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CHAPTER FIVE
By the time I was four years old, my father thought I was showing signs of mental precocity, due no doubt to his own eagerness. Not being permitted to enter public school before the age of six, I was sent to a private tutor who gave instructions to a motley little group of seven or eight boys.
And who was this private tutor? An out-of-town tailor who had settled and married in Castelmezzano. A lanky, eccentric, musically talented devil who had a limited degree of schooling, but made a good show of it. He was Mastro Ignazio Andriani, “mastro” being the title given to men with a skilled trade. Under alcoholic fits, which were not infrequent, he became beastly to the point of torturing his wife, by sticking needles in her thighs. Of course, that was private business in which no interference was tolerated.
The place where the teaching was imparted consisted of a ground floor, long narrow room, with a dutch door at each end, a smoky fireplace on the left, and one window on the right. At the entrance section of the room was the tailor shop and at the further end a tall double bed. A prominent part of the furnishings was a large wooden granary, against which butted the hand-hewn study table.
The first day, I wore a new suit. The standard style for boys from three years up was a combination vest and breeches in one piece, with a slit at the seat, and a tight little jacket, all of home spun wool.
One morning, smoke was belching from the fireplace thicker than ever. Mastro Ignazio ordered me to get down and blow into the pile of logs and twigs, to get the fire going. I promptly bent on my hands and knees and blew with all the power in my lungs. Apparently, in the bending position, my shirt tail came out of the slit, like the tail of a pup, and at the same time my blowing effort caused a sharp backfire. At…
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…that sight and sound, my brother Michele burst into hysterical laughter and in a flash the whole class joined him.
Mastro Ignazio, enraged by such indiscipline, hit my brother on his head with a heavy yardstick. The yelp and the sudden gush of blood gave me a very sick feeling. My brother ran home bawling, but received no sympathy. In those days the teacher was never wrong. After the necessary medication, my brother was sent back. The hair on top of his head had been shaved off and bandages applied over the conspicuous bump.
From that day on, Michele, who was always very playful, became sulky and rebellious. He had to be removed from that hall of learning.
At the same time, I was so afraid to meet a similar experience that my attention was sharpened beyond normal and I progressed rapidly. The tailor-tutor gave that as an evidence of the soundness of his system. What a contrast with modern progressive education!
Still, I carried away a warm feeling for the old villain. He had given me his best and I had profited by it. When I returned to my town, after graduating in law, a large crowd came to meet me at the tunnel. In the forefront was Mastro Ignazio whom I greeted as my “first teacher.” He started to cry like a child, and never forgot the compliment.
After a few years in this country, I sent him continuous financial help. At the age of seventy-two, he was idle and dejected. I had him accepted in an Old Men’s Home, which I was subsidizing. One evening, he managed to escape. Returning intoxicated past midnight, he raised a terrific uproar. A few days later, the director of the institution informed me of the indent and respectfully asked that I have my protegé placed elsewhere. But the old rascal had already stolen the march by writing me the very next day that I would probably receive some unfavorable report about him and not to believe a word of it, because it was a frame-up caused by jealousy of his being under my protection. He still wrote well worded Italian, with firm handwriting. I interceded, of course, and had him kept in that peaceful home where he passed away.
Next: Chapter Six
