"I shall not tell you anything about it; you will see; go, go; don't
waste another minute!"
We took our departure; the institute is close by. As we went along with
huge strides, the gardener talked to me, and grew sad.
"Ah, my poor Gigia! To be born with such an infirmity! To think that I
have never heard her call me _father_; that she has never heard me call
her _my daughter_; that she has never either heard or uttered a single
word since she has been in the world! And it is lucky that a charitable
gentleman was found to pay the expenses of the institution. But that is
all--she could not enter there until she was eight years old. She has
not been at home for three years. She is now going on eleven. And she
has grown? Tell me, she has grown? She is in good spirits?"
"You will see in a moment, you will see in a moment," I replied,
hastening my pace.
"But where is this institution?" he demanded. "My wife went with her
after I was gone. It seems to me that it ought to be near here."
We had just reached it. We at once entered the parlor. An attendant came
to meet us.
"I am the father of Gigia Voggi," said the gardener; "give me my
daughter instantly."
"They are at play," replied the attendant; "I will go and inform the
matron." And he hastened away.
The gardener could no longer speak nor stand still; he stared at all
four walls, without seeing anything.
The door opened; a teacher entered, dressed in black, holding a little
girl by the hand.
Father and daughter gazed at one another for an instant; then flew into
each other's arms, uttering a cry.
The girl was dressed in a white and reddish striped material, with a
gray apron. She is a little taller than I. She cried, and clung to her
father's neck with both arms.
Her father disengaged himself, and began to survey her from head to
foot, panting as though he had run a long way; and he exclaimed: "Ah,
how she has grown! How pretty she has become! Oh, my dear, poor Gigia!
My poor mute child!--Are you her teacher, signora? Tell her to make
some of her signs to me; for I shall be able to understand something,
and then I will learn little by little. Tell her to make me understand
something with her gestures."
The teacher smiled, and said in a low voice to the girl, "Who is this
man who has come to see you?"
And the girl replied with a smile, in a coarse, strange, dissonant
voice, like that of a savage who was speaking for the first time in our
language, but with a distinct pronunciation, "He is my fa-ther."
The gardener fell back a pace, and shrieked like a madman: "She speaks!
Is it possible! Is it possible! She speaks? Can you speak, my child? can
you speak? Say something to me: you can speak?" and he embraced her
afresh, and kissed her thrice on the brow. "But it is not with signs
that she talks, signora; it is not with her fingers? What does this
mean?"
"No, Signor Voggi," rejoined the teacher, "it is not with signs. That
was the old way. Here we teach the new method, the oral method. How is
it that you did not know it?"
"I knew nothing about it!" replied the gardener, lost in amazement. "I
have been abroad for the last three years. Oh, they wrote to me, and I
did not understand. I am a blockhead. Oh, my daughter, you understand
me, then? Do you hear my voice? Answer me: do you hear me? Do you hear
what I say?"
"Why, no, my good man," said the teacher; "she does not hear your voice,
because she is deaf. She understands from the movements of your lips
what the words are that you utter; this is the way the thing is managed;
but she does not hear your voice any more than she does the words which
she speaks to you; she pronounces them, because we have taught her,
letter by letter, how she must place her lips and move her tongue, and
what effort she must make with her chest and throat, in order to emit a
sound."
The gardener did not understand, and stood with his mouth wide open. He
did not yet believe it.
"Tell me, Gigia," he asked his daughter, whispering in her ear, "are you
glad that your father has come back?" and he raised his face again, and
stood awaiting her reply.
The girl looked at him thoughtfully, and said nothing.
Her father was perturbed.
The teacher laughed. Then she said: "My good man, she does not answer
you, because she did not see the movements of your lips: you spoke in
her ear! Repeat your question, keeping your face well before hers."
The father, gazing straight in her face, repeated, "Are you glad that
your father has come back? that he is not going away again?"
The girl, who had observed his lips attentively, seeking even to see
inside his mouth, replied frankly:--
"Yes, I am de-light-ed that you have re-turned, that you are not go-ing
a-way a-gain--nev-er a-gain."
Her father embraced her impetuously, and then in great haste, in order
to make quite sure, he overwhelmed her with questions.
"What is mamma's name?"
"An-to-nia."
"What is the name of your little sister?"
"Ad-e-laide."
"What is the name of this college?"
"The Deaf-mute Insti-tution."
"How many are two times ten?"
"Twen-ty."
While we thought that he was laughing for joy, he suddenly burst out
crying. But this was the result of joy also.
"Take courage," said the teacher to him; "you have reason to rejoice,
not to weep. You see that you are making your daughter cry also. You are
pleased, then?"
The gardener grasped the teacher's hand and kissed it two or three
times, saying: "Thanks, thanks, thanks! a hundred thanks, a thousand
thanks, dear Signora Teacher! and forgive me for not knowing how to say
anything else!"
"But she not only speaks," said the teacher; "your daughter also knows
how to write. She knows how to reckon. She knows the names of all common
objects. She knows a little history and geography. She is now in the
regular class. When she has passed through the two remaining classes,
she will know much more. When she leaves here, she will be in a
condition to adopt a profession. We already have deaf-mutes who stand in
the shops to serve customers, and they perform their duties like any one
else."
Again the gardener was astounded. It seemed as though his ideas were
becoming confused again. He stared at his daughter and scratched his
head. His face demanded another explanation.