the boys tell Garrone that Nobis has been speaking ill of him, hesays:--
"His pride is so senseless that it does not deserve even my passingnotice."
But Coretti said to him one day, when he was smiling disdainfully at hiscatskin cap:--
"Go to Derossi for a while, and learn how to play the gentleman!"
Yesterday he complained to the master, because the Calabrian touched hisleg with his foot. The master asked the Calabrian:--
"Did you do it intentionally?"--"No, sir," he replied, frankly.--"Youare too petulant, Nobis."
And Nobis retorted, in his airy way, "I shall tell my father about it."Then the teacher got angry.
"Your father will tell you that you are in the wrong, as he has on otheroccasions. And besides that, it is the teacher alone who has the rightto judge and punish in school." Then he added pleasantly:--
"Come, Nobis, change your ways; be kind and courteous to your comrades.You see, we have here sons of workingmen and of gentlemen, of the richand the poor, and all love each other and treat each other likebrothers, as they are. Why do not you do like the rest? It would notcost you much to make every one like you, and you would be so muchhappier yourself, too!--Well, have you no reply to make me?"
Nobis, who had listened to him with his customary scornful smile,answered coldly:--
"No, sir."
"Sit down," said the master to him. "I am sorry for you. You are aheartless boy."
This seemed to be the end of it all; but the little mason, who sits onthe front bench, turned his round face towards Nobis, who sits on theback bench, and made such a fine and ridiculous hare's face at him, thatthe whole class burst into a shout of laughter. The master reproved him;but he was obliged to put his hand over his own mouth to conceal asmile. And even Nobis laughed, but not in a pleasant way.
THE WOUNDS OF LABOR.
Monday, 15th.
Nobis can be paired off with Franti: neither of them was affected thismorning in the presence of the terrible sight which passed before theireyes. On coming out of school, I was standing with my father and lookingat some big rogues of the second grade, who had thrown themselves ontheir knees and were wiping off the ice with their cloaks and caps, inorder to make slides more quickly, when we saw a crowd of people appearat the end of the street, walking hurriedly, all serious and seeminglyterrified, and conversing in low tones. In the midst of them were threepolicemen, and behind the policemen two men carrying a litter. Boyshastened up from all quarters. The crowd advanced towards us. On thelitter was stretched a man, pale as a corpse, with his head resting onone shoulder, and his hair tumbled and stained with blood, for he hadbeen losing blood through the mouth and ears; and beside the litterwalked a woman with a baby in her arms, who seemed crazy, and whoshrieked from time to time, "He is dead! He is dead! He is dead!"
Behind the woman came a boy who had a portfolio under his arm and whowas sobbing.
"What has happened?" asked my father. A neighbor replied, that the manwas a mason who had fallen from the fourth story while at work. Thebearers of the litter halted for a moment. Many turned away their facesin horror. I saw the schoolmistress of the red feather supporting mymistress of the upper first, who was almost in a swoon. At the samemoment I felt a touch on the elbow; it was the little mason, who wasghastly white and trembling from head to foot. He was certainly thinkingof his father. I was thinking of him, too. I, at least, am at peace inmy mind while I am in school: I know that my father is at home, seatedat his table, far removed from all danger; but how many of my companionsthink that their fathers are at work on a very high bridge or close tothe wheels of a machine, and that a movement, a single false step, maycost them their lives! They are like so many sons of soldiers who havefathers in the battle. The little mason gazed and gazed, and trembledmore and more, and my father noticed it and said:--
"Go home, my boy; go at once to your father, and you will find him safeand tranquil; go!"
The little mason went off, turning round at every step. And in themeanwhile the crowd had begun to move again, and the woman to shriek ina way that rent the heart, "He is dead! He is dead! He is dead!"
"No, no; he is not dead," people on all sides said to her. But she paidno heed to them, and tore her hair. Then I heard an indignant voice say,"You are laughing!" and at the same moment I saw a bearded man staringin Franti's face. Then the man knocked his cap to the ground with hisstick, saying:--
"Uncover your head, you wicked boy, when a man wounded by labor ispassing by!"
The crowd had already passed, and a long streak of blood was visible inthe middle of the street.
THE PRISONER.
Friday, 17th.
Ah, this is certainly the strangest event of the whole year! Yesterdaymorning my father took me to the suburbs of Moncalieri, to look at avilla which he thought of hiring for the coming summer, because we shallnot go to Chieri again this year, and it turned out that the person whohad the keys was a teacher who acts as secretary to the owner. He showedus the house, and then he took us to his own room, where he gave ussomething to drink. On his table, among the glasses, there was a woodeninkstand, of a conical form, carved in a singular manner. Perceivingthat my father was looki
ng at it, the teacher said:--
"That inkstand is very precious to me: if you only knew, sir, thehistory of that inkstand!" And he told it.
Years ago he was a teacher at Turin, and all one winter he went to givelessons to the prisoners in the judicial prison. He gave the lessons inthe chapel of the prison, which is a circular building, and all aroundit, on the high, bare walls, are a great many little square windows,covered with two cross-bars of iron, each one of which corresponds to avery small cell inside. He gave his lessons as he paced about the dark,cold chapel, and his scholars stood at the holes, with their copy-booksresting against the gratings, showing nothing in the shadow but wan,frowning faces, gray and ragged beards, staring eyes of murderers andthieves. Among the rest there was one, No. 78, who was more attentivethan all the others, and who studied a great deal, and gazed at histeacher with eyes full of respect and gratitude. He was a young man,with a black beard, more unfortunate than wicked, a cabinet-maker who,in a fit of rage, had flung a plane at his master, who had beenpersecuting him for some time, and had inflicted a mortal wound on hishead: for this he had been condemned to several years of seclusion. Inthree months he had learned to read and write, and he read constantly,and the more he learned, the better he seemed to become, and the moreremorseful for his crime. One day, at the conclusion of the lesson, hemade a sign to the teacher that he should come near to his littlewindow, and he announced to him that he was to leave Turin on thefollowing day, to go and expiate his crime in the prison at Venice; andas he bade him farewell, he begged in a humble and much moved voice,that he might be allowed to touch the master's hand. The master offeredhim his hand, and he kissed it; then he said:--
"Thanks! thanks!" and disappeared. The master drew back his hand; it wasbathed with tears. After that he did not see the man again.
Six years passed. "I was thinking of anything except that unfortunateman," said the teacher, "when, the other morning, I saw a stranger cometo the house, a man with a large black beard already sprinkled withgray, and badly dressed, who said to me: 'Are you the teacher So-and-So,sir?' 'Who are you?' I asked him. 'I am prisoner No. 78,' he replied;'you taught me to read and write six years ago; if you recollect, yougave me your hand at the last lesson; I have now expiated my crime, andI have come hither--to beg you to do me the favor to accept a memento ofme, a poor little thing which I made in prison. Will you accept it inmemory of me, Signor Master?'
"I stood there speechless. He thought that I did not wish to take it,and he looked at me as much as to say, 'So six years of suffering arenot sufficient to cleanse my hands!' but with so poignant an expressionof pain did he gaze at me, that I instantly extended my hand and tookthe little object. This is it."
We looked attentively at the inkstand: it seemed to have been carvedwith the point of a nail, and with, great patience; on its top wascarved a pen lying across a copy-book, and around it was written: "_Tomy teacher. A memento of No. 78. Six years!_" And below, in smallletters, "_Study and hope._"
The master said nothing more; we went away. But all the way fromMoncalieri to Turin I could not get that prisoner, standing at hislittle window, that farewell to his master, that poor inkstand made inprison, which told so much, out of my head; and I dreamed of them allnight, and was still thinking of them this morning--far enough fromimagining the surprise which awaited me at school! No sooner had I takenmy new seat, beside Derossi, and written my problem in arithmetic forthe monthly examination, than I told my companion the story of theprisoner and the inkstand, and how the inkstand was made, with the penacross the copy-book, and the inscription around it, "Six years!"Derossi sprang up at these words, and began to look first at me and thenat Crossi, the son of the vegetable-vender, who sat on the bench infront, with his back turned to us, wholly absorbed on his problem.
"Hush!" he said; then, in a low voice, catching me by the arm, "don'tyou know that Crossi spoke to me day before yesterday of having caught aglimpse; of an inkstand in the hands of his father, who has returnedfrom America; a conical inkstand, made by hand, with a copy-book and apen,--that is the one; six years! He said that his father was inAmerica; instead of that he was in prison: Crossi was a little boy atthe time of the crime; he does not remember it; his mother has deceivedhim; he knows nothing; let not a syllable of this escape!"
I remained speechless, with my eyes fixed on Crossi. Then Derossi solvedhis problem, and passed it under the bench to Crossi; he gave him asheet of paper; he took out of his hands the monthly story, _Daddy'sNurse_, which the teacher had given him to copy out, in order that hemight copy it in his stead; he gave him pens, and stroked his shoulder,and made me promise on my honor that I would say nothing to any one; andwhen we left school, he said hastily to me:--
"His father came to get him yesterday; he will be here again thismorning: do as I do."
We emerged into the street; Crossi's father was there, a little to oneside: a man with a black beard sprinkled with gray, badly dressed, witha colorless and thoughtful face. Derossi shook Crossi's hand, in a wayto attract attention, and said to him in a loud tone, "Farewell until wemeet again, Crossi,"--and passed his hand under his chin. I did thesame. But as he did so, Derossi turned crimson, and so did I; andCrossi's father gazed attentively at us, with a kindly glance; butthrough it shone an expression of uneasiness and suspicion which madeour hearts grow cold.
DADDY'S NURSE.
(_Monthly Story._)
One morning, on a rainy day in March, a lad dressed like a country boy,all muddy and saturated with water, with a bundle of clothes under hisarm, presented himself to the porter of the great hospital at Naples,and, presenting a letter, asked for his father. He had a fine oval face,of a pale brown hue, thoughtful eyes, and two thick lips, always halfopen, which displayed extremely white teeth. He came from a village inthe neighborhood of Naples. His father, who had left home a yearpreviously to seek work in France, had returned to Italy, and had landeda few days before at Naples, where, having fallen suddenly ill, he hadhardly time to write a line to announce his arrival to his family, andto say that he was going to the hospital. His wife, in despair at thisnews, and unable to leave home because she had a sick child, and a babyat the breast, had sent her eldest son to Naples, with a few soldi, tohelp his father--his _daddy_, as they called him: the boy had walked tenmiles.
The porter, after glancing at the letter, called a nurse and told him toconduct the lad to his father.
"What father?" inquired the nurse.
The boy, trembling with terror, lest he should hear bad news, gave thename.
The nurse did not recall such a name.
"An old laborer, arrived from abroad?" he asked.
"Yes, a laborer," replied the lad, still more uneasy; "not so very old.Yes, arrived from abroad."
"When did he enter the hospital?" asked the nurse.
The lad glanced at his letter; "Five days ago, I think."
The nurse stood a while in thought; then, as though suddenly recallinghim; "Ah!" he said, "the furthest bed in the fourth ward."
"Is he very ill? How is he?" inquired the boy, anxiously.
The nurse looked at him, without replying. Then he said, "Come with me."
They ascended two flights of stairs, walked to the end of a longcorridor, and found themselves facing the open door of a large hall,wherein two rows of beds were arranged. "Come," repeated the nurse,entering. The boy plucked up his courage, and followed him, castingterrified glances to right and left, on the pale, emaciated faces of thesick people, some of whom had their eyes closed, and seemed to be dead,while others were staring into the air, with their eyes wide open andfixed, as though frightened. Some were moaning like children. The bigroom was dark, the air was impregnated with an acute odor of medicines.Two sisters of charity were going about with phials in their hands.
Arrived at the extremity of the great room, the nurse halted at the headof a bed, drew aside the curtains, and said, "Here is your father."
The boy burst into tears, and letting fall his bundle, he dropp
ed hishead on the sick man's shoulder, clasping with one hand the arm whichwas lying motionless on the coverlet. The sick man did not move.
The boy rose to his feet, and looked at his father, and broke into afresh fit of weeping. Then the sick man gave a long look at him, andseemed to recognize him; but his lips did not move. Poor daddy, how hewas changed! The son would never have recognized him. His hair hadturned white, his beard had grown, his face was swollen, of a dull redhue, with the skin tightly drawn and shining; his eyes were diminishedin size, his lips very thick, his whole countenance altered. There wasno longer anything natural about him but his forehead and the arch ofhis eyebrows. He breathed with difficulty.
"Daddy! daddy!" said the boy, "it is I; don't you know me? I am Cicillo,your own Cicillo, who has come from the country: mamma has sent me. Takea good look at me; don't you know me? Say one word to me."
But the sick man, after having looked attentively at him, closed hiseyes.
"Daddy! daddy! What is the matter with you? I am your little son--yourown Cicillo."
The sick man made no movement, and continued to breathe painfully.
Then the lad, still weeping, took a chair, seated himself and waited,without taking his eyes from his father's face. "A doctor will surelycome to pay him a visit," he thought; "he will tell me something." Andhe became immersed in sad thoughts, recalling many things about his kindfather, the day of parting, when he said the last good by to him onboard the ship, the hopes which his family had founded on his journey,the desolation of his mother on the arrival of the letter; and hethought of death: he beheld his father dead, his mother dressed inblack, the family in misery. And he remained a long time thus. A lighthand touched him on the shoulder, and he started up: it was a nun.
"What is the matter with my father?" he asked her quickly.
"Is he your father?" said the sister gently.
"Yes, he is my father; I have come. What ails him?"
"Courage, my boy," replied the sister; "the doctor will be here soonnow." And she went away without saying anything more.
Half an hour later he heard the sound of a bell, and he saw the doctorenter at the further end of the hall, accompanied by an assistant; thesister and a nurse followed him. They began the visit, pausing at everybed. This time of waiting seemed an eternity to the lad, and his anxietyincreased at every step of the doctor. At length they arrived at thenext bed. The doctor was an old man, tall and stooping, with a graveface. Before he left the next bed the boy rose to his feet, and when heapproached he began to cry.
The doctor looked at him.
"He is the sick man's son," said the sister; "he arrived this morningfrom the country."
The doctor placed one hand on his shoulder; then bent over the sick man,felt his pulse, touched his forehead, and asked a few questions of thesister, who replied, "There is nothing new." Then he thought for a whileand said, "Continue the present treatment."
Then the boy plucked up courage, and asked in a tearful voice, "What isthe matter with my father?"
"Take courage, my boy," replied the doctor, laying his hand on hisshoulder once more; "he has erysipelas in his face. It is a seriouscase, but there is still hope. Help him. Your presence may do him agreat deal of good."
"But he does not know me!" exclaimed the boy in a tone of affliction.
"He will recognize you--to-morrow perhaps. Let us hope for the best andkeep up our courage."
The boy would have liked to ask some more questions, but he did notdare. The doctor passed on. And then he began his life of nurse. As hecould do nothing else, he arranged the coverlets of the sick man,touched his hand every now and then, drove away the flies, bent over himat every groan, and when the sister brought him something to drink, hetook the glass or the spoon from her hand, and administered it in herstead. The sick man looked at him occasionally, but he gave no sign ofrecognition. However, his glance rested longer on the lad each time,especially when the latter put his handkerchief to his eyes.
Thus passed the first day. At night the boy slept on two chairs, in acorner of the ward, and in the morning he resumed his work of mercy.That day it seemed as though the eyes of the sick man revealed a dawningof consciousness. At the sound of the boy's caressing voice a vagueexpression of gratitude seemed to gleam for an instant in his pupils,and once he moved his lips a little, as though he wanted to saysomething. After each brief nap he seemed, on opening his eyes, to seekhis little nurse. The doctor, who had passed twice, thought he noted aslight improvement. Towards evening, on putting the cup to his lips, thelad fancied that he perceived a very faint smile glide across theswollen lips. Then he began to take comfort and to hope; and with thehope of being understood, confusedly at least, he talked to him--talkedto him at great length--of his mother, of his little sisters, of his ownreturn home, and he exhorted him to courage with warm and loving words.And although he often doubted whether he was heard, he still talked; forit seemed to him that even if he did not understand him, the sick manlistened with a certain pleasure to his voice,--to that unaccustomedintonation of affection and sorrow. And in this manner passed the secondday, and the third, and the fourth, with vicissitudes of slightimprovements and unexpected changes for the worse; and the boy was soabsorbed in all his cares, that he hardly nibbled a bit of bread andcheese twice a day, when the sister brought it to him, and hardly sawwhat was going on around him,--the dying patients, the sudden running upof the sisters at night, the moans and despairing gestures ofvisitors,--all those doleful and lugubrious scenes of hospital life,which on any other occasion would have disconcerted and alarmed him.Hours, days, passed, and still he was there with his daddy; watchful,wistful, trembling at every sigh and at every look, agitated incessantlybetween a hope which relieved his mind and a discouragement which frozehis heart.
On the fifth day the sick man suddenly grew worse. The doctor, on beinginterrogated, shook his head, as much as to say that all was over, andthe boy flung himself on a chair and burst out sobbing. But one thingcomforted him. In spite of the fact that he was worse, the sick manseemed to be slowly regaining a little intelligence. He stared at thelad with increasing intentness, and, with an expression which grew insweetness, would take his drink and medicine from no one but him, andmade strenuous efforts with his lips with greater frequency, as thoughhe were trying to pronounce some word; and he did it so plainlysometimes that his son grasped his arm violently, inspired by a suddenhope, and said to him in a tone which was almost that of joy, "Courage,courage, daddy; you will get well, we will go away from here, we willreturn home with mamma; courage, for a little while longer!"
It was four o'clock in the afternoon, and just when the boy hadabandoned himself to one of these outbursts of tenderness and hope, whena sound of footsteps became audible outside the nearest door in theward, and then a strong voice uttering two words only,--"Farewell,sister!"--which made him spring to his feet, with a cry repressed in histhroat.
At that moment there entered the ward a man with a thick bandage on hishand, followed by a sister.
The boy uttered a sharp cry, and stood rooted to the spot.
The man turned round, looked at him for a moment, and uttered a cry inhis turn,--"Cicillo!"--and darted towards him.
The boy fell into his father's arms, choking with emotion.
The sister, the nurse, and the assistant ran up, and stood there inamazement.
The boy could not recover his voice.
"Oh, my Cicillo!" exclaimed the father, after bestowing an attentivelook on the sick man, as he kissed the boy repeatedly. "Cicillo, my son,how is this? They took you to the bedside of another man. And there wasI, in despair at not seeing you after mamma had written, 'I have senthim.' Poor Cicillo! How many days have you been here? How did thismistake occur? I have come out of it easily! I have a good constitution,you know! And how is mamma? And Concettella? And the little baby--howare they all? I am leaving the hospital now. Come, then. Oh, Lord God!Who would have thought it!"
The boy tried to interpolate a few word
s, to tell the news of thefamily. "Oh how happy I am!" he stammered. "How happy I am! Whatterrible days I have passed!" And he could not finish kissing hisfather.
But he did not stir.
"Come," said his father; "we can get home this evening." And he drew thelad towards him. The boy turned to look at his patient.
"Well, are you coming or not?" his father demanded, in amazement.
The boy cast yet another glance at the sick man, who opened his eyes atthat moment and gazed intently at him.
Then a flood of words poured from his very soul. "No, daddy;wait--here--I can't. Here is this old man. I have been here for fivedays. He gazes at me incessantly. I thought he was you. I love himdearly. He looks at me; I give him his drink; he wants me always besidehim; he is very ill now. Have patience; I have not the courage--I don'tknow--it pains me too much; I will return home to-morrow; let me stayhere a little longer; I don't at all like to leave him. See how he looksat me! I don't know who he is, but he wants me; he will die alone: letme stay here, dear daddy!"
"Bravo, little fellow!" exclaimed the attendant.
The father stood in perplexity, staring at the boy; then he looked atthe sick man. "Who is he?" he inquired.
"A countryman, like yourself," replied the attendant, "just arrived fromabroad, and who entered the hospital on the very day that you enteredit. He was out of his senses when they brought him here, and could notspeak. Perhaps he has a family far away, and sons. He probably thinksthat your son is one of his."
The sick man was still looking at the boy.
The father said to Cicillo, "Stay."
"He will not have to stay much longer," murmured the attendant.
"Stay," repeated his father: "you have heart. I will go homeimmediately, to relieve mamma's distress. Here is a scudo for yourexpenses. Good by, my brave little son, until we meet!"
He embraced him, looked at him intently, kissed him again on the brow,and went away.
The boy returned to his post at the bedside, and the sick man appearedconsoled. And Cicillo began again to play the nurse, no longer weeping,but with the same eagerness, the same patience, as before; he againbegan to give the man his drink, to arrange his bedclothes, to caresshis hand, to speak softly to him, to exhort him to courage. He attendedhim all that day, all that night; he remained beside him all thefollowing day. But the sick man continued to grow constantly worse; hisface turned a purple color, his breathing grew heavier, his agitationincreased, inarticulate cries escaped his lips, the inflammation becameexcessive. On his evening visit, the doctor said that he would not livethrough the night. And then Cicillo redoubled his cares, and never tookhis eyes from him for a minute. The sick man gazed and gazed at him, andkept moving his lips from time to time, with great effort, as though hewanted to say something, and an expression of extraordinary tendernesspassed over his eyes now and then, as they continued to grow smaller andmore dim. And that night the boy watched with him until he saw the firstrays of dawn gleam white through the windows, and the sister appeared.The sister approached the bed, cast a glance at the patient, and thenwent away with rapid steps. A few moments later she reappeared with theassistant doctor, and with a nurse, who carried a lantern.
"He is at his last gasp," said the doctor.
The boy clasped the sick man's hand. The latter opened his eyes, gazedat him, and closed them once more.
At that moment the lad fancied that he felt his hand pressed. "Hepressed my hand!" he exclaimed.
The doctor bent over the patient for an instant, then straightenedhimself up.
The sister detached a crucifix from the wall.
"He is dead!" cried the boy.
"Go, my son," said the doctor: "your work of mercy is finished. Go, andmay fortune attend you! for you deserve it. God will protect you.Farewell!"
The sister, who had stepped aside for a moment, returned with a littlebunch of violets which she had taken from a glass on the window-sill,and handed them to the boy, saying:--
"I have nothing else to give you. Take these in memory of the hospital."
"Thanks," returned the boy, taking the bunch of flowers with one handand drying his eyes with the other; "but I have such a long distance togo on foot--I shall spoil them." And separating the violets, hescattered them over the bed, saying: "I leave them as a memento for mypoor dead man. Thanks, sister! thanks, doctor!" Then, turning to thedead man, "Farewell--" And while he sought a name to give him, the sweetname which he had applied to him for five days recurred to hislips,--"Farewell, poor daddy!"
So saying, he took his little bundle of clothes under his arm, and,exhausted with fatigue, he walked slowly away. The day was dawning.
THE WORKSHOP.
Saturday, 18th.
Precossi came last night to remind me that I was to go and see hisworkshop, which is down the street, and this morning when I went outwith my father, I got him to take me there for a moment. As weapproached the shop, Garoffi issued from it on a run, with a package inhis hand, and making his big cloak, with which he covers up hismerchandise, flutter. Ah! now I know where he goes to pilfer ironfilings, which he sells for old papers, that barterer of a Garoffi! Whenwe arrived in front of the door, we saw Precossi seated on a littlepile of bricks, engaged in studying his lesson, with his book resting onhis knees. He rose quickly and invited us to enter. It was a largeapartment, full of coal-dust, bristling with hammers, pincers, bars, andold iron of every description; and in one corner burned a fire in asmall furnace, where puffed a pair of bellows worked by a boy. Precossi,the father, was standing near the anvil, and a young man was holding abar of iron in the fire.
"Ah! here he is," said the smith, as soon as he caught sight of us, andhe lifted his cap, "the nice boy who gives away railway trains! He hascome to see me work a little, has he not? I shall be at your service ina moment." And as he said it, he smiled; and he no longer had theferocious face, the malevolent eyes of former days. The young man handedhim a long bar of iron heated red-hot on one end, and the smith placedit on the anvil. He was making one of those curved bars for the rail ofterrace balustrades. He raised a large hammer and began to beat it,pushing the heated part now here, now there, between one point of theanvil and the middle, and turning it about in various ways; and it was amarvel to see how the iron curved beneath the rapid and accurate blowsof the hammer, and twisted, and gradually assumed the graceful form of aleaf torn from a flower, like a pipe of dough which he had modelled withhis hands. And meanwhile his son watched us with a certain air of pride,as much as to say, "See how my father works!"
"Do you see how it is done, little master?" the blacksmith asked me,when he had finished, holding out the bar, which looked like a bishop'scrosier. Then he laid it aside, and thrust another into the fire.
"That was very well made, indeed," my father said to him. And he added,"So you are working--eh! You have returned to good habits?"
"Yes, I have returned," replied the workman, wiping away theperspiration, and reddening a little. "And do you know who has made mereturn to them?" My father pretended not to understand. "This braveboy," said the blacksmith, indicating his son with his finger; "thatbrave boy there, who studied and did honor to his father, while hisfather rioted, and treated him like a dog. When I saw that medal--Ah!thou little lad of mine, no bigger than a soldo[1] of cheese, comehither, that I may take a good look at thy phiz!"
[1] The twentieth part of a cubit; Florentine measure.
The boy ran to him instantly; the smith took him and set him directly onthe anvil, holding him under the arms, and said to him:--
"Polish off the frontispiece of this big beast of a daddy of yours alittle!"
And then Precossi covered his father's black face with kisses, until hewas all black himself.
"That's as it should be," said the smith, and he set him on the groundagain.
"That really is as it should be, Precossi!" exclaimed my father,delighted. And bidding the smith and his son good day, he led me away.As I was going out, little Precossi said to m
e, "Excuse me," and thrusta little packet of nails into my pocket. I invited him to come and viewthe Carnival from my house.
"You gave him your railway train," my father said to me in the street;"but if it had been made of gold and filled with pearls, it would stillhave been but a petty gift to that sainted son, who has reformed hisfather's heart."
THE LITTLE HARLEQUIN.
Monday, 20th.
The whole city is in a tumult over the Carnival, which is nearing itsclose. In every square rise booths of mountebanks and jesters; and wehave under our windows a circus-tent, in which a little Venetiancompany, with five horses, is giving a show. The circus is in the centreof the square; and in one corner there are three very large vans inwhich the mountebanks sleep and dress themselves,--three small houses onwheels, with their tiny windows, and a chimney in each of them, whichsmokes continually; and between window and window the baby'sswaddling-bands are stretched. There is one woman who is nursing achild, who prepares the food, and dances on the tight-rope. Poor people!The word _mountebank_ is spoken as though it were an insult; but theyearn their living honestly, nevertheless, by amusing all the world--andhow they work! All day long they run back and forth between thecircus-tent and the vans, in tights, in all this cold; they snatch amouthful or two in haste, standing, between two performances; andsometimes, when they get their tent full, a wind arises, wrenches awaythe ropes and extinguishes the lights, and then good by to the show!They are obliged to return the money, and to work the entire night atrepairing their booth. There are two lads who work; and my fatherrecognized the smallest one as he was traversing the square; and he isthe son of the proprietor, the same one whom we saw perform tricks onhorseback last year in a circus on the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele. And hehas grown; he must be eight years old: he is a handsome boy, with around and roguish face, with so many black curls that they escape fromhis pointed cap. He is dressed up like a harlequin, decked out in a sortof sack, with sleeves of white, embroidered with black, and his slippersare of cloth. He is a merry little imp. He charms every one. He doeseverything. We see him early in the morning, wrapped in a shawl,carrying milk to his wooden house; then he goes to get the horses at theboarding-stable on the Via Bertola. He holds the tiny baby in his arms;he transports hoops, trestles, rails, ropes; he cleans the vans, lightsthe fire, and in his leisure moments he always hangs about his mother.My father is always watching him from the window, and does nothing buttalk about him and his family, who have the air of nice people, and ofbeing fond of their children.
One evening we went to the circus: it was cold; there was hardly any onethere; but the little harlequin exerted himself greatly to cheer thosefew people: he executed precarious leaps; he caught hold of the horses'tails; he walked with his legs in the air, all alone; he sang, alwayswith a smile constantly on his handsome little brown face. And hisfather, who had on a red vest and white trousers, with tall boots, and awhip in his hand, watched him: but it was melancholy. My father tookpity on him, and spoke of him on the following day to Delis the painter,who came to see us. These poor people were killing themselves with hardwork, and their affairs were going so badly! The little boy pleased himso much! What could be done for them? The painter had an idea.
"Write a fine article for the _Gazette_," he said: "you know how towrite well: relate the miraculous things which the little harlequindoes, and I will take his portrait for you. Everybody reads the_Gazette_, and people will flock thither for once."
And thus they did. My father wrote a fine article, full of jests, whichtold all that we had observed from the window, and inspired a desire tosee and caress the little artist; and the painter sketched a littleportrait which was graceful and a good likeness, and which was publishedon Saturday evening. And behold! at the Sunday performance a great crowdrushed to the circus. The announcement was made: _Performance for theBenefit of the Little Harlequin_, as he was styled in the _Gazette_. Thecircus was crammed; many of the spectators held the _Gazette_ in theirhands, and showed it to the little harlequin, who laughed and ran fromone to another, perfectly delighted. The proprietor was delighted also.Just fancy! Not a single newspaper had ever done him such an honor, andthe money-box was filled. My father sat beside me. Among the spectatorswe found persons of our acquaintance. Near the entrance for the horsesstood the teacher of gymnastics--the one who has been with Garibaldi;and opposite us, in the second row, was the little mason, with hislittle round face, seated beside his gigantic father; and no sooner didhe catch sight of me than he made a hare's face at me. A little furtheron I espied Garoffi, who was counting the spectators, and calculated onhis fingers how much money the company had taken in. On one of thechairs in the first row, not far from us, there was also poor Robetti,the boy who saved the child from the omnibus, with his crutches betweenhis knees, pressed close to the side of his father, the artillerycaptain, who kept one hand on his shoulder. The performance began. Thelittle harlequin accomplished wonders on his horse, on the trapeze, onthe tight-rope; and every time that he jumped down, every one clappedtheir hands, and many pulled his curls. Then several others,rope-dancers, jugglers, and riders, clad in tights, and sparkling withsilver, went through their exercises; but when the boy was notperforming, the audience seemed to grow weary. At a certain point I sawthe teacher of gymnastics, who held his post at the entrance for thehorses, whisper in the ear of the proprietor of the circus, and thelatter instantly glanced around, as though in search of some one. Hisglance rested on us. My father perceived it, and understood that theteacher had revealed that he was the author of the article, and in orderto escape being thanked, he hastily retreated, saying to me:--
"Remain, Enrico; I will wait for you outside."
After exchanging a few words with his father, the little harlequin wentthrough still another trick: erect upon a galloping horse, he appearedin four characters--as a pilgrim, a sailor, a soldier, and an acrobat;and every time that he passed near me, he looked at me. And when hedismounted, he began to make the tour of the circus, with hisharlequin's cap in his hand, and everybody threw soldi or sugar-plumsinto it. I had two soldi ready; but when he got in front of me, insteadof offering his cap, he drew it back, gave me a look and passed on. Iwas mortified. Why had he offered me that affront?
The performance came to an end; the proprietor thanked the audience; andall the people rose also, and thronged to the doors. I was confused bythe crowd, and was on the point of going out, when I felt a touch on myhand. I turned round: it was the little harlequin, with his tiny brownface and his black curls, who was smiling at me; he had his hands fullof sugar-plums. Then I understood.
"Will you accept these sugar-plums from the little harlequin?" said heto me, in his dialect.
I nodded, and took three or four.
"Then," he added, "please accept a kiss also."
"Give me two," I answered; and held up my face to him. He rubbed off hisfloury face with his hand, put his arm round my neck, and planted twokisses on my cheek, saying:--
"There! take one of them to your father."
THE LAST DAY OF THE CARNIVAL.
Tuesday, 21st.
What a sad scene was that which we witnessed to-day at the procession ofthe masks! It ended well; but it might have resulted in a greatmisfortune. In the San Carlo Square, all decorated with red, white, andyellow festoons, a vast multitude had assembled; masks of every hue wereflitting about; cars, gilded and adorned, in the shape of pavilions;little theatres, barks filled with harlequins and warriors, cooks,sailors, and shepherdesses; there was such a confusion that one knew notwhere to look; a tremendous clash of trumpets, horns, and cymbalslacerated the ears; and the masks on the chariots drank and sang, asthey apostrophized the people in the streets and at the windows, whoretorted at the top of their lungs, and hurled oranges and sugar-plumsat each other vigorously; and above the chariots and the throng, as faras the eye could reach, one could see banners fluttering, helmetsgleaming, plumes waving, gigantic pasteboard heads moving, hugehead-dresses, enormous trumpets, fantastic arms,
little drums,castanets, red caps, and bottles;--all the world seemed to have gonemad. When our carriage entered the square, a magnificent chariot wasdriving in front of us, drawn by four horses covered with trappingsembroidered in gold, and all wreathed in artificial roses, upon whichthere were fourteen or fifteen gentlemen masquerading as gentlemen atthe court of France, all glittering with silk, with huge white wigs, aplumed hat, under the arm a small-sword, and a tuft of ribbons and laceson the breast. They were very gorgeous. They were singing a Frenchcanzonette in concert and throwing sweetmeats to the people, and thepeople clapped their hands and shouted. Suddenly, on our left, we saw aman lift a child of five or six above the heads of the crowd,--a poorlittle creature, who wept piteously, and flung her arms about as thoughin a fit of convulsions. The man made his way to the gentlemen'schariot; one of the latter bent down, and the other said aloud:--
"Take this child; she has lost her mother in the crowd; hold her in yourarms; the mother may not be far off, and she will catch sight of her:there is no other way."
The gentleman took the child in his arms: all the rest stopped singing;the child screamed and struggled; the gentleman removed his mask; thechariot continued to move slowly onwards. Meanwhile, as we wereafterwards informed, at the opposite extremity of the square a poorwoman, half crazed with despair, was forcing her way through the crowd,by dint of shoves and elbowing, and shrieking:--
"Maria! Maria! Maria! I have lost my little daughter! She has beenstolen from me! They have suffocated my child!" And for a quarter of anhour she raved and expressed her despair in this manner, straying now alittle way in this direction, and then a little way in that, crushed bythe throng through which she strove to force her way.
The gentleman on the car was meanwhile holding the child pressed againstthe ribbons and laces on his breast, casting glances over the square,and trying to calm the poor creature, who covered her face with herhands, not knowing where she was, and sobbed as though she would breakher heart. The gentleman was touched: it was evident that these screamswent to his soul. All the others offered the child oranges andsugar-plums; but she repulsed them all, and grew constantly moreconvulsed and frightened.
"Find her mother!" shouted the gentleman to the crowd; "seek hermother!" And every one turned to the right and the left; but the motherwas not to be found. Finally, a few paces from the place where the ViaRoma enters the square, a woman was seen to rush towards the chariot.Ah, I shall never forget that! She no longer seemed a human creature:her hair was streaming, her face distorted, her garments torn; shehurled herself forward with a rattle in her throat,--one knew notwhether to attribute it to either joy, anguish, or rage,--and darted outher hands like two claws to snatch her child. The chariot halted.
"Here she is," said the gentleman, reaching out the child after kissingit; and he placed her in her mother's arms, who pressed her to herbreast like a fury. But one of the tiny hands rested a second longer inthe hands of the gentleman; and the latter, pulling off of his righthand a gold ring set with a large diamond, and slipping it with a rapidmovement upon the finger of the little girl, said:--
"Take this; it shall be your marriage dowry."
The mother stood rooted to the spot, as though enchanted; the crowdbroke into applause; the gentleman put on his mask again, his companionsresumed their song, and the chariot started on again slowly, amid atempest of hand-clapping and hurrahs.
THE BLIND BOYS.
Thursday, 24th.
The master is very ill, and they have sent in his stead the master ofthe fourth grade, who has been a teacher in the Institute for the Blind.He is the oldest of all the instructors, with hair so white that itlooks like a wig made of cotton, and he speaks in a peculiar manner, asthough he were chanting a melancholy song; but he does it well, and heknows a great deal. No sooner had he entered the schoolroom than,catching sight of a boy with a bandage on his eye, he approached thebench, and asked him what was the matter.
"Take care of your eyes, my boy," he said to him. And then Derossi askedhim:--
"Is it true, sir, that you have been a teacher of the blind?"
"Yes, for several years," he replied. And Derossi said, in a low tone,"Tell us something about it."
The master went and seated himself at his table.
Coretti said aloud, "The Institute for the Blind is in the Via Nizza."
"You say blind--blind," said the master, "as you would say poor or ill,or I know not what. But do you thoroughly comprehend the significance ofthat word? Reflect a little. Blind! Never to see anything! Not to beable to distinguish the day from night; to see neither the sky, nor sun,nor your parents, nor anything of what is around you, and which youtouch; to be immersed in a perpetual obscurity, and as though buried inthe bowels of the earth! Make a little effort to close your eyes, and tothink of being obliged to remain forever thus; you will suddenly beoverwhelmed by a mental agony, by terror; it will seem to you impossibleto resist, that you must burst into a scream, that you must go mad ordie. But, poor boys! when you enter the Institute of the Blind for thefirst time, during their recreation hour, and hear them playing onviolins and flutes in all directions, and talking loudly and laughing,ascending and descending the stairs at a rapid pace, and wanderingfreely through the corridors and dormitories, you would never pronouncethese unfortunates to be the unfortunates that they are. It is necessaryto observe them closely. There are lads of sixteen or eighteen, robustand cheerful, who bear their blindness with a certain ease, almost withhardihood; but you understand from a certain proud, resentful expressionof countenance that they must have suffered tremendously before theybecame resigned to this misfortune.
"There are others, with sweet and pallid faces, on which a profoundresignation is visible; but they are sad, and one understands that theymust still weep at times in secret. Ah, my sons! reflect that some ofthem have lost their sight in a few days, some after years of martyrdomand many terrible chirurgical operations, and that many were bornso,--born into a night that has no dawn for them, that they enteredinto the world as into an immense tomb, and that they do not know whatthe human countenance is like. Picture to yourself how they must havesuffered, and how they must still suffer, when they think thusconfusedly of the tremendous difference between themselves and those whosee, and ask themselves, 'Why this difference, if we are not to blame?'
"I who have spent many years among them, when I recall that class, allthose eyes forever sealed, all those pupils without sight and withoutlife, and then look at the rest of you, it seems impossible to me thatyou should not all be happy. Think of it! there are about twenty-sixthousand blind persons in Italy! Twenty-six thousand persons who do notsee the light--do you understand? An army which would employ four hoursin marching past our windows."
The master paused. Not a breath was audible in all the school. Derossiasked if it were true that the blind have a finer sense of feeling thanthe rest of us.
The master said: "It is true. All the other senses are finer in them,because, since they must replace, among them, that of sight, they aremore and better exercised than they are in the case of those who see. Inthe morning, in the dormitory, one asks another, 'Is the sun shining?'and the one who is the most alert in dressing runs instantly into theyard, and flourishes his hands in the air, to find out whether there isany warmth of the sun perceptible, and then he runs to communicate thegood news, 'The sun is shining!' From the voice of a person they obtainan idea of his height. We judge of a man's soul by his eyes; they, byhis voice. They remember intonations and accents for years. Theyperceive if there is more than one person in a room, even if only onespeaks, and the rest remain motionless. They know by their touch whethera spoon is more or less polished. Little girls distinguish dyed woolsfrom that which is of the natural color. As they walk two and two alongthe streets, they recognize nearly all the shops by their odors, eventhose in which we perceive no odor. They spin top, and by listening toits humming they go straight to it and pick it up without any mistake.They trundle hoop, play at ninepins, j
ump the rope, build little housesof stones, pick violets as though they saw them, make mats and baskets,weaving together straw of various colors rapidly and well--to such adegree is their sense of touch skilled. The sense of touch is theirsight. One of their greatest pleasures is to handle, to grasp, to guessthe forms of things by feeling them. It is affecting to see them whenthey are taken to the Industrial Museum, where they are allowed tohandle whatever they please, and to observe with what eagerness theyfling themselves on geometrical bodies, on little models of houses, oninstruments; with what joy they feel over and rub and turn everythingabout in their hands, in order to see how it is made. They call this_seeing_!"
Garoffi interrupted the teacher to inquire if it was true that blindboys learn to reckon better than others.
The master replied: "It is true. They learn to reckon and to write. Theyhave books made on purpose for them, with raised characters; they passtheir fingers over these, recognize the letters and pronounce the words.They read rapidly; and you should see them blush, poor little things,when they make a mistake. And they write, too, without ink. They writeon a thick and hard sort of paper with a metal bodkin, which makes agreat many little hollows, grouped according to a special alphabet;these little punctures stand out in relief on the other side of thepaper, so that by turning the paper over and drawing their fingersacross these projections, they can read what they have written, and alsothe writing of others; and thus they write compositions: and they writeletters to each other. They write numbers in the same way, and they makecalculations; and they calculate mentally with an incredible facility,since their minds are not diverted by the sight of surrounding objects,as ours are. And if you could see how passionately fond they are ofreading, how attentive they are, how well they remember everything, howthey discuss among themselves, even the little ones, of things connectedwith history and language, as they sit four or five on the same bench,without turning to each other, and converse, the first with the third,the second with the fourth, in a loud voice and all together, withoutlosing a single word, so acute and prompt is their hearing.
"And they attach more importance to the examinations than you do, Iassure you, and they are fonder of their teachers. They recognize theirteacher by his step and his odor; they perceive whether he is in a goodor bad humor, whether he is well or ill, simply by the sound of a singleword of his. They want the teacher to touch them when he encourages andpraises them, and they feel of his hand and his arms in order to expresstheir gratitude. And they love each other and are good comrades to eachother. In play time they are always together, according to their wont.In the girls' school, for instance, they form into groups according tothe instrument on which they play,--violinists, pianists, andflute-players,--and they never separate. When they have become attachedto any one, it is difficult for them to break it off. They take muchcomfort in friendship. They judge correctly among themselves. They havea clear and profound idea of good and evil. No one grows so enthusiasticas they over the narration of a generous action, of a grand deed."
Votini inquired if they played well.
"They are ardently fond of music," replied the master. "It is theirdelight: music is their life. Little blind children, when they firstenter the Institute, are capable of standing three hours perfectlymotionless, to listen to playing. They learn easily; they play withfire. When the teacher tells one of them that he has not a talent formusic, he feels very sorrowful, but he sets to studying desperately. Ah!if you could hear the music there, if you could see them when they areplaying, with their heads thrown back a smile on their lips, their facesaflame, trembling with emotion, in ecstasies at listening to thatharmony which replies to them in the obscurity which envelops them, youwould feel what a divine consolation is music! And they shout for joy,they beam with happiness when a teacher says to them, "You will becomean artist." The one who is first in music, who succeeds the best on theviolin or piano, is like a king to them; they love, they venerate him.If a quarrel arises between two of them, they go to him; if two friendsfall out, it is he who reconciles them. The smallest pupils, whom heteaches to play, regard him as a father. Then all go to bid him goodnight before retiring to bed. And they talk constantly of music. Theyare already in bed, late at night, wearied by study and work, and halfasleep, and still they are discussing, in a low tone, operas, masters,instruments, and orchestras. It is so great a punishment for them to bedeprived of the reading, or lesson in music, it causes them such sorrowthat one hardly ever has the courage to punish them in that way. Thatwhich the light is to our eyes, music is to their hearts."
Derossi asked whether we could not go to see them.
"Yes," replied the teacher; "but you boys must not go there now. Youshall go there later on, when you are in a condition to appreciate thewhole extent of this misfortune, and to feel all the compassion which itmerits. It is a sad sight, my boys. You will sometimes see there boysseated in front of an open window, enjoying the fresh air, withimmovable countenances, which seem to be gazing at the wide greenexpanse and the beautiful blue mountains which you can see; and when youremember that they see nothing--that they will never see anything--ofthat vast loveliness, your soul is oppressed, as though you hadyourselves become blind at that moment. And then there are those whowere born blind, who, as they have never seen the world, do not complainbecause they do not possess the image of anything, and who, therefore,arouse less compassion. But there are lads who have been blind but a fewmonths, who still recall everything, who thoroughly understand all thatthey have lost; and these have, in addition, the grief of feeling theirminds obscured, the dearest images grow a little more dim in their mindsday by day, of feeling the persons whom they have loved the most die outof their memories. One of these boys said to me one day, withinexpressible sadness, 'I should like to have my sight again, only for amoment, in order to see mamma's face once more, for I no longerremember it!' And when their mothers come to see them, the boys placetheir hands on her face; they feel her over thoroughly from brow tochin, and her ears, to see how they are made, and they can hardlypersuade themselves that they cannot see her, and they call her by namemany times, to beseech her that she will allow them, that she will makethem see her just once. How many, even hard-hearted men, go away intears! And when you do go out, your case seems to you to be theexception, and the power to see people, houses, and the sky a hardlydeserved privilege. Oh! there is not one of you, I am sure, who, onemerging thence, would not feel disposed to deprive himself of a portionof his own sight, in order to bestow a gleam at least upon all thosepoor children, for whom the sun has no light, for whom a mother has noface!"
THE SICK MASTER.
Saturday, 25th.
Yesterday afternoon, on coming out of school, I went to pay a visit tomy sick master. He made himself ill by overworking. Five hours ofteaching a day, then an hour of gymnastics, then two hours more ofevening school, which is equivalent to saying but little sleep, gettinghis food by snatches, and working breathlessly from morning till night.He has ruined his health. That is what my mother says. My mother waswaiting for me at the big door; I came out alone, and on the stairs Imet the teacher with the black beard--Coatti,--the one who frightensevery one and punishes no one. He stared at me with wide-open eyes, andmade his voice like that of a lion, in jest, but without laughing. Iwas still laughing when I pulled the bell on the fourth floor; but Iceased very suddenly when the servant let me into a wretched,half-lighted room, where my teacher was in bed. He was lying in a littleiron bed. His beard was long. He put one hand to his brow in order tosee better, and exclaimed in his affectionate voice:--
"Oh, Enrico!"
I approached the bed; he laid one hand on my shoulder and said:--
"Good, my boy. You have done well to come and see your poor teacher. Iam reduced to a sad state, as you see, my dear Enrico. And how fares theschool? How are your comrades getting along? All well, eh? Even withoutme? You do very well without your old master, do you not?"
I was on the point of saying "no"; he interrupted
me.
"Come, come, I know that you do not hate me!" and he heaved a sigh.
I glanced at some photographs fastened to the wall.
"Do you see?" he said to me. "All of them are of boys who gave me theirphotographs more than twenty years ago. They were good boys. These aremy souvenirs. When I die, my last glance will be at them; at thoseroguish urchins among whom my life has been passed. You will give meyour portrait, also, will you not, when you have finished the elementarycourse?" Then he took an orange from his nightstand, and put it in myhand.
"I have nothing else to give you," he said; "it is the gift of a sickman."
I looked at it, and my heart was sad; I know not why.
"Attend to me," he began again. "I hope to get over this; but if Ishould not recover, see that you strengthen yourself in arithmetic,which is your weak point; make an effort. It is merely a question of afirst effort: because sometimes there is no lack of aptitude; there ismerely an absence of a fixed purpose--of stability, as it is called."
But in the meantime he was breathing hard; and it was evident that hewas suffering.
"I am feverish," he sighed; "I am half gone; I beseech you, therefore,apply yourself to arithmetic, to problems. If you don't succeed atfirst, rest a little and begin afresh. And press forward, but quietlywithout fagging yourself, without straining your mind. Go! My respectsto your mamma. And do not mount these stairs again. We shall see eachother again in school. And if we do not, you must now and then call tomind your master of the third grade, who was fond of you."
I felt inclined to cry at these words.
"Bend down your head," he said to me.
I bent my head to his pillow; he kissed my hair. Then he said to me,"Go!" and turned his face towards the wall. And I flew down the stairs;for I longed to embrace my mother.
THE STREET.
Saturday, 25th.
I was watching you from the window this afternoon, when you were on your way home from the master's; you came in collision with a woman. Take more heed to your manner of walking in the street. There are duties to be fulfilled even there. If you keep your steps and gestures within bounds in a private house, why should you not do the same in the street, which is everybody's house. Remember this, Enrico. Every time that you meet a feeble old man, a poor person, a woman with a child in her arms, a cripple with his crutches, a man bending beneath a burden, a family dressed in mourning, make way for them respectfully. We must respect age, misery, maternal love, infirmity, labor, death. Whenever you see a person on the point of being run down by a vehicle, drag him away, if it is a child; warn him, if he is a man; always ask what ails the child who is crying all alone; pick up the aged man's cane, when he lets it fall. If two boys are fighting, separate them; if it is two men, go away: do not look on a scene of brutal violence, which offends and hardens the heart. And when a man passes, bound, and walking between a couple of policemen, do not add your curiosity to the cruel curiosity of the crowd; he may be innocent. Cease to talk with your companion, and to smile, when you meet a hospital litter, which is, perhaps, bearing a dying person, or a funeral procession; for one may issue from your own home on the morrow. Look with reverence upon all boys from the asylums, who walk two and two,--the blind, the dumb, those afflicted with the rickets, orphans, abandoned children; reflect that it is misfortune and human charity which is passing by. Always pretend not to notice any one who has a repulsive or laughter-provoking deformity. Always extinguish every match that you find in your path; for it may cost some one his life. Always answer a passer-by who asks you the way, with politeness. Do not look at any one and laugh; do not run without necessity; do not shout. Respect the street. The education of a people is judged first of all by their behavior on the street. Where you find offences in the streets, there you will find offences in the houses. And study the streets; study the city in which you live. If you were to be hurled far away from it to-morrow, you would be glad to have it clearly present in your memory, to be able to traverse it all again in memory. Your own city, and your little country--that which has been for so many years your world; where you took your first steps at your mother's side; where you experienced your first emotions, opened your mind to its first ideas; found your first friends. It has been a mother to you: it has taught you, loved you, protected you. Study it in its streets and in its people, and love it; and when you hear it insulted, defend it.
THY FATHER.