Read Cuore (Heart): An Italian Schoolboy's Journal Page 9

  MAY.

  CHILDREN WITH THE RICKETS.

  Friday, 5th.

  TO-DAY I took a vacation, because I was not well, and my mother took meto the Institution for Children with the Rickets, whither she went torecommend a child belonging to our porter; but she did not allow me togo into the school.

  You did not understand, Enrico, why I did not permit you to enter? In order not to place before the eyes of those unfortunates, there in the midst of the school, as though on exhibition, a healthy, robust boy: they have already but too many opportunities for making melancholy comparisons. What a sad thing! Tears rushed from my heart when I entered. There were sixty of them, boys and girls. Poor tortured bones! Poor hands, poor little shrivelled and distorted feet! Poor little deformed bodies! I instantly perceived many charming faces, with eyes full of intelligence and affection. There was one little child's face with a pointed nose and a sharp chin, which seemed to belong to an old woman; but it wore a smile of celestial sweetness. Some, viewed from the front, are handsome, and appear to be without defects: but when they turn round--they cast a weight upon your soul. The doctor was there, visiting them. He set them upright on their benches and pulled up their little garments, to feel their little swollen stomachs and enlarged joints; but they felt not the least shame, poor creatures! it was evident that they were children who were used to being undressed, examined, turned round on all sides. And to think that they are now in the best stage of their malady, when they hardly suffer at all any more! But who can say what they suffered during the first stage, while their bodies were undergoing the process of deformation, when with the increase of their infirmity, they saw affection decrease around them, poor children! saw themselves left alone for hour after hour in a corner of the room or the courtyard, badly nourished, and at times scoffed at, or tormented for months by bandages and by useless orthopedic apparatus! Now, however, thanks to care and good food and gymnastic exercises, many are improving. Their schoolmistress makes them practise gymnastics. It was a pitiful sight to see them, at a certain command, extend all those bandaged legs under the benches, squeezed as they were between splints, knotty and deformed; legs which should have been covered with kisses! Some could not rise from the bench, and remained there, with their heads resting on their arms, caressing their crutches with their hands; others, on making the thrust with their arms, felt their breath fail them, and fell back on their seats, all pale; but they smiled to conceal their panting. Ah, Enrico! you other children do not prize your good health, and it seems to you so small a thing to be well! I thought of the strong and thriving lads, whom their mothers carry about in triumph, proud of their beauty; and I could have clasped all those poor little heads, I could have pressed them to my heart, in despair; I could have said, had I been alone, "I will never stir from here again; I wish to consecrate my life to you, to serve you, to be a mother to you all, to my last day." And in the meantime, they sang; sang in peculiar, thin, sweet, sad voices, which penetrated the soul; and when their teacher praised them, they looked happy; and as she passed among the benches, they kissed her hands and wrists; for they are very grateful for what is done for them, and very affectionate. And these little angels have good minds, and study well, the teacher told me. The teacher is young and gentle, with a face full of kindness, a certain expression of sadness, like a reflection of the misfortunes which she caresses and comforts. The dear girl! Among all the human creatures who earn their livelihood by toil, there is not one who earns it more holily than thou, my daughter!

  THY MOTHER.

  SACRIFICE.

  Tuesday, 9th.

  My mother is good, and my sister Silvia is like her, and has a large andnoble heart. Yesterday evening I was copying a part of the monthlystory, _From the Apennines to the Andes_,--which the teacher hasdistributed among us all in small portions to copy, because it is solong,--when Silvia entered on tiptoe, and said to me hastily, and in alow voice: "Come to mamma with me. I heard them talking together thismorning: some affair has gone wrong with papa, and he was sad; mamma wasencouraging him: we are in difficulties--do you understand? We have nomore money. Papa said that it would be necessary to make some sacrificesin order to recover himself. Now we must make sacrifices, too, must wenot? Are you ready to do it? Well, I will speak to mamma, and do you nodassent, and promise her on your honor that you will do everything that Ishall say."

  Having said this, she took me by the hand and led me to our mother, whowas sewing, absorbed in thought. I sat down on one end of the sofa,Silvia on the other, and she immediately said:--

  "Listen, mamma, I have something to say to you. Both of us havesomething to say to you." Mamma stared at us in surprise, and Silviabegan:--

  "Papa has no money, has he?"

  "What are you saying?" replied mamma, turning crimson. "Has he notindeed! What do you know about it? Who has told you?"

  "I know it," said Silvia, resolutely. "Well, then, listen, mamma; wemust make some sacrifices, too. You promised me a fan at the end of May,and Enrico expected his box of paints; we don't want anything now; wedon't want to waste a soldo; we shall be just as well pleased--youunderstand?"

  Mamma tried to speak; but Silvia said: "No; it must be thus. We havedecided. And until papa has money again, we don't want any fruit oranything else; broth will be enough for us, and we will eat bread in themorning for breakfast: thus we shall spend less on the table, for wealready spend too much; and we promise you that you will always find usperfectly contented. Is it not so, Enrico?"

  I replied that it was. "Always perfectly contented," repeated Silvia,closing mamma's mouth with one hand. "And if there are any othersacrifices to be made, either in the matter of clothing or anythingelse, we will make them gladly; and we will even sell our presents; Iwill give up all my things, I will serve you as your maid, we will nothave anything done out of the house any more, I will work all day longwith you, I will do everything you wish, I am ready for anything! Foranything!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around my mother's neck, "ifpapa and mamma can only be saved further troubles, if I can only beholdyou both once more at ease, and in good spirits, as in former days,between your Silvia and your Enrico, who love you so dearly, who wouldgive their lives for you!"

  Ah! I have never seen my mother so happy as she was on hearing thesewords; she never before kissed us on the brow in that way, weeping andlaughing, and incapable of speech. And then she assured Silvia that shehad not understood rightly; that we were not in the least reduced incircumstances, as she imagined; and she thanked us a hundred times, andwas cheerful all the evening, until my father came in, when she told himall about it. He did not open his mouth, poor father! But this morning,as we sat at the table, I felt at once both a great pleasure and a greatsadness: under my napkin I found my box of colors, and under hers,Silvia found her fan.

  THE FIRE.

  Thursday, 11th.

  This morning I had finished copying my share of the story, _From theApennines to the Andes_, and was seeking for a theme for the independentcomposition which the teacher had assigned us to write, when I heard anunusual talking on the stairs, and shortly after two firemen entered thehouse, and asked permission of my father to inspect the stoves andchimneys, because a smoke-pipe was on fire on the roof, and they couldnot tell to whom it belonged.

  My father said, "Pray do so." And although we had no fire burninganywhere, they began to make the round of our apartments, and to laytheir ears to the walls, to hear if the fire was roaring in the flueswhich run up to the other floors of the house.

  And while they were going through the rooms, my father said to me, "Hereis a theme for your composition, Enrico,--the firemen. Try to write downwhat I am about to tell you.

  "I saw them at work two years ago, one evening, when I was coming out ofthe Balbo Theat
re late at night. On entering the Via Roma, I saw anunusual light, and a crowd of people collecting. A house was on fire.Tongues of flame and clouds of smoke were bursting from the windows andthe roof; men and women appeared at the windows and then disappeared,uttering shrieks of despair. There was a dense throng in front of thedoor: the crowd was shouting: 'They will be burned alive! Help! Thefiremen!' At that moment a carriage arrived, four firemen sprang out ofit--the first who had reached the town-hall--and rushed into the house.They had hardly gone in when a horrible thing happened: a woman ran to awindow of the third story, with a yell, clutched the balcony, climbeddown it, and remained suspended, thus clinging, almost suspended inspace, with her back outwards, bending beneath the flames, which flashedout from the room and almost licked her head. The crowd uttered a cry ofhorror. The firemen, who had been stopped on the second floor by mistakeby the terrified lodgers, had already broken through a wall andprecipitated themselves into a room, when a hundred shouts gave themwarning:--

  "'On the third floor! On the third floor!'

  "They flew to the third floor. There there was an infernaluproar,--beams from the roof crashing in, corridors filled with asuffocating smoke. In order to reach the rooms where the lodgers wereimprisoned, there was no other way left but to pass over the roof. Theyinstantly sprang upon it, and a moment later something which resembled ablack phantom appeared on the tiles, in the midst of the smoke. It wasthe corporal, who had been the first to arrive. But in order to getfrom the roof to the small set of rooms cut off by the fire, he wasforced to pass over an extremely narrow space comprised between a dormerwindow and the eavestrough: all the rest was in flames, and that tinyspace was covered with snow and ice, and there was no place to hold onto.

  "'It is impossible for him to pass!' shouted the crowd below.

  "The corporal advanced along the edge of the roof. All shuddered, andbegan to observe him with bated breath. He passed. A tremendous hurrahrose towards heaven. The corporal resumed his way, and on arriving atthe point which was threatened, he began to break away, with furiousblows of his axe, beams, tiles, and rafters, in order to open a holethrough which he might descend within.

  "In the meanwhile, the woman was still suspended outside the window. Thefire raged with increased violence over her head; another moment, andshe would have fallen into the street.

  "The hole was opened. We saw the corporal pull off his shoulder-belt andlower himself inside: the other firemen, who had arrived, followed.

  "At that instant a very lofty Porta ladder, which had just arrived, wasplaced against the entablature of the house, in front of the windowswhence issued flames, and howls, as of maniacs. But it seemed as thoughthey were too late.

  "'No one can be saved now!' they shouted. 'The firemen are burning! Theend has come! They are dead!'

  "All at once the black form of the corporal made its appearance at thewindow with the balcony, lighted up by the flames overhead. The womanclasped him round the neck; he caught her round the body with botharms, drew her up, and laid her down inside the room.

  "The crowd set up a shout a thousand voices strong, which rose above theroar of the conflagration.

  "But the others? And how were they to get down? The ladder which leanedagainst the roof on the front of another window was at a good distancefrom them. How could they get hold of it?

  "While the people were saying this to themselves, one of the firemenstepped out of the window, set his right foot on the window-sill and hisleft on the ladder, and standing thus upright in the air, he grasped thelodgers, one after the other, as the other men handed them to him fromwithin, passed them on to a comrade, who had climbed up from the street,and who, after securing a firm grasp for them on the rungs, sent themdown, one after the other, with the assistance of more firemen.

  "First came the woman of the balcony, then a baby, then another woman,then an old man. All were saved. After the old man, the fireman who hadremained inside descended. The last to come down was the corporal whohad been the first to hasten up. The crowd received them all with aburst of applause; but when the last made his appearance, the vanguardof the rescuers, the one who had faced the abyss in advance of the rest,the one who would have perished had it been fated that one shouldperish, the crowd saluted him like a conqueror, shouting and stretchingout their arms, with an affectionate impulse of admiration and ofgratitude, and in a few minutes his obscure name--Giuseppe Robbino--rangfrom a thousand throats.

  "Have you understood? That is courage--the courage of the heart, whichdoes not reason, which does not waver, which dashes blindly on, like alightning flash, wherever it hears the cry of a dying man. One of thesedays I will take you to the exercises of the firemen, and I will pointout to you Corporal Robbino; for you would be very glad to know him,would you not?"

  I replied that I should.

  "Here he is," said my father.

  I turned round with a start. The two firemen, having completed theirinspection, were traversing the room in order to reach the door.

  My father pointed to the smaller of the men, who had straps of goldbraid, and said, "Shake hands with Corporal Robbino."

  The corporal halted, and offered me his hand; I pressed it; he made asalute and withdrew.

  "And bear this well in mind," said my father; "for out of the thousandsof hands which you will shake in the course of your life there willprobably not be ten which possess the worth of his."

  FROM THE APENNINES TO THE ANDES.

  (_Monthly Story._)

  Many years ago a Genoese lad of thirteen, the son of a workingman, wentfrom Genoa to America all alone to seek his mother.

  His mother had gone two years before to Buenos Ayres, a city, thecapital of the Argentine Republic, to take service in a wealthy family,and to thus earn in a short time enough to place her family once more ineasy circumstances, they having fallen, through various misfortunes,into poverty and debt. There are courageous women--not a few--who takethis long voyage with this object in view, and who, thanks to the largewages which people in service receive there, return home at the end of afew years with several thousand lire. The poor mother had wept tears ofblood at parting from her children,--the one aged eighteen, the other,eleven; but she had set out courageously and filled with hope.

  The voyage was prosperous: she had no sooner arrived at Buenos Ayresthan she found, through a Genoese shopkeeper, a cousin of her husband,who had been established there for a very long time, a good Argentinefamily, which gave high wages and treated her well. And for a short timeshe kept up a regular correspondence with her family. As it had beensettled between them, her husband addressed his letters to his cousin,who transmitted them to the woman, and the latter handed her replies tohim, and he despatched them to Genoa, adding a few lines of his own. Asshe was earning eighty lire a month and spending nothing for herself,she sent home a handsome sum every three months, with which her husband,who was a man of honor, gradually paid off their most urgent debts, andthus regained his good reputation. And in the meantime, he worked awayand was satisfied with the state of his affairs, since he also cherishedthe hope that his wife would shortly return; for the house seemed emptywithout her, and the younger son in particular, who was extremelyattached to his mother, was very much depressed, and could not resignhimself to having her so far away.

  But a year had elapsed since they had parted; after a brief letter, inwhich she said that her health was not very good, they heard nothingmore. They wrote twice to the cousin; the cousin did not reply. Theywrote to the Argentine family where the woman was at service; but it ispossible that the letter never reached them, for they had distorted thename in addressing it: they received no answer. Fearing a misfortune,they wrote to the Italian Consulate at Buenos Ayres to have inquiriesmade, and after a lapse of three months they received a response fromthe consul, that in spite of advertisements in the newspapers no one hadpresented herself nor sent any word. And it could not have happenedotherwise, for this reason if for no other: that with the idea ofsparing the good name of her
family, which she fancied she wasdiscrediting by becoming a servant, the good woman had not given herreal name to the Argentine family.

  Several months more passed by; no news. The father and sons were inconsternation; the youngest was oppressed by a melancholy which he couldnot conquer. What was to be done? To whom should they have recourse? Thefather's first thought had been to set out, to go to America in searchof his wife. But his work? Who would support his sons? And neither couldthe eldest son go, for he had just then begun to earn something, and hewas necessary to the family. And in this anxiety they lived, repeatingeach day the same sad speeches, or gazing at each other in silence;when, one evening, Marco, the youngest, declared with decision, "I amgoing to America to look for my mother."

  His father shook his head sadly and made no reply. It was anaffectionate thought, but an impossible thing. To make a journey toAmerica, which required a month, alone, at the age of thirteen! But theboy patiently insisted. He persisted that day, the day after, everyday, with great calmness, reasoning with the good sense of a man."Others have gone thither," he said; "and smaller boys than I, too. Onceon board the ship, I shall get there like anybody else. Once arrivedthere, I only have to hunt up our cousin's shop. There are plenty ofItalians there who will show me the street. After finding our cousin, mymother is found; and if I do not find him, I will go to the consul: Iwill search out that Argentine family. Whatever happens, there is workfor all there; I shall find work also; sufficient, at least, to earnenough to get home." And thus little by little he almost succeeded inpersuading his father. His father esteemed him; he knew that he had goodjudgment and courage; that he was inured to privations and tosacrifices; and that all these good qualities had acquired double forcein his heart in consequence of the sacred project of finding his mother,whom he adored. In addition to this, the captain of a steamer, thefriend of an acquaintance of his, having heard the plan mentioned,undertook to procure a free third-class passage for the ArgentineRepublic.

  And then, after a little hesitation, the father gave his consent. Thevoyage was decided on. They filled a sack with clothes for him, put afew crowns in his pocket, and gave him the address of the cousin; andone fine evening in April they saw him on board.

  "Marco, my son," his father said to him, as he gave him his last kiss,with tears in his eyes, on the steps of the steamer, which was on thepoint of starting, "take courage. Thou hast set out on a holyundertaking, and God will aid thee."

  Poor Marco! His heart was strong and prepared for the hardest trials ofthis voyage; but when he beheld his beautiful Genoa disappear on thehorizon, and found himself on the open sea on that huge steamer throngedwith emigrating peasants, alone, unacquainted with any one, with thatlittle bag which held his entire fortune, a sudden discouragementassailed him. For two days he remained crouching like a dog on the bows,hardly eating, and oppressed with a great desire to weep. Everydescription of sad thoughts passed through his mind, and the saddest,the most terrible, was the one which was the most persistent in itsreturn,--the thought that his mother was dead. In his broken and painfulslumbers he constantly beheld a strange face, which surveyed him with anair of compassion, and whispered in his ear, "Your mother is dead!" Andthen he awoke, stifling a shriek.

  Nevertheless, after passing the Straits of Gibraltar, at the first sightof the Atlantic Ocean he recovered his spirits a little, and his hope.But it was only a brief respite. That vast but always smooth sea, theincreasing heat, the misery of all those poor people who surrounded him,the consciousness of his own solitude, overwhelmed him once more. Theempty and monotonous days which succeeded each other became confoundedin his memory, as is the case with sick people. It seemed to him that hehad been at sea a year. And every morning, on waking, he felt surprisedafresh at finding himself there alone on that vast watery expanse, onhis way to America. The beautiful flying fish which fell on deck everynow and then, the marvellous sunsets of the tropics, with their enormousclouds colored like flame and blood, and those nocturnalphosphorescences which make the ocean seem all on fire like a sea oflava, did not produce on him the effect of real things, but of marvelsbeheld in a dream. There were days of bad weather, during which heremained constantly in the dormitory, where everything was rolling andcrashing, in the midst of a terrible chorus of lamentations andimprecations, and he thought that his last hour had come. There wereother days, when the sea was calm and yellowish, of insupportable heat,of infinite tediousness; interminable and wretched hours, during whichthe enervated passengers, stretched motionless on the planks, seemed alldead. And the voyage was endless: sea and sky, sky and sea; to-day thesame as yesterday, to-morrow like to-day, and so on, always, eternally.

  And for long hours he stood leaning on the bulwarks, gazing at thatinterminable sea in amazement, thinking vaguely of his mother, until hiseyes closed and his head was drooping with sleep; and then again hebeheld that unknown face which gazed upon him with an air of compassion,and repeated in his ear, "Your mother is dead!" and at the sound of thatvoice he awoke with a start, to resume his dreaming with wide-open eyes,and to gaze at the unchanging horizon.

  The voyage lasted twenty-seven days. But the last days were the best.The weather was fine, and the air cool. He had made the acquaintance ofa good old man, a Lombard, who was going to America to find his son, anagriculturist in the vicinity of the town of Rosario; he had told himhis whole story, and the old man kept repeating every little while, ashe tapped him on the nape of the neck with his hand, "Courage, my lad;you will find your mother well and happy."

  This companionship comforted him; his sad presentiments were turned intojoyous ones. Seated on the bow, beside the aged peasant, who was smokinghis pipe, beneath the beautiful starry heaven, in the midst of a groupof singing peasants, he imagined to himself in his own mind a hundredtimes his arrival at Buenos Ayres; he saw himself in a certain street;he found the shop, he flew to his cousin. "How is my mother? Come, letus go at once! Let us go at once!" They hurried on together; theyascended a staircase; a door opened. And here his mute soliloquy came toan end; his imagination was swallowed up in a feeling of inexpressibletenderness, which made him secretly pull forth a little medal that hewore on his neck, and murmur his prayers as he kissed it.

  On the twenty-seventh day after their departure they arrived. It was abeautiful, rosy May morning, when the steamer cast anchor in the immenseriver of the Plata, near the shore along which stretches the vast cityof Buenos Ayres, the capital of the Argentine Republic. This splendidweather seemed to him to be a good augury. He was beside himself withjoy and impatience. His mother was only a few miles from him! In a fewhours more he would have seen her! He was in America, in the new world,and he had had the daring to come alone! The whole of that extremelylong voyage now seemed to him to have passed in an instant. It seemed tohim that he had flown hither in a dream, and that he had that momentwaked. And he was so happy, that he hardly experienced any surprise ordistress when he felt in his pockets and found only one of the twolittle heaps into which he had divided his little treasure, in order tobe the more sure of not losing the whole of it. He had been robbed; hehad only a few lire left; but what mattered that to him, when he wasnear his mother? With his bag in his hand, he descended, in companywith many other Italians, to the tug-boat which carried him within ashort distance of the shore; clambered down from the tug into a boatwhich bore the name of _Andrea Doria_; was landed on the wharf; salutedhis old Lombard friend, and directed his course, in long strides,towards the city.

  On arriving at the entrance of the first street, he stopped a man whowas passing by, and begged him to show him in what direction he shouldgo in order to reach the street of _los Artes_. He chanced to havestopped an Italian workingman. The latter surveyed him with curiosity,and inquired if he knew how to read. The lad nodded, "Yes."

  "Well, then," said the laborer, pointing to the street from which he hadjust emerged, "keep straight on through there, reading the names of allthe streets on the corners; you will end by finding the one you want."

&n
bsp; The boy thanked him, and turned into the street which opened before him.

  It was a straight and endless but narrow street, bordered by low whitehouses, which looked like so many little villas, filled with people,with carriages, with carts which made a deafening noise; here and therefloated enormous banners of various hues, with announcements as to thedeparture of steamers for strange cities inscribed upon them in largeletters. At every little distance along the street, on the right andleft, he perceived two other streets which ran straight away as far ashe could see, also bordered by low white houses, filled with people andvehicles, and bounded at their extremity by the level line of themeasureless plains of America, like the horizon at sea. The city seemedinfinite to him; it seemed to him that he might wander for days orweeks, seeing other streets like these, on one hand and on the other,and that all America must be covered with them. He looked attentively atthe names of the streets: strange names which cost him an effort toread. At every fresh street, he felt his heart beat, at the thought thatit was the one he was in search of. He stared at all the women, with thethought that he might meet his mother. He caught sight of one in frontof him who made his blood leap; he overtook her: she was a negro. Andaccelerating his pace, he walked on and on. On arriving at thecross-street, he read, and stood as though rooted to the sidewalk. Itwas the street _del los Artes_. He turned into it, and saw the number117; his cousin's shop was No. 175. He quickened his pace still more,and almost ran; at No. 171 he had to pause to regain his breath. And hesaid to himself, "O my mother! my mother! It is really true that I shallsee you in another moment!" He ran on; he arrived at a littlehaberdasher's shop. This was it. He stepped up close to it. He saw awoman with gray hair and spectacles.

  "What do you want, boy?" she asked him in Spanish.

  "Is not this," said the boy, making an effort to utter a sound, "theshop of Francesco Merelli?"

  "Francesco Merelli is dead," replied the woman in Italian.

  The boy felt as though he had received a blow on his breast.

  "When did he die?"

  "Eh? quite a while ago," replied the woman. "Months ago. His affairswere in a bad state, and he ran away. They say he went to Bahia Blanca,very far from here. And he died just after he reached there. The shopis mine."

  The boy turned pale.

  Then he said quickly, "Merelli knew my mother; my mother who was atservice with Signor Mequinez. He alone could tell me where she is. Ihave come to America to find my mother. Merelli sent her our letters. Imust find my mother."

  "Poor boy!" said the woman; "I don't know. I can ask the boy in thecourtyard. He knew the young man who did Merelli's errands. He may beable to tell us something."

  She went to the end of the shop and called the lad, who came instantly."Tell me," asked the shopwoman, "do you remember whether Merelli's youngman went occasionally to carry letters to a woman in service, in thehouse of the _son of the country_?"

  "To Signor Mequinez," replied the lad; "yes, signora, sometimes he did.At the end of the street _del los Artes_."

  "Ah! thanks, signora!" cried Marco. "Tell me the number; don't you knowit? Send some one with me; come with me instantly, my boy; I have stilla few soldi."

  And he said this with so much warmth, that without waiting for the womanto request him, the boy replied, "Come," and at once set out at a rapidpace.

  They proceeded almost at a run, without uttering a word, to the end ofthe extremely long street, made their way into the entrance of a littlewhite house, and halted in front of a handsome iron gate, through whichthey could see a small yard, filled with vases of flowers. Marco gave atug at the bell.

  A young lady made her appearance.

  "The Mequinez family lives here, does it not?" demanded the ladanxiously.

  "They did live here," replied the young lady, pronouncing her Italian inSpanish fashion. "Now we, the Zeballos, live here."

  "And where have the Mequinez gone?" asked Marco, his heart palpitating.

  "They have gone to Cordova."

  "Cordova!" exclaimed Marco. "Where is Cordova? And the person whom theyhad in their service? The woman, my mother! Their servant was my mother!Have they taken my mother away, too?"

  The young lady looked at him and said: "I do not know. Perhaps my fathermay know, for he knew them when they went away. Wait a moment."

  She ran away, and soon returned with her father, a tall gentleman, witha gray beard. He looked intently for a minute at this sympathetic typeof a little Genoese sailor, with his golden hair and his aquiline nose,and asked him in broken Italian, "Is your mother a Genoese?"

  Marco replied that she was.

  "Well then, the Genoese maid went with them; that I know for certain."

  "And where have they gone?"

  "To Cordova, a city."

  The boy gave vent to a sigh; then he said with resignation, "Then I willgo to Cordova."

  "Ah, poor child!" exclaimed the gentleman in Spanish; "poor boy! Cordovais hundreds of miles from here."

  Marco turned as white as a corpse, and clung with one hand to therailings.

  "Let us see, let us see," said the gentleman, moved to pity, andopening the door; "come inside a moment; let us see if anything can bedone." He sat down, gave the boy a seat, and made him tell his story,listened to it very attentively, meditated a little, then saidresolutely, "You have no money, have you?"

  "I still have some, a little," answered Marco.

  The gentleman reflected for five minutes more; then seated himself at adesk, wrote a letter, sealed it, and handing it to the boy, he said tohim:--

  "Listen to me, little Italian. Take this letter to Boca. That is alittle city which is half Genoese, and lies two hours' journey fromhere. Any one will be able to show you the road. Go there and find thegentleman to whom this letter is addressed, and whom every one knows.Carry the letter to him. He will send you off to the town of Rosarioto-morrow, and will recommend you to some one there, who will think outa way of enabling you to pursue your journey to Cordova, where you willfind the Mequinez family and your mother. In the meanwhile, take this."And he placed in his hand a few lire. "Go, and keep up your courage; youwill find fellow-countrymen of yours in every direction, and you willnot be deserted. _Adios!_"

  The boy said, "Thanks," without finding any other words to expresshimself, went out with his bag, and having taken leave of his littleguide, he set out slowly in the direction of Boca, filled with sorrowand amazement, across that great and noisy town.

  Everything that happened to him from that moment until the evening ofthat day ever afterwards lingered in his memory in a confused anduncertain form, like the wild vagaries of a person in a fever, so wearywas he, so troubled, so despondent. And at nightfall on the followingday, after having slept over night in a poor little chamber in a housein Boca, beside a harbor porter, after having passed nearly the whole ofthat day seated on a pile of beams, and, as in delirium, in sight ofthousands of ships and boats and tugs, he found himself on the poop of alarge sailing vessel, loaded with fruit, which was setting out for thetown of Rosario, managed by three robust Genoese, who were bronzed bythe sun; and their voices and the dialect which they spoke put a littlecomfort into his heart once more.

  They set out, and the voyage lasted three days and four nights, and itwas a continual amazement to the little traveller. Three days and fournights on that wonderful river Parana, in comparison with which ourgreat Po is but a rivulet; and the length of Italy quadrupled does notequal that of its course. The barge advanced slowly against thisimmeasurable mass of water. It threaded its way among long islands, oncethe haunts of serpents and tigers, covered with orange-trees andwillows, like floating coppices; now they passed through narrow canals,from which it seemed as though they could never issue forth; now theysailed out on vast expanses of water, having the aspect of greattranquil lakes; then among islands again, through the intricate channelsof an archipelago, amid enormous masses of vegetation. A profoundsilence reigned. For long stretches the shores and very vast andsolitary w
aters produced the impression of an unknown stream, upon whichthis poor little sail was the first in all the world to venture itself.The further they advanced, the more this monstrous river dismayed him.He imagined that his mother was at its source, and that their navigationmust last for years. Twice a day he ate a little bread and salted meatwith the boatmen, who, perceiving that he was sad, never addressed aword to him. At night he slept on deck and woke every little while witha start, astounded by the limpid light of the moon, which silvered theimmense expanse of water and the distant shores; and then his heart sankwithin him. "Cordova!" He repeated that name, "Cordova!" like the nameof one of those mysterious cities of which he had heard in fables. Butthen he thought, "My mother passed this spot; she saw these islands,these shores;" and then these places upon which the glance of his motherhad fallen no longer seemed strange and solitary to him. At night one ofthe boatmen sang. That voice reminded him of his mother's songs, whenshe had lulled him to sleep as a little child. On the last night, whenhe heard that song, he sobbed. The boatman interrupted his song. Then hecried, "Courage, courage, my son! What the deuce! A Genoese cryingbecause he is far from home! The Genoese make the circuit of the world,glorious and triumphant!"

  And at these words he shook himself, he heard the voice of the Genoeseblood, and he raised his head aloft with pride, dashing his fist down onthe rudder. "Well, yes," he said to himself; "and if I am also obligedto travel for years and years to come, all over the world, and totraverse hundreds of miles on foot, I will go on until I find my mother,were I to arrive in a dying condition, and fall dead at her feet! Ifonly I can see her once again! Courage!" And with this frame of mind hearrived at daybreak, on a cool and rosy morning, in front of the city ofRosario, situated on the high bank of the Parana, where the beflaggedyards of a hundred vessels of every land were mirrored in the waves.

  Shortly after landing, he went to the town, bag in hand, to seek anArgentine gentleman for whom his protector in Boca had intrusted himwith a visiting-card, with a few words of recommendation. On enteringRosario, it seemed to him that he was coming into a city with which hewas already familiar. There were the straight, interminable streets,bordered with low white houses, traversed in all directions above theroofs by great bundles of telegraph and telephone wires, which lookedlike enormous spiders' webs; and a great confusion of people, of horses,and of vehicles. His head grew confused; he almost thought that he hadgot back to Buenos Ayres, and must hunt up his cousin once more. Hewandered about for nearly an hour, making one turn after another, andseeming always to come back to the same street; and by dint ofinquiring, he found the house of his new protector. He pulled the bell.There came to the door a big, light-haired, gruff man, who had the airof a steward, and who demanded awkwardly, with a foreign accent:--

  "What do you want?"

  The boy mentioned the name of his patron.

  "The master has gone away," replied the steward; "he set out yesterdayafternoon for Buenos Ayres, with his whole family."

  The boy was left speechless. Then he stammered, "But I--I have no onehere! I am alone!" and he offered the card.

  The steward took it, read it, and said surlily: "I don't know what to dofor you. I'll give it to him when he returns a month hence."

  "But I, I am alone; I am in need!" exclaimed the lad, in a supplicatingvoice.

  "Eh? come now," said the other; "just as though there were not a plentyof your sort from your country in Rosario! Be off, and do your beggingin Italy!" And he slammed the door in his face.

  The boy stood there as though he had been turned to stone.

  Then he picked up his bag again slowly, and went out, his heart tornwith anguish, with his mind in a whirl, assailed all at once by athousand anxious thoughts. What was to be done? Where was he to go? FromRosario to Cordova was a day's journey, by rail. He had only a few lireleft. After deducting what he should be obliged to spend that day, hewould have next to nothing left. Where was he to find the money to payhis fare? He could work--but how? To whom should he apply for work? Askalms? Ah, no! To be repulsed, insulted, humiliated, as he had been alittle while ago? No; never, never more--rather would he die! And atthis idea, and at the sight of the very long street which was lost inthe distance of the boundless plain, he felt his courage desert him oncemore, flung his bag on the sidewalk, sat down with his back against thewall, and bent his head between his hands, in an attitude of despair.

  People jostled him with their feet as they passed; the vehicles filledthe road with noise; several boys stopped to look at him. He remainedthus for a while. Then he was startled by a voice saying to him in amixture of Italian and Lombard dialect, "What is the matter, littleboy?"

  He raised his face at these words, and instantly sprang to his feet,uttering an exclamation of wonder: "You here!"

  It was the old Lombard peasant with whom he had struck up a friendshipduring the voyage.

  The amazement of the peasant was no less than his own; but the boy didnot leave him time to question him, and he rapidly recounted the stateof his affairs.

  "Now I am without a soldo. I must go to work. Find me work, that I mayget together a few lire. I will do anything; I will carry rubbish, Iwill sweep the streets; I can run on errands, or even work in thecountry; I am content to live on black bread; but only let it be so thatI may set out quickly, that I may find my mother once more. Do me thischarity, and find me work, find me work, for the love of God, for I cando no more!"

  "The deuce! the deuce!" said the peasant, looking about him, andscratching his chin. "What a story is this! To work, to work!--that issoon said. Let us look about a little. Is there no way of finding thirtylire among so many fellow-countrymen?"

  The boy looked at him, consoled by a ray of hope.

  "Come with me," said the peasant.

  "Where?" asked the lad, gathering up his bag again.

  "Come with me."

  The peasant started on; Marco followed him. They traversed a longstretch of street together without speaking. The peasant halted at thedoor of an inn which had for its sign a star, and an inscriptionbeneath, _The Star of Italy_. He thrust his face in, and turning to theboy, he said cheerfully, "We have arrived at just the right moment."

  They entered a large room, where there were numerous tables, and manymen seated, drinking and talking loudly. The old Lombard approached thefirst table, and from the manner in which he saluted the six guests whowere gathered around it, it was evident that he had been in theircompany until a short time previously. They were red in the face, andwere clinking their glasses, and vociferating and laughing.

  "Comrades," said the Lombard, without any preface, remaining on hisfeet, and presenting Marco, "here is a poor lad, our fellow-countryman,who has come alone from Genoa to Buenos Ayres to seek his mother. AtBuenos Ayres they told him, 'She is not here; she is in Cordova.' Hecame in a bark to Rosario, three days and three nights on the way, witha couple of lines of recommendation. He presents the card; they make anugly face at him: he hasn't a centesimo to bless himself with. He ishere alone and in despair. He is a lad full of heart. Let us see a bit.Can't we find enough to pay for his ticket to go to Cordova in search ofhis mother? Are we to leave him here like a dog?"

  "Never in the world, by Heavens! That shall never be said!" they allshouted at once, hammering on the table with their fists. "Afellow-countryman of ours! Come hither, little fellow! We are emigrants!See what a handsome young rogue! Out with your coppers, comrades! Bravo!Come alone! He has daring! Drink a sup, _patriotta_! We'll send you toyour mother; never fear!" And one pinched his cheek, another slapped himon the shoulder, a third relieved him of his bag; other emigrants rosefrom the neighboring tables, and gathered about; the boy's story madethe round of the inn; three Argentine guests hurried in from theadjoining room; and in less than ten minutes the Lombard peasant, whowas passing round the hat, had collected forty-two lire.

  "Do you see," he then said, turning to the boy, "how fast things aredone in America?"

  "Drink!" cried another to him, of
fering him a glass of wine; "to thehealth of your mother!"

  All raised their glasses, and Marco repeated, "To the health of my--"But a sob of joy choked him, and, setting the glass on the table, heflung himself on the old man's neck.

  At daybreak on the following morning he set out for Cordova, ardent andsmiling, filled with presentiments of happiness. But there is nocheerfulness that rules for long in the face of certain sinister aspectsof nature. The weather was close and dull; the train, which was nearlyempty, ran through an immense plain, destitute of every sign ofhabitation. He found himself alone in a very long car, which resembledthose on trains for the wounded. He gazed to the right, he gazed to theleft, and he saw nothing but an endless solitude, strewn with tiny,deformed trees, with contorted trunks and branches, in attitudes such aswere never seen before, almost of wrath and anguish, and a sparse andmelancholy vegetation, which gave to the plain the aspect of a ruinedcemetery.

  He dozed for half an hour; then resumed his survey: the spectacle wasstill the same. The railway stations were deserted, like the dwellingsof hermits; and when the train stopped, not a sound was heard; it seemedto him that he was alone in a lost train, abandoned in the middle of adesert. It seemed to him as though each station must be the last, andthat he should then enter the mysterious regions of the savages. An icybreeze nipped his face. On embarking at Genoa, towards the end of April,it had not occurred to him that he should find winter in America, andhe was dressed for summer.

  After several hours of this he began to suffer from cold, and inconnection with the cold, from the fatigue of the days he had recentlypassed through, filled as they had been with violent emotions, and fromsleepless and harassing nights. He fell asleep, slept a long time, andawoke benumbed; he felt ill. Then a vague terror of falling ill, ofdying on the journey, seized upon him; a fear of being thrown out there,in the middle of that desolate prairie, where his body would be torn inpieces by dogs and birds of prey, like the corpses of horses and cowswhich he had caught sight of every now and then beside the track, andfrom which he had turned aside his eyes in disgust. In this state ofanxious illness, in the midst of that dark silence of nature, hisimagination grew excited, and looked on the dark side of things.

  Was he quite sure, after all, that he should find his mother at Cordova?And what if she had not gone there? What if that gentleman in the Viadel los Artes had made a mistake? And what if she were dead? Thusmeditating, he fell asleep again, and dreamed that he was in Cordova,and it was night, and that he heard cries from all the doors and all thewindows: "She is not here! She is not here! She is not here!" Thisroused him with a start, in terror, and he saw at the other end of thecar three bearded men enveloped in shawls of various colors who werestaring at him and talking together in a low tone; and the suspicionflashed across him that they were assassins, and that they wanted tokill him for the sake of stealing his bag. Fear was added to hisconsciousness of illness and to the cold; his fancy, already perturbed,became distorted: the three men kept on staring at him; one of themmoved towards him; then his reason wandered, and rushing towards himwith arms wide open, he shrieked, "I have nothing; I am a poor boy; Ihave come from Italy; I am in quest of my mother; I am alone: do not dome any harm!"

  They instantly understood the situation; they took compassion on him,caressed and soothed him, speaking to him many words which he did nothear nor comprehend; and perceiving that his teeth were chattering withcold, they wrapped one of their shawls around him, and made him sit downagain, so that he might go to sleep. And he did fall asleep once more,when the twilight was descending. When they aroused him, he was atCordova.

  Ah, what a deep breath he drew, and with what impetuosity he flew fromthe car! He inquired of one of the station employees where the house ofthe engineer Mequinez was situated; the latter mentioned the name of achurch; it stood beside the church: the boy hastened away.

  It was night. He entered the city, and it seemed to him that he wasentering Rosario once more; that he again beheld those straight streets,flanked with little white houses, and intersected by other very long andstraight streets. But there were very few people, and under the light ofthe rare street lanterns, he encountered strange faces of a hue unknownto him, between black and greenish; and raising his head from time totime, he beheld churches of bizarre architecture which were outlinedblack and vast against the sky. The city was dark and silent, but afterhaving traversed that immense desert, it appeared lively to him. Heinquired his way of a priest, speedily found the church and the house,pulled the bell with one trembling hand, and pressed the other on hisbreast to repress the beating of his heart, which was leaping into histhroat.

  An old woman, with a light in her hand, opened the door.

  The boy could not speak at once.

  "Whom do you want?" demanded the dame in Spanish.

  "The engineer Mequinez," replied Marco.

  The old woman made a motion to cross her arms on her breast, andreplied, with a shake of the head: "So you, too, have dealings with theengineer Mequinez! It strikes me that it is time to stop this. We havebeen worried for the last three months. It is not enough that thenewspapers have said it. We shall have to have it printed on the cornerof the street, that Signor Mequinez has gone to live at Tucuman!"

  The boy gave way to a gesture of despair. Then he gave way to anoutburst of passion.

  "So there is a curse upon me! I am doomed to die on the road, withouthaving found my mother! I shall go mad! I shall kill myself! My God!what is the name of that country? Where is it? At what distance is itsituated?"

  "Eh, poor boy," replied the old woman, moved to pity; "a mere trifle! Weare four or five hundred miles from there, at least."

  The boy covered his face with his hands; then he asked with a sob, "Andnow what am I to do!"

  "What am I to say to you, my poor child?" responded the dame: "I don'tknow."

  But suddenly an idea struck her, and she added hastily: "Listen, nowthat I think of it. There is one thing that you can do. Go down thisstreet, to the right, and at the third house you will find a courtyard;there there is a _capataz_, a trader, who is setting out to-morrow forTucuman, with his wagons and his oxen. Go and see if he will take you,and offer him your services; perhaps he will give you a place on hiswagons: go at once."

  The lad grasped his bag, thanked her as he ran, and two minutes laterfound himself in a vast courtyard, lighted by lanterns, where a numberof men were engaged in loading sacks of grain on certain enormous cartswhich resembled the movable houses of mountebanks, with rounded tops,and very tall wheels; and a tall man with mustaches, enveloped in a sortof mantle of black and white check, and with big boots, was directingthe work.

  The lad approached this man, and timidly proffered his request, sayingthat he had come from Italy, and that he was in search of his mother.

  The _capataz_, which signifies the head (the head conductor of thisconvoy of wagons), surveyed him from head to foot with a keen glance,and replied drily, "I have no place."

  "I have fifteen lire," answered the boy in a supplicating tone; "I willgive you my fifteen lire. I will work on the journey; I will fetch thewater and fodder for the animals; I will perform all sorts of services.A little bread will suffice for me. Make a little place for me, signor."

  The _capataz_ looked him over again, and replied with a better grace,"There is no room; and then, we are not going to Tucuman; we are goingto another town, Santiago dell'Estero. We shall have to leave you at acertain point, and you will still have a long way to go on foot."

  "Ah, I will make twice as long a journey!" exclaimed Marco; "I can walk;do not worry about that; I shall get there by some means or other: makea little room for me, signor, out of charity; for pity's sake, do notleave me here alone!"

  "Beware; it is a journey of twenty days."

  "It matters nothing to me."

  "It is a hard journey."

  "I will endure everything."

  "You will have to travel alone."

  "I fear nothing, if I can only fi
nd my mother. Have compassion!"

  The _capataz_ drew his face close to a lantern, and scrutinized him.Then he said, "Very well."

  The lad kissed his hand.

  "You shall sleep in one of the wagons to-night," added the _capataz_, ashe quitted him; "to-morrow morning, at four o'clock, I will wake you.Good night."

  At four o'clock in the morning, by the light of the stars, the longstring of wagons was set in motion with a great noise; each cart wasdrawn by six oxen, and all were followed by a great number of spareanimals for a change.

  The boy, who had been awakened and placed in one of the carts, on thesacks, instantly fell again into a deep sleep. When he awoke, the convoyhad halted in a solitary spot, full in the sun, and all the men--the_peones_--were seated round a quarter of calf, which was roasting in theopen air, beside a large fire, which was flickering in the wind. Theyall ate together, took a nap, and then set out again; and thus thejourney continued, regulated like a march of soldiers. Every morningthey set out on the road at five o'clock, halted at nine, set out againat five o'clock in the evening, and halted again at ten. The _peones_rode on horseback, and stimulated the oxen with long goads. The boylighted the fire for the roasting, gave the beasts their fodder,polished up the lanterns, and brought water for drinking.

  The landscape passed before him like an indistinct vision: vast grovesof little brown trees; villages consisting of a few scattered houses,with red and battlemented facades; very vast tracts, possibly theancient beds of great salt lakes, which gleamed white with salt as faras the eye could reach; and on every hand, and always, the prairie,solitude, silence. On very rare occasions they encountered two or threetravellers on horseback, followed by a herd of picked horses, who passedthem at a gallop, like a whirlwind. The days were all alike, as at sea,wearisome and interminable; but the weather was fine. But the _peones_became more and more exacting every day, as though the lad were theirbond slave; some of them treated him brutally, with threats; all forcedhim to serve them without mercy: they made him carry enormous bundles offorage; they sent him to get water at great distances; and he, brokenwith fatigue, could not even sleep at night, continually tossed about ashe was by the violent jolts of the wagon, and the deafening groaning ofthe wheels and wooden axles. And in addition to this, the wind havingrisen, a fine, reddish, greasy dust, which enveloped everything,penetrated the wagon, made its way under the covers, filled his eyes andmouth, robbed him of sight and breath, constantly, oppressively,insupportably. Worn out with toil and lack of sleep, reduced to ragsand dirt, reproached and ill treated from morning till night, the poorboy grew every day more dejected, and would have lost heart entirely ifthe _capataz_ had not addressed a kind word to him now and then. Heoften wept, unseen, in a corner of the wagon, with his face against hisbag, which no longer contained anything but rags. Every morning he roseweaker and more discouraged, and as he looked out over the country, andbeheld always the same boundless and implacable plain, like aterrestrial ocean, he said to himself: "Ah, I shall not hold out untilto-night! I shall not hold out until to-night! To-day I shall die on theroad!" And his toil increased, his ill treatment was redoubled. Onemorning, in the absence of the _capataz_, one of the men struck him,because he had delayed in fetching the water. And then they all began totake turns at it, when they gave him an order, dealing him a kick,saying: "Take that, you vagabond! Carry that to your mother!"

  His heart was breaking. He fell ill; for three days he remained in thewagon, with a coverlet over him, fighting a fever, and seeing no oneexcept the _capataz_, who came to give him his drink and feel his pulse.And then he believed that he was lost, and invoked his mother indespair, calling her a hundred times by name: "O my mother! my mother!Help me! Come to me, for I am dying! Oh, my poor mother, I shall neversee you again! My poor mother, who will find me dead beside the way!"And he folded his hands over his bosom and prayed. Then he grew better,thanks to the care of the _capataz_, and recovered; but with hisrecovery arrived the most terrible day of his journey, the day on whichhe was to be left to his own devices. They had been on the way for morethan two weeks; when they arrived at the point where the road toTucuman parted from that which leads to Santiago dell'Estero, the_capataz_ announced to him that they must separate. He gave him someinstructions with regard to the road, tied his bag on his shoulders in amanner which would not annoy him as he walked, and, breaking off short,as though he feared that he should be affected, he bade him farewell.The boy had barely time to kiss him on one arm. The other men, too, whohad treated him so harshly, seemed to feel a little pity at the sight ofhim left thus alone, and they made signs of farewell to him as theymoved away. And he returned the salute with his hand, stood watching theconvoy until it was lost to sight in the red dust of the plain, and thenset out sadly on his road.

  "HE STOOD WATCHING THE CONVOY UNTIL IT WAS LOST TO SIGHT."--Page 263.]

  One thing, on the other hand, comforted him a little from the first.After all those days of travel across that endless plain, which wasforever the same, he saw before him a chain of mountains very high andblue, with white summits, which reminded him of the Alps, and gave himthe feeling of having drawn near to his own country once more. They werethe Andes, the dorsal spine of the American continent, that immensechain which extends from Tierra del Fuego to the glacial sea of theArctic pole, through a hundred and ten degrees of latitude. And he wasalso comforted by the fact that the air seemed to him to grow constantlywarmer; and this happened, because, in ascending towards the north, hewas slowly approaching the tropics. At great distances apart there weretiny groups of houses with a petty shop; and he bought something to eat.He encountered men on horseback; every now and then he saw women andchildren seated on the ground, motionless and grave, with facesentirely new to him, of an earthen hue, with oblique eyes and prominentcheek-bones, who looked at him intently, and accompanied him with theirgaze, turning their heads slowly like automatons. They were Indians.

  The first day he walked as long as his strength would permit, and sleptunder a tree. On the second day he made considerably less progress, andwith less spirit. His shoes were dilapidated, his feet wounded, hisstomach weakened by bad food. Towards evening he began to be alarmed. Hehad heard, in Italy, that in this land there were serpents; he fanciedthat he heard them crawling; he halted, then set out on a run, and withcold chills in all his bones. At times he was seized with a profoundpity for himself, and he wept silently as he walked. Then he thought,"Oh, how much my mother would suffer if she knew that I am afraid!" andthis thought restored his courage. Then, in order to distract histhoughts from fear, he meditated much of her; he recalled to mind herwords when she had set out from Genoa, and the movement with which shehad arranged the coverlet beneath his chin when he was in bed, and whenhe was a baby; for every time that she took him in her arms, she said tohim, "Stay here a little while with me"; and thus she remained for along time, with her head resting on his, thinking, thinking.

  And he said to himself: "Shall I see thee again, dear mother? Shall Iarrive at the end of my journey, my mother?" And he walked on and on,among strange trees, vast plantations of sugar-cane, and fields withoutend, always with those blue mountains in front of him, which cut the skywith their exceedingly lofty crests. Four days, five days--a week,passed. His strength was rapidly declining, his feet were bleeding.Finally, one evening at sunset, they said to him:--

  "Tucuman is fifty miles from here."

  He uttered a cry of joy, and hastened his steps, as though he had, inthat moment, regained all his lost vigor. But it was a brief illusion.His forces suddenly abandoned him, and he fell upon the brink of aditch, exhausted. But his heart was beating with content. The heaven,thickly sown with the most brilliant stars, had never seemed sobeautiful to him. He contemplated it, as he lay stretched out on thegrass to sleep, and thought that, perhaps, at that very moment, hismother was gazing at him. And he said:--

  "O my mother, where art thou? What art thou doing at this moment? Dostthou think of thy son? Dost thou think of thy Ma
rco, who is so near tothee?"

  Poor Marco! If he could have seen in what a case his mother was at thatmoment, he would have made a superhuman effort to proceed on his way,and to reach her a few hours earlier. She was ill in bed, in aground-floor room of a lordly mansion, where dwelt the entire Mequinezfamily. The latter had become very fond of her, and had helped her agreat deal. The poor woman had already been ailing when the engineerMequinez had been obliged unexpectedly to set out far from Buenos Ayres,and she had not benefited at all by the fine air of Cordova. But then,the fact that she had received no response to her letters from herhusband, nor from her cousin, the presentiment, always lively, of somegreat misfortune, the continual anxiety in which she had lived, betweenthe parting and staying, expecting every day some bad news, had causedher to grow worse out of all proportion. Finally, a very serious maladyhad declared itself,--a strangled internal rupture. She had not risenfrom her bed for a fortnight. A surgical operation was necessary to saveher life. And at precisely the moment when Marco was apostrophizing her,the master and mistress of the house were standing beside her bed,arguing with her, with great gentleness, to persuade her to allowherself to be operated on, and she was persisting in her refusal, andweeping. A good physician of Tucuman had come in vain a week before.

  "No, my dear master," she said; "do not count upon it; I have not thestrength to resist; I should die under the surgeon's knife. It is betterto allow me to die thus. I no longer cling to life. All is at an end forme. It is better to die before learning what has happened to my family."

  And her master and mistress opposed, and said that she must takecourage, that she would receive a reply to the last letters, which hadbeen sent directly to Genoa; that she must allow the operation to beperformed; that it must be done for the sake of her family. But thissuggestion of her children only aggravated her profound discouragement,which had for a long time prostrated her, with increasing anguish. Atthese words she burst into tears.

  "O my sons! my sons!" she exclaimed, wringing her hands; "perhaps theyare no longer alive! It is better that I should die also. I thank you,my good master and mistress; I thank you from my heart. But it is betterthat I should die. At all events, I am certain that I shall not be curedby this operation. Thanks for all your care, my good master andmistress. It is useless for the doctor to come again after to-morrow. Iwish to die. It is my fate to die here. I have decided."

  And they began again to console her, and to repeat, "Don't say that,"and to take her hand and beseech her.

  But she closed her eyes then in exhaustion, and fell into a doze, sothat she appeared to be dead. And her master and mistress remained therea little while, by the faint light of a taper, watching with greatcompassion that admirable mother, who, for the sake of saving herfamily, had come to die six thousand miles from her country, to dieafter having toiled so hard, poor woman! and she was so honest, so good,so unfortunate.

  Early on the morning of the following day, Marco, bent and limping, withhis bag on his back, entered the city of Tucuman, one of the youngestand most flourishing towns of the Argentine Republic. It seemed to himthat he beheld again Cordova, Rosario, Buenos Ayres: there were the samestraight and extremely long streets, the same low white houses, but onevery hand there was a new and magnificent vegetation, a perfumed air, amarvellous light, a sky limpid and profound, such as he had never seeneven in Italy. As he advanced through the streets, he experienced oncemore the feverish agitation which had seized on him at Buenos Ayres; hestared at the windows and doors of all the houses; he stared at all thewomen who passed him, with an anxious hope that he might meet hismother; he would have liked to question every one, but did not dare tostop any one. All the people who were standing at their doors turned togaze after the poor, tattered, dusty lad, who showed that he had comefrom afar. And he was seeking, among all these people, a countenancewhich should inspire him with confidence, in order to direct to itsowner that tremendous query, when his eyes fell upon the sign of an innupon which was inscribed an Italian name. Inside were a man withspectacles, and two women. He approached the door slowly, and summoningup a resolute spirit, he inquired:--

  "Can you tell me, signor, where the family Mequinez is?"

  "The engineer Mequinez?" asked the innkeeper in his turn.

  "The engineer Mequinez," replied the lad in a thread of a voice.

  "The Mequinez family is not in Tucuman," replied the innkeeper.

  A cry of desperate pain, like that of one who has been stabbed, formedan echo to these words.

  The innkeeper and the women rose, and some neighbors ran up.

  "What's the matter? what ails you, my boy?" said the innkeeper, drawinghim into the shop and making him sit down. "The deuce! there's no reasonfor despairing! The Mequinez family is not here, but at a littledistance off, a few hours from Tucuman."

  "Where? where?" shrieked Marco, springing up like one restored to life.

  "Fifteen miles from here," continued the man, "on the river, atSaladillo, in a place where a big sugar factory is being built, and acluster of houses; Signor Mequinez's house is there; every one knows it:you can reach it in a few hours."

  "I was there a month ago," said a youth, who had hastened up at the cry.

  Marco stared at him with wide-open eyes, and asked him hastily, turningpale as he did so, "Did you see the servant of Signor Mequinez--theItalian?"

  "The Genoese? Yes; I saw her."

  Marco burst into a convulsive sob, which was half a laugh and half asob. Then, with a burst of violent resolution: "Which way am I to go?quick, the road! I shall set out instantly; show me the way!"

  "But it is a day's march," they all told him, in one breath. "You areweary; you should rest; you can set out to-morrow."

  "Impossible! impossible!" replied the lad. "Tell me the way; I will notwait another instant; I shall set out at once, were I to die on theroad!"

  On perceiving him so inflexible, they no longer opposed him. "May Godaccompany you!" they said to him. "Look out for the path through theforest. A fair journey to you, little Italian!" A man accompanied himoutside of the town, pointed out to him the road, gave him some counsel,and stood still to watch him start. At the expiration of a few minutes,the lad disappeared, limping, with his bag on his shoulders, behind thethick trees which lined the road.

  That night was a dreadful one for the poor sick woman. She sufferedatrocious pain, which wrung from her shrieks that were enough to bursther veins, and rendered her delirious at times. The women waited on her.She lost her head. Her mistress ran in, from time to time, in affright.All began to fear that, even if she had decided to allow herself to beoperated on, the doctor, who was not to come until the next day, wouldhave arrived too late. During the moments when she was not raving,however, it was evident that her most terrible torture arose not fromher bodily pains, but from the thought of her distant family.Emaciated, wasted away, with changed visage, she thrust her handsthrough her hair, with a gesture of desperation, and shrieked:--

  "My God! My God! To die so far away, to die without seeing them again!My poor children, who will be left without a mother, my poor littlecreatures, my poor darlings! My Marco, who is still so small! only astall as this, and so good and affectionate! You do not know what a boyhe was! If you only knew, signora! I could not detach him from my neckwhen I set out; he sobbed in a way to move your pity; he sobbed; itseemed as though he knew that he would never behold his poor motheragain. Poor Marco, my poor baby! I thought that my heart would break!Ah, if I had only died then, died while they were bidding me farewell!If I had but dropped dead! Without a mother, my poor child, he who lovedme so dearly, who needed me so much! without a mother, in misery, hewill be forced to beg! He, Marco, my Marco, will stretch out his hand,famishing! O eternal God! No! I will not die! The doctor! Call him atonce I let him come, let him cut me, let him cleave my breast, let himdrive me mad; but let him save my life! I want to recover; I want tolive, to depart, to flee, to-morrow, at once! The doctor! Help! help!"

  And the women seiz
ed her hands and soothed her, and made her calmherself little by little, and spoke to her of God and of hope. And thenshe fell back again into a mortal dejection, wept with her handsclutched in her gray hair, moaned like an infant, uttering a prolongedlament, and murmuring from time to time:--

  "O my Genoa! My house! All that sea!--O my Marco, my poor Marco! Whereis he now, my poor darling?"

  It was midnight; and her poor Marco, after having passed many hours onthe brink of a ditch, his strength exhausted, was then walking through aforest of gigantic trees, monsters of vegetation, huge boles like thepillars of a cathedral, which interlaced their enormous crests, silveredby the moon, at a wonderful height. Vaguely, amid the half gloom, hecaught glimpses of myriads of trunks of all forms, upright, inclined,contorted, crossed in strange postures of menace and of conflict; someoverthrown on the earth, like towers which had fallen bodily, andcovered with a dense and confused mass of vegetation, which seemed likea furious throng, disputing the ground span by span; others collected ingreat groups, vertical and serrated, like trophies of titanic lances,whose tips touched the clouds; a superb grandeur, a prodigious disorderof colossal forms, the most majestically terrible spectacle whichvegetable nature ever presented.

  At times he was overwhelmed by a great stupor. But his mind instantlytook flight again towards his mother. He was worn out, with bleedingfeet, alone in the middle of this formidable forest, where it was onlyat long intervals that he saw tiny human habitations, which at the footof these trees seemed like the ant-hills, or some buffalo asleep besidethe road; he was exhausted, but he was not conscious of his exhaustion;he was alone, and he felt no fear. The grandeur of the forest renderedhis soul grand; his nearness to his mother gave him the strength and thehardihood of a man; the memory of the ocean, of the alarms and thesufferings which he had undergone and vanquished, of the toil which hehad endured, of the iron constancy which he had displayed, caused him touplift his brow. All his strong and noble Genoese blood flowed back tohis heart in an ardent tide of joy and audacity. And a new thing tookplace within him; while he had, up to this time, borne in his mind animage of his mother, dimmed and paled somewhat by the two years ofabsence, at that moment the image grew clear; he again beheld her face,perfect and distinct, as he had not beheld it for a long time; he beheldit close to him, illuminated, speaking; he again beheld the mostfleeting motions of her eyes, and of her lips, all her attitudes, allthe shades of her thoughts; and urged on by these pursuingrecollections, he hastened his steps; and a new affection, anunspeakable tenderness, grew in him, grew in his heart, making sweet andquiet tears to flow down his face; and as he advanced through the gloom,he spoke to her, he said to her the words which he would murmur in herear in a little while more:--

  "I am here, my mother; behold me here. I will never leave you again; wewill return home together, and I will remain always beside you on boardthe ship, close beside you, and no one shall ever part me from youagain, no one, never more, so long as I have life!"

  And in the meantime he did not observe how the silvery light of the moonwas dying away on the summits of the gigantic trees in the delicatewhiteness of the dawn.

  At eight o'clock on that morning, the doctor from Tucuman, a youngArgentine, was already by the bedside of the sick woman, in company withan assistant, endeavoring, for the last time, to persuade her to permitherself to be operated on; and the engineer Mequinez and his wife addedtheir warmest persuasions to those of the former. But all was in vain.The woman, feeling her strength exhausted, had no longer any faith inthe operation; she was perfectly certain that she should die under it,or that she should only survive it a few hours, after having suffered invain pains that were more atrocious than those of which she should diein any case. The doctor lingered to tell her once more:--

  "But the operation is a safe one; your safety is certain, provided youexercise a little courage! And your death is equally certain if yourefuse!" It was a sheer waste of words.

  "No," she replied in a faint voice, "I still have courage to die; but Ino longer have any to suffer uselessly. Leave me to die in peace."

  The doctor desisted in discouragement. No one said anything more. Thenthe woman turned her face towards her mistress, and addressed to her herlast prayers in a dying voice.

  "Dear, good signora," she said with a great effort, sobbing, "you willsend this little money and my poor effects to my family--through theconsul. I hope that they may all be alive. My heart presages well inthese, my last moments. You will do me the favor to write--that I havealways thought of them, that I have always toiled for them--for mychildren--that my sole grief was not to see them once more--but that Idied courageously--with resignation--blessing them; and that I recommendto my husband--and to my elder son--the youngest, my poor Marco--that Ibore him in my heart until the last moment--" And suddenly she becameexcited, and shrieked, as she clasped her hands: "My Marco, my baby, mybaby! My life!--" But on casting her tearful eyes round her, sheperceived that her mistress was no longer there; she had been secretlycalled away. She sought her master; he had disappeared. No one remainedwith her except the two nurses and the assistant. She heard in theadjoining room the sound of hurried footsteps, a murmur of hasty andsubdued voices, and repressed exclamations. The sick woman fixed herglazing eyes on the door, in expectation. At the end of a few minutesshe saw the doctor appear with an unusual expression on his face; thenher mistress and master, with their countenances also altered. All threegazed at her with a singular expression, and exchanged a few words in alow tone. She fancied that the doctor said to her mistress, "Better letit be at once." She did not understand.

  "Josefa," said her mistress to the sick woman, in a trembling voice, "Ihave some good news for you. Prepare your heart for good news."

  The woman observed her intently.

  "News," pursued the lady, with increasing agitation, "which will giveyou great joy."

  The sick woman's eyes dilated.

  "Prepare yourself," continued her mistress, "to see a person--of whomyou are very fond."

  The woman raised her head with a vigorous movement, and began to gaze inrapid succession, first at the lady and then at the door, with flashingeyes.

  "A person," added the lady, turning pale, "who has justarrived--unexpectedly."

  "Who is it?" shrieked the woman, with a strange and choked voice, likethat of a person in terror. An instant later she gave vent to a shrillscream, sprang into a sitting posture in her bed, and remainedmotionless, with starting eyes, and her hands pressed to her temples, asin the presence of a supernatural apparition.

  Marco, tattered and dusty, stood there on the threshold, held back bythe doctor's hand on one arm.

  The woman uttered three shrieks: "God! God! My God!"

  Marco rushed forward; she stretched out to him her fleshless arms, andstraining him to her heart with the strength of a tiger, she burst intoa violent laugh, broken by deep, tearless sobs, which caused her to fallback suffocating on her pillow.

  But she speedily recovered herself, and mad with joy, she shrieked asshe covered his head with kisses: "How do you come here? Why? Is it you?How you have grown! Who brought you? Are you alone? You are not ill? Itis you, Marco! It is not a dream! My God! Speak to me!"

  Then she suddenly changed her tone: "No! Be silent! Wait!" And turningto the doctor, she said with precipitation: "Quick, doctor! thisinstant! I want to get well. I am ready. Do not lose a moment. TakeMarco away, so that he may not hear.--Marco, my love, it is nothing. Iwill tell you about it. One more kiss. Go!--Here I am, doctor."

  Marco was taken away. The master, mistress, and women retired in haste;the surgeon and his assistant remained behind, and closed the door.

  Signor Mequinez attempted to lead Marco to a distant room, but it wasimpossible; he seemed rooted to the pavement.

  "What is it?" he asked. "What is the matter with my mother? What arethey doing to her?"

  And then Mequinez said softly, still trying to draw him away: "Here!Listen to me. I will tell you now. Your mother is
ill; she must undergoa little operation; I will explain it all to you: come with me."

  "No," replied the lad, resisting; "I want to stay here. Explain it to mehere."

  The engineer heaped words on words, as he drew him away; the boy beganto grow terrified and to tremble.

  Suddenly an acute cry, like that of one wounded to the death, rangthrough the whole house.

  The boy responded with another desperate shriek, "My mother is dead!"

  The doctor appeared on the threshold and said, "Your mother is saved."

  The boy gazed at him for a moment, and then flung himself at his feet,sobbing, "Thanks, doctor!"

  But the doctor raised him with a gesture, saying: "Rise! It is you, youheroic child, who have saved your mother!"

  SUMMER.

  Wednesday, 24th.

  Marco, the Genoese, is the last little hero but one whose acquaintancewe shall make this year; only one remains for the month of June. Thereare only two more monthly examinations, twenty-six days of lessons, sixThursdays, and five Sundays. The air of the end of the year is alreadyperceptible. The trees of the garden, leafy and in blossom, cast a fineshade on the gymnastic apparatus. The scholars are already dressed insummer clothes. And it is beautiful, at the close of school and the exitof the classes, to see how different everything is from what it was inthe months that are past. The long locks which touched the shouldershave disappeared; all heads are closely shorn; bare legs and throats areto be seen; little straw hats of every shape, with ribbons that descendeven on the backs of the wearers; shirts and neckties of every hue; allthe little children with something red or blue about them, a facing, aborder, a tassel, a scrap of some vivid color tacked on somewhere by themother, so that even the poorest may make a good figure; and many cometo school without any hats, as though they had run away from home. Somewear the white gymnasium suit. There is one of Schoolmistress Delcati'sboys who is red from head to foot, like a boiled crab. Several aredressed like sailors.

  But the finest of all is the little mason, who has donned a big strawhat, which gives him the appearance of a half-candle with a shade overit; and it is ridiculous to see him make his hare's face beneath it.Coretti, too, has abandoned his catskin cap, and wears an oldtravelling-cap of gray silk. Votini has a sort of Scotch dress, alldecorated; Crossi displays his bare breast; Precossi is lost inside of ablue blouse belonging to the blacksmith-ironmonger.

  And Garoffi? Now that he has been obliged to discard the cloak beneathwhich he concealed his wares, all his pockets are visible, bulging withall sorts of huckster's trifles, and the lists of his lotteries forcethemselves out. Now all his pockets allow their contents to beseen,--fans made of half a newspaper, knobs of canes, darts to fire atbirds, herbs, and maybugs which creep out of his pockets and crawlgradually over the jackets.

  Many of the little fellows carry bunches of flowers to the mistresses.The mistresses are dressed in summer garments also, of cheerful tints;all except the "little nun," who is always in black; and the mistresswith the red feather still has her red feather, and a knot of red ribbonat her neck, all tumbled with the little paws of her scholars, whoalways make her laugh and flee.

  It is the season, too, of cherry-trees, of butterflies, of music in thestreets, and of rambles in the country; many of the fourth grade runaway to bathe in the Po; all have their hearts already set on thevacation; each day they issue forth from school more impatient andcontent than the day before. Only it pains me to see Garrone inmourning, and my poor mistress of the primary, who is thinner and whiterthan ever, and who coughs with ever-increasing violence. She walks allbent over now, and salutes me so sadly!

  POETRY.

  Friday, 26th.

  You are now beginning to comprehend the poetry of school, Enrico; but at present you only survey the school from within. It will seem much more beautiful and more poetic to you twenty years from now, when you go thither to escort your own boys; and you will then survey it from the outside, as I do. While waiting for school to close, I wander about the silent street, in the vicinity of the edifice, and lay my ear to the windows of the ground floor, which are screened by Venetian blinds. At one window I hear the voice of a schoolmistress saying:--

  "Ah, what a shape for a _t_! It won't do, my dear boy! What would your father say to it?"

  At the next window there resounds the heavy voice of a master, which is saying:--

  "I will buy fifty metres of stuff--at four lire and a half the metre--and sell it again--"

  Further on there is the mistress with the red feather, who is reading aloud:--

  "Then Pietro Micca, with the lighted train of powder--"

  From the adjoining class-room comes the chirping of a thousand birds, which signifies that the master has stepped out for a moment. I proceed onward, and as I turn the corner, I hear a scholar weeping, and the voice of the mistress reproving and comforting him. From the lofty windows issue verses, names of great and good men, fragments of sentences which inculcate virtue, the love of country, and courage. Then ensue moments of silence, in which one would declare that the edifice is empty, and it does not seem possible that there should be seven hundred boys within; noisy outbursts of hilarity become audible, provoked by the jest of a master in a good humor. And the people who are passing halt, and all direct a glance of sympathy towards that pleasing building, which contains so much youth and so many hopes. Then a sudden dull sound is heard, a clapping to of books and portfolios, a shuffling of feet, a buzz which spreads from room to room, and from the lower to the higher, as at the sudden diffusion of a bit of good news: it is the beadle, who is making his rounds, announcing the dismissal of school. And at that sound a throng of women, men, girls, and youths press closer from this side and that of the door, waiting for their sons, brothers, or grandchildren; while from the doors of the class-rooms little boys shoot forth into the big hall, as from a spout, seize their little capes and hats, creating a great confusion with them on the floor, and dancing all about, until the beadle chases them forth one after the other. And at length they come forth, in long files, stamping their feet. And then from all the relatives there descends a shower of questions: "Did you know your lesson?--How much work did they give you?--What have you to do for to-morrow!--When does the monthly examination come?"

  And then even the poor mothers who do not know how to read, open the copy-books, gaze at the problems, and ask particulars: "Only eight?--Ten with commendation?--Nine for the lesson?"

  And they grow uneasy, and rejoice, and interrogate the masters, and talk of prospectuses and examinations. How beautiful all this is, and how great and how immense is its promise for the world!

  THY FATHER.

  THE DEAF-MUTE.

  Sunday, 28th.

  The month of May could not have had a better ending than my visit ofthis morning. We heard a jingling of the bell, and all ran to see whatit meant. I heard my father say in a tone of astonishment:--

  "You here, Giorgio?"

  Giorgio was our gardener in Chieri, who now has his family at Condove,and who had just arrived from Genoa, where he had disembarked on thepreceding day, on his return from Greece, where he has been working onthe railway for the last three years. He had a big bundle in his arms.He has grown a little older, but his face is still red and jolly.

  My father wished to have him enter; but he refused, and suddenlyinquired, assuming a serious expression:

  "How is my family? How is Gigia?"

  "She was well a few days ago," replied my mother.

  Giorgio uttered a deep sigh.

  "Oh, God be praised! I had not the courage to present myself at theDeaf-mute Institution until I had heard about her. I will leave mybundle here, and run to get her. It is three years since I have seen mypoor little daughter! Three years since I have seen any of my people!"<
br />
  My father said to me, "Accompany him."

  "Excuse me; one word more," said the gardener, from the landing.

  My father interrupted him, "And your affairs?"

  "All right," the other replied. "Thanks to God, I have brought back afew soldi. But I wanted to inquire. Tell me how the education of thelittle dumb girl is getting on. When I left her, she was a poor littleanimal, poor thing! I don't put much faith in those colleges. Has shelearned how to make signs? My wife did write to me, to be sure, 'She islearning to speak; she is making progress.' But I said to myself, Whatis the use of her learning to talk if I don't know how to make the signsmyself? How shall we manage to understand each other, poor little thing?That is well enough to enable them to understand each other, oneunfortunate to comprehend another unfortunate. How is she getting on,then? How is she?"

  My father smiled, and replied:--

  "I shall not tell you anything about it; you will see; go, go; don'twaste another minute!"

  We took our departure; the institute is close by. As we went along withhuge strides, the gardener talked to me, and grew sad.

  "Ah, my poor Gigia! To be born with such an infirmity! To think that Ihave never heard her call me _father_; that she has never heard me callher _my daughter_; that she has never either heard or uttered a singleword since she has been in the world! And it is lucky that a charitablegentleman was found to pay the expenses of the institution. But that isall--she could not enter there until she was eight years old. She hasnot been at home for three years. She is now going on eleven. And shehas grown? Tell me, she has grown? She is in good spirits?"

  "You will see in a moment, you will see in a moment," I replied,hastening my pace.

  "But where is this institution?" he demanded. "My wife went with herafter I was gone. It seems to me that it ought to be near here."

  We had just reached it. We at once entered the parlor. An attendant cameto meet us.

  "I am the father of Gigia Voggi," said the gardener; "give me mydaughter instantly."

  "They are at play," replied the attendant; "I will go and inform thematron." And he hastened away.

  The gardener could no longer speak nor stand still; he stared at allfour walls, without seeing anything.

  The door opened; a teacher entered, dressed in black, holding a littlegirl by the hand.

  Father and daughter gazed at one another for an instant; then flew intoeach other's arms, uttering a cry.

  The girl was dressed in a white and reddish striped material, with agray apron. She is a little taller than I. She cried, and clung to herfather's neck with both arms.

  Her father disengaged himself, and began to survey her from head tofoot, panting as though he had run a long way; and he exclaimed: "Ah,how she has grown! How pretty she has become! Oh, my dear, poor Gigia!My poor mute child!--Are you her teacher, signora? Tell her to makesome of her signs to me; for I shall be able to understand something,and then I will learn little by little. Tell her to make me understandsomething with her gestures."

  The teacher smiled, and said in a low voice to the girl, "Who is thisman who has come to see you?"

  And the girl replied with a smile, in a coarse, strange, dissonantvoice, like that of a savage who was speaking for the first time in ourlanguage, but with a distinct pronunciation, "He is my fa-ther."

  The gardener fell back a pace, and shrieked like a madman: "She speaks!Is it possible! Is it possible! She speaks? Can you speak, my child? canyou speak? Say something to me: you can speak?" and he embraced herafresh, and kissed her thrice on the brow. "But it is not with signsthat she talks, signora; it is not with her fingers? What does thismean?"

  "No, Signor Voggi," rejoined the teacher, "it is not with signs. Thatwas the old way. Here we teach the new method, the oral method. How isit that you did not know it?"

  "I knew nothing about it!" replied the gardener, lost in amazement. "Ihave been abroad for the last three years. Oh, they wrote to me, and Idid not understand. I am a blockhead. Oh, my daughter, you understandme, then? Do you hear my voice? Answer me: do you hear me? Do you hearwhat I say?"

  "Why, no, my good man," said the teacher; "she does not hear your voice,because she is deaf. She understands from the movements of your lipswhat the words are that you utter; this is the way the thing is managed;but she does not hear your voice any more than she does the words whichshe speaks to you; she pronounces them, because we have taught her,letter by letter, how she must place her lips and move her tongue, andwhat effort she must make with her chest and throat, in order to emit asound."

  The gardener did not understand, and stood with his mouth wide open. Hedid not yet believe it.

  "Tell me, Gigia," he asked his daughter, whispering in her ear, "are youglad that your father has come back?" and he raised his face again, andstood awaiting her reply.

  The girl looked at him thoughtfully, and said nothing.

  Her father was perturbed.

  The teacher laughed. Then she said: "My good man, she does not answeryou, because she did not see the movements of your lips: you spoke inher ear! Repeat your question, keeping your face well before hers."

  The father, gazing straight in her face, repeated, "Are you glad thatyour father has come back? that he is not going away again?"

  The girl, who had observed his lips attentively, seeking even to seeinside his mouth, replied frankly:--

  "Yes, I am de-light-ed that you have re-turned, that you are not go-inga-way a-gain--nev-er a-gain."

  Her father embraced her impetuously, and then in great haste, in orderto make quite sure, he overwhelmed her with questions.

  "What is mamma's name?"

  "An-to-nia."

  "What is the name of your little sister?"

  "Ad-e-laide."

  "What is the name of this college?"

  "The Deaf-mute Insti-tution."

  "How many are two times ten?"

  "Twen-ty."

  While we thought that he was laughing for joy, he suddenly burst outcrying. But this was the result of joy also.

  "Take courage," said the teacher to him; "you have reason to rejoice,not to weep. You see that you are making your daughter cry also. You arepleased, then?"

  The gardener grasped the teacher's hand and kissed it two or threetimes, saying: "Thanks, thanks, thanks! a hundred thanks, a thousandthanks, dear Signora Teacher! and forgive me for not knowing how to sayanything else!"

  "But she not only speaks," said the teacher; "your daughter also knowshow to write. She knows how to reckon. She knows the names of all commonobjects. She knows a little history and geography. She is now in theregular class. When she has passed through the two remaining classes,she will know much more. When she leaves here, she will be in acondition to adopt a profession. We already have deaf-mutes who stand inthe shops to serve customers, and they perform their duties like any oneelse."

  Again the gardener was astounded. It seemed as though his ideas werebecoming confused again. He stared at his daughter and scratched hishead. His face demanded another explanation.

  Then the teacher turned to the attendant and said to him:--

  "Call a child of the preparatory class for me."

  The attendant returned, in a short time, with a deaf-mute of eight ornine years, who had entered the institution a few days before.

  "This girl," said the mistress, "is one of those whom we are instructingin the first elements. This is the way it is done. I want to make hersay _a_. Pay attention."

  The teacher opened her mouth, as one opens it to pronounce the vowel_a_, and motioned to the child to open her mouth in the same manner.Then the mistress made her a sign to emit her voice. She did so; butinstead of _a_, she pronounced _o_.

  "No," said the mistress, "that is not right." And taking the child's twohands, she placed one of them on her own throat and the other on herchest, and repeated, "_a_."

  The child felt with her hands the movements of the mistress's throat andchest, opened her mouth again as before, and pronounced ext
remely well,"_a_."

  In the same manner, the mistress made her pronounce _c_ and _d_, stillkeeping the two little hands on her own throat and chest.

  "Now do you understand?" she inquired.

  The father understood; but he seemed more astonished than when he hadnot understood.

  "And they are taught to speak in the same way?" he asked, after a momentof reflection, gazing at the teacher. "You have the patience to teachthem to speak in that manner, little by little, and so many of them? oneby one--through years and years? But you are saints; that's what youare! You are angels of paradise! There is not in the world a reward thatis worthy of you! What is there that I can say? Ah! leave me alone withmy daughter a little while now. Let me have her to myself for fiveminutes."

  And drawing her to a seat apart he began to interrogate her, and she toreply, and he laughed with beaming eyes, slapping his fists down on hisknees; and he took his daughter's hands, and stared at her, besidehimself with delight at hearing her, as though her voice had been onewhich came from heaven; then he asked the teacher, "Would the SignorDirector permit me to thank him?"

  "The director is not here," replied the mistress; "but there is anotherperson whom you should thank. Every little girl here is given into thecharge of an older companion, who acts the part of sister or mother toher. Your little girl has been intrusted to the care of a deaf-mute ofseventeen, the daughter of a baker, who is kind and very fond of her;she has been assisting her for two years to dress herself every morning;she combs her hair, she teaches her to sew, she mends her clothes, sheis good company for her.--Luigia, what is the name of your mamma in theinstitute?"

  The girl smiled, and said, "Ca-te-rina Gior-dano." Then she said to herfather, "She is ve-ry, ve-ry good."

  The attendant, who had withdrawn at a signal from the mistress, returnedalmost at once with a light-haired deaf-mute, a robust girl, with acheerful countenance, and also dressed in the red and white stripedstuff, with a gray apron; she paused at the door and blushed; then shebent her head with a smile. She had the figure of a woman, but seemedlike a child.

  Giorgio's daughter instantly ran to her, took her by the arm, like achild, and drew her to her father, saying, in her heavy voice,"Ca-te-rina Gior-dano."

  "Ah, what a splendid girl!" exclaimed her father; and he stretched outone hand to caress her, but drew it back again, and repeated, "Ah, whata good girl! May God bless her, may He grant her all good fortune, allconsolations; may He make her and hers always happy, so good a girl isshe, my poor Gigia! It is an honest workingman, the poor father of afamily, who wishes you this with all his heart."

  The big girl caressed the little one, still keeping her face bent, andsmiling, and the gardener continued to gaze at her, as at a madonna.

  "You can take your daughter with you for the day," said the mistress.

  "Won't I take her, though!" rejoined the gardener. "I'll take her toCondove, and fetch her back to-morrow morning. Think for a bit whether Iwon't take her!"

  The girl ran off to dress.

  "It is three years since I have seen her!" repeated the gardener. "Nowshe speaks! I will take her to Condove with me on the instant. But firstI shall take a ramble about Turin, with my deaf-mute on my arm, so thatall may see her, and take her to see some of my friends! Ah, what abeautiful day! This is consolation indeed!--Here's your father's arm, myGigia."

  The girl, who had returned with a little mantle and cap on, took hisarm.

  "And thanks to all!" said the father, as he reached the threshold."Thanks to all, with my whole soul! I shall come back another time tothank you all again."

  He stood for a moment in thought, then disengaged himself abruptly fromthe girl, turned back, fumbling in his waistcoat with his hand, andshouted like a man in a fury:--

  "Come now, I am not a poor devil! So here, I leave twenty lire for theinstitution,--a fine new gold piece."

  And with a tremendous bang, he deposited his gold piece on the table.

  "No, no, my good man," said the mistress, with emotion. "Take back yourmoney. I cannot accept it. Take it back. It is not my place. You shallsee about that when the director is here. But he will not acceptanything either; be sure of that. You have toiled too hard to earn it,poor man. We shall be greatly obliged to you, all the same."

  "No; I shall leave it," replied the gardener, obstinately; "and then--wewill see."

  But the mistress put his money back in his pocket, without leaving himtime to reject it. And then he resigned himself with a shake of thehead; and then, wafting a kiss to the mistress and to the large girl, hequickly took his daughter's arm again, and hurried with her out of thedoor, saying:--

  "Come, come, my daughter, my poor dumb child, my treasure!"

  And the girl exclaimed, in her harsh voice:--

  "Oh, how beau-ti-ful the sun is!"