La Maestra

WERE you ever at Asolo, the Asolo of poet and painter, of queen and peasant? Have you ever seen the Asolan hills touched with crimson and gray? and the Veneto plains, long straight seas of melting blue? and the rows upon rows of mulberry trees, shimmering lines of green? If so, then you too will have known why the Venetians of old so loved this country; why Catherine Cornaro, Queen of Cyprus, chose it as her home; why Browning was inspired to write Pippa Passes; and why Fortunata of to-day, young, modern, blithe, pedals so gayly each morning off into space, and returns at noon, fresh, and sweet, and rested, from a day’s teaching at her district school.

Fortunata is nineteen, and pretty, and the product of modern Italy and its public schools. In type, she scarcely differs from our own college girl. A greater poise of manner; a certain graciousness, due to race; a readier knowledge of how to seize opportunity; and no consciousness, whatever, that her work is life-work or her life a mission, — these are the differences. Wide would she open her beautiful eyes in clear astonishment, should one endeavor to tell her of that most nerve-racking of all our teaching problems, moral uplift. She would not even understand it, for she is eminently practical, and dealing always with the present, sees nothing but the present, and lives squarely, generously, gloriously, in the present and for the present only. Why should she trouble her pretty head with problems? There is no reason; and then problems are so dull! Better leave them to Church and State. And she does.

This does not mean that nothing is expected of Fortunata. Much is expected, and much exacted. Obedience to her superiors, devotion to the children under her charge, knowledge of how to teach, intellectual growth, all this, — but no “ fads,” no “ experimentation,” no juggling with “ moral training ” or “ social problems.” She is there to teach, and to teach only. Less initiative is allowed her than is permitted our teachers, but life can thus be taken more quietly — and quiet makes for peace. Fortunata, therefore, will not break down, and become a nervous wreck, and lose her health. No indeed! Fortunata will marry, and bear children, and keep her roses — and still teach! For this is one of the many surprises Italy gives us: its married women are not barred from its schools. One session, mornings in summer, afternoons in winter, and the patriarchal mode of life, so simplify life that the bread-winners, whether married or single, are not overtaxed.

As in type, so in educational opportunity, Fortunata’s life parallels closely that of the American country-bred college girl. Asolo is simply a small hilltown, quite distant from the nearest railroad, and to Asolo’s communal or district school went the little Fortunata. It was close to her parents’ home. In fact, it was part of it, for it was in the very Convent of St. Louis itself, just as her own home was once the sisters’ wing of this self-same convent. Have you ever thought of this, of how often in the Italy of to-day one sees this very thing — the return of its children to its convents? To be sure the monks and the sisters are no longer there to teach the children. The government or state teachers do this. But the children play as of old in the cloistered courts, and sun themselves (when not engaged in that modern pastime, “supervised play”) on the steps, and toddle into the church to help or hinder sacristan or verger, to say a Hail Mary, to gaze at a picture, to rest, to dream. And thus Fortunata passed five blessed years, and went bravely through her five grammar grades.

Any New England child could have done as much in any New England village, but no New England child could have done it so picturesquely. It is the setting that is so totally different. Then, too, the New England child would have had by far the easier task of the two, for she would have been studying in her own language, English, while Fortunata had to study in what was to her quite a new language, Italian. This fact should never be lost sight of in considering Italian educational methods, for it explains much — the greater emphasis, for example, laid upon language, and the superb way in which language is taught. Asolo could give but these five years to the little Fortunata, no more; and Fortunata, being too poor to go to Bassano, one of the Asolan masters was secured at a nominal fee, and Fortunata was carried by a strong, virile touch through the next four years. Every New England girl has had similar opportunity. There is always the minister to fall back upon, should the upper grammar grades and high school be lacking.

Then came to Fortunata long years of normal school and collegiate training, at Padua. Fancy the romance and beauty of being educated at Padua! For the New England girl it would have been Wellesley, or Radcliffe, or possibly Vassar; but Padua is clearly their superior, in that it sends to the schools teachers who are literally masters of the art of teaching. How this is done I do not know. But that it is done I do know. Teaching is an art in Italy. It must always be so where for the most part it is oral. The teacher thus creates her own art, so to speak, and on her individual power and skill in the use of this art hangs her pupils’ success. The Padua girl has had greater stress laid upon “ cultural ” studies, and she has acquired “ style ” — otherwise there is enormous similarity between her and our own college girl.

Fortunata thinks some of our customs unpractical. Why, for instance, have a Saturday holiday when one has a Sunday holiday? Why have two holidays at once? I try to explain to her the joy and the freedom that a weekend holiday brings to the teacher; and how our teachers cling to the practice. But Fortunata is not convinced. It would mean, she says, five days of consecutive work, which, of course, in time would wear on the teacher. Better far the Italian method of making a holiday in the middle of the week, on a Wednesday, or on a Thursday.

And the boys are taught by women teachers? Fortunata is aghast. How can they ever become men under such a system? I explain that we ourselves are beginning to doubt whether they can, and that this over-feminization of our teaching corps is a burning question with us at the present day. Thereupon Fortunata brightens up. She sees some hope for us.

And what is moral training? she asks. Is it religious instruction? No. Is it philosophy? No. And then I sink into a sea of confused statement, trying to explain what it is. Fortunata smiles. “ Dio mio,” she exclaims, “ how lucky I am not to have to teach it, and how bright the American teachers must be to understand it ! ”

Fortunata has great faith in the saints, especially in Saint Anthony of Padua. I discovered this one day when driving in one of those curious, saucershaped little carriages Asolo affects. We were beyond Possagno, when a glorious thunder-storm burst over our heads. I was terribly frightened, but this did not alter the fact that the storm was superb. We sought refuge in a peasant’s house, that of a dear old woman living alone save for two menservants, and the men wore not trousers but petticoats. They all do here. And the cattle were almost in the house. And the silk-worms on their shelves nearly filled the living-room, They, and a great chimney, and two chairs, and a table, and a dresser, and a shrine to Saint Anthony, did fill it. And the storm increasing, the old woman took from a secret store a blessed candle, and lighting it fastened it in the top drawer of the dresser directly in front of the Saint, and then, with clasped hands, and in the fitful light of fire and candle and lightning-flash, prayed to him that no hail might fall to kill the young grapes. And Fortunata, standing erect in her pretty white frock, what did Fortunata do — Fortunata the product of modern Italy and the new education? Why, Fortunata joined her prayers simply and reverently to those of the old woman, for she too has a vineyard! And the hail came down in rattling volleys of stone; but when at last it ceased, Fortunata, the younger, flung her arms about the older woman and smilingly exclaimed, “How much worse it might have been had Saint Anthony not interfered! ”

That Church and State work together, and work harmoniously, for religious instruction, is abundantly evident; but the Veneto is peculiarly Catholic, and the problem is thus simplified. At San Vito, where is Fortunata’s school, the priest gives religious instruction once a week. At A-, a town near by, only once a year. This difference in practice is curious. Of course in the latter case the day stands as a red-letter day, and the priest’s work is simply that of an examiner, the government or state teachers having already, in a series of daily instructions, prepared the pupils. It was my good luck to stumble across this very day. Such hearty Ave Marias and Pater Nosters as rang out in that little basement schoolroom! Such absolute sympathy was there between children and priest! such pride in their pupils’ achievement as was evinced by the teachers! such a jolly good feeling of all-round comradeship! Nothing could have been better, nothing more progressive.

And what is Fortunata’s salary? One thousand lire, — a sum not so very different, counted in actual dollars, from the sum the women teachers average in their first year of district-school teaching in certain portions of our own states. Gauging it, however, by its purchasing power, Fortunata’s salary has a far higher value than the two hundred dollars and more of the American teacher. But it is not so much the amount of salary as the disposition of it that is the interesting point. Fortunata hands hers to her mother; and Domenica, Fortunata’s married sister, who is also a school-teacher, hands hers to her husband. The American, on the contrary, and with the full approval of her public, puts hers into her pocket, so to speak; that is, she keeps it in her own control. " What lack of reverence and respect! ” cries the astonished Fortunata.

That in both instances results are similar, though arrived at differently, I have no manner of doubt: for Fortunata is daintiness itself. Her clothes are pretty, her hats coquettish, and yes, one day at Bassano, market-day, while I was buying currants and cakes, Fortunata bought a parasol, a pretty, fluffy, white affair! When she marries there will be something in the bank to buy her a wedding frock, to give her a marriage feast, to furnish her rooms (Domenica’s are charming, all done in the palest of blues and pinks) at her husband’s house. It would, therefore, be a rash person indeed who would say, there being two ways of doing the same thing, and neither one involving any question of moral turpitude, which way was the better way. Given, however, the proverbial kindness and thrift of the Italian parent, the Italian method is not one to be lightly cast aside as untenable. Family good-will is emphasized, and the dot, be it ever so small, carries one to one’s husband with a gift in one’s hand.

If, however, custom forbids to Fortunata the personal control of her income, it gives to her the far larger freedom of complete exemption from household or family care. As a breadr winner she is held in exactly the same esteem as is the man bread-winner. Like him, she has her profession. Like him, she goes out into the world to practice it. Like him, when she returns to her home she returns for rest and recreation. She assumes no household cares. She participates in no household drudgery. Should illness appear, its responsibilities and duties are borne by others, never by her. Nothing short of this would be deemed just. She is given her own bedroom without thought of a younger sister’s sharing it. She is given her own sitting-room — kept dark, and fresh, and cool, always ready, and always awaiting her. In it is her writingtable, the simplest possible, with ink and paper, and pens, stacked in orderly array, and never touched by others. In it also is her work-table, with at one end her work-box, together with any pretty little piece of needle or pillowlace she may be busy about for her own personal adornment, and, at the other end, an orderly little pile of folded garments in coarse colored cottons, her scholars’ work; for as one of her school duties is to teach sewing, so another is to prepare this sewing. In this same room, too, is a third table, and by far the largest, standing the length of the room, and on this table Fortunata keeps her silk-worms, for like every other woman in Asolo, she is not above turning a penny when she can, only in her case the industry must always be a neat and attractive one. And silk-worm culture is all this. It is clean, quick, pretty work, taking but forty to forty-five days, and carrying a high net percentage of profit.

Think what our tired over-worked teachers would give for just this privilege that Fortunata so enjoys—complete freedom from household care! Think, too, of the gain to their work! Surely in this one respect, if in no other, Asolo shows a keen intelligence. But then in many ways Asolo is unique. It really delights in honoring women; and as in the past centuries it had its “ Lady of Asolo,” so in the present day it has its “ Lady Sweep.” It paid court to the one, and it now believes in the other. Its “Lady Sweep”? Yes, such is her title, and right bravely does she perform her duties. You should see the Piazza of a Saturday afternoon, after she and her hirelings, mere men, have been through it. And this is no light task, for Saturday in Asolo is marketday, and market-day means a cattle and pony fair, as well as the sale of meats and fruits and vegetables.

I discovered the Lady Sweep through avoiding her donkey, a beautiful silvercoated animal, who was forever coming down a street, alone and unattended, as I was going up; when, to escape a head-on collision, I was forced into a mad dash for the nearest doorway; or if, by chance, I met him standing still, I had to stop and do a sum in mental arithmetic before I dared undertake the necessary circle to avoid his heels. And — I was always laughed at! Other donkeys might butt into me, and the whole neighborhood came prompt ly to the rescue; but when it was a question of this silver-coated animal, every one sat tight on his or her door-sill and enjoyed the scene. At last one day, and in sheer desperation, I cried out, “ Why don’t you drive that donkey off? Why allow him such freedom? ” “ Touch that donkey,” they cried in chorus, “ why he is an honored guest in every house in Asolo, in every garden too! He would not touch a turnip unasked, and” — this last with supreme reverence — “ he is the property of our Lady Sweep! ”

And so it proved. And he has his days and hours of work, dragging the one tip-cart in Asolo’s municipal street-cleaning service, his sturdy, brighteyed, much beloved mistress, the Lady Sweep, trotting by his side.

I could never see that Fortunata read. There was no bookcase in her house, there were no piles of classics, or reference works, or novels; no, there was not even a newspaper. And of course there was no library in the town. Yet Fortunata had knowledge of, and could discuss intelligently, any political or social question of the day; she spoke French charmingly and fluently; and she was studying English, and studying it cleverly. That she was quick to seize opportunity there was no doubt. So also were other Asolans, for I remember Fortunata’s saying to me one day, “ Count C—— desires to call on you.” “And why?” I queried. “ He wishes to listen to your French,” replied, in all simplicity, Fortunata.

So a day was appointed, and the count came, and sat, correctly and stiffly, in a chair straight in front of me, his hat by his side, and I conversed, as he desired, in French, though I felt very much as a talking-machine must feel when a new disk is suddenly and unexpectedly dropped into it. The incident striking me as typical, and the count proving charming (he was but a lad, just returned from his law-studies at Padua) , a second afternoon followed, when I was received by his mother and his sisters at his own home.

And how does Fortunata live? So frugally, so primitively, or so it seemed to me, that no American girl would envy her. Has she then no comforts? Scarcely one, judging from our standpoint. Is her house not heated? Certainly not. How then does she keep warm? “ Why,” cries Fortunata, “ it is very simple. The heat comes in from the outside! We leave the windows open.” Think of this as a method of heating for a wind-swept Italian hilltown in mid-winter!

Has she electricity, or gas, or lamps? No. Any plumbing, or a bath, or running water? No. Surely she has that crowning glory, that first requisite of all New England housewives, a cooking-stove? No. How then does Fortunata bake and brew? But Fortunata never bakes or brews. It is her mother who cooks, always however in the simplest Italian fashion, a pot of polenta or soup boiling over a mass of blazing fagots, or an egg or a slice of meat frying in oil, in a dish by itself, over two bits of live charcoal. There is never question of roasting or baking. There is no oven. So Fortunata goes without roasts, or hot biscuits, or puddings, or cake, or pies, and seems none the worse for the deprivation. And it is Maddalena the maid — Maddalena, who has already given twenty-two years of faithful service to this one household — who does the washing, and the heavier cleaning. It is Maddalena, too, who goes to the well and fetches in great brass buckets, two at a time, every drop of water used in the house. And it is Maddalena who rushes to the Piazza, should a shower come up in the afternoon, with an umbrella for the Signorina, for Fortunata must not get wet. And it is Maddalena who goes to the garden gate and fetches back whatever her young mistress may have in her hand, whether parcel or coat. And again it is Maddalena who goes down to the town in the cool of the evening, and serves as body-guard to Fortunata, if she is spending the evening out. And Fortunata generally spends her evenings out; it is a custom of the country.

And do you think that Fortunata could be made to believe that the furnace, and gas, and running water, and cooking-stove, with its hot bread, and cake, and pies, and occasional roasts, all necessities to the American girl, are in reality at all necessary, or could in any sense be made a fair exchange for the services of her maid, Maddalena? No indeed! Consider, too, which is the more expensive life? And still again, which is the simpler and more restful? For these are all pertinent questions.

Would I like to see her home? asked Fortunata. It proved to be most charming! Characteristic, too, of the country, and an excellent example of the house of the small farmer. There were arched recesses underneath; and a simple stairway with a shrine to Saint Anthony at its base, and again a shrine to Saint Anthony to greet you as you reached its top; and great rooms, two stories of them, opening to right and to left of long, narrow halls; and floors and walls everywhere of stone and cement. And there was a garden; and a winding hillside vineyard; and there were fruit trees, cherry and pear and plum; and roses in plenty; and the quaintest of wells; and a few picturesque Stations of the Cross, done in stone and gay with color, left over from convent days; and the most varied and wonderful of views — but Asolo is one of the fairest spots on God’s earth!

And would I like to see her school, and that of Domenica, her sister? Both were in the Pope’s country. Oh! what a drive was that! Down from Asolo, past churches, and towers, and villas! Down through the vineyards, out to the plains! There lay Padua to the west, and Venice to the east! One could see each, a haze of blue spires swung across the horizon! And we came to San Vito and to Fortunata’s school, the modern square, hygienic, two-room building, next to the Municipio and to the church; and to C—, and looked at Domenica’s school; and then on to Riese, and into the Pope’s house where he was born and reared, and into the church where he was curate; and we spoke with his nephew, a strikingly handsome man, and with his little great-grand-niece, the dearest tot imaginable; and then we turned, and climbed slowly back, up, and up, and up, past Catherine Cornaro’s tower, almost to the Rocca itself; for Fortunata’s house overtops everything save the Rocca. And there I left her, with her sunny head thrust out of a window, wishing me a happy farewell. But on my way down to the inn (I was to leave Asolo the next day) I met the gay, glad youth, so tall, so dark, so winning, of whom Fortunata and I had often talked, and to whom I fancied, only fancied, that the Maestra may have given her heart, and I breathed just this one wish — “ that it might be.”