Pappina Pierno

It was away up in that part of Naples called San Lucia, where clothes seem forever hanging out to dry, that Pappina lived with the rest of the Pierno family, a tribe too large to enumerate.

Pappina was only seven years of age, but she was different from every other child living in dingy, dirty San Lucia. Few even of the grown people of the neighborhood cared to be clean, and as for their hair—why, they paid no attention to that, but let it go as it found itself. But Pappina took delight in combing her silky black hair and in washing her beautiful face and dimpled hands.

This was a wonder to all who lived near.

"The one who washes! Per bacco [Great heavens]!" they said when they saw her. But their amazement did not disturb Pappina. She went about her play in the sordid old tenement–court like a sunbeam astray.

Only when she sang and danced and the people gathered around her did she seem to take much notice of her neighbors.

"Such a voice in one so small! It is from the angels!" the women would say, as, charmed by her singing and her grace, they would toss her un soldo (a half–penny).

The other children would run with every soldo to buy macaroni, for the children were always hungry in San Lucia, where even soldi are scarce; but Pappina, a true little Neapolitan, loved dress and display. She spent her money for trinkets with which to adorn her bewitching, graceful self.

Pappina's love of beauty sprang from her eager little heart like a sweet flower from a patch of rich earth on a rocky hillside.

It grew with very little nourishment from without, for in all her seven years she had hardly been out of sight of the hivelike tenement where her hard–working father himself had been born. On rare days she was taken to a near–by street where for generations the women of the neighborhood had gone to do their family washing at a free fountain; and of course, as all little girls in Italy do, she went to a gray old church regularly with her mother. Down the narrow street, past the mean shops, to church was the longest journey out into the world the bright–eyed little maiden had ever taken.

Her brothers, however, were great travelers. Sometimes at night they came home with tales of the wonderful foreigners who thronged the Toledo, of the splendid shops where all the treasures of the earth were gathered—jewels that sparkled like the sun; flowers that smelled like a breath of heaven; rich and gay clothes! Pappina sat with shining eyes and listened to these amazing tales until her heart was full of a longing to go and see for herself the wonders described.

On some mornings after drinking in news of the unknown world to which her brothers journeyed every day, Pappina would follow them down the stairs, through the court, out upon the cobble–stoned street, with outstretched hands, crying:

"Take me, Filippo, Vittorio!"

"Non oggi, sorella [Not to–day, sister]," they laughed as they dodged between the people in the street.

Sometimes she would follow her brothers for some distance, only to be taken back into the courtyard of the tenement when they discovered her running after them. Pappina, who had a temper of her own, returned more often in anger than in tears.

One day a great resolve came to her as she stood watching them go away.

"I've staved at home long enough," she said to herself. "They won't take me, but I'm going; I'm surely going."

Pappina spent all the morning in adorning herself for the journey. Time and again her mother called to her:

"Pappina, bambina [baby], what are you doing?"

But Pappina, standing before a bit of looking–glass, never heard the call, she was so busy pinning on a bit of lace or a ribbon, or combing and curling her tresses.

Soon after noon a grotesque little figure darted out of the tenement and down the street. Without looking to right or left it ran swiftly for a short distance, and then it stopped and looked back to see if any one were following. Then Pappina—for it was she—moved on, bound for the Toledo.

She held her head up proudly, and all the bits of lace and ribbon that she had fastened to her faded little frock fluttered about her as she hurried on—toward the Toledo she thought, but, in truth, over the bridge that leads to the Marina or wharf at Castle dell'Ovo.

The place had no historic interest for her. Pappina knew nothing of history; she was just a poor little Neapolitan girl. Only foreign tourists visited the oval–shaped castle because it was the place where Cicero met Brutus bloody–handed from the murder of CÆsar; where kings and queens had dwelt and been imprisoned. She saw only the crowds of people—the divine people who made the wonderland her brothers told about.

Some of the people were waving their arms toward the water and laughing. Pappina approached the edge of the wharf, that she might see everything that was going on.

Well–dressed men were throwing money into the waves.

"What wealth they must have!" exclaimed Pappina to herself. "Such queer words they speak, too! These must be the foreigners Vittorio tells about!"

She drew still nearer and saw that the people were laughing at the way a mob of half–naked boys were diving for the soldi the foreigners threw into the water, bringing the coins up in their mouths.

"Oh, the foreigners are not crazy; they are only kind," she thought.

She turned at a burst of laughter behind her, and there were more foreigners throwing soldi to more boys who were standing on their heads, turning hand–springs, and crying: "Date [give] un soldo."

Pappina was astonished. There were blond–haired Englishmen, blue–eyed Germans, black–whiskered Russians, generous Americans; and such wonderful ladies everywhere!

"Where do all the soldi come from?" she murmured as she stood gazing about her in amazement.

Suddenly a group of light–hearted tourists, bent on discovering all the treasures of a foreign land, swept around Pappina.

"What a quaint little beauty!" one lady exclaimed. "See how she has decked herself out in all her finery! What cherubic eyes!"

Pappina clasped her hands to her breast and shrank back from the gaze of the eyes fastened upon her. She was such a little girl, and never before had she been so far away from home; no wonder the sudden attention of all these finely dressed ladies and gentlemen frightened her.

"I must go home," she exclaimed; "I must run home and tell them all about it. Oh, what a grand time I've had!" She laughed aloud as she broke through the crowd and darted away.

On ran Pappina until she spied the statues of La Villa, and then, although the beauty of the park was before her eyes, she was frightened. Where was her home—her dear, dear home? where were her brothers and sisters? Pappina was lost.

Suddenly her lips stopped quivering: forgotten were her home and her fright. Her little feet paused.

A band! Wonder of wonders! For the first time in her life Pappina heard the whole air aquiver. Streams of sweet sound swept around her. Her whole body tingled, down to her feet. She began to dance with the unconsciousness of a music–mad little child. Tapping her toes on the pavement, gliding and swaying to and fro with the music, keeping time with her arms, dancing with truly wonderful grace, she had drawn a large group of people about her by the time the waltz had ceased.

"Bravo! Bravo!" the people cried as they showered soldi upon the surprised little girl.

She drew back, frightened.

"Yours, all yours!" called some voices.

She began picking up the coins as she laughed her thanks. Her chubby little hands were soon so full that she dropped some soldi every time she picked up one. She gave a perplexed sigh, then suddenly made a purse of her apron and filled it with the jingling money. How the people laughed at her cleverness!

Rich little Pappina! The luxuries of the world—her world—were now within her reach. What should she buy? For a moment her bright eyes rested on the strings of macaroni some boys near her were eating. She felt a sudden hunger, but she had wanted a coral necklace too long to spend her money for the mere pleasure of eating, so she started off to hunt for a shop filled with jewels such as Filippo had often told about.

Pappina had not gone a hundred feet when she spied Filippo himself, sitting with a group of twinkling–eyed, barefooted boys of his age, playing "Mora," the Italians' favorite game of chance. The boys—shouting, disputing, quarreling, eager to win—were all so intent on the game that not one of them noticed Pappina's approach. Slipping up behind her brother, she clasped one hand over his eyes, asking: "Chi e [Who is it]?" and laughing merrily when she saw his surprise.

Filippo turned sharply toward her and gruffly demanded: "What are you doing here?" In her joy she ignored both his anger and his question. With dancing eyes she jingled her coins.

"See," she cried, "I've been dancing. Come quickly, Filippo; I want a coral necklace; take me where I can buy one."

"Sit down, you simpleton," he growled.

Words proved useless. Pappina must wait, so she sat down close beside Filippo, watching the game patiently for some time. Tired of this, she opened her apron, trying to count her wealth.

Luck certainly was against Filippo. His day's profits from the sale of cigarettes were slowly but surely dwindling away. To lose his earnings usually meant to remain away from home all night, for to return without money brought worse hardships than sleeping supperless on the street. Alas, to–day there was no way out of it! He must make good his losses. Great beads of perspiration stood on his brow as he recklessly risked his last soldo. Lost! Muttering an oath, he turned toward Pappina, who still sat at his elbow absorbed in her efforts to count her soldi.

At another time Filippo would have laughed at his favorite sister as she counted softly to herself, "One, two, six, four," but to–day he heard nothing, saw nothing but her tempting soldi. He reached into her apron for funds with which to make another play. Pappina looked up, surprised, but said nothing.

The second time she jumped quickly to her feet, her eyes and cheeks aflame. The third time she gave him a vigorous slap.

"Let my money alone! You're a mean, horrid boy!"

The boys laughed loudly, then took up the game, shouting as before, "Uno, quattro, tre [One, four, three]," etc. So boisterous were they that Pappina began to cry. The necklace was forgotten.

"I'm so hungry, Filippo, and I'm tired, too. Take me home." He made no move. "Don't you hear me? I want to go home at once, Filippo," and she stamped her little foot imperiously.

The game thus interrupted, the boys arose and moved on.

Filippo shook Pappina as he demanded: "What business have you down here bothering me. I'd like to know! You'd better stay home after this."

Pappina paid no attention to his anger.

"Oh, Filippo," she cried, "it's lots of fun to come down here to the Toledo. I'm coming every day."

"'Tain't the Toledo," said Filippo, still out of sorts.

"'Tis, too! I know it is, for I saw all the fine people in carriages. Didn't the foreigners throw soldi at me?"

"Don't try to tell me. I tell you, 'tain't the Toledo."

"Then take me there," pleaded Pappina, "I won't go home till—"

She stopped at a burst of applause.

"What is it, Filippo?" she asked, eyeing a crowd of people they had reached.

"Come along; it's only the Punchinellos."

"The Punchinellos? What's that?"

"Were you born yesterday? Live in Naples and don't know the Punchinellos?"

Filippo stopped to laugh at so absurd an idea, for Punchinellos are as common in Italy as hand–organs in America.

Taking advantage of his laughter, Pappina pulled Filippo into the crowd.

"Filippo, I cannot see," she cried.

She could hear voices carrying on a conversation, but as for seeing, she was lost in a wilderness of legs. Dragging her unwilling brother by the arm, elbowing her way through the crowd, she took her place directly in front of the Punchinellos.

The first part of the puppet performance was just ended. Then came the most popular of all puppet plays, in which a splendid puppet fully ten inches high, with fixed, staring expression, began good–naturedly to deceive the smaller puppets.

As the first simple–minded puppet gave his wealth to the arch deceiver, Pappina cried out:

"Don't give it to him! Don't, I say! He is bad."

The crowd roared. Filippo pinched her.

"Shut up, you baby!" he whispered. "They're only puppets."

Pappina turned her flashing eyes for a moment toward Filippo, who expected his saucy sister to give his hair a vigorous pull, but she was too interested in the play to stop now even for this satisfaction.

Several times Filippo had to hold her by the arm, to prevent her from running to the rescue of the abused puppets. He was ashamed of her ignorance. He wanted her to go home, but she refused to move, and he knew her willfulness too well to insist.

The play continued. A puppet who refused to give up his money was beaten on the back till dead.

"Stop him! Stop him!" screamed Pappina in her excitement.

Filippo placed his hand over Pappina's mouth.

"Let her alone!" cried several persons in the crowd, so he stopped trying to repress her and joined in the merriment over her enthusiasm.

The play ends with the murder of the villain, an event which never fails to bring forth the laughter and applause of the audience, with shouts of "Hurrah! Hurrah!" This time, however, the crowd failed to show its approval in a more substantial way.

The hat was passed. Nothing was given.

The owner of the Punchinellos stood expectantly awaiting the returns. Timidly the pale woman took him the empty hat. He scowled. Turning toward the dispersing crowd, he cried:

"What! You give me no money? Sons of dogs, I play no more to you"—this being a rebuke all Punchinello owners use.

No one seemed to care except Pappina and the woman. The latter shrank back from the showman's wrath.

The rowdies and hoodlums, observing his disappointment, remained. They were waiting to be called "figure of a pig," which to an Italian is a deadly insult and means trouble. They were hoping, longing for a fight, and it would have come but for Pappina.

She saw the brown–haired woman trembling at the rage of the disappointed man, and down she dug into her apron and passed a handful of soldi to the poor creature, who smiled her thanks.

Pappina sealed her fate by this act of generosity, for her beauty and grace attracted the swarthy Punchinello man's notice.

As Filippo led Pappina away, the owner of the puppet show muttered something to the pale–faced woman who had passed the hat, and thrusting the little stage toward her, darted off after the homeward–bound children.

Down the street they went, hunter and hunted, through the crowds, up highways and down byways, to the humble home in San Lucia.

"I have brought home the little runaway She was—" A knock at the door interrupted Filippo's speech.

All the Pierno family were within the poor home. They looked at one another and grew still. Pietro, the father, went to the door and opened it.

"It's the Punchinello man!" exclaimed Filippo.

"I am Guiseppe Capasso, signor," said the dark–browed man, bowing and stepping inside the doorway, "and if you are the father of yonder little girl I have business with you."

The children whispered together and drew away from Pappina, who ran to her mother.

Guiseppe Capasso began at once to bargain for the little girl.

In spite of his poverty and his desire for money, Pietro was loath to part with his child. He sat with bowed head, looking neither to right nor to left, apparently uninterested.

Guiseppe leaned forward and touched Pietro on the shoulder.

"Come, come," he said, "can you keep so beautiful a child a prisoner in this dingy San Lucia when—"

"Vieni, bambina [come, baby]," Pietro interrupted him, holding out his arms to Pappina. She ran to him and climbed upon his knee.

"Si [yes], signor," Pietro began, as he took one of Pappina's curls in his hand, "bella, bella [Beautiful, beautiful], but she has a temper of her own at times. She ain't always sweet and gentle as she looks; are you, bambina? You, signor, don't know her or her ways. She ain't like any of the others. We love her best of all. No, signor, we can't give up Pappina." He looked at the child with love and pride.

Then Guiseppe with his glib tongue started all over again. He was ready with many arguments why it would be best for Pietro to hire Pappina to him.

"I will be good to her and educate her. Marta, my wife, and I will take her traveling over Italy like the daughter of a lord."

Still Pietro shook his head.

"Such advantages—can you refuse them? And the money—" Guiseppe leaned toward Pietro, slyly watching him as he repeated slowly, "and—the—money—".

Pietro raised his head a trifle, looking into the cunning eyes of the other man.

"Think how much it will do to feed and clothe the others," Guiseppe urged. "I pay you money for the right to give your child splendid advantages. Per bacco! What more do you ask?"

Pietro began to waver, and Guiseppe, seeing this, continued his arguments.

It was a case of a shrewd man bargaining with a poor, ignorant one. Guiseppe—smiling, shrugging his shoulders—met every objection, and at last Pietro consented to let him take Pappina for a year.

"Well, get the child ready," said Guiseppe, changing his tone from coaxing to command as soon as the bargain was closed and the money paid.

"But I don't want to go," Pappina cried, running to her mother in whose apron she fairly buried her frightened little self.

"Su, su [Come, come]!" exclaimed Guiseppe. "There's many would be glad of your chance."

"Oh, signor," said Elisa, throwing her arm about her child, "let us have her one night more! She is tired. One night more! I will send her to you with Filippo in the morning."

Guiseppe shook his head.

"The bargain's closed. Quick, get her clothes, we must be off."

"She is ready as she stands," said Pietro, pointing to Pappina, who stood holding tightly to her mother.

"What, no clothes!" cried Guiseppe harshly.

Elisa looked angrily at him.

Guiseppe, anxious to get away, went to Pappina and rested his hand on her head with a show of tenderness.

"Come, little one, come," he said, "and to–morrow you shall buy a splendid dress, bright and new."

Pappina was interested.

"Will you take me to the Toledo, where all the lords and ladies are?" she asked.

"Si, si, carina [yes, yes, little dear]," said Guiseppe guilefully.

"Go with him, bambina. It is best," said Pietro, trying to disguise his fears and hide his sorrow.

Pappina, taught always to obey her parents, hesitated no longer.

"I'm ready," she said, leaving her mother's side.

There were no preparations to make for the child's departure, no clothes to fold and pack. All she owned she was wearing. She had only to bid adieu to the loved ones before starting out with Guiseppe Capasso into the street, into a new life.

Elisa, wringing her hands and with tears raining down her cheeks, watched her most beautiful child disappear into the dusk. Her grief would have been wilder still had she known the truth—for Pappina was leaving San Lucia forever.

On thy dear head my hands I lay
In solemn, fervent prayer,
Praying that God may keep thee
Thus pure and sweet and fair.

—Heine.