“Are you,” asked my father, raising his hat, “Vincenzo Crosetti, the schoolmaster?”
The old man raised his hat also, and replied: “I am,” in a voice that was somewhat tremulous, but full.
“Well, then,” said my father, taking one of his hands, “permit one of your old scholars to shake your hand and to inquire how you are. I have come from Turin to see you.”
The old man stared at him in amazement. Then he said: “You do me too much honor. I do not know—When were you my scholar? Excuse me; your name, if you please.”
My father mentioned his name, Alberto Bottini, and the year in which he had attended school, and where, and he added: “It is natural that you should not remember me. But I recollect you so perfectly!”
The master bent his head and gazed at the ground in thought, and muttered my father’s name three or four times; the latter, meanwhile, observed him with intent and smiling eyes.
All at once the old man raised his face, with his eyes opened widely, and said slowly: “Alberto Bottini? the son of Bottini, the engineer? the one who lived in the Piazza della Consolata?”
“The same,” replied my father, extending his hands.
“Then,” said the old man, “permit me, my dear sir, permit me”; and advancing, he embraced my father: his white head hardly reached the latter’s shoulder. My father pressed his cheek to the other’s brow.
“Have the goodness to come with me,” said the teacher. And without speaking further he turned about and took the road to his dwelling.