V.
It was the last lesson. August was dying; the lessons were all coming to an end. After the September and October holidays, the children were to return to school for the Feast of San Carlo. But the Tricolors, maidens of seventeen or eighteen, having finished their education, left in September, to return no more. On that day, at two o’clock, they attended the history lesson the last of all. After that lesson, their course of study was absolutely finished.
That was why there was something so abnormal in the girls themselves, and in the very atmosphere about them. That was why the curly, blonde hair of Carolina Pentasuglia was dressed more like a poodle’s than it had ever been before; a roguish cherub’s head, one mass of curls. Giovanna Casacalenda, divested of her apron, was in pure white, a resplendent whiteness, broken only at the waist by her tricolor scarf. Artemisia Minichini wore a big gold locket on the velvet ribbon round her throat. Ginevra Avigliana had three roses in her waistband, right under her heart. But all of them sat demure and composed in the class-room, that already seemed so deserted: there was not a book on the desks, nor a scrap of paper, nor a pen. The inkstands were closed. A few drawers stood open. In a corner, on the ground, behind the blackboard, was a heap of tattered paper, torn into shreds or rolled up in balls. On a black panel destined to the exhibition of calligraphic achievements, there was chalked a tabulated list which set forth in finest imitation of printed letters, combined with copy-book and old English characters, embellished by countless flourishes, the fact that: “In the scholastic year —— the Signorine ... had completed the studies of the fifth gymnasial course....” And first on the list was Lucia Altimare. It was the clôture, the end of the volume, the word finis.... The young ladies never turned towards that tablet. The eyes of some of them were rather red. Oh! on that day the lesson was a serious and arduous one. They had all studied that period of 1815, with which the historical programme ended. From time to time the Professor made a critical remark, to which the pupils listened attentively. Caterina Spaccapietra, that diligent scribe, took notes on a scrap of paper. On that day the Professor was paler and uglier than ever: he seemed thinner, a pitiable figure in the clothes that set so awkwardly upon him. The most ludicrous item of his attire was a large cameo pin, stuck in a dark red cravat of the worst possible taste. On that day he was more careful than ever to avoid the glances of his pupils. He listened to them with profound attention, his eyes half closed, nodding his approval, murmuring an occasional bene under his breath. Now and again he would make an absent comment, as if he were talking to himself. Then the half-hour struck. As the minutes passed, the voice of the girl who repeated the lesson grew more and more tremulous: then at last the Professor added certain historical anecdotes concerning Napoleon. He spoke slowly, carefully picking his words. When he had ended the third quarter struck. The Professor and his pupils, impressed by a sudden and painful embarrassment, looked at each other. The history lesson was over.
“The class asks permission to read its farewell letter,” said Cherubina Friscia, whose placid face was undisturbed by emotion.
He hesitated, a painful look of indecision passed over his face.
“I should prefer to read it at home. I could give more attention to it ...” he stammered, for want of something better.
“No, no; listen to it here, Professor,” cried two or three eager voices.
“It is customary, Professor,” said Friscia, dryly.
There was a moment’s silence. All the girls’ faces turned pale from emotion. His head was bent in thought; at last: “Read,” he said, and appeared ready to listen in earnest from behind the hand with which he hid his eyes.
Altimare rose, took the letter from an envelope and read it, halting at every word, dividing every syllable, her voice suffused with tenderness:
“Honoured and beloved Professor, fate has indeed been both blind and cruel in choosing me to offer you, most respected Professor, the last farewell of a departing class. I am assuredly too much affected by our common sorrow; so conscious of the solitude in which this separation will leave us, that a nameless pang at the heart will prevent the anguish of our minds from passing into words, in parting from him who has been our master and our guide. Oh, judge not the depth of our feeling for you from what I write.... Words are so pale, so weak and inadequate, and our emotion is so heartfelt. Professor, we are leaving....”
Ginevra Avigliana wept aloud, her face buried in her hands.
“... this college where we have lived the sweetest years of our life, where our childhood and youth have been passed in the companionship of beloved friends and in the salutary occupation of our studies. We are leaving the house where we have laughed and learned, the roof that has overlooked our sports, our strivings for knowledge, our dreams. God is our witness that we feel that the past is slipping from us....”
Silently and with a pressure at her heart, Carolina Pentasuglia wept until she felt faint.
“... that a whirlwind is snatching it from us, that our joyous youth has vanished, and that the weight of the future, heavy with responsibility, is hanging over us. We cannot face the future undaunted, we would fain prolong this last day at school, we would fain cry aloud to our Directress and our teachers—'Why turn us away? we were so happy! oh! keep us, keep us with you...!’”
The reader broke down, her voice was hoarse, sobs checked her utterance, tears blinded her. She dried her eyes and cheeks, and continued:
“... but this is a hard law which governs human beings. They must meet, love and part—part for ever from those with whom one would gladly pass one’s life. Well, on this day, we gather our memories together, we recall the life we have lived and all the benefits we owe to your knowledge, your teaching, and your patient, indulgent affection. For all you have done for us, take our blessing and our thanks. Yours is the tenderest memory that will abide with us, in the battle of life, a guiding star in the darkness that perchance awaits us. If we have failed in aught, forgive us. We entreat you, by this hour of sorrow upon which we enter, prepared for it, and yet shrinking from it, we entreat you, think of us without bitterness....”
The reader fell back on her bench exhausted, sobbing violently. The letter had fallen from her hand. Cherubina Friscia rose, crossed the class, picked up the letter, put it into its envelope and placed it on the Professor’s desk. Nearly all of them wept in the despair of childish sorrow, at the many farewells, at the details of their departure, and in doubt and dread of the world they were about to enter. Artemisia Minichini, in the vain attempt to keep up her reputation of a strong-minded woman, bit her lips and blinked with her eyelids, but the flush on her cheek betrayed the effort it cost her. Little Giulia Pezzali, with her head hanging over her arms, which she had crossed on the back of the bench in front of her, like the child she was, moaned as if some one were hurting her. Even the plump white beauty of Giovanna Casacalenda was dimmed, her surprised black eyes were swollen with tears. Caterina’s were dry and burning, but from time to time a sigh escaped her lips. The Professor did not weep, but he appeared to be more than usually unhappy in the heavy atmosphere that bowed those youthful heads and forced from them such noisy tears.
“Listen,” he said, “do not weep....” Some faces looked up through their tears. “Do not weep. There should be no tears at your age. The time will come for them later—very late, I trust.... To-day you feel unbearable sorrow in departing from this educational institution, where you must needs leave behind you so much of yourselves. To-morrow will bring a joy that will blot out all this sorrow. Life is made up of these alternations. They are not hard to bear, if you have within you faith and courage. I have taught you all I know, hoping that in the history of man’s deeds you might find guidance for your own actions. Why do you thank me? I have done so little. But if you will perforce thank me, I pray you let it be in this wise only: be good, be so in a humane, womanly spirit. Remember one who says these words to you, remember....”
By this time his voice was very faint, and his hands were trembling. The girls had abandoned themselves to a fresh fit of weeping. Motionless he stood for a second on the little platform, looking down at the bowed heads, at the faces buried in pocket-handkerchiefs, at the convulsed forms on the benches; then he noiselessly descended, scribbled a single word in chalk on the blackboard and slipped away, bowing to Friscia as he passed.
On the dingy slate, in big uncertain characters, stood the word “Addio.”