Cuore (Heart) Part 12

"Your train pleases Precossi. He has no playthings. Does your heart suggest nothing to you?"

Instantly I seized the engine and the cars in both hands, and placed the whole in his arms, saying:--

"Take this; it is yours."

He looked at me, and did not understand. "It is yours," I said; "I give it to you."

Then he looked at my father and mother, in still greater astonishment, and asked me:--

"But why?"

My father said to him:--

"Enrico gives it to you because he is your friend, because he loves you--to celebrate your medal."

Precossi asked timidly:--

"I may carry it away--home?"

"Of course!" we all responded. He was already at the door, but he dared not go out. He was happy! He begged our pardon with a mouth that smiled and quivered. Garrone helped him to wrap up the train in a handkerchief, and as he bent over, he made the things with which his pockets were filled rattle.

"Some day," said Precossi to me, "you shall come to the shop to see my father at work. I will give you some nails."

My mother put a little bunch of flowers into Garrone's b.u.t.tonhole, for him to carry to his mother in her name. Garrone said, "Thanks," in his big voice, without raising his chin from his breast. But all his kind and n.o.ble soul shone in his eyes.

PRIDE.

Sat.u.r.day, 11th.

The idea of Carlo n.o.bis rubbing off his sleeve affectedly, when Precossi touches him in pa.s.sing! That fellow is pride incarnate because his father is a rich man. But Derossi's father is rich too. He would like to have a bench to himself; he is afraid that the rest will soil it; he looks down on everybody and always has a scornful smile on his lips: woe to him who stumbles over his foot, when we go out in files two by two!

For a mere trifle he flings an insulting word in your face, or a threat to get his father to come to the school. It is true that his father did give him a good lesson when he called the little son of the charcoal-man a ragam.u.f.fin. I have never seen so disagreeable a schoolboy! No one speaks to him, no one says good by to him when he goes out; there is not even a dog who would give him a suggestion when he does not know his lesson. And he cannot endure any one, and he pretends to despise Derossi more than all, because he is the head boy; and Garrone, because he is beloved by all. But Derossi pays no attention to him when he is by; and when the boys tell Garrone that n.o.bis has been speaking ill of him, he says:--

"His pride is so senseless that it does not deserve even my pa.s.sing notice."

But Coretti said to him one day, when he was smiling disdainfully at his catskin cap:--

"Go to Derossi for a while, and learn how to play the gentleman!"

Yesterday he complained to the master, because the Calabrian touched his leg with his foot. The master asked the Calabrian:--

"Did you do it intentionally?"--"No, sir," he replied, frankly.--"You are too petulant, n.o.bis."

And n.o.bis retorted, in his airy way, "I shall tell my father about it."

Then the teacher got angry.

"Your father will tell you that you are in the wrong, as he has on other occasions. And besides that, it is the teacher alone who has the right to judge and punish in school." Then he added pleasantly:--

"Come, n.o.bis, change your ways; be kind and courteous to your comrades.

You see, we have here sons of workingmen and of gentlemen, of the rich and the poor, and all love each other and treat each other like brothers, as they are. Why do not you do like the rest? It would not cost you much to make every one like you, and you would be so much happier yourself, too!--Well, have you no reply to make me?"

n.o.bis, who had listened to him with his customary scornful smile, answered coldly:--

"No, sir."

"Sit down," said the master to him. "I am sorry for you. You are a heartless boy."

This seemed to be the end of it all; but the little mason, who sits on the front bench, turned his round face towards n.o.bis, who sits on the back bench, and made such a fine and ridiculous hare's face at him, that the whole cla.s.s burst into a shout of laughter. The master reproved him; but he was obliged to put his hand over his own mouth to conceal a smile. And even n.o.bis laughed, but not in a pleasant way.

THE WOUNDS OF LABOR.

Monday, 15th.

n.o.bis can be paired off with Franti: neither of them was affected this morning in the presence of the terrible sight which pa.s.sed before their eyes. On coming out of school, I was standing with my father and looking at some big rogues of the second grade, who had thrown themselves on their knees and were wiping off the ice with their cloaks and caps, in order to make slides more quickly, when we saw a crowd of people appear at the end of the street, walking hurriedly, all serious and seemingly terrified, and conversing in low tones. In the midst of them were three policemen, and behind the policemen two men carrying a litter. Boys hastened up from all quarters. The crowd advanced towards us. On the litter was stretched a man, pale as a corpse, with his head resting on one shoulder, and his hair tumbled and stained with blood, for he had been losing blood through the mouth and ears; and beside the litter walked a woman with a baby in her arms, who seemed crazy, and who shrieked from time to time, "He is dead! He is dead! He is dead!"

Behind the woman came a boy who had a portfolio under his arm and who was sobbing.

"What has happened?" asked my father. A neighbor replied, that the man was a mason who had fallen from the fourth story while at work. The bearers of the litter halted for a moment. Many turned away their faces in horror. I saw the schoolmistress of the red feather supporting my mistress of the upper first, who was almost in a swoon. At the same moment I felt a touch on the elbow; it was the little mason, who was ghastly white and trembling from head to foot. He was certainly thinking of his father. I was thinking of him, too. I, at least, am at peace in my mind while I am in school: I know that my father is at home, seated at his table, far removed from all danger; but how many of my companions think that their fathers are at work on a very high bridge or close to the wheels of a machine, and that a movement, a single false step, may cost them their lives! They are like so many sons of soldiers who have fathers in the battle. The little mason gazed and gazed, and trembled more and more, and my father noticed it and said:--

"Go home, my boy; go at once to your father, and you will find him safe and tranquil; go!"

The little mason went off, turning round at every step. And in the meanwhile the crowd had begun to move again, and the woman to shriek in a way that rent the heart, "He is dead! He is dead! He is dead!"

"No, no; he is not dead," people on all sides said to her. But she paid no heed to them, and tore her hair. Then I heard an indignant voice say, "You are laughing!" and at the same moment I saw a bearded man staring in Franti's face. Then the man knocked his cap to the ground with his stick, saying:--

"Uncover your head, you wicked boy, when a man wounded by labor is pa.s.sing by!"

The crowd had already pa.s.sed, and a long streak of blood was visible in the middle of the street.

THE PRISONER.

Friday, 17th.

Ah, this is certainly the strangest event of the whole year! Yesterday morning my father took me to the suburbs of Moncalieri, to look at a villa which he thought of hiring for the coming summer, because we shall not go to Chieri again this year, and it turned out that the person who had the keys was a teacher who acts as secretary to the owner. He showed us the house, and then he took us to his own room, where he gave us something to drink. On his table, among the gla.s.ses, there was a wooden inkstand, of a conical form, carved in a singular manner. Perceiving that my father was looking at it, the teacher said:--

"That inkstand is very precious to me: if you only knew, sir, the history of that inkstand!" And he told it.

Years ago he was a teacher at Turin, and all one winter he went to give lessons to the prisoners in the judicial prison. He gave the lessons in the chapel of the prison, which is a circular building, and all around it, on the high, bare walls, are a great many little square windows, covered with two cross-bars of iron, each one of which corresponds to a very small cell inside. He gave his lessons as he paced about the dark, cold chapel, and his scholars stood at the holes, with their copy-books resting against the gratings, showing nothing in the shadow but wan, frowning faces, gray and ragged beards, staring eyes of murderers and thieves. Among the rest there was one, No. 78, who was more attentive than all the others, and who studied a great deal, and gazed at his teacher with eyes full of respect and grat.i.tude. He was a young man, with a black beard, more unfortunate than wicked, a cabinet-maker who, in a fit of rage, had flung a plane at his master, who had been persecuting him for some time, and had inflicted a mortal wound on his head: for this he had been condemned to several years of seclusion. In three months he had learned to read and write, and he read constantly, and the more he learned, the better he seemed to become, and the more remorseful for his crime. One day, at the conclusion of the lesson, he made a sign to the teacher that he should come near to his little window, and he announced to him that he was to leave Turin on the following day, to go and expiate his crime in the prison at Venice; and as he bade him farewell, he begged in a humble and much moved voice, that he might be allowed to touch the master's hand. The master offered him his hand, and he kissed it; then he said:--

"Thanks! thanks!" and disappeared. The master drew back his hand; it was bathed with tears. After that he did not see the man again.

Six years pa.s.sed. "I was thinking of anything except that unfortunate man," said the teacher, "when, the other morning, I saw a stranger come to the house, a man with a large black beard already sprinkled with gray, and badly dressed, who said to me: 'Are you the teacher So-and-So, sir?' 'Who are you?' I asked him. 'I am prisoner No. 78,' he replied; 'you taught me to read and write six years ago; if you recollect, you gave me your hand at the last lesson; I have now expiated my crime, and I have come hither--to beg you to do me the favor to accept a memento of me, a poor little thing which I made in prison. Will you accept it in memory of me, Signor Master?'

"I stood there speechless. He thought that I did not wish to take it, and he looked at me as much as to say, 'So six years of suffering are not sufficient to cleanse my hands!' but with so poignant an expression of pain did he gaze at me, that I instantly extended my hand and took the little object. This is it."

We looked attentively at the inkstand: it seemed to have been carved with the point of a nail, and with, great patience; on its top was carved a pen lying across a copy-book, and around it was written: "_To my teacher. A memento of No. 78. Six years!_" And below, in small letters, "_Study and hope._"