Chapter VII: Part 7

Ferruccio held his peace. He was not at all remorseful at heart; quite the reverse: his misdemeanors arose rather from superabundance of life and audacity than from an evil mind; and his father had managed him badly in precisely this particular, that, holding him capable, at bottom, of the finest sentiments, and also, when put to the proof, of a vigorous and generous action, he left the bridle loose upon his neck, and waited for him to acquire judgment for himself. The lad was good rather than perverse, but stubborn; and it was hard for him, even when his heart was oppressed with repentance, to allow those good words which win pardon to escape his lips, "If I have done wrong, I will do so no more; I promise it; forgive me." His soul was full of tenderness at times; but pride would not permit it to manifest itself.

"Ah, Ferruccio," continued his grandmother, perceiving that he was thus dumb, "not a word of penitence do you utter to me! You see to what a condition I am reduced, so that I am as good as actually buried. You ought not to have the heart to make me suffer so, to make the mother of your mother, who is so old and so near her last day, weep; the poor grandmother who has always loved you so, who rocked you all night long, night after night, when you were a baby a few months old, and who did not eat for amusing you,--you do not know that! I always said, 'This boy will be my consolation!' And now you are killing me! I would willingly give the little life that remains to me if I could see you become a good boy, and an obedient one, as you were in those days when I used to lead you to the sanctuary--do you remember, Ferruccio? You used to fill my pockets with pebbles and weeds, and I carried you home in my arms, fast asleep. You used to love your poor grandma then. And now I am a paralytic, and in need of your affection as of the air to breathe, since I have no one else in the world, poor, half-dead woman that I am: my God!"

Ferruccio was on the point of throwing himself on his grandmother, overcome with emotion, when he fancied that he heard a slight noise, a creaking in the small adjoining room, the one which opened on the garden. But he could not make out whether it was the window-shutters rattling in the wind, or something else.

He bent his head and listened.

The rain beat down noisily.

The sound was repeated. His grandmother heard it also.

"What is it?" asked the grandmother, in perturbation, after a momentary pause.

"The rain," murmured the boy.

"Then, Ferruccio," said the old woman, drying her eyes, "you promise me that you will be good, that you will not make your poor grandmother weep again--"

Another faint sound interrupted her.

"But it seems to me that it is not the rain!" she exclaimed, turning pale. "Go and see!"

But she instantly added, "No; remain here!" and seized Ferruccio by the hand.

Both remained as they were, and held their breath. All they heard was the sound of the water.

Then both were seized with a shivering fit.

It seemed to both that they heard footsteps in the next room.

"Who's there?" demanded the lad, recovering his breath with an effort.

No one replied.

"Who is it?" asked Ferruccio again, chilled with terror.

But hardly had he pronounced these words when both uttered a shriek of terror. Two men sprang into the room. One of them grasped the boy and placed one hand over his mouth; the other clutched the old woman by the throat. The first said:--

"Silence, unless you want to die!"

The second:--

"Be quiet!" and raised aloft a knife.

Both had dark cloths over their faces, with two holes for the eyes.

For a moment nothing was audible but the gasping breath of all four, the patter of the rain; the old woman emitted frequent rattles from her throat, and her eyes were starting from her head.

The man who held the boy said in his ear, "Where does your father keep his money?"

The lad replied in a thread of a voice, with chattering teeth, "Yonder--in the cupboard."

"Come with me," said the man.

And he dragged him into the closet room, holding him securely by the throat. There was a dark lantern standing on the floor.

"Where is the cupboard?" he demanded.

The suffocating boy pointed to the cupboard.

Then, in order to make sure of the boy, the man flung him on his knees in front of the cupboard, and, pressing his neck closely between his own legs, in such a way that he could throttle him if he shouted, and holding his knife in his teeth and his lantern in one hand, with the other he pulled from his pocket a pointed iron, drove it into the lock, fumbled about, broke it, threw the doors wide open, tumbled everything over in a perfect fury of haste, filled his pockets, shut the cupboard again, opened it again, made another search; then he seized the boy by the windpipe again, and pushed him to where the other man was still grasping the old woman, who was convulsed, with her head thrown back and her mouth open.

The latter asked in a low voice, "Did you find it?"

His companion replied, "I found it."

And he added, "See to the door."

The one that was holding the old woman ran to the door of the garden to see if there were any one there, and called in from the little room, in a voice that resembled a hiss, "Come!"

The one who remained behind, and who was still holding Ferruccio fast, showed his knife to the boy and the old woman, who had opened her eyes again, and said, "Not a sound, or I'll come back and cut your throat."

And he glared at the two for a moment.

At this juncture, a song sung by many voices became audible far off on the highway.

The robber turned his head hastily toward the door, and the violence of the movement caused the cloth to fall from his face.

The old woman gave vent to a shriek; "Mozzoni!"

"Accursed woman," roared the robber, on finding himself recognized, "you shall die!"

And he hurled himself, with his knife raised, against the old woman, who swooned on the spot.

The assassin dealt the blow.

But Ferruccio, with an exceedingly rapid movement, and uttering a cry of desperation, had rushed to his grandmother, and covered her body with his own. The assassin fled, stumbling against the table and overturning the light, which was extinguished.

The boy slipped slowly from above his grandmother, fell on his knees, and remained in that attitude, with his arms around her body and his head upon her breast.

Several moments passed; it was very dark; the song of the peasants gradually died away in the campagna. The old woman recovered her senses.

"Ferruccio!" she cried, in a voice that was barely intelligible, with chattering teeth.

"Grandmamma!" replied the lad.

The old woman made an effort to speak; but terror had paralyzed her tongue.

She remained silent for a while, trembling violently.

Then she succeeded in asking:--

"They are not here now?"

"No."

"They did not kill me," murmured the old woman in a stifled voice.

"No; you are safe," said Ferruccio, in a weak voice. "You are safe, dear grandmother. They carried off the money. But daddy had taken nearly all of it with him."

His grandmother drew a deep breath.

"Grandmother," said Ferruccio, still kneeling, and pressing her close to him, "dear grandmother, you love me, don't you?"

"O Ferruccio! my poor little son!" she replied, placing her hands on his head; "what a fright you must have had!--O Lord God of mercy!--Light the lamp. No; let us still remain in the dark! I am still afraid."

"Grandmother," resumed the boy, "I have always caused you grief."

"No, Ferruccio, you must not say such things; I shall never think of that again; I have forgotten everything, I love you so dearly!"

"I have always caused you grief," pursued Ferruccio, with difficulty, and his voice quivered; "but I have always loved you. Do you forgive me?--Forgive me, grandmother."

"Yes, my son, I forgive you with all my heart. Think, how could I help forgiving you! Rise from your knees, my child. I will never scold you again. You are so good, so good! Let us light the lamp. Let us take courage a little. Rise, Ferruccio."

"Thanks, grandmother," said the boy, and his voice was still weaker. "Now--I am content. You will remember me, grandmother--will you not? You will always remember me--your Ferruccio?"

"My Ferruccio!" exclaimed his grandmother, amazed and alarmed, as she laid her hands on his shoulders and bent her head, as though to look him in his face.

"Remember me," murmured the boy once more, in a voice that seemed like a breath. "Give a kiss to my mother--to my father--to Luigina.--Good by, grandmother."

"In the name of Heaven, what is the matter with you?" shrieked the old woman, feeling the boy's head anxiously, as it lay upon her knees; and then with all the power of voice of which her throat was capable, and in desperation: "Ferruccio! Ferruccio! Ferruccio! My child! My love! Angels of Paradise, come to my aid!"

But Ferruccio made no reply. The little hero, the saviour of the mother of his mother, stabbed by a blow from a knife in the back, had rendered up his beautiful and daring soul to God.

THE LITTLE MASON ON HIS SICK-BED.

Tuesday, 18th.

The poor little mason is seriously ill; the master told us to go and see him; and Garrone, Derossi, and I agreed to go together. Stardi would have come also, but as the teacher had assigned us the description of _The Monument to Cavour_, he told us that he must go and see the monument, in order that his description might be more exact. So, by way of experiment, we invited that puffed-up fellow, Nobis, who replied "No," and nothing more. Votini also excused himself, perhaps because he was afraid of soiling his clothes with plaster.

We went there when we came out of school at four o'clock. It was raining in torrents. On the street Garrone halted, and said, with his mouth full of bread:--

"What shall I buy?" and he rattled a couple of soldi in his pocket. We each contributed two soldi, and purchased three huge oranges. We ascended to the garret. At the door Derossi removed his medal and put it in his pocket. I asked him why.

"I don't know," he answered; "in order not to have the air: it strikes me as more delicate to go in without my medal." We knocked; the father, that big man who looks like a giant, opened to us; his face was distorted so that he appeared terrified.

"Who are you?" he demanded. Garrone replied:--

"We are Antonio's schoolmates, and we have brought him three oranges."

"Ah, poor Tonino!" exclaimed the mason, shaking his head, "I fear that he will never eat your oranges!" and he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He made us come in. We entered an attic room, where we saw "the little mason" asleep in a little iron bed; his mother hung dejectedly over the bed, with her face in her hands, and she hardly turned to look at us; on one side hung brushes, a trowel, and a plaster-sieve; over the feet of the sick boy was spread the mason's jacket, white with lime. The poor boy was emaciated; very, very white; his nose was pointed, and his breath was short. O dear Tonino, my little comrade! you who were so kind and merry, how it pains me! what would I not give to see you make the hare's face once more, poor little mason! Garrone laid an orange on his pillow, close to his face; the odor waked him; he grasped it instantly; then let go of it, and gazed intently at Garrone.

"It is I," said the latter; "Garrone: do you know me?" He smiled almost imperceptibly, lifted his stubby hand with difficulty from the bed and held it out to Garrone, who took it between his, and laid it against his cheek, saying:--

"Courage, courage, little mason; you are going to get well soon and come back to school, and the master will put you next to me; will that please you?"

But the little mason made no reply. His mother burst into sobs: "Oh, my poor Tonino! My poor Tonino! He is so brave and good, and God is going to take him from us!"

"Silence!" cried the mason; "silence, for the love of God, or I shall lose my reason!"

Then he said to us, with anxiety: "Go, go, boys, thanks; go! what do you want to do here? Thanks; go home!" The boy had closed his eyes again, and appeared to be dead.

"Do you need any assistance?" asked Garrone.

"No, my good boy, thanks," the mason answered. And so saying, he pushed us out on the landing, and shut the door. But we were not half-way down the stairs, when we heard him calling, "Garrone! Garrone!"

We all three mounted the stairs once more in haste.

"Garrone!" shouted the mason, with a changed countenance, "he has called you by name; it is two days since he spoke; he has called you twice; he wants you; come quickly! Ah, holy God, if this is only a good sign!"

"Farewell for the present," said Garrone to us; "I shall remain," and he ran in with the father. Derossi's eyes were full of tears. I said to him:--

"Are you crying for the little mason? He has spoken; he will recover."

"I believe it," replied Derossi; "but I was not thinking of him. I was thinking how good Garrone is, and what a beautiful soul he has."

COUNT CAVOUR.

Wednesday, 29th.

You are to make a description of the monument to Count Cavour. You
can do it. But who was Count Cavour? You cannot understand at
present. For the present this is all you know: he was for many
years the prime minister of Piemont. It was he who sent the
Piemontese army to the Crimea to raise once more, with the victory
of the Cernaia, our military glory, which had fallen with the
defeat at Novara; it was he who made one hundred and fifty thousand
Frenchmen descend from the Alps to chase the Austrians from
Lombardy; it was he who governed Italy in the most solemn period of
our revolution; who gave, during those years, the most potent
impulse to the holy enterprise of the unification of our
country,--he with his luminous mind, with his invincible
perseverance, with his more than human industry. Many generals have
passed terrible hours on the field of battle; but he passed more
terrible ones in his cabinet, when his enormous work might suffer
destruction at any moment, like a fragile edifice at the tremor of
an earthquake. Hours, nights of struggle and anguish did he pass,
sufficient to make him issue from it with reason distorted and
death in his heart. And it was this gigantic and stormy work which
shortened his life by twenty years. Nevertheless, devoured by the
fever which was to cast him into his grave, he yet contended
desperately with the malady in order to accomplish something for
his country. "It is strange," he said sadly on his death-bed, "I no
longer know how to read; I can no longer read."

While they were bleeding him, and the fever was increasing, he was
thinking of his country, and he said imperiously: "Cure me; my mind
is clouding over; I have need of all my faculties to manage
important affairs." When he was already reduced to extremities, and
the whole city was in a tumult, and the king stood at his bedside,
he said anxiously, "I have many things to say to you, Sire, many
things to show you; but I am ill; I cannot, I cannot;" and he was
in despair.

And his feverish thoughts hovered ever round the State, round the
new Italian provinces which had been united with us, round the many
things which still remained to be done. When delirium seized him,
"Educate the children!" he exclaimed, between his gasps for
breath,--"educate the children and the young people--govern with
liberty!"

His delirium increased; death hovered over him, and with burning
words he invoked General Garibaldi, with whom he had had
disagreements, and Venice and Rome, which were not yet free: he had
vast visions of the future of Italy and of Europe; he dreamed of a
foreign invasion; he inquired where the corps of the army were, and
the generals; he still trembled for us, for his people. His great
sorrow was not, you understand, that he felt that his life was
going, but to see himself fleeing his country, which still had need
of him, and for which he had, in a few years, worn out the
measureless forces of his miraculous organism. He died with the
battle-cry in his throat, and his death was as great as his life.
Now reflect a little, Enrico, what sort of a thing is our labor,
which nevertheless so weighs us down; what are our griefs, our
death itself, in the face of the toils, the terrible anxieties, the
tremendous agonies of these men upon whose hearts rests a world!
Think of this, my son, when you pass before that marble image, and
say to it, "Glory!" in your heart.

THY FATHER.

APRIL.

SPRING.

Saturday, 1st.

THE first of April! Only three months more! This has been one of the most beautiful mornings of the year. I was happy in school because Coretti told me to come day after to-morrow to see the king make his entrance with his father, _who knows him_, and because my mother had promised to take me the same day to visit the Infant Asylum in the Corso Valdocco. I was pleased, too, because the little mason is better, and because the teacher said to my father yesterday evening as he was passing, "He is doing well; he is doing well."

And then it was a beautiful spring morning. From the school windows we could see the blue sky, the trees of the garden all covered with buds, and the wide-open windows of the houses, with their boxes and vases already growing green. The master did not laugh, because he never laughs; but he was in a good humor, so that that perpendicular wrinkle hardly ever appeared on his brow; and he explained a problem on the blackboard, and jested. And it was plain that he felt a pleasure in breathing the air of the gardens which entered through the open window, redolent with the fresh odor of earth and leaves, which suggested thoughts of country rambles.

While he was explaining, we could hear in a neighboring street a blacksmith hammering on his anvil, and in the house opposite, a woman singing to lull her baby to sleep; far away, in the Cernaia barracks, the trumpets were sounding. Every one appeared pleased, even Stardi. At a certain moment the blacksmith began to hammer more vigorously, the woman to sing more loudly. The master paused and lent an ear. Then he said, slowly, as he gazed out of the window:--

"The smiling sky, a singing mother, an honest man at work, boys at study,--these are beautiful things."

When we emerged from the school, we saw that every one else was cheerful also. All walked in a line, stamping loudly with their feet, and humming, as though on the eve of a four days' vacation; the schoolmistresses were playful; the one with the red feather tripped along behind the children like a schoolgirl; the parents of the boys were chatting together and smiling, and Crossi's mother, the vegetable-vender, had so many bunches of violets in her basket, that they filled the whole large hall with perfume.

I have never felt such happiness as this morning on catching sight of my mother, who was waiting for me in the street. And I said to her as I ran to meet her:--

"Oh, I am happy! what is it that makes me so happy this morning?" And my mother answered me with a smile that it was the beautiful season and a good conscience.

KING UMBERTO.

Monday, 3d.

At ten o'clock precisely my father saw from the window Coretti, the wood-seller, and his son waiting for me in the square, and said to me:--

"There they are, Enrico; go and see your king."

I went like a flash. Both father and son were even more alert than usual, and they never seemed to me to resemble each other so strongly as this morning. The father wore on his jacket the medal for valor between two commemorative medals, and his mustaches were curled and as pointed as two pins.

We at once set out for the railway station, where the king was to arrive at half-past ten. Coretti, the father, smoked his pipe and rubbed his hands. "Do you know," said he, "I have not seen him since the war of 'sixty-six? A trifle of fifteen years and six months. First, three years in France, and then at Mondovì, and here, where I might have seen him, I have never had the good luck of being in the city when he came. Such a combination of circumstances!"

He called the King "Umberto," like a comrade. Umberto commanded the 16th division; Umberto was twenty-two years and so many days old; Umberto mounted a horse thus and so.

"Fifteen years!" he said vehemently, accelerating his pace. "I really have a great desire to see him again. I left him a prince; I see him once more, a king. And I, too, have changed. From a soldier I have become a hawker of wood." And he laughed.

His son asked him, "If he were to see you, would he remember you?"

He began to laugh.

"You are crazy!" he answered. "That's quite another thing. He, Umberto, was one single man; we were as numerous as flies. And then, he never looked at us one by one."

We turned into the Corso Vittorio Emanuele; there were many people on their way to the station. A company of Alpine soldiers passed with their trumpets. Two armed policemen passed by on horseback at a gallop. The day was serene and brilliant.

"Yes!" exclaimed the elder Coretti, growing animated, "it is a real pleasure to me to see him once more, the general of my division. Ah, how quickly I have grown old! It seems as though it were only the other day that I had my knapsack on my shoulders and my gun in my hands, at that affair of the 24th of June, when we were on the point of coming to blows. Umberto was going to and fro with his officers, while the cannon were thundering in the distance; and every one was gazing at him and saying, 'May there not be a bullet for him also!' I was a thousand miles from thinking that I should soon find myself so near him, in front of the lances of the Austrian uhlans; actually, only four paces from each other, boys. That was a fine day; the sky was like a mirror; but so hot! Let us see if we can get in."

We had arrived at the station; there was a great crowd,--carriages, policemen, carabineers, societies with banners. A regimental band was playing. The elder Coretti attempted to enter the portico, but he was stopped. Then it occurred to him to force his way into the front row of the crowd which formed an opening at the entrance; and making way with his elbow, he succeeded in thrusting us forward also. But the undulating throng flung us hither and thither a little. The wood-seller got his eye upon the first pillar of the portico, where the police did not allow any one to stand; "Come with me," he said suddenly, dragging us by the hand; and he crossed the empty space in two bounds, and went and planted himself there, with his back against the wall.

A police brigadier instantly hurried up and said to him, "You can't stand here."

"I belong to the fourth battalion of forty-nine," replied Coretti, touching his medal.

The brigadier glanced at it, and said, "Remain."

"Didn't I say so!" exclaimed Coretti triumphantly; "it's a magic word, that fourth of the forty-ninth! Haven't I the right to see my general with some little comfort,--I, who was in that squadron? I saw him close at hand then; it seems right that I should see him close at hand now. And I say general! He was my battalion commander for a good half-hour; for at such moments he commanded the battalion himself, while it was in the heart of things, and not Major Ubrich, by Heavens!"

In the meantime, in the reception-room and outside, a great mixture of gentlemen and officers was visible, and in front of the door, the carriages, with the lackeys dressed in red, were drawn up in a line.

Coretti asked his father whether Prince Umberto had his sword in his hand when he was with the regiment.

"He would certainly have had his sword in his hand," the latter replied, "to ward off a blow from a lance, which might strike him as well as another. Ah! those unchained demons! They came down on us like the wrath of God; they descended on us. They swept between the groups, the squadrons, the cannon, as though tossed by a hurricane, crushing down everything. There was a whirl of light cavalry of Alessandria, of lancers of Foggia, of infantry, of sharpshooters, a pandemonium in which nothing could any longer be understood. I heard the shout, 'Your Highness! your Highness!' I saw the lowered lances approaching; we discharged our guns; a cloud of smoke hid everything. Then the smoke cleared away. The ground was covered with horses and uhlans, wounded and dead. I turned round, and beheld in our midst Umberto, on horseback, gazing tranquilly about, with the air of demanding, 'Have any of my lads received a scratch?' And we shouted to him, 'Hurrah!' right in his face, like madmen. Heavens, what a moment that was! Here's the train coming!"

The band struck up; the officers hastened forward; the crowd elevated themselves on tiptoe.

"Eh, he won't come out in a hurry," said a policeman; "they are presenting him with an address now."

The elder Coretti was beside himself with impatience.

"Ah! when I think of it," he said, "I always see him there. Of course, there is cholera and there are earthquakes; and in them, too, he bears himself bravely; but I always have him before my mind as I saw him then, among us, with that tranquil face. I am sure that he too recalls the fourth of the forty-ninth, even now that he is King; and that it would give him pleasure to have for once, at a table together, all those whom he saw about him at such moments. Now, he has generals, and great gentlemen, and courtiers; then, there was no one but us poor soldiers. If we could only exchange a few words alone! Our general of twenty-two; our prince, who was intrusted to our bayonets! I have not seen him for fifteen years. Our Umberto! that's what he is! Ah! that music stirs my blood, on my word of honor."

An outburst of shouts interrupted him; thousands of hats rose in the air; four gentlemen dressed in black got into the first carriage.

"'Tis he!" cried Coretti, and stood as though enchanted.

Then he said softly, "Madonna mia, how gray he has grown!"

We all three uncovered our heads; the carriage advanced slowly through the crowd, who shouted and waved their hats. I looked at the elder Coretti. He seemed to me another man; he seemed to have become taller, graver, rather pale, and fastened bolt upright against the pillar.

The carriage arrived in front of us, a pace distant from the pillar. "Hurrah!" shouted many voices.

"Hurrah!" shouted Coretti, after the others.

The King glanced at his face, and his eye dwelt for a moment on his three medals.

Then Coretti lost his head, and roared, "The fourth battalion of the forty-ninth!"

The King, who had turned away, turned towards us again, and looking Coretti straight in the eye, reached his hand out of the carriage.

Coretti gave one leap forwards and clasped it. The carriage passed on; the crowd broke in and separated us; we lost sight of the elder Coretti. But it was only for a moment. We found him again directly, panting, with wet eyes, calling for his son by name, and holding his hand on high. His son flew towards him, and he said, "Here, little one, while my hand is still warm!" and he passed his hand over the boy's face, saying, "This is a caress from the King."

And there he stood, as though in a dream, with his eyes fixed on the distant carriage, smiling, with his pipe in his hand, in the centre of a group of curious people, who were staring at him. "He's one of the fourth battalion of the forty-ninth!" they said. "He is a soldier that knows the King." "And the King recognized him." "And he offered him his hand." "He gave the King a petition," said one, more loudly.

"No," replied Coretti, whirling round abruptly; "I did not give him any petition. There is something else that I would give him, if he were to ask it of me."

They all stared at him.

And he said simply, "My blood."

THE INFANT ASYLUM.

Tuesday, 4th.

After breakfast yesterday my mother took me, as she had promised, to the Infant Asylum in the Corso Valdocco, in order to recommend to the directress a little sister of Precossi. I had never seen an asylum. How much amused I was! There were two hundred of them, boy-babies and girl-babies, and so small that the children in our lower primary schools are men in comparison.

We arrived just as they were entering the refectory in two files, where there were two very long tables, with a great many round holes, and in each hole a black bowl filled with rice and beans, and a tin spoon beside it. On entering, some grew confused and remained on the floor until the mistresses ran and picked them up. Many halted in front of a bowl, thinking it was their proper place, and had already swallowed a spoonful, when a mistress arrived and said, "Go on!" and then they advanced three or four paces and got down another spoonful, and then advanced again, until they reached their own places, after having fraudulently disposed of half a portion. At last, by dint of pushing and crying, "Make haste! make haste!" they were all got into order, and the prayer was begun. But all those on the inner line, who had to turn their backs on the bowls for the prayer, twisted their heads round so that they could keep an eye on them, lest some one might meddle; and then they said their prayer thus, with hands clasped and their eyes on the ceiling, but with their hearts on their food. Then they set to eating. Ah, what a charming sight it was! One ate with two spoons, another with his hands; many picked up the beans one by one, and thrust them into their pockets; others wrapped them tightly in their little aprons, and pounded them to reduce them to a paste. There were even some who did not eat, because they were watching the flies flying, and others coughed and sprinkled a shower of rice all around them. It resembled a poultry-yard. But it was charming. The two rows of babies formed a pretty sight, with their hair all tied on the tops of their heads with red, green, and blue ribbons. One teacher asked a row of eight children, "Where does rice grow?" The whole eight opened their mouths wide, filled as they were with the pottage, and replied in concert, in a sing-song, "It grows in the water." Then the teacher gave the order, "Hands up!" and it was pretty to see all those little arms fly up, which a few months ago were all in swaddling-clothes, and all those little hands flourishing, which looked like so many white and pink butterflies.

Then they all went to recreation; but first they all took their little baskets, which were hanging on the wall with their lunches in them. They went out into the garden and scattered, drawing forth their provisions as they did so,--bread, stewed plums, a tiny bit of cheese, a hard-boiled egg, little apples, a handful of boiled vetches, or a wing of chicken. In an instant the whole garden was strewn with crumbs, as though they had been scattered from their feed by a flock of birds. They ate in all the queerest ways,--like rabbits, like rats, like cats, nibbling, licking, sucking. There was one child who held a bit of rye bread hugged closely to his breast, and was rubbing it with a medlar, as though he were polishing a sword. Some of the little ones crushed in their fists small cheeses, which trickled between their fingers like milk, and ran down inside their sleeves, and they were utterly unconscious of it. They ran and chased each other with apples and rolls in their teeth, like dogs. I saw three of them excavating a hard-boiled egg with a straw, thinking to discover treasures, and they spilled half of it on the ground, and then picked the crumbs up again one by one with great patience, as though they had been pearls. And those who had anything extraordinary were surrounded by eight or ten, who stood staring at the baskets with bent heads, as though they were looking at the moon in a well. There were twenty congregated round a mite of a fellow who had a paper horn of sugar, and they were going through all sorts of ceremonies with him for the privilege of dipping their bread in it, and he accorded it to some, while to others, after many prayers, he only granted his finger to suck.

In the meantime, my mother had come into the garden and was caressing now one and now another. Many hung about her, and even on her back, begging for a kiss, with faces upturned as though to a third story, and with mouths that opened and shut as though asking for the breast. One offered her the quarter of an orange which had been bitten, another a small crust of bread; one little girl gave her a leaf; another showed her, with all seriousness, the tip of her forefinger, a minute examination of which revealed a microscopic swelling, which had been caused by touching the flame of a candle on the preceding day. They placed before her eyes, as great marvels, very tiny insects, which I cannot understand their being able to see and catch, the halfs of corks, shirt-buttons, and flowerets pulled from the vases. One child, with a bandaged head, who was determined to be heard at any cost, stammered out to her some story about a head-over-heels tumble, not one word of which was intelligible; another insisted that my mother should bend down, and then whispered in her ear, "My father makes brushes."

And in the meantime a thousand accidents were happening here and there which caused the teachers to hasten up. Children wept because they could not untie a knot in their handkerchiefs; others disputed, with scratches and shrieks, the halves of an apple; one child, who had fallen face downward over a little bench which had been overturned, wept amid the ruins, and could not rise.

Before her departure my mother took three or four of them in her arms, and they ran up from all quarters to be taken also, their faces smeared with yolk of egg and orange juice; and one caught her hands; another her finger, to look at her ring; another tugged at her watch chain; another tried to seize her by the hair.

"Take care," the teacher said to her; "they will tear your clothes all to pieces."

But my mother cared nothing for her dress, and she continued to kiss them, and they pressed closer and closer to her: those who were nearest, with their arms extended as though they were desirous of climbing; the more distant endeavoring to make their way through the crowd, and all screaming:--

"Good by! good by! good by!"

At last she succeeded in escaping from the garden. And they all ran and thrust their faces through the railings to see her pass, and to thrust their arms through to greet her, offering her once more bits of bread, bites of apple, cheese-rinds, and all screaming in concert:--

"Good by! good by! good by! Come back to-morrow! Come again!"

As my mother made her escape, she passed her hand once more over those hundreds of tiny outstretched hands as over a garland of living roses, and finally arrived safely in the street, covered with crumbs and spots, rumpled and dishevelled, with one hand full of flowers and her eyes swelling with tears, and happy as though she had come from a festival. And inside there was still audible a sound like the twittering of birds, saying:--

"Good by! good by! Come again, _madama_!"

GYMNASTICS.

Tuesday, 5th.

As the weather continues extremely fine, they have made us pass from chamber gymnastics to gymnastics with apparatus in the garden.

Garrone was in the head-master's office yesterday when Nelli's mother, that blond woman dressed in black, came in to get her son excused from the new exercises. Every word cost her an effort; and as she spoke, she held one hand on her son's head.

"He is not able to do it," she said to the head-master. But Nelli showed much grief at this exclusion from the apparatus, at having this added humiliation imposed upon him.

"You will see, mamma," he said, "that I shall do like the rest."

His mother gazed at him in silence, with an air of pity and affection. Then she remarked, in a hesitating way, "I fear lest his companions--"

What she meant to say was, "lest they should make sport of him." But Nelli replied:--

"They will not do anything to me--and then, there is Garrone. It is sufficient for him to be present, to prevent their laughing."

And then he was allowed to come. The teacher with the wound on his neck, who was with Garibaldi, led us at once to the vertical bars, which are very high, and we had to climb to the very top, and stand upright on the transverse plank. Derossi and Coretti went up like monkeys; even little Precossi mounted briskly, in spite of the fact that he was embarrassed with that jacket which extends to his knees; and in order to make him laugh while he was climbing, all the boys repeated to him his constant expression, "Excuse me! excuse me!" Stardi puffed, turned as red as a turkey-cock, and set his teeth until he looked like a mad dog; but he would have reached the top at the expense of bursting, and he actually did get there; and so did Nobis, who, when he reached the summit, assumed the attitude of an emperor; but Votini slipped back twice, notwithstanding his fine new suit with azure stripes, which had been made expressly for gymnastics.

In order to climb the more easily, all the boys had daubed their hands with resin, which they call colophony, and as a matter of course it is that trader of a Garoffi who provides every one with it, in a powdered form, selling it at a soldo the paper hornful, and turning a pretty penny.

Then it was Garrone's turn, and up he went, chewing away at his bread as though it were nothing out of the common; and I believe that he would have been capable of carrying one of us up on his shoulders, for he is as muscular and strong as a young bull.

After Garrone came Nelli. No sooner did the boys see him grasp the bars with those long, thin hands of his, than many of them began to laugh and to sing; but Garrone crossed his big arms on his breast, and darted round a glance which was so expressive, which so clearly said that he did not mind dealing out half a dozen punches, even in the master's presence, that they all ceased laughing on the instant. Nelli began to climb. He tried hard, poor little fellow; his face grew purple, he breathed with difficulty, and the perspiration poured from his brow. The master said, "Come down!" But he would not. He strove and persisted. I expected every moment to see him fall headlong, half dead. Poor Nelli! I thought, what if I had been like him, and my mother had seen me! How she would have suffered, poor mother! And as I thought of that I felt so tenderly towards Nelli that I could have given, I know not what, to be able, for the sake of having him climb those bars, to give him a push from below without being seen.

Meanwhile Garrone, Derossi, and Coretti were saying: "Up with you, Nelli, up with you!" "Try--one effort more--courage!" And Nelli made one more violent effort, uttering a groan as he did so, and found himself within two spans of the plank.

"Bravo!" shouted the others. "Courage--one dash more!" and behold Nelli clinging to the plank.

All clapped their hands. "Bravo!" said the master. "But that will do now. Come down."

But Nelli wished to ascend to the top like the rest, and after a little exertion he succeeded in getting his elbows on the plank, then his knees, then his feet; at last he stood upright, panting and smiling, and gazed at us.

We began to clap again, and then he looked into the street. I turned in that direction, and through the plants which cover the iron railing of the garden I caught sight of his mother, passing along the sidewalk without daring to look. Nelli descended, and we all made much of him. He was excited and rosy, his eyes sparkled, and he no longer seemed like the same boy.

Then, at the close of school, when his mother came to meet him, and inquired with some anxiety, as she embraced him, "Well, my poor son, how did it go? how did it go?" all his comrades replied, in concert, "He did well--he climbed like the rest of us--he's strong, you know--he's active--he does exactly like the others."

And then the joy of that woman was a sight to see. She tried to thank us, and could not; she shook hands with three or four, bestowed a caress on Garrone, and carried off her son; and we watched them for a while, walking in haste, and talking and gesticulating, both perfectly happy, as though no one were looking at them.

MY FATHER'S TEACHER.

Tuesday, 11th.

What a beautiful excursion I took yesterday with my father! This is the way it came about.

Day before yesterday, at dinner, as my father was reading the newspaper, he suddenly uttered an exclamation of astonishment. Then he said:--

"And I thought him dead twenty years ago! Do you know that my old first elementary teacher, Vincenzo Crosetti, is eighty-four years old? I see here that the minister has conferred on him the medal of merit for sixty years of teaching. Six-ty ye-ars, you understand! And it is only two years since he stopped teaching school. Poor Crosetti! He lives an hour's journey from here by rail, at Condove, in the country of our old gardener's wife, of the town of Chieri." And he added, "Enrico, we will go and see him."

And the whole evening he talked of nothing but him. The name of his primary teacher recalled to his mind a thousand things which had happened when he was a boy, his early companions, his dead mother. "Crosetti!" he exclaimed. "He was forty when I was with him. I seem to see him now. He was a small man, somewhat bent even then, with bright eyes, and always cleanly shaved. Severe, but in a good way; for he loved us like a father, and forgave us more than one offence. He had risen from the condition of a peasant by dint of study and privations. He was a fine man. My mother was attached to him, and my father treated him like a friend. How comes it that he has gone to end his days at Condove, near Turin? He certainly will not recognize me. Never mind; I shall recognize him. Forty-four years have elapsed,--forty-four years, Enrico! and we will go to see him to-morrow."

And yesterday morning, at nine o'clock, we were at the Susa railway station. I should have liked to have Garrone come too; but he could not, because his mother is ill.

It was a beautiful spring day. The train ran through green fields and hedgerows in blossom, and the air we breathed was perfumed. My father was delighted, and every little while he would put his arm round my neck and talk to me like a friend, as he gazed out over the country.

"Poor Crosetti!" he said; "he was the first man, after my father, to love me and do me good. I have never forgotten certain of his good counsels, and also certain sharp reprimands which caused me to return home with a lump in my throat. His hands were large and stubby. I can see him now, as he used to enter the schoolroom, place his cane in a corner and hang his coat on the peg, always with the same gesture. And every day he was in the same humor,--always conscientious, full of good will, and attentive, as though each day he were teaching school for the first time. I remember him as well as though I heard him now when he called to me: 'Bottini! eh, Bottini! The fore and middle fingers on that pen!' He must have changed greatly in these four and forty years."

As soon as we reached Condove, we went in search of our old gardener's wife of Chieri, who keeps a stall in an alley. We found her with her boys: she made much of us and gave us news of her husband, who is soon to return from Greece, where he has been working these three years; and of her eldest daughter, who is in the Deaf-mute Institute in Turin. Then she pointed out to us the street which led to the teacher's house,--for every one knows him.

We left the town, and turned into a steep lane flanked by blossoming hedges.

My father no longer talked, but appeared entirely absorbed in his reminiscences; and every now and then he smiled, and then shook his head.

Suddenly he halted and said: "Here he is. I will wager that this is he." Down the lane towards us a little old man with a white beard and a large hat was descending, leaning on a cane. He dragged his feet along, and his hands trembled.

"It is he!" repeated my father, hastening his steps.

When we were close to him, we stopped. The old man stopped also and looked at my father. His face was still fresh colored, and his eyes were clear and vivacious.

"Are you," asked my father, raising his hat, "Vincenzo Crosetti, the schoolmaster?"

The old man raised his hat also, and replied: "I am," in a voice that was somewhat tremulous, but full.

"Well, then," said my father, taking one of his hands, "permit one of your old scholars to shake your hand and to inquire how you are. I have come from Turin to see you."

The old man stared at him in amazement. Then he said: "You do me too much honor. I do not know--When were you my scholar? Excuse me; your name, if you please."

My father mentioned his name, Alberto Bottini, and the year in which he had attended school, and where, and he added: "It is natural that you should not remember me. But I recollect you so perfectly!"

The master bent his head and gazed at the ground in thought, and muttered my father's name three or four times; the latter, meanwhile, observed him with intent and smiling eyes.

All at once the old man raised his face, with his eyes opened widely, and said slowly: "Alberto Bottini? the son of Bottini, the engineer? the one who lived in the Piazza della Consolata?"

"The same," replied my father, extending his hands.

"Then," said the old man, "permit me, my dear sir, permit me"; and advancing, he embraced my father: his white head hardly reached the latter's shoulder. My father pressed his cheek to the other's brow.

"Have the goodness to come with me," said the teacher. And without speaking further he turned about and took the road to his dwelling.

In a few minutes we arrived at a garden plot in front of a tiny house with two doors, round one of which there was a fragment of whitewashed wall.

The teacher opened the second and ushered us into a room. There were four white walls: in one corner a cot bed with a blue and white checked coverlet; in another, a small table with a little library; four chairs, and one ancient geographical map nailed to the wall. A pleasant odor of apples was perceptible.

We seated ourselves, all three. My father and his teacher remained silent for several minutes.

"Bottini!" exclaimed the master at length, fixing his eyes on the brick floor where the sunlight formed a checker-board. "Oh! I remember well! Your mother was such a good woman! For a while, during your first year, you sat on a bench to the left near the window. Let us see whether I do not recall it. I can still see your curly head." Then he thought for a while longer. "You were a lively lad, eh? Very. The second year you had an attack of croup. I remember when they brought you back to school, emaciated and wrapped up in a shawl. Forty years have elapsed since then, have they not? You are very kind to remember your poor teacher. And do you know, others of my old pupils have come hither in years gone by to seek me out: there was a colonel, and there were some priests, and several gentlemen." He asked my father what his profession was. Then he said, "I am glad, heartily glad. I thank you. It is quite a while now since I have seen any one. I very much fear that you will be the last, my dear sir."

"Don't say that," exclaimed my father. "You are well and still vigorous. You must not say that."

"Eh, no!" replied the master; "do you see this trembling?" and he showed us his hands. "This is a bad sign. It seized on me three years ago, while I was still teaching school. At first I paid no attention to it; I thought it would pass off. But instead of that, it stayed and kept on increasing. A day came when I could no longer write. Ah! that day on which I, for the first time, made a blot on the copy-book of one of my scholars was a stab in the heart for me, my dear sir. I did drag on for a while longer; but I was at the end of my strength. After sixty years of teaching I was forced to bid farewell to my school, to my scholars, to work. And it was hard, you understand, hard. The last time that I gave a lesson, all the scholars accompanied me home, and made much of me; but I was sad; I understood that my life was finished. I had lost my wife the year before, and my only son. I had only two peasant grandchildren left. Now I am living on a pension of a few hundred lire. I no longer do anything; it seems to me as though the days would never come to an end. My only occupation, you see, is to turn over my old schoolbooks, my scholastic journals, and a few volumes that have been given to me. There they are," he said, indicating his little library; "there are my reminiscences, my whole past; I have nothing else remaining to me in the world."

Then in a tone that was suddenly joyous, "I want to give you a surprise, my dear Signor Bottini."

He rose, and approaching his desk, he opened a long casket which contained numerous little parcels, all tied up with a slender cord, and on each was written a date in four figures.

After a little search, he opened one, turned over several papers, drew forth a yellowed sheet, and handed it to my father. It was some of his school work of forty years before.