And the whole evening he talked of nothing but him. The name of his primary teacher recalled to his mind a thousand things which had happened when he was a boy, his early companions, his dead mother. “Crosetti!” he exclaimed. “He was forty when I was with him. I seem to see him now. He was a small man, somewhat bent even then, with bright eyes, and always cleanly shaved. Severe, but in a good way; for he loved us like a father, and forgave us more than one offence. He had risen from the condition of a peasant by dint of study and privations. He was a fine man. My mother was attached to him, and my father treated him like a friend. How comes it that he has gone to end his days at Condove, near Turin? He certainly will not recognize me. Never mind; I shall recognize him. Forty-four years have elapsed,—forty-four years, Enrico! and we will go to see him to-morrow.”
And yesterday morning, at nine o’clock, we were at the Susa railway station. I should have liked to have Garrone come too; but he could not, because his mother is ill.
It was a beautiful spring day. The train ran through green fields and hedgerows in blossom, and the air we breathed was perfumed. My father was delighted, and every little while he would put his arm round my neck and talk to me like a friend, as he gazed out over the country.
“Poor Crosetti!” he said; “he was the first man, after my father, to love me and do me good. I have never forgotten certain of his good counsels, and also certain sharp reprimands which caused me to return home with a lump in my throat. His hands were large and stubby. I can see him now, as he used to enter the schoolroom, place his cane in a corner and hang his coat on the peg, always with the same gesture. And every day he was in the same humor,—always conscientious, full of good will, and attentive, as though each day he were teaching school for the first time. I remember him as well as though I heard him now when he called to me: ‘Bottini! eh, Bottini! The fore and middle fingers on that pen!’ He must have changed greatly in these four and forty years.”
As soon as we reached Condove, we went in search of our old gardener’s wife of Chieri, who keeps a stall in an alley. We found her with her boys: she made much of us and gave us news of her husband, who is soon to return from Greece, where he has been working these three years; and of her eldest daughter, who is in the Deaf-mute Institute in Turin. Then she pointed out to us the street which led to the teacher’s house,—for every one knows him.
We left the town, and turned into a steep lane flanked by blossoming hedges.
My father no longer talked, but appeared entirely absorbed in his reminiscences; and every now and then he smiled, and then shook his head.
Suddenly he halted and said: “Here he is. I will wager that this is he.” Down the lane towards us a little old man with a white beard and a large hat was descending, leaning on a cane. He dragged his feet along, and his hands trembled.
“It is he!” repeated my father, hastening his steps.
When we were close to him, we stopped. The old man stopped also and looked at my father. His face was still fresh colored, and his eyes were clear and vivacious.