Cuore (Heart), Edmondo De Amicis [best books to read ever .txt] 📗

“Continue the present treatment.”

Then the boy plucked up courage, and asked in a tearful voice, “What is the matter with my father?”

“Take courage, my boy,” replied the doctor, laying his hand on his shoulder once more; “he has erysipelas in his face. It is a serious case, but there is still hope. Help him. Your presence may do him a great deal of good.”

“But he does not know me!” exclaimed the boy in a tone of affliction.

“He will recognize you—to-morrow perhaps. Let us hope for the best and keep up our courage.”

The boy would have liked to ask some more questions, but he did not dare. The doctor passed on. And then he began his life of nurse. As he could do nothing else, he arranged the coverlets of the sick man, touched his hand every now and then, drove away the flies, bent over him at every groan, and when the sister brought him something to drink, he took the glass or the spoon from her hand, and administered it in her stead. The sick man looked at him occasionally, but he gave no sign of recognition. However, his glance rested longer on the lad each time, especially when the latter put his handkerchief to his eyes.

Thus passed the first day. At night the boy slept on two chairs, in a corner of the ward, and in the morning he resumed his work of mercy. That day it seemed as though the eyes of the sick man revealed a dawning of consciousness. At the sound of the boy’s caressing voice a vague expression of gratitude seemed to gleam for an instant in his pupils, and once he moved his lips a little, as though he wanted to say something. After each brief nap he seemed, on opening his eyes, to seek his little nurse. The doctor, who had passed twice, thought he noted a slight improvement. Towards evening, on putting the cup to his lips, the lad fancied that he perceived a very faint smile glide across the swollen lips. Then he began to take comfort and to hope; and with the hope of being understood, confusedly at least, he talked to him—talked to him at great length—of his mother, of his little sisters, of his own return home, and he exhorted him to courage with warm and loving words. And although he often doubted whether he was heard, he still talked; for it seemed to him that even if he did not understand him, the sick man listened with a certain pleasure to his voice,—to that unaccustomed intonation of affection and sorrow. And in this manner passed the second day, and the third, and the fourth, with vicissitudes of slight improvements and unexpected changes for the worse; and the boy was so absorbed in all his cares, that he hardly nibbled a bit of bread and cheese twice a day, when the sister brought it to him, and hardly saw what was going on around him,—the dying patients, the sudden running up of the sisters at night, the moans and despairing gestures of visitors,—all those doleful and lugubrious scenes of hospital life, which on any other occasion would have disconcerted and alarmed him. Hours, days, passed, and still he was there with his daddy; watchful, wistful, trembling at every sigh and at every look, agitated incessantly between a hope which relieved his mind and a discouragement which froze his heart.

On the fifth day the sick man suddenly grew worse. The doctor, on being interrogated, shook his head, as much as to say that all was over, and the boy flung himself on a chair and burst out sobbing. But one thing comforted him. In spite of the fact that he was worse, the sick man seemed to be slowly regaining a little intelligence. He stared at the lad with increasing intentness, and, with an expression which grew in sweetness, would take his drink and medicine from no one but him, and made strenuous efforts with his lips with greater frequency, as though he were trying to pronounce some word; and he did it so plainly sometimes that his son grasped his arm violently, inspired by a sudden hope, and said to him in a tone which was almost that of joy, “Courage, courage, daddy; you will get well, we will go away from here, we will return home with mamma; courage, for a little while longer!”

It was four o’clock in the afternoon, and just when the boy had abandoned himself to one of these outbursts of tenderness and hope, when a sound of footsteps became audible outside the nearest door in the ward, and then a strong voice uttering two words only,—“Farewell, sister!”—which made him spring to his feet, with a cry repressed in his throat.

At that moment there entered the ward a man with a thick bandage on his hand, followed by a sister.

The boy uttered a sharp cry, and stood rooted to the spot.

The man turned round, looked at him for a moment, and uttered a cry in his turn,—“Cicillo!”—and darted towards him.

The boy fell into his father’s arms, choking with emotion.

The sister, the nurse, and the assistant ran up, and stood there in amazement.

The boy could not recover his voice.

“Oh, my Cicillo!” exclaimed the father, after bestowing an attentive look on the sick man, as he kissed the boy repeatedly. “Cicillo, my son, how is this? They took you to the bedside of another man. And there was I, in despair at not seeing you after mamma had written, ‘I have sent him.’ Poor Cicillo! How many days have you been here? How did this mistake occur? I have come out of it easily! I have a good constitution, you know! And how is mamma? And Concettella? And the little baby—how are they all? I am leaving the hospital now. Come, then. Oh, Lord God! Who would have thought it!”

The boy tried to interpolate a few words, to tell the news of the family. “Oh how happy I am!” he stammered. “How happy I am! What terrible days I have passed!” And he could not finish kissing his father.

But he did not stir.

“Come,” said his father; “we can get home this evening.” And he drew the lad towards him. The boy turned to look at his patient.

“Well, are you coming or not?” his father demanded, in amazement.

The boy cast yet another glance at the sick man, who opened his eyes at that moment and gazed intently at him.

Then a flood of words poured from his very soul. “No, daddy; wait—here—I can’t. Here is this old man. I have been here for five days. He gazes at me incessantly. I thought he was you. I love him dearly. He looks at me; I give him his drink; he wants me always beside him; he is very ill now. Have patience; I have not the courage—I don’t know—it pains me too much; I will return home to-morrow; let me stay here a little longer; I don’t at all like to leave him. See how he looks at me! I don’t know who he is, but he wants me; he will die alone: let me stay here, dear daddy!”

“Bravo, little fellow!” exclaimed the attendant.

The father stood in perplexity, staring at the boy; then he looked at the sick man. “Who is he?” he inquired.

“A countryman, like yourself,” replied the attendant, “just arrived from abroad, and who entered the hospital on the very day that you entered it. He was out of his senses when they brought him here, and could not speak. Perhaps he has a family far away, and sons. He probably thinks that your son is one of his.”

The sick man was still looking at the boy.

The father said to Cicillo, “Stay.”

“He will not have to stay much longer,” murmured the attendant.

“Stay,” repeated his father: “you have heart. I will go home immediately, to relieve mamma’s distress. Here is a scudo for your expenses. Good by, my brave little son, until we meet!”

He embraced him, looked at him intently, kissed him again on the brow, and went away.

The boy returned to his post at the bedside, and the sick man appeared consoled. And Cicillo began again to play the nurse, no longer weeping, but with the same eagerness, the same patience, as before; he again began to give the man his drink, to arrange his bedclothes, to caress his hand, to speak softly to him, to exhort him to courage. He attended him all that day, all that night; he remained beside him all the following day. But the sick man continued to grow constantly worse; his face turned a purple color, his breathing grew heavier, his agitation increased, inarticulate cries escaped his lips, the inflammation became excessive. On his evening visit, the doctor said that he would not live through the night. And then Cicillo redoubled his cares, and never took his eyes from him for a minute. The sick man gazed and gazed at him, and kept moving his lips from time to time, with great effort, as though he wanted to say something, and an expression of extraordinary tenderness passed over his eyes now and then, as they continued to grow smaller and more dim. And that night the boy watched with him until he saw the first rays of dawn gleam white through the windows, and the sister appeared. The sister approached the bed, cast a glance at the patient, and then went away with rapid steps. A few moments later she reappeared with the assistant doctor, and with a nurse, who carried a lantern.

“He is at his last gasp,” said the doctor.

The boy clasped the sick man’s hand. The latter opened his eyes, gazed at him, and closed them once more.

At that moment the lad fancied that he felt his hand pressed. “He pressed my hand!” he exclaimed.

The doctor bent over the patient for an instant, then straightened himself up.

The sister detached a crucifix from the wall.

“He is dead!” cried the boy.

“Go, my son,” said the doctor: “your work of mercy is finished. Go, and may fortune attend you! for you deserve it. God will protect you. Farewell!”

The sister, who had stepped aside for a moment, returned with a little bunch of violets which she had taken from a glass on the window-sill, and handed them to the boy, saying:—

“I have nothing else to give you. Take these in memory of the hospital.”

“Thanks,” returned the boy, taking the bunch of flowers with one hand and drying his eyes with the other; “but I have such a long distance to go on foot—I shall spoil them.” And separating the violets, he scattered them over the bed, saying: “I leave them as a memento for my poor dead man. Thanks, sister! thanks, doctor!” Then, turning to the dead man, “Farewell—” And while he sought a name to give him, the sweet name which he had applied to him for five days recurred to his lips,—“Farewell, poor daddy!”

So saying, he took his little bundle of clothes under his arm, and, exhausted with fatigue, he walked slowly away. The day was dawning.

THE WORKSHOP.

Saturday, 18th.

Precossi came last night to remind me that I was to go and see his workshop, which is down the street, and this morning when I went out with my father, I got him to take me there for a moment. As we approached the shop, Garoffi issued from it on a run, with a package in his hand, and making his big cloak, with which he covers up his merchandise, flutter. Ah! now I know where he goes to pilfer iron filings, which he sells for old papers, that barterer of a Garoffi! When we arrived in front of the door, we saw Precossi seated on a little pile of bricks, engaged in studying his lesson, with his