The Conquest of Guiseppe

When Pappina awoke the next morning, the little east room where she lay was flooded with sunshine. She looked about her wonderingly.

"Where am I? Is this a dream?" she asked herself softly.

For a few moments she lay with half–closed, sleepy eyes looking in the golden light at the white curtains draped at the window.

"Pretty, pretty," she murmured. Her little hand took up the coverlet. It was white! She turned over quickly: there was a white covering on her pillow! Surely this was not home! She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and there was brown–haired Marta smiling at her from the other side of the room.

Marta was an Englishwoman. While traveling through Italy as maid to the Countess Filota, she had met and fallen in love with the handsome professional story–teller, Guiseppe Capasso. After their marriage he had turned his stock of stories to account by setting up as a puppet showman.

Marta knew how to take care of a child. Her English face shone with pleasure as she washed Pappina, combed her hair, and dressed her, clean and rested, for breakfast.

This home was poor. The furnishings were little better than those of Pappina's own, but it was clean. Pappina looked about the room.

"I like it," she said.

She had just finished the simple breakfast Marta served when Guiseppe appeared, frowning, in the doorway.

The gladness went out of Marta's eyes as though a cloud had passed before the sun.

Pappina noticed his scowl and was half frightened for a moment. She clung close to Marta, waiting for Guiseppe to speak.

From under his heavy, shaggy eyebrows he stood silently studying the face of the black–eyed child. Pappina flushed under his scrutiny. She wanted to cry, but she was not lacking in spirit and she did not mean to let him know that he frightened her.

"Signor, why don't you say good–morning to Pappina?" she asked. "I shan't like you if you look so cross."

Guiseppe was surprised at the speech and pleased at her courage. Most children ran away from him when he scowled and looked fiercely at them, as he knew he had looked at Pappina. To Maria's astonishment he burst into a hearty laugh.

"I'm good and I'm cross, bambina. I'm clouds and I'm sunshine. Sometimes I'll be kind. Sometimes, maybe, I'll beat you."

"No, you won't," retorted Pappina, darting from Marta's side. "Oh, no, signor! If you should dare, I'd run away from you."

Guiseppe believed her when he saw her small clenched fists and the fire of indignation in her eyes. He knew she meant what she said.

"Hola, the sauce box! I'll break her in! I'll curb her spirit by degrees," he told himself, smiling as though he enjoyed the prospect. Bowing with great courtliness, he said aloud: "Ah, a very beautiful morning to you, Madamigella Pappina."

Pappina stood still a moment, watching him; then, with a shrug of her shoulders, she replied

"Ebbene [Well]! But you have not told me, signor—"

"Call me, Guiseppe," the man interrupted. "We're just old Guiseppe and Marta to every one."

"Well, then, old Guiseppe—"

"Guiseppe, without the old, if you please, signorina." He bowed mockingly, but he smiled as though the child's independence and fearlessness had charmed his surliness away.

"Signor Guiseppe, you have not told me at what time you will take me to the Toledo. I want the new dress you promised to buy me to–day."

Marta held her breath. Would Guiseppe, who had led her such a hard life for years, permit this child to look boldly into his face and command him to do her bidding? Would he suddenly burst into a rage and rain blows upon her?

To her relief she saw a half–concealed smile on his lips as he took from his pocket a handful of money. He counted out a few pieces and laid them on the table.

"Marta, buy the minx stuff for a dress—and shoes, too, I suppose. We can't have her toes sticking out as they are now," he said.

"And stockings?" asked Marta with a courage she could never have summoned had she been asking for money for herself.

"She'll do without them," Guiseppe replied grimly. "If her feet are covered she'll get along. I'll go alone with the Punchinellos this morning. This afternoon I'll keep my promise and take the child to the Toledo, although why she's so crazy to go there is more than I know."

Taking up his Punchinello box, he left the room.

Pappina danced about, radiantly happy over the prospect of a new frock.

"You'll let me go with you, won't you, Marta? I want so to go, and if there's money enough. Marta—dear, good Marta—may I have some of that stuff that smells like flowers? I smelt it on those foreign ladies when they took out their handkerchiefs at the Marina."

"There'll be only enough for the dress and the shoes to–day, carina." Marta was sorry to deny the child.

Pappina took the woman's hand.

"Vieni, Marta. We must hurry or everything will be sold to the foreigners. They have so much money they even throw it away. My dress must be red, and red is so beautiful! If we don't hurry. I'm sure they'll have it all. Please, Marta, aren't you ready?"

Marta had not the heart to keep the eager child waiting, and they started at once.

Pappina walked as though on air, by Marta's side, looking at everything, prattling in her inimitable way. Marta was beginning to feel that even for herself life still held some charm.

The child had not once thought of home. She had been too absorbed in the newness of everything. Suddenly she caught sight of two ragged boys asleep on the ground, with their empty baskets over their faces. She stopped beside them.

"Marta, wait!" she commanded. "Maybe it's Vittorio or Filippo. Sometimes they don't come home at night. I must see if it is my brothers."

A passer–by, hearing her cry, uncovered the boys' heads. Eagerly Pappina peered into their faces. It was not they. She burst into tears.

"Padre—madre [Father—mother]!—I want to see them all! Take me home," she cried.

"First the pretty red dress, carina." Shrewd Marta! She knew perhaps the one thing to make the child forget.

The tears were dried, and hand in hand they hurried to a shop. Pappina wanted everything she saw in the store that was bright and pretty.

"Mayn't I have that shawl for my head? Please, Marta, buy it for me!"

"No, carina—just the dress and shoes to–day. There is money only for them."

Pappina's request was hardly made before she had forgotten it because of the wonders she beheld in the great store—show–cases filled with ribbons of all the colors and tints of the rainbow; cases of spools of silk; bright–colored fashion plates, and a dazzling array of fabrics in prints, cheesecloth, merinos, and silks. With exclamations of delight the child danced about like a butterfly from one thing to another, smiling Marta following her.

When they started from the shop, Pappina refused to let Marta carry either the shoes or the dressgoods. She hugged them close in her arms, every other minute peeping through the tear she had made in the wrapping–paper.

"Che bella, Marta, che bella [How beautiful, Marta, how beautiful]!" she exclaimed softly, again and again.

"Are we going to make the dress right away, the minute we get home, Marta?"

"Si, si, carina."

"You will let me help?"

"Can you sew, carina?"

"My sister Angela knit when she was only four, and I can sew, I'm sure I can. You'll let me, won't you, Marta?—so it will be done before I go with Signor Guiseppe?"

"You shall wear it this afternoon, carina."

"He'll be sure to like the color of the dress. He can't help it, can he? Shan't I be grand, Marta, when I have on my splendid new dress and shoes!"

Marta, looking at the eager little upturned face, forgot she had ever had a sorrow or a hardship.

It did not take long to sew up the simple little frock, but it would certainly have been finished quite an hour before had not Pappina insisted upon sewing this and that. Marta, good soul, in her keen enjoyment of the child's pleasure, considered it no trouble to stop sewing and hold up the little dress to be admired, to try it on some six or seven times, and while Pappina was absorbed in her new shoes, secretly to take out the big stitches put in by this wild little child who would help.

At noon Guiseppe came home, out of sorts and cross. His coming was like a shadow on the happiness that Marta and Pappina felt.

"No money," he growled as he rattled the Punchinellos into a corner. "I might as well have stayed at home. I'm sick of playing to such dogs." Pappina and Marta were silent. "Is it done?" he asked, noticing the red dress in Marta's hands.

"Yes."

"I'll try what youth and beauty will do. I'll take her to the Toledo with the Punchinellos. Can you sing, girl?" he asked turning his glowering eyes on Pappina.

"Si, signor."

"Get up and give us a song; dance if you can. I feed and clothe no one who can't earn what I give."

He waited a moment, watching Pappina's flashing eyes. She made no move to obey him, but, looking at Marta who sat with downcast lids, she followed her example of silence. In all the poverty of her home no such crossness had ever been shown Pappina, and she was not quick to submit to tyranny.

"Why don't you do as I tell you, girl?" exclaimed Guiseppe threateningly.

"Because, Signor Guiseppe, I couldn't sing for you when you are so cross and mean. When we go this afternoon to the Toledo, if you're good to me, I will sing and dance, and they'll give me money, lots of it."

"Per bacco! The minx has courage!" Guiseppe muttered, then added gruffly: "Dress, then, at once. We'll go and see what stuff you're made of."

It was a small matter to put on the new shoes and don the simple little frock. As Pappina was putting on the bright dress she could hardly stand still. It was so fine to her that she could scarcely believe it was her own.

Suddenly remembering who had given her the money with which to buy the gorgeous garment, she ran to Guiseppe. Climbing upon his knee, she threw her arms about his neck.

"Oh, Signor Guiseppe," she exclaimed, all her anger forgotten, "look at me, quickly! I am Pappina Pierno. You wouldn't know it, but I am really and truly the same little girl. Do I look well? Are you proud of me? Do you like my red dress? Will every one know it is new—and my shoes, too?"

She plied him with a hundred questions all at once, it seemed to Guiseppe, who had never before had a child in his home. He did not even like children, and yet he felt a delight in having this impetuous little beauty dash at him and in her excitement nearly knock him off his chair.

"Bella bambina!" he exclaimed involuntarily, while good Marta smiled at the sight.

All was now in readiness. Guiseppe, Marta and Pappina, with the Punchinellos, were off.

For years Guiseppe and Maria had not walked side by side. Guiseppe had a way of going ahead, letting Marta follow like a faithful dog after his master. To–day, as usual, Guiseppe took the lead, striding through the network of lanes and streets certain that Marta with Pappina was close at his heels. But everything was so new to Pappina that progress was slow.

Every minute she would beg Marta to stop while she feasted her eyes on the wonders of the shop windows; and Marta was torn between her desire to please the child, who had already brought so much pleasure into her hard life, and her desire to avoid angering Guiseppe.

"Oh, Marta, can't you wait just a minute to see these pretty things?" Pappina would exclaim, stopping at a jeweler's.

"Not to–day, carina—another day. Now we must hurry."

"But just to see these pictures—"

"No, carina, look! Guiseppe is far ahead. It is there at the bend of the street by that statue that he always stops when he plays on the Toledo."

At the mention of the Toledo, Pappina was only too ready to hurry along with Marta. So, half running, they reached Guiseppe's side just as he set up the Punchinellos.

Pappina, looking with disappointment up and down the street, asked: "Marta, is this the Toledo?"

"Yes."

"Then where are all the grand people in their fine carriages?"

"The grand people have nearly all gone away from Naples, away to the coast, where it is cool," Marta replied.

The crowd was now considered large enough to warrant a performance of the show.

Pappina was the most interested of the spectators. When she had seen the show with Filippo she had been so absorbed in the puppets' actions that she had not noticed it was Guiseppe who moved them, spoke for them with a change of voice, and lived through all their passions for them. To–day, standing close to him, she understood. She looked wonderingly, first at him, then at the puppets, and knowing that it was all make–believe, she did not cry out against the villain's actions.

When the play was finished, both Pappina and Marta passed through the crowd to collect the pay for the performance, but there were only a few soldi from the sprinkling of soldiers—nothing more.

Guiseppe was on the point of bursting out in angry abuse when he bethought himself.

"Try your luck, girl," he said roughly to Pappina. "Sing, dance, give us a gay one."

Pappina hesitated, then she looked at her new dress and shoes, took up her tambourine, and began to sing.

The liquid notes poured forth as from the throat of a nightingale. She forgot the people and where she was, forgot everything but her song. Her voice rang out so clear and pure that even the lazy, loafing boys threw away their cigarettes and joined the crowd that was holding its breath to catch the silvery sweetness of the tiny singer's song.

The last notes were unheard, so loud were the cheers they gave her.

Guiseppe, the money–lover, was chuckling with pleasure and anticipation.

"Pass your tambourine," he commanded.

The ragged boys dived into their pockets to see if there was even un soldo to give. Young black–haired, bareheaded women found a small coin or two. Pale–faced Neapolitan loafers with the drapery of their cloaks thrown over their shoulders, having nothing to offer but shouts of approval, slunk away before the tambourine reached them. Old women all rags and fangs, weak little girls supporting big babies, eager to hear another song, tried in vain to find something for the singer.

What little there was in the tambourine Guiseppe soon had in his pocket.

"The girl's too good for such beggars," he said as he took up the Punchinellos and started down the street.

Pappina, pleased with his praise, walked proudly beside him, prattling, humming, laughing, pointing here and there, enthusiastic over every new thing she saw.

"Guiseppe, where are we going now?" she inquired.

It was a question Marta had longed to ask, but had not dared. The change in Guiseppe was too recent for Marta to believe he would continue good–tempered long.

Certainly since hearing Pappina sing, Guiseppe had seemed in good spirits. The visions of much money cheered him so that he was gracious even to Marta.

"We are going now to Porta Capuana, songstress," he laughingly replied. Noticing Marta's surprised look, he added kindly to her: "I've never done well there myself, but if all those others can make a living there I guess Pappina can draw the money with her voice."

Porta Capuana is a quarter of Naples where street singers congregate. Here, also, one may find public readers who follow in the footsteps of ancient poets like Homer and tell their stories to the public in person instead of through the cold type of the printer.

Pappina, proud of Guiseppe's praise, smiled happily into his face and walked close by his side, in her childish way holding with one hand a corner of his coat.

The almost deafening shouts of the quack doctors trying to sell their cure–alls, and stopping occasionally to pull teeth, frightened Pappina. She clung so tightly to Guiseppe's coat that he turned to look at her. Her bright, happy expression had changed to one of fear. Guiseppe took hold of her trembling hand, reassured her, and leading her to a place where the quacks and their victims were out of sight, he said in the kindest tone he had ever used:

"Canta [Sing], bambina."

Away from the din, with loving Marta on one side, protecting Guiseppe on the other, Pappina quickly forgot her fear. She sang and danced; money was given freely. She was happy. She and Guiseppe were the best of friends, and they were having a glorious time.

Such noise and such bustle! Such scenes and such macaroni!

Guiseppe apparently was really enjoying Pappina's happiness. He looked pleased when she smiled into his face, patted his sleeve, pulled his coat or squeezed his big hand, always willing to sing and do his bidding.

It was a good day for them all. It passed only too quickly for Pappina, who did not wish to go home, and begged to stay to see the lights and hear the band. She gave in sweetly when she was refused, however, and was taken home and put to bed, too tired after the exciting day to think once of the loved ones in San Lucia.