Part 3 (1/2)
Sometimes my brother's teacher gets into a rage with the boys; and when she can resist no longer, she bites her finger, to keep herself from dealing a blow; she loses patience, and then she repents, and caresses the child whom she has scolded; she sends a little rogue out of school, and then swallows her tears, and flies into a rage with parents who make the little ones fast by way of punishment. Schoolmistress Delcati is young and tall, well-dressed, brown of complexion, and restless; she does everything vivaciously, as though on springs, is affected by a mere trifle, and at such times speaks with great tenderness.
”But the children become attached to you, surely,” my mother said to her.
”Many do,” she replied; ”but at the end of the year the majority of them pay no further heed to us. When they are with the masters, they are almost ashamed of having been with us--with a woman teacher. After two years of cares, after having loved a child so much, it makes us feel sad to part from him; but we say to ourselves, 'Oh, I am sure of that one; he is fond of me.' But the vacation over, he comes back to school. I run to meet him; 'Oh, my child, my child!' And he turns his head away.” Here the teacher interrupted herself. ”But you will not do so, little one?”
she said, raising her humid eyes, and kissing my brother. ”You will not turn aside your head, will you? You will not deny your poor friend?”
MY MOTHER.
Thursday, November 10th.
In the presence of your brother's teacher you failed in respect to your mother! Let this never happen again, my Enrico, never again!
Your irreverent word pierced my heart like a point of steel. I thought of your mother when, years ago, she bent the whole of one night over your little bed, measuring your breathing, weeping blood in her anguish, and with her teeth chattering with terror, because she thought that she had lost you, and I feared that she would lose her reason; and at this thought I felt a sentiment of horror at you. You, to offend your mother! your mother, who would give a year of happiness to spare you one hour of pain, who would beg for you, who would allow herself to be killed to save your life! Listen, Enrico. Fix this thought well in your mind. Reflect that you are destined to experience many terrible days in the course of your life: the most terrible will be that on which you lose your mother.
A thousand times, Enrico, after you are a man, strong, and inured to all fates, you will invoke her, oppressed with an intense desire to hear her voice, if but for a moment, and to see once more her open arms, into which you can throw yourself sobbing, like a poor child bereft of comfort and protection. How you will then recall every bitterness that you have caused her, and with what remorse you will pay for all, unhappy wretch! Hope for no peace in your life, if you have caused your mother grief. You will repent, you will beg her forgiveness, you will venerate her memory--in vain; conscience will give you no rest; that sweet and gentle image will always wear for you an expression of sadness and of reproach which will put your soul to torture. Oh, Enrico, beware; this is the most sacred of human affections; unhappy he who tramples it under foot.
The a.s.sa.s.sin who respects his mother has still something honest and n.o.ble in his heart; the most glorious of men who grieves and offends her is but a vile creature. Never again let a harsh word issue from your lips, for the being who gave you life. And if one should ever escape you, let it not be the fear of your father, but let it be the impulse of your soul, which casts you at her feet, to beseech her that she will cancel from your brow, with the kiss of forgiveness, the stain of ingrat.i.tude. I love you, my son; you are the dearest hope of my life; but I would rather see you dead than ungrateful to your mother. Go away, for a little s.p.a.ce; offer me no more of your caresses; I should not be able to return them from my heart.
THY FATHER.
MY COMPANION CORETTI.
Sunday, 13th.
My father forgave me; but I remained rather sad and then my mother sent me, with the porter's big son, to take a walk on the Corso. Half-way down the Corso, as we were pa.s.sing a cart which was standing in front of a shop, I heard some one call me by name: I turned round; it was Coretti, my schoolmate, with chocolate-colored clothes and his catskin cap, all in a perspiration, but merry, with a big load of wood on his shoulders. A man who was standing in the cart was handing him an armful of wood at a time, which he took and carried into his father's shop, where he piled it up in the greatest haste.
”What are you doing, Coretti?” I asked him.
”Don't you see?” he answered, reaching out his arms to receive the load; ”I am reviewing my lesson.”
I laughed; but he seemed to be serious, and, having grasped the armful of wood, he began to repeat as he ran, ”_The conjugation of the verb--consists in its variations according to number--according to number and person--_”
And then, throwing down the wood and piling it, ”_according to the time--according to the time to which the action refers._”
And turning to the cart for another armful, ”_according to the mode in which the action is enunciated._”
It was our grammar lesson for the following day. ”What would you have me do?” he said. ”I am putting my time to use. My father has gone off with the man on business; my mother is ill. It falls to me to do the unloading. In the meantime, I am going over my grammar lesson. It is a difficult lesson to-day; I cannot succeed in getting it into my head.--My father said that he would be here at seven o'clock to give you your money,” he said to the man with the cart.
The cart drove off. ”Come into the shop a minute,” Coretti said to me. I went in. It was a large apartment, full of piles of wood and f.a.gots, with a steelyard on one side.
”This is a busy day, I can a.s.sure you,” resumed Coretti; ”I have to do my work by fits and starts. I was writing my phrases, when some customers came in. I went to writing again, and behold, that cart arrived. I have already made two trips to the wood market in the Piazza Venezia this morning. My legs are so tired that I cannot stand, and my hands are all swollen. I should be in a pretty pickle if I had to draw!”
And as he spoke he set about sweeping up the dry leaves and the straw which covered the brick-paved floor.
”But where do you do your work, Coretti?” I inquired.
”Not here, certainly,” he replied. ”Come and see”; and he led me into a little room behind the shop, which serves as a kitchen and dining-room, with a table in one corner, on which there were books and copy-books, and work which had been begun. ”Here it is,” he said; ”I left the second answer unfinished: _with which shoes are made, and belts_. Now I will add, _and valises_.” And, taking his pen, he began to write in his fine hand.
”Is there any one here?” sounded a call from the shop at that moment. It was a woman who had come to buy some little f.a.gots.
”Here I am!” replied Coretti; and he sprang out, weighed the f.a.gots, took the money, ran to a corner to enter the sale in a shabby old account-book, and returned to his work, saying, ”Let's see if I can finish that sentence.” And he wrote, _travelling-bags, and knapsacks for soldiers_. ”Oh, my poor coffee is boiling over!” he exclaimed, and ran to the stove to take the coffee-pot from the fire. ”It is coffee for mamma,” he said; ”I had to learn how to make it. Wait a while, and we will carry it to her; you'll see what pleasure it will give her. She has been in bed a whole week.--Conjugation of the verb! I always scald my fingers with this coffee-pot. What is there that I can add after the soldiers' knapsacks? Something more is needed, and I can think of nothing. Come to mamma.”