Monday, 6th.
This morning big Stardi, the father, came to wait for his son, fearing
lest he should again encounter Franti. But they say that Franti will not
be seen again, because he will be put in the penitentiary.
There were a great many parents there this morning. Among the rest there
was the retail wood-dealer, the father of Coretti, the perfect image of
his son, slender, brisk, with his mustache brought to a point, and a
ribbon of two colors in the button-hole of his jacket. I know nearly all
the parents of the boys, through constantly seeing them there. There is
one crooked grandmother, with her white cap, who comes four times a day,
whether it rains or snows or storms, to accompany and to get her little
grandson, of the upper primary; and she takes off his little cloak and
puts it on for him, adjusts his necktie, brushes off the dust, polishes
him up, and takes care of the copy-books. It is evident that she has no
other thought, that she sees nothing in the world more beautiful. The
captain of artillery also comes frequently, the father of Robetti, the
lad with the crutches, who saved a child from the omnibus, and as all
his son's companions bestow a caress on him in passing, he returns a
caress or a salute to every one, and he never forgets any one; he bends
over all, and the poorer and more badly dressed they are, the more
pleased he seems to be, and he thanks them.
At times, however, sad sights are to be seen. A gentleman who had not
come for a month because one of his sons had died, and who had sent a
maidservant for the other, on returning yesterday and beholding the
class, the comrades of his little dead boy, retired into a corner and
burst into sobs, with both hands before his face, and the head-master
took him by the arm and led him to his office.
There are fathers and mothers who know all their sons' companions by
name. There are girls from the neighboring schoolhouse, and scholars in
the gymnasium, who come to wait for their brothers. There is one old
gentleman who was a colonel formerly, and who, when a boy drops a
copy-book or a pen, picks it up for him. There are also to be seen
well-dressed men, who discuss school matters with others, who have
kerchiefs on their heads, and baskets on their arm, and who say:--
"Oh! the problem has been a difficult one this time."--"That grammar
lesson will never come to an end this morning!"
And when there is a sick boy in the class, they all know it; when a sick
boy is convalescent, they all rejoice. And this morning there were eight
or ten gentlemen and workingmen standing around Crossi's mother, the
vegetable-vender, making inquiries about a poor baby in my brother's
class, who lives in her court, and who is in danger of his life. The
school seems to make them all equals and friends.