Chapter X: Part 10

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

"The Genoese? Yes; I saw her."

Marco burst into a convulsive sob, which was half a laugh and half a sob. 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 are weary; you should rest; you can set out to-morrow."

"Impossible! impossible!" replied the lad. "Tell me the way; I will not wait another instant; I shall set out at once, were I to die on the road!"

On perceiving him so inflexible, they no longer opposed him. "May God accompany you!" they said to him. "Look out for the path through the forest. A fair journey to you, little Italian!" A man accompanied him outside 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 the thick trees which lined the road.

That night was a dreadful one for the poor sick woman. She suffered atrocious pain, which wrung from her shrieks that were enough to burst her 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 be operated on, the doctor, who was not to come until the next day, would have arrived too late. During the moments when she was not raving, however, it was evident that her most terrible torture arose not from her bodily pains, but from the thought of her distant family. Emaciated, wasted away, with changed visage, she thrust her hands through 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 little creatures, my poor darlings! My Marco, who is still so small! only as tall as this, and so good and affectionate! You do not know what a boy he was! If you only knew, signora! I could not detach him from my neck when I set out; he sobbed in a way to move your pity; he sobbed; it seemed as though he knew that he would never behold his poor mother again. 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 loved me so dearly, who needed me so much! without a mother, in misery, he will 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 at once I let him come, let him cut me, let him cleave my breast, let him drive me mad; but let him save my life! I want to recover; I want to live, to depart, to flee, to-morrow, at once! The doctor! Help! help!"

And the women seized her hands and soothed her, and made her calm herself little by little, and spoke to her of God and of hope. And then she fell back again into a mortal dejection, wept with her hands clutched in her gray hair, moaned like an infant, uttering a prolonged lament, and murmuring from time to time:--

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

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

At times he was overwhelmed by a great stupor. But his mind instantly took flight again towards his mother. He was worn out, with bleeding feet, alone in the middle of this formidable forest, where it was only at long intervals that he saw tiny human habitations, which at the foot of these trees seemed like the ant-hills, or some buffalo asleep beside the 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 rendered his soul grand; his nearness to his mother gave him the strength and the hardihood of a man; the memory of the ocean, of the alarms and the sufferings which he had undergone and vanquished, of the toil which he had endured, of the iron constancy which he had displayed, caused him to uplift his brow. All his strong and noble Genoese blood flowed back to his heart in an ardent tide of joy and audacity. And a new thing took place within him; while he had, up to this time, borne in his mind an image of his mother, dimmed and paled somewhat by the two years of absence, 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 beheld it close to him, illuminated, speaking; he again beheld the most fleeting motions of her eyes, and of her lips, all her attitudes, all the shades of her thoughts; and urged on by these pursuing recollections, he hastened his steps; and a new affection, an unspeakable tenderness, grew in him, grew in his heart, making sweet and quiet 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 her ear in a little while more:--

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

And in the meantime he did not observe how the silvery light of the moon was dying away on the summits of the gigantic trees in the delicate whiteness of the dawn.

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

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

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

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

"Dear, good signora," she said with a great effort, sobbing, "you will send this little money and my poor effects to my family--through the consul. I hope that they may all be alive. My heart presages well in these, my last moments. You will do me the favor to write--that I have always thought of them, that I have always toiled for them--for my children--that my sole grief was not to see them once more--but that I died courageously--with resignation--blessing them; and that I recommend to my husband--and to my elder son--the youngest, my poor Marco--that I bore him in my heart until the last moment--" And suddenly she became excited, and shrieked, as she clasped her hands: "My Marco, my baby, my baby! My life!--" But on casting her tearful eyes round her, she perceived that her mistress was no longer there; she had been secretly called away. She sought her master; he had disappeared. No one remained with her except the two nurses and the assistant. She heard in the adjoining room the sound of hurried footsteps, a murmur of hasty and subdued voices, and repressed exclamations. The sick woman fixed her glazing eyes on the door, in expectation. At the end of a few minutes she saw the doctor appear with an unusual expression on his face; then her mistress and master, with their countenances also altered. All three gazed at her with a singular expression, and exchanged a few words in a low tone. She fancied that the doctor said to her mistress, "Better let it be at once." She did not understand.

"Josefa," said her mistress to the sick woman, in a trembling voice, "I have 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 give you great joy."

The sick woman's eyes dilated.

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

The woman raised her head with a vigorous movement, and began to gaze in rapid succession, first at the lady and then at the door, with flashing eyes.

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

"Who is it?" shrieked the woman, with a strange and choked voice, like that of a person in terror. An instant later she gave vent to a shrill scream, sprang into a sitting posture in her bed, and remained motionless, with starting eyes, and her hands pressed to her temples, as in the presence of a supernatural apparition.

Marco, tattered and dusty, stood there on the threshold, held back by the 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, and straining him to her heart with the strength of a tiger, she burst into a violent laugh, broken by deep, tearless sobs, which caused her to fall back suffocating on her pillow.

But she speedily recovered herself, and mad with joy, she shrieked as she 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? It is you, Marco! It is not a dream! My God! Speak to me!"

Then she suddenly changed her tone: "No! Be silent! Wait!" And turning to the doctor, she said with precipitation: "Quick, doctor! this instant! I want to get well. I am ready. Do not lose a moment. Take Marco away, so that he may not hear.--Marco, my love, it is nothing. I will 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 was impossible; he seemed rooted to the pavement.

"What is it?" he asked. "What is the matter with my mother? What are they 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 undergo a 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 me here."

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

Suddenly an acute cry, like that of one wounded to the death, rang through 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, you heroic child, who have saved your mother!"

SUMMER.

Wednesday, 24th.

Marco, the Genoese, is the last little hero but one whose acquaintance we shall make this year; only one remains for the month of June. There are only two more monthly examinations, twenty-six days of lessons, six Thursdays, and five Sundays. The air of the end of the year is already perceptible. The trees of the garden, leafy and in blossom, cast a fine shade on the gymnastic apparatus. The scholars are already dressed in summer clothes. And it is beautiful, at the close of school and the exit of the classes, to see how different everything is from what it was in the months that are past. The long locks which touched the shoulders have disappeared; all heads are closely shorn; bare legs and throats are to be seen; little straw hats of every shape, with ribbons that descend even on the backs of the wearers; shirts and neckties of every hue; all the little children with something red or blue about them, a facing, a border, a tassel, a scrap of some vivid color tacked on somewhere by the mother, so that even the poorest may make a good figure; and many come to school without any hats, as though they had run away from home. Some wear the white gymnasium suit. There is one of Schoolmistress Delcati's boys who is red from head to foot, like a boiled crab. Several are dressed like sailors.

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

And Garoffi? Now that he has been obliged to discard the cloak beneath which he concealed his wares, all his pockets are visible, bulging with all sorts of huckster's trifles, and the lists of his lotteries force themselves out. Now all his pockets allow their contents to be seen,--fans made of half a newspaper, knobs of canes, darts to fire at birds, herbs, and maybugs which creep out of his pockets and crawl gradually 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 mistress with the red feather still has her red feather, and a knot of red ribbon at her neck, all tumbled with the little paws of her scholars, who always make her laugh and flee.

It is the season, too, of cherry-trees, of butterflies, of music in the streets, and of rambles in the country; many of the fourth grade run away to bathe in the Po; all have their hearts already set on the vacation; each day they issue forth from school more impatient and content than the day before. Only it pains me to see Garrone in mourning, and my poor mistress of the primary, who is thinner and whiter than ever, and who coughs with ever-increasing violence. She walks all bent 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 of this morning. We heard a jingling of the bell, and all ran to see what it 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 the preceding day, on his return from Greece, where he has been working on the 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 suddenly inquired, 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 the Deaf-mute Institution until I had heard about her. I will leave my bundle here, and run to get her. It is three years since I have seen my poor little daughter! Three years since I have seen any of my people!"

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 a few soldi. But I wanted to inquire. Tell me how the education of the little dumb girl is getting on. When I left her, she was a poor little animal, poor thing! I don't put much faith in those colleges. Has she learned how to make signs? My wife did write to me, to be sure, 'She is learning to speak; she is making progress.' But I said to myself, What is the use of her learning to talk if I don't know how to make the signs myself? How shall we manage to understand each other, poor little thing? That is well enough to enable them to understand each other, one unfortunate 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't waste another minute!"

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

"Ah, my poor Gigia! To be born with such an infirmity! To think that I have never heard her call me _father_; that she has never heard me call her _my daughter_; that she has never either heard or uttered a single word since she has been in the world! And it is lucky that a charitable gentleman was found to pay the expenses of the institution. But that is all--she could not enter there until she was eight years old. She has not been at home for three years. She is now going on eleven. And she has 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 her after 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 came to meet us.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her father disengaged himself, and began to survey her from head to foot, 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 make some 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 understand something with her gestures."

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

And the girl replied with a smile, in a coarse, strange, dissonant voice, like that of a savage who was speaking for the first time in our language, 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? can you speak? Say something to me: you can speak?" and he embraced her afresh, and kissed her thrice on the brow. "But it is not with signs that she talks, signora; it is not with her fingers? What does this mean?"

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

"I knew nothing about it!" replied the gardener, lost in amazement. "I have been abroad for the last three years. Oh, they wrote to me, and I did not understand. I am a blockhead. Oh, my daughter, you understand me, then? Do you hear my voice? Answer me: do you hear me? Do you hear what 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 lips what 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 which she speaks to you; she pronounces them, because we have taught her, letter by letter, how she must place her lips and move her tongue, and what effort she must make with her chest and throat, in order to emit a sound."

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

"Tell me, Gigia," he asked his daughter, whispering in her ear, "are you glad that your father has come back?" and he raised his face again, and stood 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 answer you, because she did not see the movements of your lips: you spoke in her ear! Repeat your question, keeping your face well before hers."

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

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

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

Her father embraced her impetuously, and then in great haste, in order to 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 out crying. 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 are pleased, then?"

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

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

Again the gardener was astounded. It seemed as though his ideas were becoming confused again. He stared at his daughter and scratched his head. 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 or nine years, who had entered the institution a few days before.

"This girl," said the mistress, "is one of those whom we are instructing in the first elements. This is the way it is done. I want to make her say _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; but instead of _a_, she pronounced _o_.

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

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

In the same manner, the mistress made her pronounce _c_ and _d_, still keeping 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 had not understood.

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

And drawing her to a seat apart he began to interrogate her, and she to reply, and he laughed with beaming eyes, slapping his fists down on his knees; and he took his daughter's hands, and stared at her, beside himself with delight at hearing her, as though her voice had been one which came from heaven; then he asked the teacher, "Would the Signor Director permit me to thank him?"

"The director is not here," replied the mistress; "but there is another person whom you should thank. Every little girl here is given into the charge of an older companion, who acts the part of sister or mother to her. Your little girl has been intrusted to the care of a deaf-mute of seventeen, 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, she is good company for her.--Luigia, what is the name of your mamma in the institute?"

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

The attendant, who had withdrawn at a signal from the mistress, returned almost at once with a light-haired deaf-mute, a robust girl, with a cheerful countenance, and also dressed in the red and white striped stuff, with a gray apron; she paused at the door and blushed; then she bent her head with a smile. She had the figure of a woman, but seemed like a child.

Giorgio's daughter instantly ran to her, took her by the arm, like a child, 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 out one hand to caress her, but drew it back again, and repeated, "Ah, what a good girl! May God bless her, may He grant her all good fortune, all consolations; may He make her and hers always happy, so good a girl is she, my poor Gigia! It is an honest workingman, the poor father of a family, who wishes you this with all his heart."

The big girl caressed the little one, still keeping her face bent, and smiling, 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 to Condove, and fetch her back to-morrow morning. Think for a bit whether I won't take her!"

The girl ran off to dress.

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

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

"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 to thank you all again."

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

"Come now, I am not a poor devil! So here, I leave twenty lire for the institution,--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 your money. I cannot accept it. Take it back. It is not my place. You shall see about that when the director is here. But he will not accept anything 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--we will see."

But the mistress put his money back in his pocket, without leaving him time to reject it. And then he resigned himself with a shake of the head; and then, wafting a kiss to the mistress and to the large girl, he quickly took his daughter's arm again, and hurried with her out of the door, 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!"

JUNE.

GARIBALDI.

June 3d.

To-morrow is the National Festival Day.

TO-DAY is a day of national mourning. Garibaldi died last night. Do
you know who he is? He is the man who liberated ten millions of
Italians from the tyranny of the Bourbons. He died at the age of
seventy-five. He was born at Nice, the son of a ship captain. At
eight years of age, he saved a woman's life; at thirteen, he
dragged into safety a boat-load of his companions who were
shipwrecked; at twenty-seven, he rescued from the water at
Marseilles a drowning youth; at forty-one, he saved a ship from
burning on the ocean. He fought for ten years in America for the
liberty of a strange people; he fought in three wars against the
Austrians, for the liberation of Lombardy and Trentino; he defended
Rome from the French in 1849; he delivered Naples and Palermo in
1860; he fought again for Rome in 1867; he combated with the
Germans in defence of France in 1870. He was possessed of the flame
of heroism and the genius of war. He was engaged in forty battles,
and won thirty-seven of them.

When he was not fighting, he was laboring for his living, or he
shut himself up in a solitary island, and tilled the soil. He was
teacher, sailor, workman, trader, soldier, general, dictator. He
was simple, great, and good. He hated all oppressors, he loved all
peoples, he protected all the weak; he had no other aspiration than
good, he refused honors, he scorned death, he adored Italy. When he
uttered his war-cry, legions of valorous men hastened to him from
all quarters; gentlemen left their palaces, workmen their ships,
youths their schools, to go and fight in the sunshine of his glory.
In time of war he wore a red shirt. He was strong, blond, and
handsome. On the field of battle he was a thunder-bolt, in his
affections he was a child, in affliction a saint. Thousands of
Italians have died for their country, happy, if, when dying, they
saw him pass victorious in the distance; thousands would have
allowed themselves to be killed for him; millions have blessed and
will bless him.

He is dead. The whole world mourns him. You do not understand him
now. But you will read of his deeds, you will constantly hear him
spoken of in the course of your life; and gradually, as you grow
up, his image will grow before you; when you become a man, you will
behold him as a giant; and when you are no longer in the world,
when your sons' sons and those who shall be born from them are no
longer among the living, the generations will still behold on high
his luminous head as a redeemer of the peoples, crowned by the
names of his victories as with a circlet of stars; and the brow and
the soul of every Italian will beam when he utters his name.

THY FATHER.

THE ARMY.

Sunday, 11th.

The National Festival Day. Postponed for a week on
account of the death of Garibaldi.

We have been to the Piazza Castello, to see the review of soldiers, who defiled before the commandant of the army corps, between two vast lines of people. As they marched past to the sound of flourishes from trumpets and bands, my father pointed out to me the Corps and the glories of the banners. First, the pupils of the Academy, those who will become officers in the Engineers and the Artillery, about three hundred in number, dressed in black, passed with the bold and easy elegance of students and soldiers. After them defiled the infantry, the brigade of Aosta, which fought at Goito and at San Martino, and the Bergamo brigade, which fought at Castelfidardo, four regiments of them, company after company, thousands of red aiguillettes, which seemed like so many double and very long garlands of blood-colored flowers, extended and agitated from the two ends, and borne athwart the crowd. After the infantry, the soldiers of the Mining Corps advanced,--the workingmen of war, with their plumes of black horse-tails, and their crimson bands; and while these were passing, we beheld advancing behind them hundreds of long, straight plumes, which rose above the heads of the spectators; they were the mountaineers, the defenders of the portals of Italy, all tall, rosy, and stalwart, with hats of Calabrian fashion, and revers of a beautiful, bright green, the color of the grass on their native mountains. The mountaineers were still marching past, when a quiver ran through the crowd, and the _bersaglieri_, the old twelfth battalion, the first who entered Rome through the breach at the Porta Pia, bronzed, alert, brisk, with fluttering plumes, passed like a wave in a sea of black, making the piazza ring with the shrill blasts of their trumpets, which seemed shouts of joy. But their trumpeting was drowned by a broken and hollow rumble, which announced the field artillery; and then the latter passed in triumph, seated on their lofty caissons, drawn by three hundred pairs of fiery horses,--those fine soldiers with yellow lacings, and their long cannons of brass and steel gleaming on the light carriages, as they jolted and resounded, and made the earth tremble.

And then came the mountain artillery, slowly, gravely, beautiful in its laborious and rude semblance, with its large soldiers, with its powerful mules--that mountain artillery which carries dismay and death wherever man can set his foot. And last of all, the fine regiment of the Genoese cavalry, which had wheeled down like a whirlwind on ten fields of battle, from Santa Lucia to Villafranca, passed at a gallop, with their helmets glittering in the sun, their lances erect, their pennons floating in the air, sparkling with gold and silver, filling the air with jingling and neighing.

"How beautiful it is!" I exclaimed. My father almost reproved me for these words, and said to me:--

"You are not to regard the army as a fine spectacle. All these young men, so full of strength and hope, may be called upon any day to defend our country, and fall in a few hours, crushed to fragments by bullets and grape-shot. Every time that you hear the cry, at a feast, 'Hurrah for the army! hurrah for Italy!' picture to yourself, behind the regiments which are passing, a plain covered with corpses, and inundated with blood, and then the greeting to the army will proceed from the very depths of your heart, and the image of Italy will appear to you more severe and grand."

ITALY.

Tuesday, 14th.

Salute your country thus, on days of festival: "Italy, my country,
dear and noble land, where my father and my mother were born, and
where they will be buried, where I hope to live and die, where my
children will grow up and die; beautiful Italy, great and glorious
for many centuries, united and free for a few years; thou who didst
disseminate so great a light of intellect divine over the world,
and for whom so many valiant men have died on the battle-field,
and so many heroes on the gallows; august mother of three hundred
cities, and thirty millions of sons; I, a child, who do not
understand thee as yet, and who do not know thee in thy entirety, I
venerate and love thee with all my soul, and I am proud of having
been born of thee, and of calling myself thy son. I love thy
splendid seas and thy sublime mountains; I love thy solemn
monuments and thy immortal memories; I love thy glory and thy
beauty; I love and venerate the whole of thee as that beloved
portion of thee where I, for the first time, beheld the light and
heard thy name. I love the whole of thee, with a single affection
and with equal gratitude,--Turin the valiant, Genoa the superb,
Bologna the learned, Venice the enchanting, Milan the mighty; I
love you with the uniform reverence of a son, gentle Florence and
terrible Palermo, immense and beautiful Naples, marvellous and
eternal Rome. I love thee, my sacred country! And I swear that I
will love all thy sons like brothers; that I will always honor in
my heart thy great men, living and dead; that I will be an
industrious and honest citizen, constantly intent on ennobling
myself, in order to render myself worthy of thee, to assist with my
small powers in causing misery, ignorance, injustice, crime, to
disappear one day from thy face, so that thou mayest live and
expand tranquilly in the majesty of thy right and of thy strength.
I swear that I will serve thee, as it may be granted to me, with my
mind, with my arm, with my heart, humbly, ardently; and that, if
the day should dawn in which I should be called on to give my blood
for thee and my life, I will give my blood, and I will die, crying
thy holy name to heaven, and wafting my last kiss to thy blessed
banner."

THY FATHER.

THIRTY-TWO DEGREES.

Friday, 16th.

During the five days which have passed since the National Festival, the heat has increased by three degrees. We are in full summer now, and begin to feel weary; all have lost their fine rosy color of springtime; necks and legs are growing thin, heads droop and eyes close. Poor Nelli, who suffers much from the heat, has turned the color of wax in the face; he sometimes falls into a heavy sleep, with his head on his copy-book; but Garrone is always watchful, and places an open book upright in front of him, so that the master may not see him. Crossi rests his red head against the bench in a certain way, so that it looks as though it had been detached from his body and placed there separately. Nobis complains that there are too many of us, and that we corrupt the air. Ah, what an effort it costs now to study! I gaze through the windows at those beautiful trees which cast so deep a shade, where I should be so glad to run, and sadness and wrath overwhelm me at being obliged to go and shut myself up among the benches. But then I take courage at the sight of my kind mother, who is always watching me, scrutinizing me, when I return from school, to see whether I am not pale; and at every page of my work she says to me:--

"Do you still feel well?" and every morning at six, when she wakes me for my lesson, "Courage! there are only so many days more: then you will be free, and will get rested,--you will go to the shade of country lanes."

Yes, she is perfectly right to remind me of the boys who are working in the fields in the full heat of the sun, or among the white sands of the river, which blind and scorch them, and of those in the glass-factories, who stand all day long motionless, with head bent over a flame of gas; and all of them rise earlier than we do, and have no vacations. Courage, then! And even in this respect, Derossi is at the head of all, for he suffers neither from heat nor drowsiness; he is always wide awake, and cheery, with his golden curls, as he was in the winter, and he studies without effort, and keeps all about him alert, as though he freshened the air with his voice.

And there are two others, also, who are always awake and attentive: stubborn Stardi, who pricks his face, to prevent himself from going to sleep; and the more weary and heated he is, the more he sets his teeth, and he opens his eyes so wide that it seems as though he wanted to eat the teacher; and that barterer of a Garoffi, who is wholly absorbed in manufacturing fans out of red paper, decorated with little figures from match-boxes, which he sells at two centesimi apiece.

But the bravest of all is Coretti; poor Coretti, who gets up at five o'clock, to help his father carry wood! At eleven, in school, he can no longer keep his eyes open, and his head droops on his breast. And nevertheless, he shakes himself, punches himself on the back of the neck, asks permission to go out and wash his face, and makes his neighbors shake and pinch him. But this morning he could not resist, and he fell into a leaden sleep. The master called him loudly; "Coretti!" He did not hear. The master, irritated, repeated, "Coretti!" Then the son of the charcoal-man, who lives next to him at home, rose and said:--

"He worked from five until seven carrying faggots." The teacher allowed him to sleep on, and continued with the lesson for half an hour. Then he went to Coretti's seat, and wakened him very, very gently, by blowing in his face. On beholding the master in front of him, he started back in alarm. But the master took his head in his hands, and said, as he kissed him on the hair:--

"I am not reproving you, my son. Your sleep is not at all that of laziness; it is the sleep of fatigue."

MY FATHER.

Saturday, 17th.

Surely, neither your comrade Coretti nor Garrone would ever have
answered their fathers as you answered yours this afternoon.
Enrico! How is it possible? You must promise me solemnly that this
shall never happen again so long as I live. Every time that an
impertinent reply flies to your lips at a reproof from your father,
think of that day which will infallibly come when he will call you
to his bedside to tell you, "Enrico, I am about to leave you." Oh,
my son, when you hear his voice for the last time, and for a long
while afterwards, when you weep alone in his deserted room, in the
midst of those books which he will never open again, then, on
recalling that you have at times been wanting in respect to him,
you, too, will ask yourself, "How is it possible?" Then you will
understand that he has always been your best friend, that when he
was constrained to punish you, it caused him more suffering than it
did you, and that he never made you weep except for the sake of
doing you good; and then you will repent, and you will kiss with
tears that desk at which he worked so much, at which he wore out
his life for his children. You do not understand now; he hides from
you all of himself except his kindness and his love. You do not
know that he is sometimes so broken down with toil that he thinks
he has only a few more days to live, and that at such moments he
talks only of you; he has in his heart no other trouble than that
of leaving you poor and without protection.

And how often, when meditating on this, does he enter your chamber
while you are asleep, and stand there, lamp in hand, gazing at you;
and then he makes an effort, and weary and sad as he is, he returns
to his labor; and neither do you know that he often seeks you and
remains with you because he has a bitterness in his heart, sorrows
which attack all men in the world, and he seeks you as a friend, to
obtain consolation himself and forgetfulness, and he feels the need
of taking refuge in your affection, to recover his serenity and his
courage: think, then, what must be his sorrow, when instead of
finding in you affection, he finds coldness and disrespect! Never
again stain yourself with this horrible ingratitude! Reflect, that
were you as good as a saint, you could never repay him sufficiently
for what he has done and for what he is constantly doing for you.
And reflect, also, we cannot count on life; a misfortune might
remove your father while you are still a boy,--in two years, in
three months, to-morrow.

Ah, my poor Enrico, when you see all about you changing, how empty,
how desolate the house will appear, with your poor mother clothed
in black! Go, my son, go to your father; he is in his room at work;
go on tiptoe, so that he may not hear you enter; go and lay your
forehead on his knees, and beseech him to pardon and to bless you.

THY MOTHER.

IN THE COUNTRY.

Monday, 19th.

My good father forgave me, even on this occasion, and allowed me to go on an expedition to the country, which had been arranged on Wednesday, with the father of Coretti, the wood-peddler.

We were all in need of a mouthful of hill air. It was a festival day. We met yesterday at two o'clock in the place of the Statuto, Derossi, Garrone, Garoffi, Precossi, Coretti, father and son, and I, with our provisions of fruit, sausages, and hard-boiled eggs; we had also leather bottles and tin cups. Garrone carried a gourd filled with white wine; Coretti, his father's soldier-canteen, full of red wine; and little Precossi, in the blacksmith's blouse, held under his arm a two-kilogramme loaf.