In the Valley of Pompeii

Marta was awake early the morning after the fete. She hurried to Pappina's cot and found the child ill. It was as she had feared: the excitement had proved too much for the little one. The wonder–child lay pale and listless. Her black eyes were drowsy.

Marta was bathing the feverish brow and hands when Guiseppe, returning from an errand, angrily asked why they were not ready to start on the day's rounds.

"Ready to start!" Marta cried. "Have you no eyes except for money? Look at her! Do you not see that it is impossible to keep the child always singing and dancing?"

Only for the sake of Pappina had Marta dared be so brave. Guiseppe was astonished. This was a new Marta to him. That his wife, who had so patiently borne with him for so long a time, should turn on him, was more than he was prepared for.

"Basta, basta [Enough, enough]!" he said, raising his hand to silence Marta. Then he glanced toward the cot. He could see how pale and still Pappina lay. "It's early yet. An hour in bed will put her right."

"An hour!" Marta exclaimed, darting up to him in her indignation at his heartlessness. "Do you wish to kill the hen that lays the golden eggs?"

"She laid many yesterday," he replied, taking out his money–bag. "They are all in here, francs and soldi, and there are many of them." He patted the bag affectionately, looked again at Pappina, and added: "I'll let her rest. It's quiet after the fete, and I can't lose much to–day."

"To–day! Guiseppe, she shall not leave the house till she is quite well. You know how high–strung and sensitive she is, like a golden lute that responds to the slightest touch of any breeze, no matter how mild and soft. You must let her rest. You must, Guiseppe." Marta had gone close to her husband and was looking earnestly and pleadingly into his face.

"I'll not break her down and lose her," Guiseppe replied. "She did well at the fete. After all, what will a few days matter?" He walked to the little cot and continued: "I know you, bambina, I know you. If you don't feel right you may as well stay at home, for you can't sing and you won't dance."

He turned with a shrug of his shoulders, picked up the Punchinello stage, and left the house.

Pappina dozed all through the long day, with Marta keeping close watch by her side.

Late that evening Guiseppe came in stealthily. He found his supper waiting him.

"All right again, Marta?" he questioned.

"A few days' rest is all she needs," Marta answered, thankful that he was not ill–natured, and pleased that he had inquired about the child.

For several days Guiseppe went out alone with the Punchinellos. He missed Pappina, and the money he earned was not worth the time and trouble it cost him to give the show.

"It's no use," he said to Marta one evening as he came in. "The foreigners have sought the cool resorts. The wealth of Naples is leaving also. It's along the coast they go to enjoy the fresh breezes of the Bay of Naples, and we may as well follow them and their money."

This announcement surprised Marta, for since her marriage she had never been away from Naples.

"You really mean we are going away?—away from Naples?—away from home?"

"What's the use of staying in Naples?" he growled. "It's money I want—money, I say. Old Parisotti goes down the coast every year. His old guitar isn't fit to listen to; neither can that girl of his sing. We have Pappina, and as soon as she's able we'll go."

Marta carried the news to Pappina, who was sitting up. She clapped her hands softly.

"Can we go soon, Marta?" she cried.

"As soon as you are well enough, carina. It is beautiful along the coast. You will like to be away from the crowded city—away, carina, where the birds sing, the flowers grow, the grass and trees are green, and the air is cool and fresh."

Before the end of the week Pappina came to breakfast and announced: "I'm ready to start, and I want to go at once."

All dimples and smiles, she went to Guiseppe and sat uninvited on his knee. Looking into his eyes, she asked:

"Guiseppe, are you angry with me?"

He was surprised and pleased. If there was a warm spot in Guiseppe's heart she had touched it. He took Pappina's face between his rough, broad hands.

"There, there, carina," he said, "Guiseppe's a bear—old and often crabbed. Just forget his faults and try to like him."

He pushed her almost roughly off his lap and began his morning repast. Guiseppe admitted to himself that he had missed the little elf while she was ill, more than he would like any one to know. He considered the feeling a weakness, and would not permit Pappina and Marta to see how glad, even happy he was to have the child well again.

"She must not know how angry my heart has been against her. She must not know how I have missed her, with her moods, her storms, her sunshine, and her prattle," he said to himself as he sat stolidly trying to conceal his pleasure.

Pappina, having little appetite, was soon away from the table, imitating the tarantella dancers, to the great amusement of both Marta and Guiseppe. Tiring of this, she ran first to Marta, whom she gave a big squeeze, then around the table to Guiseppe, about whose neck she put both arms.

"Guiseppe, dear Guiseppe," she cried, "I'm so glad we're going away! I'm tired of being shut up in the house. When shall we go? To–day, good Guiseppe?"

Guiseppe laid down his knife and fork. His face lighted up with pleasure as he took Pappina's two little hands caressingly in his.

"Marta!" he exclaimed, "do you hear what she calls me? 'Good Guiseppe!' Per bacco, I have never before been called good! Do you mean it, bambina?"

"I do, Guiseppe; truly I do!"

"Then, if I'm good, I'll see that my little one is quite strong before she is taken on a long, hard tramp, with plenty of singing and dancing wherever we meet people."

He kept his word. In spite of Pappina's impatience to be off, it was several days before he would consent to start.

As the wardrobe of the three consisted principally of the clothes on their backs, there was little to do but lock the door of their humble two–roomed home, take the Punchinellos, and start out of Naples, through the noisy, bustling east suburb.

Along the busy streets Guiseppe marched, as though walking for a wager—past various markets, with fish, vegetables, and carts of oranges standing outside; past houses where women sat in the sun mending fish–nets or spinning from distaffs; through crowds of unwashed, ragged children, beggars, carts, red–capped fishermen and sailors; on through the wild confusion of horses, donkeys, drivers, and people such as one sees nowhere in the world but in this part of Naples.

Guiseppe had promised himself to stop at the villas, but here he was going past villas and palaces, gardens and vineyards, down the country roads that lead to Vesuvius and Pompeii, without any apparent notice of anything they were passing. He looked neither to right nor left, but with bowed head walked mechanically on. Marta and Pappina followed close behind their stolid leader. No one spoke.

Just at the outskirts of the city, they passed the macaroni factories, where Pappina saw long strips and strings of macaroni hung out on poles in the street to dry. She gazed longingly at the food.

"I want some, Marta. Tell Guiseppe I want some macaroni," she said, but before Marta could reply, they turned a bend in the road and Pappina saw for the first time Vesuvius, puffing out great volumes of smoke against the clear blue sky. Visible as this mountain is from some parts of Naples, Pappina had not seen it before. The tall tenements of gloomy San Lucia, with lines upon lines of garments everlastingly hanging out to dry between the balconies or from poles thrust out, completely hide the volcano from the view of those living where the Piernos had their home.

"O—oh, Marta!" Pappina exclaimed, pausing abruptly. "Marta! Look! See! What is it?" she cried, pointing to attract Marta's attention.

Marta was hastening along to keep up with Guiseppe and hardly glanced at the smoke–crowned mountain, which was an old sight to her.

"What is it, Marta?" Pappina persisted as she caught up with the woman.

"Vesuvius, carina."

"Where does all the smoke come from? Where's the fire?"

Marta told Pappina all she knew about it:

"Travelers from all parts of the world come and climb the volcano to look down into the crater, the mouth from which the smoke comes. I went up once with Countess Filota. People melt coins in the lava—that's the melted rock that comes out with the smoke. Sometimes the guides boil eggs over the lava to show how hot it is."

"Marta, can't we go up? Weren't you afraid to look down into the mouth?"

"No, carina. They tell the story of an Englishman who went too close and fell in, but that was because of his own carelessness. There is no danger. Perhaps sometime we shall be able to go, so you can see for yourself."

On and on they marched, with the pillar of smoke ever before them. Pappina could not overcome the awe she felt at first sight of this great furnace of Nature.

The walk down the dusty road through Posilipo awakened memories in Marta's heart. She spoke, more to herself than to Pappina:

"How long it is since I came here with my dear Countess Filota! She and her friends spoke of Cicero and Virgil, their homes beneath this hillside. We turned and went—let me see, which way was it? It is so long ago I have almost forgotten. Oh! this way, to the left and we visited the tomb of Virgil; we—"

"Who were they, Marta?" Pappina interrupted her, "friends of your Countess Filota?"

Marta was too deep in her memories to be amused at the child's question.

"No, no, carina. They were great poets. I wish you might—" She left the sentence unfinished, for glancing toward Guiseppe, plodding ahead, she noticed something queer in his gait. She ran forward, calling: "Guiseppe! What's the matter, Guiseppe?"

Guiseppe turned at the call and stopped, facing them. As they drew near, Marta saw that he was breathing hard and that his face was drawn and white.

"I'm not well, Marta," he gasped as they reached him. "My legs and breath shouldn't give out like this. It won't do. I tell you. I'm not well."

He flung himself down on the ground. This was the first complaint of illness Marta had ever heard him make. She was alarmed, and she showed it. Guiseppe reassured her.

"We'll stop at the Valley of Pompeii. We'll go to the church Santa Maria dell Rosario [Saint Mary of the Rosary]. It will do us all good to pray. The blessed Virgin makes the blind see and the lame walk. She cured Genario's boy who had been sick two years. She'll make me well."

He crossed himself, and lay back, closing his eyes. Marta and Pappina sat watching the sick man. For some time he lay as though sleeping, then suddenly he sat up.

"Marta," he cried, "we need food. I can't move on to–night. Go, bring us something."

Marta hesitated a moment, wondering if it were best to leave him. He commanded her again to go for food.

"I'm faint," he said, "and the girl's tired and hungry—but she has grit; she don't whimper and snivel as any other child would do. Get something for us to eat. We'll stay here. Where are we, Marta? Do you know?"

"The town is called Resina," Marta replied, as she tried to make him comfortable before obeying his command. Before she started she bade Pappina watch over Guiseppe carefully while she was away, but there was nothing for the child to do but sit quiet and await Marta's return.

The woman was soon back with the food bought in the near–by village. Guiseppe only grunted when Marta sought to make him partake of the food. Little enough she had been able to buy with the few coins given her; but both Pappina and Marta were used to this. They took what they could get, and expected nothing more.

The three were soon asleep under the calm starlight and awoke only when the morning sun, peeping through the branches of the trees, shone brightly into their faces. After eating a little breakfast, they started down the road toward the Valley of Pompeii, with slow steps to accommodate the sick man. Undoubtedly Guiseppe felt himself very ill.

"Hasten, so that I can get to the Virgin of Santa Rosario before I die," he kept exclaiming, as they helped him along.

After many stops to rest Guiseppe, they arrived at the chateau of "La Favorita," with its fine park. As soon as she saw the great iron gateway Pappina darted away without a word. Guiseppe [Pg 70]
[Pg 71]smiled as he watched her disappear and heard the rattle of her tambourine—always music in his ears because it meant to him the jingle of money as well as of bells.

Marta, looking up the avenue of fine trees that led to the chateau, saw a group of ladies and gentlemen, sitting on the lawn. Before them the little red–dressed figure was swaying in its dance, and she heard the sweet voice singing.

"Oh, Guiseppe," she exclaimed, "live, live, for we have her, the wonder–child! Rest while she sings and listen to her angel voice. It will bring you strength to reach the Holy Virgin's church, where you surely will be healed."

Guiseppe was glad to rest. Without a reply to Marta he sat down and listened to the strains of the song that floated to them.

"Cara bambina!" he murmured softly. His sickness seemed to be changing, softening him. His eyes almost sparkled with pleasure when he saw Pappina running toward him.

"Guiseppe, they were splendid to me!" she cried. "A grand gentleman gave me this," showing a franc. "He told me to keep it myself, that it was all for me, but it's yours, Guiseppe. Oh, I can't bear to have you sick," said the child, smiling through her tears.

Guiseppe patted her little hand as he took the proffered coin.

The sight of money turned his thoughts to getting on, and soon they arrived as one little party of a hundred thousand yearly seekers of health at the gray old church of Santa Maria del Rosario.

"Shall I sing?" asked Pappina as soon as she saw the crowds.

"First we must pray," Marta answered, taking the child's hand.

As soon as they entered the broad portals of the church, Guiseppe dropped to his knees, and thus he crept, with many others who were especially seeking health, toward the altar, mumbling his prayers as he counted his beads. Reaching the altar, he flung himself down before the dull, dim image of the Virgin, praying for the blessing of health.

Pappina and Marta, after saying a short prayer, stopped for a few minutes to look at the medallions covering the walls, then followed other visitors to the place in the church where the offerings of the healed are exhibited—a motley collection of baby dresses, shawls, dolls, jewels, and other articles of every kind and description.

Pappina, after a time, grew tired of looking at this display, and begged Marta to go outside to wait for Guiseppe.

They sat down near the church and watched the crowds of pilgrims going in and coming out. For a long time there was silence.

"So long ago," murmured Marta.

"Yes," answered Pappina, "he's been praying hours, hasn't he?"

"I was not speaking of Guiseppe, Pappina, but of my life so long ago, when I was maid to the Countess Filota. We took this same trip, but we rode in carriages. We did not come to this church. We stopped at the ruins of Pompeii."

"Where are they, Marta?"

"There, carina. You can see them dimly in the distance," she said, pointing toward them, "perhaps half a mile from here. How I should like to see them again! I wish we had time to go."

The woman was silent. She seemed to be dreaming of by–gone days. Pappina waited for a time for Marta to speak, then she gently laid her hand on that of her friend, saying: "Go on Marta, tell me about them."

"You are such a child, carina. You wish to know about the ruins? Every one who visits Italy comes to Vesuvius and Pompeii—Vesuvius the mountain, and Pompeii the city that once waked and slept at the foot of the mountain. One day the sky grew dark, completely hidden by the volumes of smoke that rose like a huge pine tree from Vesuvius. The stones, lava and ashes entirely buried the city and the people, and now when men dig in the ruins they find—"

"I'm well, Marta! I'm well, Pappina! Praise the Santa Maria del Rosario! Come."

It was Guiseppe who was hurrying toward them. He led the way to a spot a short distance from the church. He set up the Punchinellos; the light of money hunger again burned in his eyes, and until the worshipers thinned out he kept playing the puppets at intervals between Pappina's songs and dances. In the good spirits due to the miracles performed in the healing, the healed gave generously to the showman.

"Come," he commanded Marta and the child late in the afternoon. "We must move on to Cava. To–morrow is fete day there and we must reach the place to–night."

Guiseppe was himself again.

He took no notice of Pappina's lagging footsteps, showed no appreciation of her thoughtfulness during his illness, being absorbed in visions of her tambourine full of coins on the morrow. He walked so rapidly that Marta and Pappina could hardly keep up with him.

Reaching Pagani, he stopped near the main road of the little hamlet.

"Sing," he commanded in an ugly tone.

Pappina was tired. Guiseppe had been so cross all the way from Pompeii that she did not care to please him.

"I won't!" she answered in quite as ugly a tone as the man had used to her.

"Won't sing, eh? No songs, no supper," he muttered, half tempted to shake her in his rage.

Pappina was even more hungry than tired, so she sang and danced, without any spirit, to the few people who gathered around them just a very tired, dusty little girl singing for her supper.

The smallness of the sum collected enraged Guiseppe, and as soon as the people left he began to upbraid her.

"You're a disgrace to me and yourself," he said. "I might as well have let my puppets dance. You did no better." With that he made his way to a little shop near by.

Pappina bit her lips.

"If I were not so hungry," she whispered to Marta, her eyes blazing as she gazed after Guiseppe, "I'd show him, but I'm so hungry!"

"Come on," growled the man as he emerged from the shop and gave them their share of the food he had purchased. "It's six miles to Cava, and we must get there to–night, so eat as you go. Come on, I say, and don't go to sleep as you walk, you two."

So, worn and footsore, they moved on toward Cava.