Cuore (Heart) Part 30

"But the operation is a safe one; your safety is certain, provided you exercise a little courage! And your death is equally certain if you refuse!" It was a sheer waste of words.

"No," she replied in a faint voice, "I still have courage to die; but I no longer have any to suffer uselessly. Leave me to die in peace."

The doctor desisted in discouragement. No one said anything more. Then the woman turned her face towards her mistress, and addressed to her her last prayers in a dying voice.

"Dear, good signora," she said with a great effort, sobbing, "you will send this little money and my poor effects to my family--through the consul. I hope that they may all be alive. My heart presages well in these, my last moments. You will do me the favor to write--that I have always thought of them, that I have always toiled for them--for my children--that my sole grief was not to see them once more--but that I died courageously--with resignation--blessing them; and that I recommend to my husband--and to my elder son--the youngest, my poor Marco--that I bore him in my heart until the last moment--" And suddenly she became excited, and shrieked, as she clasped her hands: "My Marco, my baby, my baby! My life!--" But on casting her tearful eyes round her, she perceived that her mistress was no longer there; she had been secretly called away. She sought her master; he had disappeared. No one remained with her except the two nurses and the a.s.sistant. She heard in the adjoining room the sound of hurried footsteps, a murmur of hasty and subdued voices, and repressed exclamations. The sick woman fixed her glazing eyes on the door, in expectation. At the end of a few minutes she saw the doctor appear with an unusual expression on his face; then her mistress and master, with their countenances also altered. All three gazed at her with a singular expression, and exchanged a few words in a low tone. She fancied that the doctor said to her mistress, "Better let it be at once." She did not understand.

"Josefa," said her mistress to the sick woman, in a trembling voice, "I have some good news for you. Prepare your heart for good news."

The woman observed her intently.

"News," pursued the lady, with increasing agitation, "which will give you great joy."

The sick woman's eyes dilated.

"Prepare yourself," continued her mistress, "to see a person--of whom you are very fond."

The woman raised her head with a vigorous movement, and began to gaze in rapid succession, first at the lady and then at the door, with flas.h.i.+ng eyes.

"A person," added the lady, turning pale, "who has just arrived--unexpectedly."

"Who is it?" shrieked the woman, with a strange and choked voice, like that of a person in terror. An instant later she gave vent to a shrill scream, sprang into a sitting posture in her bed, and remained motionless, with starting eyes, and her hands pressed to her temples, as in the presence of a supernatural apparition.

Marco, tattered and dusty, stood there on the threshold, held back by the doctor's hand on one arm.

The woman uttered three shrieks: "G.o.d! G.o.d! My G.o.d!"

Marco rushed forward; she stretched out to him her fleshless arms, and straining him to her heart with the strength of a tiger, she burst into a violent laugh, broken by deep, tearless sobs, which caused her to fall back suffocating on her pillow.

But she speedily recovered herself, and mad with joy, she shrieked as she covered his head with kisses: "How do you come here? Why? Is it you?

How you have grown! Who brought you? Are you alone? You are not ill? It is you, Marco! It is not a dream! My G.o.d! Speak to me!"

Then she suddenly changed her tone: "No! Be silent! Wait!" And turning to the doctor, she said with precipitation: "Quick, doctor! this instant! I want to get well. I am ready. Do not lose a moment. Take Marco away, so that he may not hear.--Marco, my love, it is nothing. I will tell you about it. One more kiss. Go!--Here I am, doctor."

Marco was taken away. The master, mistress, and women retired in haste; the surgeon and his a.s.sistant remained behind, and closed the door.

Signor Mequinez attempted to lead Marco to a distant room, but it was impossible; he seemed rooted to the pavement.

"What is it?" he asked. "What is the matter with my mother? What are they doing to her?"

And then Mequinez said softly, still trying to draw him away: "Here!

Listen to me. I will tell you now. Your mother is ill; she must undergo a little operation; I will explain it all to you: come with me."

"No," replied the lad, resisting; "I want to stay here. Explain it to me here."

The engineer heaped words on words, as he drew him away; the boy began to grow terrified and to tremble.

Suddenly an acute cry, like that of one wounded to the death, rang through the whole house.

The boy responded with another desperate shriek, "My mother is dead!"

The doctor appeared on the threshold and said, "Your mother is saved."

The boy gazed at him for a moment, and then flung himself at his feet, sobbing, "Thanks, doctor!"

But the doctor raised him with a gesture, saying: "Rise! It is you, you heroic child, who have saved your mother!"

SUMMER.

Wednesday, 24th.

Marco, the Genoese, is the last little hero but one whose acquaintance we shall make this year; only one remains for the month of June. There are only two more monthly examinations, twenty-six days of lessons, six Thursdays, and five Sundays. The air of the end of the year is already perceptible. The trees of the garden, leafy and in blossom, cast a fine shade on the gymnastic apparatus. The scholars are already dressed in summer clothes. And it is beautiful, at the close of school and the exit of the cla.s.ses, to see how different everything is from what it was in the months that are past. The long locks which touched the shoulders have disappeared; all heads are closely shorn; bare legs and throats are to be seen; little straw hats of every shape, with ribbons that descend even on the backs of the wearers; s.h.i.+rts and neckties of every hue; all the little children with something red or blue about them, a facing, a border, a ta.s.sel, a sc.r.a.p of some vivid color tacked on somewhere by the mother, so that even the poorest may make a good figure; and many come to school without any hats, as though they had run away from home. Some wear the white gymnasium suit. There is one of Schoolmistress Delcati's boys who is red from head to foot, like a boiled crab. Several are dressed like sailors.

But the finest of all is the little mason, who has donned a big straw hat, which gives him the appearance of a half-candle with a shade over it; and it is ridiculous to see him make his hare's face beneath it.

Coretti, too, has abandoned his catskin cap, and wears an old travelling-cap of gray silk. Votini has a sort of Scotch dress, all decorated; Crossi displays his bare breast; Precossi is lost inside of a blue blouse belonging to the blacksmith-ironmonger.

And Garoffi? Now that he has been obliged to discard the cloak beneath which he concealed his wares, all his pockets are visible, bulging with all sorts of huckster's trifles, and the lists of his lotteries force themselves out. Now all his pockets allow their contents to be seen,--fans made of half a newspaper, k.n.o.bs of canes, darts to fire at birds, herbs, and maybugs which creep out of his pockets and crawl gradually over the jackets.

Many of the little fellows carry bunches of flowers to the mistresses.

The mistresses are dressed in summer garments also, of cheerful tints; all except the "little nun," who is always in black; and the mistress with the red feather still has her red feather, and a knot of red ribbon at her neck, all tumbled with the little paws of her scholars, who always make her laugh and flee.

It is the season, too, of cherry-trees, of b.u.t.terflies, of music in the streets, and of rambles in the country; many of the fourth grade run away to bathe in the Po; all have their hearts already set on the vacation; each day they issue forth from school more impatient and content than the day before. Only it pains me to see Garrone in mourning, and my poor mistress of the primary, who is thinner and whiter than ever, and who coughs with ever-increasing violence. She walks all bent over now, and salutes me so sadly!

POETRY.

Friday, 26th.

You are now beginning to comprehend the poetry of school, Enrico; but at present you only survey the school from within. It will seem much more beautiful and more poetic to you twenty years from now, when you go thither to escort your own boys; and you will then survey it from the outside, as I do. While waiting for school to close, I wander about the silent street, in the vicinity of the edifice, and lay my ear to the windows of the ground floor, which are screened by Venetian blinds. At one window I hear the voice of a schoolmistress saying:--

"Ah, what a shape for a _t_! It won't do, my dear boy! What would your father say to it?"

At the next window there resounds the heavy voice of a master, which is saying:--

"I will buy fifty metres of stuff--at four lire and a half the metre--and sell it again--"

Further on there is the mistress with the red feather, who is reading aloud:--

"Then Pietro Micca, with the lighted train of powder--"

From the adjoining cla.s.s-room comes the chirping of a thousand birds, which signifies that the master has stepped out for a moment. I proceed onward, and as I turn the corner, I hear a scholar weeping, and the voice of the mistress reproving and comforting him. From the lofty windows issue verses, names of great and good men, fragments of sentences which inculcate virtue, the love of country, and courage. Then ensue moments of silence, in which one would declare that the edifice is empty, and it does not seem possible that there should be seven hundred boys within; noisy outbursts of hilarity become audible, provoked by the jest of a master in a good humor. And the people who are pa.s.sing halt, and all direct a glance of sympathy towards that pleasing building, which contains so much youth and so many hopes. Then a sudden dull sound is heard, a clapping to of books and portfolios, a shuffling of feet, a buzz which spreads from room to room, and from the lower to the higher, as at the sudden diffusion of a bit of good news: it is the beadle, who is making his rounds, announcing the dismissal of school. And at that sound a throng of women, men, girls, and youths press closer from this side and that of the door, waiting for their sons, brothers, or grandchildren; while from the doors of the cla.s.s-rooms little boys shoot forth into the big hall, as from a spout, seize their little capes and hats, creating a great confusion with them on the floor, and dancing all about, until the beadle chases them forth one after the other. And at length they come forth, in long files, stamping their feet. And then from all the relatives there descends a shower of questions: "Did you know your lesson?--How much work did they give you?--What have you to do for to-morrow!--When does the monthly examination come?"

And then even the poor mothers who do not know how to read, open the copy-books, gaze at the problems, and ask particulars: "Only eight?--Ten with commendation?--Nine for the lesson?"

And they grow uneasy, and rejoice, and interrogate the masters, and talk of prospectuses and examinations. How beautiful all this is, and how great and how immense is its promise for the world!

THY FATHER.