Saturday, 29th.
This morning, also, Garrone came to school with a pale face and his eyes
swollen with weeping, and he hardly cast a glance at the little gifts
which we had placed on his desk to console him. But the teacher had
brought a page from a book to read to him in order to encourage him. He
first informed us that we are to go to-morrow at one o'clock to the
town-hall to witness the award of the medal for civic valor to a boy who
has saved a little child from the Po, and that on Monday he will dictate
the description of the festival to us instead of the monthly story. Then
turning to Garrone, who was standing with drooping head, he said to
him:--
"Make an effort, Garrone, and write down what I dictate to you as well
as the rest."
We all took our pens, and the teacher dictated.
"Giuseppe Mazzini, born in Genoa in 1805, died in Pisa in 1872, a grand,
patriotic soul, the mind of a great writer, the first inspirer and
apostle of the Italian Revolution; who, out of love for his country,
lived for forty years poor, exiled, persecuted, a fugitive heroically
steadfast in his principles and in his resolutions. Giuseppe Mazzini,
who adored his mother, and who derived from her all that there was
noblest and purest in her strong and gentle soul, wrote as follows to a
faithful friend of his, to console him in the greatest of misfortunes.
These are almost his exact words:--
"'My friend, thou wilt never more behold thy mother on this earth. That
is the terrible truth. I do not attempt to see thee, because thine is
one of those solemn and sacred sorrows which each must suffer and
conquer for himself. Dost thou understand what I mean to convey by these
words, _It is necessary to conquer sorrow_--to conquer the least sacred,
the least purifying part of sorrow, that which, instead of rendering the
soul better, weakens and debases it? But the other part of sorrow, the
noble part--that which enlarges and elevates the soul--that must remain
with thee and never leave thee more. Nothing here below can take the
place of a good mother. In the griefs, in the consolations which life
may still bring to thee, thou wilt never forget her. But thou must
recall her, love her, mourn her death, in a manner which is worthy of
her. O my friend, hearken to me! Death exists not; it is nothing. It
cannot even be understood. Life is life, and it follows the law of
life--progress. Yesterday thou hadst a mother on earth; to-day thou hast
an angel elsewhere. All that is good will survive the life of earth with
increased power. Hence, also, the love of thy mother. She loves thee now
more than ever. And thou art responsible for thy actions to her more,
even, than before. It depends upon thee, upon thy actions, to meet her
once more, to see her in another existence. Thou must, therefore, out of
love and reverence for thy mother, grow better and cause her joy for
thee. Henceforth thou must say to thyself at every act of thine, "Would
my mother approve this?" Her transformation has placed a guardian angel
in the world for thee, to whom thou must refer in all thy affairs, in
everything that pertains to thee. Be strong and brave; fight against
desperate and vulgar grief; have the tranquillity of great suffering in
great souls; and that it is what she would have.'"
"Garrone," added the teacher, "_be strong and tranquil, for that is what
she would have_. Do you understand?"
Garrone nodded assent, while great and fast-flowing tears streamed over
his hands, his copy-book, and his desk.