Thursday, 10th.
The son of the charcoal-man had been a pupil of that schoolmistress
Delcati who had come to see my brother when he was ill, and who had made
us laugh by telling us how, two years ago, the mother of this boy had
brought to her house a big apronful of charcoal, out of gratitude for
her having given the medal to her son; and the poor woman had persisted,
and had not been willing to carry the coal home again, and had wept when
she was obliged to go away with her apron quite full. And she told us,
also, of another good woman, who had brought her a very heavy bunch of
flowers, inside of which there was a little hoard of soldi. We had been
greatly diverted in listening to her, and so my brother had swallowed
his medicine, which he had not been willing to do before. How much
patience is necessary with those boys of the lower first, all toothless,
like old men, who cannot pronounce their r's and s's; and one coughs,
and another has the nosebleed, and another loses his shoes under the
bench, and another bellows because he has pricked himself with his pen,
and another one cries because he has bought copy-book No. 2 instead of
No. 1. Fifty in a class, who know nothing, with those flabby little
hands, and all of them must be taught to write; they carry in their
pockets bits of licorice, buttons, phial corks, pounded brick,--all
sorts of little things, and the teacher has to search them; but they
conceal these objects even in their shoes. And they are not attentive: a
fly enters through the window, and throws them all into confusion; and
in summer they bring grass into school, and horn-bugs, which fly round
in circles or fall into the inkstand, and then streak the copy-books all
over with ink. The schoolmistress has to play mother to all of them, to
help them dress themselves, bandage up their pricked fingers, pick up
their caps when they drop them, watch to see that they do not exchange
coats, and that they do not indulge in cat-calls and shrieks. Poor
schoolmistresses! And then the mothers come to complain: "How comes it,
signorina, that my boy has lost his pen? How does it happen that mine
learns nothing? Why is not my boy mentioned honorably, when he knows so
much? Why don't you have that nail which tore my Piero's trousers, taken
out of the bench?"
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?"