Chapter VI: Part 6

"Yes," replied the teacher; "but you boys must not go there now. You shall go there later on, when you are in a condition to appreciate the whole extent of this misfortune, and to feel all the compassion which it merits. It is a sad sight, my boys. You will sometimes see there boys seated in front of an open window, enjoying the fresh air, with immovable countenances, which seem to be gazing at the wide green expanse and the beautiful blue mountains which you can see; and when you remember that they see nothing--that they will never see anything--of that vast loveliness, your soul is oppressed, as though you had yourselves become blind at that moment. And then there are those who were born blind, who, as they have never seen the world, do not complain because they do not possess the image of anything, and who, therefore, arouse less compassion. But there are lads who have been blind but a few months, who still recall everything, who thoroughly understand all that they have lost; and these have, in addition, the grief of feeling their minds obscured, the dearest images grow a little more dim in their minds day by day, of feeling the persons whom they have loved the most die out of their memories. One of these boys said to me one day, with inexpressible sadness, 'I should like to have my sight again, only for a moment, in order to see mamma's face once more, for I no longer remember it!' And when their mothers come to see them, the boys place their hands on her face; they feel her over thoroughly from brow to chin, and her ears, to see how they are made, and they can hardly persuade themselves that they cannot see her, and they call her by name many times, to beseech her that she will allow them, that she will make them see her just once. How many, even hard-hearted men, go away in tears! And when you do go out, your case seems to you to be the exception, and the power to see people, houses, and the sky a hardly deserved privilege. Oh! there is not one of you, I am sure, who, on emerging thence, would not feel disposed to deprive himself of a portion of his own sight, in order to bestow a gleam at least upon all those poor children, for whom the sun has no light, for whom a mother has no face!"

THE SICK MASTER.

Saturday, 25th.

Yesterday afternoon, on coming out of school, I went to pay a visit to my sick master. He made himself ill by overworking. Five hours of teaching a day, then an hour of gymnastics, then two hours more of evening school, which is equivalent to saying but little sleep, getting his food by snatches, and working breathlessly from morning till night. He has ruined his health. That is what my mother says. My mother was waiting for me at the big door; I came out alone, and on the stairs I met the teacher with the black beard--Coatti,--the one who frightens every one and punishes no one. He stared at me with wide-open eyes, and made his voice like that of a lion, in jest, but without laughing. I was still laughing when I pulled the bell on the fourth floor; but I ceased very suddenly when the servant let me into a wretched, half-lighted room, where my teacher was in bed. He was lying in a little iron bed. His beard was long. He put one hand to his brow in order to see better, and exclaimed in his affectionate voice:--

"Oh, Enrico!"

I approached the bed; he laid one hand on my shoulder and said:--

"Good, my boy. You have done well to come and see your poor teacher. I am reduced to a sad state, as you see, my dear Enrico. And how fares the school? How are your comrades getting along? All well, eh? Even without me? You do very well without your old master, do you not?"

I was on the point of saying "no"; he interrupted me.

"Come, come, I know that you do not hate me!" and he heaved a sigh.

I glanced at some photographs fastened to the wall.

"Do you see?" he said to me. "All of them are of boys who gave me their photographs more than twenty years ago. They were good boys. These are my souvenirs. When I die, my last glance will be at them; at those roguish urchins among whom my life has been passed. You will give me your portrait, also, will you not, when you have finished the elementary course?" Then he took an orange from his nightstand, and put it in my hand.

"I have nothing else to give you," he said; "it is the gift of a sick man."

I looked at it, and my heart was sad; I know not why.

"Attend to me," he began again. "I hope to get over this; but if I should not recover, see that you strengthen yourself in arithmetic, which is your weak point; make an effort. It is merely a question of a first effort: because sometimes there is no lack of aptitude; there is merely an absence of a fixed purpose--of stability, as it is called."

But in the meantime he was breathing hard; and it was evident that he was suffering.

"I am feverish," he sighed; "I am half gone; I beseech you, therefore, apply yourself to arithmetic, to problems. If you don't succeed at first, rest a little and begin afresh. And press forward, but quietly without fagging yourself, without straining your mind. Go! My respects to your mamma. And do not mount these stairs again. We shall see each other again in school. And if we do not, you must now and then call to mind your master of the third grade, who was fond of you."

I felt inclined to cry at these words.

"Bend down your head," he said to me.

I bent my head to his pillow; he kissed my hair. Then he said to me, "Go!" and turned his face towards the wall. And I flew down the stairs; for I longed to embrace my mother.

THE STREET.

Saturday, 25th.

I was watching you from the window this afternoon, when you were on
your way home from the master's; you came in collision with a
woman. Take more heed to your manner of walking in the street.
There are duties to be fulfilled even there. If you keep your steps
and gestures within bounds in a private house, why should you not
do the same in the street, which is everybody's house. Remember
this, Enrico. Every time that you meet a feeble old man, a poor
person, a woman with a child in her arms, a cripple with his
crutches, a man bending beneath a burden, a family dressed in
mourning, make way for them respectfully. We must respect age,
misery, maternal love, infirmity, labor, death. Whenever you see a
person on the point of being run down by a vehicle, drag him away,
if it is a child; warn him, if he is a man; always ask what ails
the child who is crying all alone; pick up the aged man's cane,
when he lets it fall. If two boys are fighting, separate them; if
it is two men, go away: do not look on a scene of brutal violence,
which offends and hardens the heart. And when a man passes, bound,
and walking between a couple of policemen, do not add your
curiosity to the cruel curiosity of the crowd; he may be innocent.
Cease to talk with your companion, and to smile, when you meet a
hospital litter, which is, perhaps, bearing a dying person, or a
funeral procession; for one may issue from your own home on the
morrow. Look with reverence upon all boys from the asylums, who
walk two and two,--the blind, the dumb, those afflicted with the
rickets, orphans, abandoned children; reflect that it is misfortune
and human charity which is passing by. Always pretend not to notice
any one who has a repulsive or laughter-provoking deformity. Always
extinguish every match that you find in your path; for it may cost
some one his life. Always answer a passer-by who asks you the way,
with politeness. Do not look at any one and laugh; do not run
without necessity; do not shout. Respect the street. The education
of a people is judged first of all by their behavior on the street.
Where you find offences in the streets, there you will find
offences in the houses. And study the streets; study the city in
which you live. If you were to be hurled far away from it
to-morrow, you would be glad to have it clearly present in your
memory, to be able to traverse it all again in memory. Your own
city, and your little country--that which has been for so many
years your world; where you took your first steps at your mother's
side; where you experienced your first emotions, opened your mind
to its first ideas; found your first friends. It has been a mother
to you: it has taught you, loved you, protected you. Study it in
its streets and in its people, and love it; and when you hear it
insulted, defend it.

THY FATHER.

MARCH

THE EVENING SCHOOLS.

Thursday, 2d.

LAST night my father took me to see the evening schools in our Baretti schoolhouse, which were all lighted up already, and where the workingmen were already beginning to enter. On our arrival we found the head-master and the other masters in a great rage, because a little while before the glass in one window had been broken by a stone. The beadle had darted forth and seized a boy by the hair, who was passing; but thereupon, Stardi, who lives in the house opposite, had presented himself, and said:--

"This is not the right one; I saw it with my own eyes; it was Franti who threw it; and he said to me, 'Woe to you if you tell of me!' but I am not afraid."

Then the head-master declared that Franti should be expelled for good. In the meantime I was watching the workingmen enter by twos and threes; and more than two hundred had already entered. I have never seen anything so fine as the evening school. There were boys of twelve and upwards; bearded men who were on their way from their work, carrying their books and copy-books; there were carpenters, engineers with black faces, masons with hands white with plaster, bakers' boys with their hair full of flour; and there was perceptible the odor of varnish, hides, fish, oil,--odors of all the various trades. There also entered a squad of artillery workmen, dressed like soldiers and headed by a corporal. They all filed briskly to their benches, removed the board underneath, on which we put our feet, and immediately bent their heads over their work.

Some stepped up to the teachers to ask explanations, with their open copy-books in their hands. I caught sight of that young and well-dressed master "the little lawyer," who had three or four workingmen clustered round his table, and was making corrections with his pen; and also the lame one, who was laughing with a dyer who had brought him a copy-book all adorned with red and blue dyes. My master, who had recovered, and who will return to school to-morrow, was there also. The doors of the schoolroom were open. I was amazed, when the lessons began, to see how attentive they all were, and how they kept their eyes fixed on their work. Yet the greater part of them, so the head-master said, for fear of being late, had not even been home to eat a mouthful of supper, and they were hungry.

But the younger ones, after half an hour of school, were falling off the benches with sleep; one even went fast asleep with his head on the bench, and the master waked him up by poking his ear with a pen. But the grown-up men did nothing of the sort; they kept awake, and listened, with their mouths wide open, to the lesson, without even winking; and it made a deep impression on me to see all those bearded men on our benches. We also ascended to the story floor above, and I ran to the door of my schoolroom and saw in my seat a man with a big mustache and a bandaged hand, who might have injured himself while at work about some machine; but he was trying to write, though very, very slowly.

But what pleased me most was to behold in the seat of the little mason, on the very same bench and in the very same corner, his father, the mason, as huge as a giant, who sat there all coiled up into a narrow space, with his chin on his fists and his eyes on his book, so absorbed that he hardly breathed. And there was no chance about it, for it was he himself who said to the head-master the first evening he came to the school:--

"Signor Director, do me the favor to place me in the seat of 'my hare's face.'" For he always calls his son so.

My father kept me there until the end, and in the street we saw many women with children in their arms, waiting for their husbands; and at the entrance a change was effected: the husbands took the children in their arms, and the women made them surrender their books and copy-books; and in this wise they proceeded to their homes. For several minutes the street was filled with people and with noise. Then all grew silent, and all we could see was the tall and weary form of the head-master disappearing in the distance.

THE FIGHT.

Sunday, 5th.

It was what might have been expected. Franti, on being expelled by the head-master, wanted to revenge himself on Stardi, and he waited for Stardi at a corner, when he came out of school, and when the latter was passing with his sister, whom he escorts every day from an institution in the Via Dora Grossa. My sister Silvia, on emerging from her schoolhouse, witnessed the whole affair, and came home thoroughly terrified. This is what took place. Franti, with his cap of waxed cloth canted over one ear, ran up on tiptoe behind Stardi, and in order to provoke him, gave a tug at his sister's braid of hair,--a tug so violent that it almost threw the girl flat on her back on the ground. The little girl uttered a cry; her brother whirled round; Franti, who is much taller and stronger than Stardi, thought:--

"He'll not utter a word, or I'll break his skin for him!"

But Stardi never paused to reflect, and small and ill-made as he is, he flung himself with one bound on that big fellow, and began to belabor him with his fists. He could not hold his own, however, and he got more than he gave. There was no one in the street but girls, so there was no one who could separate them. Franti flung him on the ground; but the other instantly got up, and then down he went on his back again, and Franti pounded away as though upon a door: in an instant he had torn away half an ear, and bruised one eye, and drawn blood from the other's nose. But Stardi was tenacious; he roared:--

"You may kill me, but I'll make you pay for it!" And down went Franti, kicking and cuffing, and Stardi under him, butting and lungeing out with his heels. A woman shrieked from a window, "Good for the little one!" Others said, "It is a boy defending his sister; courage! give it to him well!" And they screamed at Franti, "You overbearing brute! you coward!" But Franti had grown ferocious; he held out his leg; Stardi tripped and fell, and Franti on top of him.

"Surrender!"--"No!"--"Surrender!"--"No!" and in a flash Stardi recovered his feet, clasped Franti by the body, and, with one furious effort, hurled him on the pavement, and fell upon him with one knee on his breast.

"Ah, the infamous fellow! he has a knife!" shouted a man, rushing up to disarm Franti.

But Stardi, beside himself with rage, had already grasped Franti's arm with both hands, and bestowed on the fist such a bite that the knife fell from it, and the hand began to bleed. More people had run up in the meantime, who separated them and set them on their feet. Franti took to his heels in a sorry plight, and Stardi stood still, with his face all scratched, and a black eye,--but triumphant,--beside his weeping sister, while some of the girls collected the books and copy-books which were strewn over the street.

"Bravo, little fellow!" said the bystanders; "he defended his sister!"

But Stardi, who was thinking more of his satchel than of his victory, instantly set to examining the books and copy-books, one by one, to see whether anything was missing or injured. He rubbed them off with his sleeve, scrutinized his pen, put everything back in its place, and then, tranquil and serious as usual, he said to his sister, "Let us go home quickly, for I have a problem to solve."

THE BOYS' PARENTS.

Monday, 6th.

This morning big Stardi, the father, came to wait for his son, fearing lest he should again encounter Franti. But they say that Franti will not be seen again, because he will be put in the penitentiary.

There were a great many parents there this morning. Among the rest there was the retail wood-dealer, the father of Coretti, the perfect image of his son, slender, brisk, with his mustache brought to a point, and a ribbon of two colors in the button-hole of his jacket. I know nearly all the parents of the boys, through constantly seeing them there. There is one crooked grandmother, with her white cap, who comes four times a day, whether it rains or snows or storms, to accompany and to get her little grandson, of the upper primary; and she takes off his little cloak and puts it on for him, adjusts his necktie, brushes off the dust, polishes him up, and takes care of the copy-books. It is evident that she has no other thought, that she sees nothing in the world more beautiful. The captain of artillery also comes frequently, the father of Robetti, the lad with the crutches, who saved a child from the omnibus, and as all his son's companions bestow a caress on him in passing, he returns a caress or a salute to every one, and he never forgets any one; he bends over all, and the poorer and more badly dressed they are, the more pleased he seems to be, and he thanks them.

At times, however, sad sights are to be seen. A gentleman who had not come for a month because one of his sons had died, and who had sent a maidservant for the other, on returning yesterday and beholding the class, the comrades of his little dead boy, retired into a corner and burst into sobs, with both hands before his face, and the head-master took him by the arm and led him to his office.

There are fathers and mothers who know all their sons' companions by name. There are girls from the neighboring schoolhouse, and scholars in the gymnasium, who come to wait for their brothers. There is one old gentleman who was a colonel formerly, and who, when a boy drops a copy-book or a pen, picks it up for him. There are also to be seen well-dressed men, who discuss school matters with others, who have kerchiefs on their heads, and baskets on their arm, and who say:--

"Oh! the problem has been a difficult one this time."--"That grammar lesson will never come to an end this morning!"

And when there is a sick boy in the class, they all know it; when a sick boy is convalescent, they all rejoice. And this morning there were eight or ten gentlemen and workingmen standing around Crossi's mother, the vegetable-vender, making inquiries about a poor baby in my brother's class, who lives in her court, and who is in danger of his life. The school seems to make them all equals and friends.

NUMBER 78.

Wednesday, 8th.

I witnessed a touching scene yesterday afternoon. For several days, every time that the vegetable-vender has passed Derossi she has gazed and gazed at him with an expression of great affection; for Derossi, since he made the discovery about that inkstand and prisoner Number 78, has acquired a love for her son, Crossi, the red-haired boy with the useless arm; and he helps him to do his work in school, suggests answers to him, gives him paper, pens, and pencils; in short, he behaves to him like a brother, as though to compensate him for his father's misfortune, which has affected him, although he does not know it.

The vegetable-vender had been gazing at Derossi for several days, and she seemed loath to take her eyes from him, for she is a good woman who lives only for her son; and Derossi, who assists him and makes him appear well, Derossi, who is a gentleman and the head of the school, seems to her a king, a saint. She continued to stare at him, and seemed desirous of saying something to him, yet ashamed to do it. But at last, yesterday morning, she took courage, stopped him in front of a gate, and said to him:--

"I beg a thousand pardons, little master! Will you, who are so kind to my son, and so fond of him, do me the favor to accept this little memento from a poor mother?" and she pulled out of her vegetable-basket a little pasteboard box of white and gold.

Derossi flushed up all over, and refused, saying with decision:--

"Give it to your son; I will accept nothing."

The woman was mortified, and stammered an excuse:--

"I had no idea of offending you. It is only caramels."

But Derossi said "no," again, and shook his head. Then she timidly lifted from her basket a bunch of radishes, and said:--

"Accept these at least,--they are fresh,--and carry them to your mamma."

Derossi smiled, and said:--

"No, thanks: I don't want anything; I shall always do all that I can for Crossi, but I cannot accept anything. I thank you all the same."

"But you are not at all offended?" asked the woman, anxiously.

Derossi said "No, no!" smiled, and went off, while she exclaimed, in great delight:--

"Oh, what a good boy! I have never seen so fine and handsome a boy as he!"

And that appeared to be the end of it. But in the afternoon, at four o'clock, instead of Crossi's mother, his father approached, with that gaunt and melancholy face of his. He stopped Derossi, and from the way in which he looked at the latter I instantly understood that he suspected Derossi of knowing his secret. He looked at him intently, and said in his sorrowful, affectionate voice:--

"You are fond of my son. Why do you like him so much?"

Derossi's face turned the color of fire. He would have liked to say: "I am fond of him because he has been unfortunate; because you, his father, have been more unfortunate than guilty, and have nobly expiated your crime, and are a man of heart." But he had not the courage to say it, for at bottom he still felt fear and almost loathing in the presence of this man who had shed another's blood, and had been six years in prison. But the latter divined it all, and lowering his voice, he said in Derossi's ear, almost trembling the while:--

"You love the son; but you do not hate, do not wholly despise the father, do you?"

"Ah, no, no! Quite the reverse!" exclaimed Derossi, with a soulful impulse. And then the man made an impetuous movement, as though to throw one arm round his neck; but he dared not, and instead he took one of the lad's golden curls between two of his fingers, smoothed it out, and released it; then he placed his hand on his mouth and kissed his palm, gazing at Derossi with moist eyes, as though to say that this kiss was for him. Then he took his son by the hand, and went away at a rapid pace.

A LITTLE DEAD BOY.

Monday, 13th.

The little boy who lived in the vegetable-vender's court, the one who belonged to the upper primary, and was the companion of my brother, is dead. Schoolmistress Delcati came in great affliction, on Saturday afternoon, to inform the master of it; and instantly Garrone and Coretti volunteered to carry the coffin. He was a fine little lad. He had won the medal last week. He was fond of my brother, and he had presented him with a broken money-box. My mother always caressed him when she met him. He wore a cap with two stripes of red cloth. His father is a porter on the railway. Yesterday (Sunday) afternoon, at half-past four o'clock, we went to his house, to accompany him to the church.

They live on the ground floor. Many boys of the upper primary, with their mothers, all holding candles, and five or six teachers and several neighbors were already collected in the courtyard. The mistress with the red feather and Signora Delcati had gone inside, and through an open window we beheld them weeping. We could hear the mother of the child sobbing loudly. Two ladies, mothers of two school companions of the dead child, had brought two garlands of flowers.

Exactly at five o'clock we set out. In front went a boy carrying a cross, then a priest, then the coffin,--a very, very small coffin, poor child!--covered with a black cloth, and round it were wound the garlands of flowers brought by the two ladies. On the black cloth, on one side, were fastened the medal and honorable mentions which the little boy had won in the course of the year. Garrone, Coretti, and two boys from the courtyard bore the coffin. Behind the coffin, first came Signora Delcati, who wept as though the little dead boy were her own; behind her the other schoolmistresses; and behind the mistresses, the boys, among whom were some very little ones, who carried bunches of violets in one hand, and who stared in amazement at the bier, while their other hand was held by their mothers, who carried candles. I heard one of them say, "And shall I not see him at school again?"

When the coffin emerged from the court, a despairing cry was heard from the window. It was the child's mother; but they made her draw back into the room immediately. On arriving in the street, we met the boys from a college, who were passing in double file, and on catching sight of the coffin with the medal and the schoolmistresses, they all pulled off their hats.

Poor little boy! he went to sleep forever with his medal. We shall never see his red cap again. He was in perfect health; in four days he was dead. On the last day he made an effort to rise and do his little task in nomenclature, and he insisted on keeping his medal on his bed for fear it would be taken from him. No one will ever take it from you again, poor boy! Farewell, farewell! We shall always remember thee at the Baretti School! Sleep in peace, dear little boy!

THE EVE OF THE FOURTEENTH OF MARCH.

To-day has been more cheerful than yesterday. The thirteenth of March! The eve of the distribution of prizes at the Theatre Vittorio Emanuele, the greatest and most beautiful festival of the whole year! But this time the boys who are to go upon the stage and present the certificates of the prizes to the gentlemen who are to bestow them are not to be taken at haphazard. The head-master came in this morning, at the close of school, and said:--

"Good news, boys!" Then he called, "Coraci!" the Calabrian. The Calabrian rose. "Would you like to be one of those to carry the certificates of the prizes to the authorities in the theatre to-morrow?" The Calabrian answered that he should.

"That is well," said the head-master; "then there will also be a representative of Calabria there; and that will be a fine thing. The municipal authorities are desirous that this year the ten or twelve lads who hand the prizes should be from all parts of Italy, and selected from all the public school buildings. We have twenty buildings, with five annexes--seven thousand pupils. Among such a multitude there has been no difficulty in finding one boy for each region of Italy. Two representatives of the Islands were found in the Torquato Tasso schoolhouse, a Sardinian, and a Sicilian; the Boncompagni School furnished a little Florentine, the son of a wood-carver; there is a Roman, a native of Rome, in the Tommaseo building; several Venetians, Lombards, and natives of Romagna have been found; the Monviso School gives us a Neapolitan, the son of an officer; we furnish a Genoese and a Calabrian,--you, Coraci,--with the Piemontese: that will make twelve. Does not this strike you as nice? It will be your brothers from all quarters of Italy who will give you your prizes. Look out! the whole twelve will appear on the stage together. Receive them with hearty applause. They are only boys, but they represent the country just as though they were men. A small tricolored flag is the symbol of Italy as much as a huge banner, is it not?

"Applaud them warmly, then. Let it be seen that your little hearts are all aglow, that your souls of ten years grow enthusiastic in the presence of the sacred image of your fatherland."

Having spoken thus, he went away, and the master said, with a smile, "So, Coraci, you are to be the deputy from Calabria."

And then all clapped their hands and laughed; and when we got into the street, we surrounded Coraci, seized him by the legs, lifted him on high, and set out to carry him in triumph, shouting, "Hurrah for the Deputy of Calabria!" by way of making a noise, of course; and not in jest, but quite the contrary, for the sake of making a celebration for him, and with a good will, for he is a boy who pleases every one; and he smiled. And thus we bore him as far as the corner, where we ran into a gentleman with a black beard, who began to laugh. The Calabrian said, "That is my father." And then the boys placed his son in his arms and ran away in all directions.

THE DISTRIBUTION OF PRIZES.

March 14th.

Towards two o'clock the vast theatre was crowded,--pit, gallery, boxes, stage, all were thronged; thousands of faces,--boys, gentlemen, teachers, workingmen, women of the people, babies. There was a moving of heads and hands, a flutter of feathers, ribbons, and curls, and loud and merry murmur which inspired cheerfulness. The theatre was all decorated with festoons of white, red, and green cloth. In the pit two little stairways had been erected: one on the right, which the winners of prizes were to ascend in order to reach the stage; the other, on the left, which they were to descend after receiving their prizes. On the front of the platform there was a row of red chairs; and from the back of the one in the centre hung two laurel crowns. At the back of the stage was a trophy of flags; on one side stood a small green table, and upon it lay all the certificates of premiums, tied with tricolored ribbons. The band of music was stationed in the pit, under the stage; the schoolmasters and mistresses filled all one side of the first balcony, which had been reserved for them; the benches and passages of the pit were crammed with hundreds of boys, who were to sing, and who had written music in their hands. At the back and all about, masters and mistresses could be seen going to and fro, arranging the prize scholars in lines; and it was full of parents who were giving a last touch to their hair and the last pull to their neckties.

No sooner had I entered my box with my family than I perceived in the opposite box the young mistress with the red feather, who was smiling and showing all the pretty dimples in her cheeks, and with her my brother's teacher and "the little nun," dressed wholly in black, and my kind mistress of the upper first; but she was so pale, poor thing! and coughed so hard, that she could be heard all over the theatre. In the pit I instantly espied Garrone's dear, big face and the little blond head of Nelli, who was clinging close to the other's shoulder. A little further on I saw Garoffi, with his owl's-beak nose, who was making great efforts to collect the printed catalogues of the prize-winners; and he already had a large bundle of them which he could put to some use in his bartering--we shall find out what it is to-morrow. Near the door was the wood-seller with his wife,--both dressed in festive attire,--together with their boy, who has a third prize in the second grade. I was amazed at no longer beholding the catskin cap and the chocolate-colored tights: on this occasion he was dressed like a little gentleman. In one balcony I caught a momentary glimpse of Votini, with a large lace collar; then he disappeared. In a proscenium box, filled with people, was the artillery captain, the father of Robetti, the boy with the crutches who saved the child from the omnibus.

On the stroke of two the band struck up, and at the same moment the mayor, the prefect, the judge, the _provveditore_, and many other gentlemen, all dressed in black, mounted the stairs on the right, and seated themselves on the red chairs at the front of the platform. The band ceased playing. The director of singing in the schools advanced with a _baton_ in his hand. At a signal from him all the boys in the pit rose to their feet; at another sign they began to sing. There were seven hundred singing a very beautiful song,--seven hundred boys' voices singing together; how beautiful! All listened motionless: it was a slow, sweet, limpid song which seemed like a church chant. When they ceased, every one applauded; then they all became very still. The distribution of the prizes was about to begin. My little master of the second grade, with his red head and his quick eyes, who was to read the names of the prize-winners, had already advanced to the front of the stage. The entrance of the twelve boys who were to present the certificates was what they were waiting for. The newspapers had already stated that there would be boys from all the provinces of Italy. Every one knew it, and was watching for them and gazing curiously towards the spot where they were to enter, and the mayor and the other gentlemen gazed also, and the whole theatre was silent.

All at once the whole twelve arrived on the stage at a run, and remained standing there in line, with a smile. The whole theatre, three thousand persons, sprang up simultaneously, breaking into applause which sounded like a clap of thunder. The boys stood for a moment as though disconcerted. "Behold Italy!" said a voice on the stage. All at once I recognized Coraci, the Calabrian, dressed in black as usual. A gentleman belonging to the municipal government, who was with us and who knew them all, pointed them out to my mother. "That little blond is the representative of Venice. The Roman is that tall, curly-haired lad, yonder." Two or three of them were dressed like gentlemen; the others were sons of workingmen, but all were neatly clad and clean. The Florentine, who was the smallest, had a blue scarf round his body. They all passed in front of the mayor, who kissed them, one after the other, on the brow, while a gentleman seated next to him smilingly told him the names of their cities: "Florence, Naples, Bologna, Palermo." And as each passed by, the whole theatre clapped. Then they all ran to the green table, to take the certificates. The master began to read the list, mentioning the schoolhouses, the classes, the names; and the prize-winners began to mount the stage and to file past.

The foremost ones had hardly reached the stage, when behind the scenes there became audible a very, very faint music of violins, which did not cease during the whole time that they were filing past--a soft and always even air, like the murmur of many subdued voices, the voices of all the mothers, and all the masters and mistresses, giving counsel in concert, and beseeching and administering loving reproofs. And meanwhile, the prize-winners passed one by one in front of the seated gentlemen, who handed them their certificates, and said a word or bestowed a caress on each.

The boys in the pit and the balconies applauded loudly every time that there passed a very small lad, or one who seemed, from his garments, to be poor; and also for those who had abundant curly hair, or who were clad in red or white. Some of those who filed past belonged to the upper primary, and once arrived there, they became confused and did not know where to turn, and the whole theatre laughed. One passed, three spans high, with a big knot of pink ribbon on his back, so that he could hardly walk, and he got entangled in the carpet and tumbled down; and the prefect set him on his feet again, and all laughed and clapped. Another rolled headlong down the stairs, when descending again to the pit: cries arose, but he had not hurt himself. Boys of all sorts passed,--boys with roguish faces, with frightened faces, with faces as red as cherries; comical little fellows, who laughed in every one's face: and no sooner had they got back into the pit, than they were seized upon by their fathers and mothers, who carried them away.

When our schoolhouse's turn came, how amused I was! Many whom I knew passed. Coretti filed by, dressed in new clothes from head to foot, with his fine, merry smile, which displayed all his white teeth; but who knows how many myriagrammes of wood he had already carried that morning! The mayor, on presenting him with his certificate, inquired the meaning of a red mark on his forehead, and as he did so, laid one hand on his shoulder. I looked in the pit for his father and mother, and saw them laughing, while they covered their mouths with one hand. Then Derossi passed, all dressed in bright blue, with shining buttons, with all those golden curls, slender, easy, with his head held high, so handsome, so sympathetic, that I could have blown him a kiss; and all the gentlemen wanted to speak to him and to shake his hand.

Then the master cried, "Giulio Robetti!" and we saw the captain's son come forward on his crutches. Hundreds of boys knew the occurrence; a rumor ran round in an instant; a salvo of applause broke forth, and of shouts, which made the theatre tremble: men sprang to their feet, the ladies began to wave their handkerchiefs, and the poor boy halted in the middle of the stage, amazed and trembling. The mayor drew him to him, gave him his prize and a kiss, and removing the two laurel crowns which were hanging from the back of the chair, he strung them on the cross-bars of his crutches. Then he accompanied him to the proscenium box, where his father, the captain, was seated; and the latter lifted him bodily and set him down inside, amid an indescribable tumult of bravos and hurrahs.

Meanwhile, the soft and gentle music of the violins continued, and the boys continued to file by,--those from the Schoolhouse della Consolata, nearly all the sons of petty merchants; those from the Vanchiglia School, the sons of workingmen; those from the Boncompagni School, many of whom were the sons of peasants; those of the Rayneri, which was the last. As soon as it was over, the seven hundred boys in the pit sang another very beautiful song; then the mayor spoke, and after him the judge, who terminated his discourse by saying to the boys:--

"But do not leave this place without sending a salute to those who toil so hard for you; who have consecrated to you all the strength of their intelligence and of their hearts; who live and die for you. There they are; behold them!" And he pointed to the balcony of teachers. Then, from the balconies, from the pit, from the boxes, the boys rose, and extended their arms towards the masters and mistresses, with a shout, and the latter responded by waving their hands, their hats, and handkerchiefs, as they all stood up, in their emotion. After this, the band played once more, and the audience sent a last noisy salute to the twelve lads of all the provinces of Italy, who presented themselves at the front of the stage, all drawn up in line, with their hands interlaced, beneath a shower of flowers.

STRIFE.

Monday, 26th.

However, it is not out of envy, because he got the prize and I did not, that I quarrelled with Coretti this morning. It was not out of envy. But I was in the wrong. The teacher had placed him beside me, and I was writing in my copy-book for calligraphy; he jogged my elbow and made me blot and soil the monthly story, _Blood of Romagna_, which I was to copy for the little mason, who is ill. I got angry, and said a rude word to him. He replied, with a smile, "I did not do it intentionally." I should have believed him, because I know him; but it displeased me that he should smile, and I thought:--

"Oh! now that he has had a prize, he has grown saucy!" and a little while afterwards, to revenge myself, I gave him a jog which made him spoil his page. Then, all crimson with wrath, "You did that on purpose," he said to me, and raised his hand: the teacher saw it; he drew it back. But he added:--

"I shall wait for you outside!" I felt ill at ease; my wrath had simmered away; I repented. No; Coretti could not have done it intentionally. He is good, I thought. I recalled how I had seen him in his own home; how he had worked and helped his sick mother; and then how heartily he had been welcomed in my house; and how he had pleased my father. What would I not have given not to have said that word to him; not to have insulted him thus! And I thought of the advice that my father had given to me: "Have you done wrong?"--"Yes."--"Then beg his pardon." But this I did not dare to do; I was ashamed to humiliate myself. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, and I saw his coat ripped on the shoulder,--perhaps because he had carried too much wood,--and I felt that I loved him; and I said to myself, "Courage!" But the words, "excuse me," stuck in my throat. He looked at me askance from time to time, and he seemed to me to be more grieved than angry. But at such times I looked malevolently at him, to show him that I was not afraid.

He repeated, "We shall meet outside!" And I said, "We shall meet outside!" But I was thinking of what my father had once said to me, "If you are wronged, defend yourself, but do not fight."

And I said to myself, "I will defend myself, but I will not fight." But I was discontented, and I no longer listened to the master. At last the moment of dismissal arrived. When I was alone in the street I perceived that he was following me. I stopped and waited for him, ruler in hand. He approached; I raised my ruler.

"No, Enrico," he said, with his kindly smile, waving the ruler aside with his hand; "let us be friends again, as before."

I stood still in amazement, and then I felt what seemed to be a hand dealing a push on my shoulders, and I found myself in his arms. He kissed me, and said:--

"We'll have no more altercations between us, will we?"

"Never again! never again!" I replied. And we parted content. But when I returned home, and told my father all about it, thinking to give him pleasure, his face clouded over, and he said:--

"You should have been the first to offer your hand, since you were in the wrong." Then he added, "You should not raise your ruler at a comrade who is better than you are--at the son of a soldier!" and snatching the ruler from my hand, he broke it in two, and hurled it against the wall.

MY SISTER.

Friday, 24th.

Why, Enrico, after our father has already reproved you for having
behaved badly to Coretti, were you so unkind to me? You cannot
imagine the pain that you caused me. Do you not know that when you
were a baby, I stood for hours and hours beside your cradle,
instead of playing with my companions, and that when you were ill,
I got out of bed every night to feel whether your forehead was
burning? Do you not know, you who grieve your sister, that if a
tremendous misfortune should overtake us, I should be a mother to
you and love you like my son? Do you not know that when our father
and mother are no longer here, I shall be your best friend, the
only person with whom you can talk about our dead and your infancy,
and that, should it be necessary, I shall work for you, Enrico, to
earn your bread and to pay for your studies, and that I shall
always love you when you are grown up, that I shall follow you in
thought when you go far away, always because we grew up together
and have the same blood? O Enrico, be sure of this when you are a
man, that if misfortune happens to you, if you are alone, be very
sure that you will seek me, that you will come to me and say:
"Silvia, sister, let me stay with you; let us talk of the days when
we were happy--do you remember? Let us talk of our mother, of our
home, of those beautiful days that are so far away." O Enrico, you
will always find your sister with her arms wide open. Yes, dear
Enrico; and you must forgive me for the reproof that I am
administering to you now. I shall never recall any wrong of yours;
and if you should give me other sorrows, what matters it? You will
always be my brother, the same brother; I shall never recall you
otherwise than as having held you in my arms when a baby, of having
loved our father and mother with you, of having watched you grow
up, of having been for years your most faithful companion. But do
you write me a kind word in this same copy-book, and I will come
for it and read it before the evening. In the meanwhile, to show
you that I am not angry with you, and perceiving that you are
weary, I have copied for you the monthly story, _Blood of Romagna_,
which you were to have copied for the little sick mason. Look in
the left drawer of your table; I have been writing all night, while
you were asleep. Write me a kind word, Enrico, I beseech you.

THY SISTER SILVIA.

I am not worthy to kiss your hands.--ENRICO.

BLOOD OF ROMAGNA.

(_Monthly Story._)

That evening the house of Ferruccio was more silent than was its wont. The father, who kept a little haberdasher's shop, had gone to Forli to make some purchases, and his wife had accompanied him, with Luigina, a baby, whom she was taking to a doctor, that he might operate on a diseased eye; and they were not to return until the following morning. It was almost midnight. The woman who came to do the work by day had gone away at nightfall. In the house there was only the grandmother with the paralyzed legs, and Ferruccio, a lad of thirteen. It was a small house of but one story, situated on the highway, at a gunshot's distance from a village not far from Forli, a town of Romagna; and there was near it only an uninhabited house, ruined two months previously by fire, on which the sign of an inn was still to be seen. Behind the tiny house was a small garden surrounded by a hedge, upon which a rustic gate opened; the door of the shop, which also served as the house door, opened on the highway. All around spread the solitary campagna, vast cultivated fields, planted with mulberry-trees.

It was nearly midnight; it was raining and blowing. Ferruccio and his grandmother, who was still up, were in the dining-room, between which and the garden there was a small, closet-like room, encumbered with old furniture. Ferruccio had only returned home at eleven o'clock, after an absence of many hours, and his grandmother had watched for him with eyes wide open, filled with anxiety, nailed to the large arm-chair, upon which she was accustomed to pass the entire day, and often the whole night as well, since a difficulty of breathing did not allow her to lie down in bed.

It was raining, and the wind beat the rain against the window-panes: the night was very dark. Ferruccio had returned weary, muddy, with his jacket torn, and the livid mark of a stone on his forehead. He had engaged in a stone fight with his comrades; they had come to blows, as usual; and in addition he had gambled, and lost all his soldi, and left his cap in a ditch.

Although the kitchen was illuminated only by a small oil lamp, placed on the corner of the table, near the arm-chair, his poor grandmother had instantly perceived the wretched condition of her grandson, and had partly divined, partly brought him to confess, his misdeeds.

She loved this boy with all her soul. When she had learned all, she began to cry.

"Ah, no!" she said, after a long silence, "you have no heart for your poor grandmother. You have no feeling, to take advantage in this manner of the absence of your father and mother, to cause me sorrow. You have left me alone the whole day long. You had not the slightest compassion. Take care, Ferruccio! You are entering on an evil path which will lead you to a sad end. I have seen others begin like you, and come to a bad end. If you begin by running away from home, by getting into brawls with the other boys, by losing soldi, then, gradually, from stone fights you will come to knives, from gambling to other vices, and from other vices to--theft."

Ferruccio stood listening three paces away, leaning against a cupboard, with his chin on his breast and his brows knit, being still hot with wrath from the brawl. A lock of fine chestnut hair fell across his forehead, and his blue eyes were motionless.

"From gambling to theft!" repeated his grandmother, continuing to weep. "Think of it, Ferruccio! Think of that scourge of the country about here, of that Vito Mozzoni, who is now playing the vagabond in the town; who, at the age of twenty-four, has been twice in prison, and has made that poor woman, his mother, die of a broken heart--I knew her; and his father has fled to Switzerland in despair. Think of that bad fellow, whose salute your father is ashamed to return: he is always roaming with miscreants worse than himself, and some day he will go to the galleys. Well, I knew him as a boy, and he began as you are doing. Reflect that you will reduce your father and mother to the same end as his."