Part 23 (2/2)

He threw one arm around my body, and pressing me to his side, he said: ”Look at this sheet of paper. Do you see? These are the corrections made by my poor mother. She always strengthened my _l_'s and my _t_'s. And the last lines are entirely hers. She had learned to imitate my characters; and when I was tired and sleepy, she finished my work for me. My sainted mother!”

And he kissed the page.

”See here,” said the teacher, showing him the other packages; ”these are my reminiscences. Each year I laid aside one piece of work of each of my pupils; and they are all here, dated and arranged in order. Every time that I open them thus, and read a line here and there, a thousand things recur to my mind, and I seem to be living once more in the days that are past. How many of them have pa.s.sed, my dear sir! I close my eyes, and I see behind me face after face, cla.s.s after cla.s.s, hundreds and hundreds of boys, and who knows how many of them are already dead! Many of them I remember well. I recall distinctly the best and the worst: those who gave me the greatest pleasure, and those who caused me to pa.s.s sorrowful moments; for I have had serpents, too, among that vast number! But now, you understand, it is as though I were already in the other world, and I love them all equally.”

He sat down again, and took one of my hands in his.

”And tell me,” my father said, with a smile, ”do you not recall any roguish tricks?”

”Of yours, sir?” replied the old man, also with a smile. ”No; not just at this moment. But that does not in the least mean that you never played any. However, you had good judgment; you were serious for your age. I remember the great affection of your mother for you. But it is very kind and polite of you to have come to seek me out. How could you leave your occupations, to come and see a poor old schoolmaster?”

”Listen, Signor Crosetti,” responded my father with vivacity. ”I recollect the first time that my poor mother accompanied me to school.

It was to be her first parting from me for two hours; of letting me out of the house alone, in other hands than my father's; in the hands of a stranger, in short. To this good creature my entrance into school was like my entrance into the world, the first of a long series of necessary and painful separations; it was society which was tearing her son from her for the first time, never again to return him to her intact. She was much affected; so was I. I bade her farewell with a trembling voice, and then, as she went away, I saluted her once more through the gla.s.s in the door, with my eyes full of tears. And just at that point you made a gesture with one hand, laying the other on your breast, as though to say, 'Trust me, signora.' Well, the gesture, the glance, from which I perceived that you had comprehended all the sentiments, all the thoughts of my mother; that look which seemed to say, 'Courage!' that gesture which was an honest promise of protection, of affection, of indulgence, I have never forgotten; it has remained forever engraved on my heart; and it is that memory which induced me to set out from Turin. And here I am, after the lapse of four and forty years, for the purpose of saying to you, 'Thanks, dear teacher.'”

The master did not reply; he stroked my hair with his hand, and his hand trembled, and glided from my hair to my forehead, from my forehead to my shoulder.

In the meanwhile, my father was surveying those bare walls, that wretched bed, the morsel of bread and the little phial of oil which lay on the window-sill, and he seemed desirous of saying, ”Poor master!

after sixty years of teaching, is this all thy recompense?”

But the good old man was content, and began once more to talk with vivacity of our family, of the other teachers of that day, and of my father's schoolmates; some of them he remembered, and some of them he did not; and each told the other news of this one or of that one. When my father interrupted the conversation, to beg the old man to come down into the town and lunch with us, he replied effusively, ”I thank you, I thank you,” but he seemed undecided. My father took him by both hands, and besought him afresh. ”But how shall I manage to eat,” said the master, ”with these poor hands which shake in this way? It is a penance for others also.”

”We will help you, master,” said my father. And then he accepted, as he shook his head and smiled.

”This is a beautiful day,” he said, as he closed the outer door, ”a beautiful day, dear Signor Bottini! I a.s.sure you that I shall remember it as long as I live.”

My father gave one arm to the master, and the latter took me by the hand, and we descended the lane. We met two little barefooted girls leading some cows, and a boy who pa.s.sed us on a run, with a huge load of straw on his shoulders. The master told us that they were scholars of the second grade; that in the morning they led the cattle to pasture, and worked in the fields barefoot; and in the afternoon they put on their shoes and went to school. It was nearly mid-day. We encountered no one else. In a few minutes we reached the inn, seated ourselves at a large table, with the master between us, and began our breakfast at once. The inn was as silent as a convent. The master was very merry, and his excitement augmented his palsy: he could hardly eat. But my father cut up his meat, broke his bread, and put salt on his plate. In order to drink, he was obliged to hold the gla.s.s with both hands, and even then he struck his teeth. But he talked constantly, and with ardor, of the reading-books of his young days; of the notaries of the present day; of the commendations bestowed on him by his superiors; of the regulations of late years: and all with that serene countenance, a trifle redder than at first, and with that gay voice of his, and that laugh which was almost the laugh of a young man. And my father gazed and gazed at him, with that same expression with which I sometimes catch him gazing at me, at home, when he is thinking and smiling to himself, with his face turned aside.

The teacher allowed some wine to trickle down on his breast; my father rose, and wiped it off with his napkin. ”No, sir; I cannot permit this,”

the old man said, and smiled. He said some words in Latin. And, finally, he raised his gla.s.s, which wavered about in his hand, and said very gravely, ”To your health, my dear engineer, to that of your children, to the memory of your good mother!”

”To yours, my good master!” replied my father, pressing his hand. And at the end of the room stood the innkeeper and several others, watching us, and smiling as though they were pleased at this attention which was being shown to the teacher from their parts.

At a little after two o'clock we came out, and the master wanted to escort us to the station. My father gave him his arm once more, and he again took me by the hand: I carried his cane for him. The people paused to look on, for they all knew him: some saluted him. At one point in the street we heard, through an open window, many boys' voices, reading together, and spelling. The old man halted, and seemed to be saddened by it.

”This, my dear Signor Bottini,” he said, ”is what pains me. To hear the voices of boys in school, and not be there any more; to think that another man is there. I have heard that music for sixty years, and I have grown to love it. Now I am deprived of my family. I have no sons.”

”No, master,” my father said to him, starting on again; ”you still have many sons, scattered about the world, who remember you, as I have always remembered you.”

”No, no,” replied the master sadly; ”I have no longer a school; I have no longer any sons. And without sons, I shall not live much longer. My hour will soon strike.”

”Do not say that, master; do not think it,” said my father. ”You have done so much good in every way! You have put your life to such a n.o.ble use!”

The aged master inclined his h.o.a.ry head for an instant on my father's shoulder, and pressed my hand.

We entered the station. The train was on the point of starting.

”Farewell, master!” said my father, kissing him on both cheeks.

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