Monday, 10th.
At one o’clock we all assembled once more for the last time at the school, to hear the results of the examinations, and to take our little promotion books. The street was thronged with parents, who had even invaded the big hall, and many had made their way into the class-rooms, thrusting themselves even to the master’s desk: in our room they filled the entire space between the wall and the front benches. There were Garrone’s father, Derossi’s mother, the blacksmith Precossi, Coretti, Signora Nelli, the vegetable-vender, the father of the little mason, Stardi’s father, and many others whom I had never seen; and on all sides a whispering and a hum were audible, that seemed to proceed from the square outside.
The master entered, and a profound silence ensued. He had the list in his hand, and began to read at once.
“Abatucci, promoted, sixty seventieths. Archini, promoted, fifty-five seventieths.” – The little mason promoted; Crossi promoted. Then he read loudly: –
“Ernesto Derossi, promoted, seventy seventieths, and the first prize.”
All the parents who were there – and they all knew him – said: –
“Bravo, bravo, Derossi!” And he shook his golden curls, with his easy and beautiful smile, and looked at his mother, who made him a salute with her hand.
Garoffi, Garrone, the Calabrian promoted. Then three or four sent back; and one of them began to cry because his father, who was at the entrance, made a menacing gesture at him. But the master said to the father: –
“No, sir, excuse me; it is not always the boy’s fault; it is often his misfortune. And that is the case here.” Then he read: –
“Nelli, promoted, sixty-two seventieths.” His mother sent him a kiss from her fan. Stardi, promoted, with sixty-seven seventieths! but, at hearing this fine fate, he did not even smile, or remove his fists from his temples. The last was Votini, who had come very finely dressed and brushed, – promoted. After reading the last name, the master rose and said: –