Sorrento, Where Hardships End

"Fifteen miles to Sorrento. As near as I can find out, there'll be no money for us along the way," Guiseppe muttered as they left St. Andrew's Cathedral.

"There's Positano," said Marta, "and the villas. You have passed so many and stopped at none."

Guiseppe looked surprised.

"So I have, fool that I am! Why didn't you speak of it before?"

Marta made no reply and the three walked on in silence. Guiseppe evidently was brooding over the money he had missed, for after some half hour's tramp he turned to Marta.

"Why didn't you speak?" he growled. "Lords and ladies in the villas we have passed, and no money for me! Do you think we've done so well we can afford to lose a chance? Marta, you seem to have a way of keeping your mouth shut when you should open it, but you have been free enough with your tongue lately when you should have held it."

Guiseppe was growing almost unbearable. He grumbled at everybody and everything.

When they met women carrying wood to town, wine–venders and occasionally foreigners, he received their greetings with a scowl. Once or twice tourists had tossed Pappina a few soldi, but no one wanted the Punchinellos.

The three visited a few villas, going up the alley, as it would be called in America, by the side of the house. The Punchinellos played, and Pappina sang and was paid and fed, but nothing satisfied Guiseppe. He grumbled continually. The harvest made on fete days had spoiled him for small gains.

"I'm sick of picking up meals wherever we can find them, and of sleeping on the hard ground," he said repeatedly to Marta, as though it were her fault that he was enduring discomforts. Guiseppe had been too many years in his home not to miss it. "Some people may like to tramp all over the country and pick up a living like dogs in an alley, but I'm sick of it, I tell you."

It was first Marta, then Pappina who was made to feel his ill–humor. Neither cared to speak either to him or each other as hand in hand they followed Guiseppe. Once in a while he would turn to look behind, with ugly words to one or both.

They made few stops. When told to sing, Pappina made every effort to please Guiseppe, but no matter how well she sang and danced he found fault with her.

They were two days on the road from Amalfi to Sorrento; Guiseppe never once softened toward either Marta or Pappina. It was not to be expected that his wife should resent his treatment, for she was used to it; but Marta was in constant fear that Pappina would lose her temper and there would be trouble. The poor woman was relieved each night when the two were asleep and there had been no outbreak from the child.

Nothing on the road interested Pappina; the luxuriant lemon and orange groves were passed unnoticed as she trudged, worn and footsore, along the hot, dusty road between the high garden walls.

As they neared Sorrento, Marta tried to interest the child.

"Look, carina," she said, "these deep places are called ravines. Years ago when people believed in fairies, they used to say dwarfs lived all about Sorrento in these deep ravines that enclose it."

Pappina made no reply. She seemed tired of everything except Marta. She held her good friend's hand tight and drew closer to her every time Guiseppe turned to look at them.

As soon as the town was reached Guiseppe began his growling anew.

"Sorrento! So this is the town old Genaro talks about. Crowing over me! Seems to think he knows such a lot. Bah! Tasso! Tasso—bah, I say!"

"Is that where I am to sing, Guiseppe?" Pappina asked timidly as she shook the dust from her frayed little frock.

"I'm not talking to you. You had better learn to mind you own business. Marta, I'll not leave this town till I see where the sister of that man Tasso lived, and I'll see his statue, too."

"Tasso." Marta spoke the name softly, not daring to question.

"Yes, Tasso. You don't know anything about him, and you don't need to know. If old Genaro thinks we haven't seen scenery since we've been traveling around the country, he's fooled."

Pappina looked shyly into Guiseppe's set, hard face. Her curiosity was aroused and she wanted to know about Tasso.

"Signor Genaro might ask me about Tasso," she suggested, "and I don't know anything about him, do I?"

Guiseppe looked at Pappina for a moment as though it were on his lips to rebuke her, turned on his heel and started to walk away, then came back.

"You're right for once, girl," he said, grudgingly. "Genaro might ask you, and I want you both to let him see you know about Tasso. It won't hurt either of you to learn something. Tasso was a famous poet. Well, let me see—what was it old Genaro told me? Oh, yes; I remember. He was very wild and ran away from home. The house where he was born and the rock on which it stood were swallowed by the sea, but his sister's house is here and the thing to do is to see that and to go to the Piazza and see his statue."

"Now I remember," said Marta. "I went with the countess. She told me that he came back to his sister's house disguised as a shepherd, and that is why her home is of interest to tourists."

"Bah! What do they care—what do I care—about a poet who has been dead over three hundred years? I'll go—I'll go. I'll give old Genaro to understand that I saw everything worth seeing. Marta, keep your eye on the upstart, or she'll be going too. Mind what I tell you."

He mopped his brow, handed the Punchinellos to Marta, and was off. Pappina heaved a sigh of relief as she watched him go down the street. When he was quite out of sight, she took off her shoe and showed Marta the money she had hidden away. There were two francs and small coins in plenty.

"Don't tell Guiseppe; will you, Marta? It's for you and me to run away with to America when Guiseppe gets too bad. Take it, Marta, and keep it for us."

The tears came to Marta's eyes and her voice shook as she replied:

"No, no, it's yours, bambina. Hide it back in your shoe. Marta likes to know her little one has money snugged away where she can use it if she needs it."

Guiseppe soon returned in the same bad humor in which he had been all the way to Sorrento.

"Those Americans have sent for the Tarantella dancers to come to the Vittoria Hotel to–night to dance the Tarantella for them. They say they dance it better here than in Naples. We will take the upstart there and see what she is worth. Fix her up. There'll be a crowd."

He looked at Pappina. Her face was drawn and white, her hair disordered, her frock soiled, wrinkled and torn.

"What's the matter with the girl?" he asked. "She looks like a hungry beggar. See her shoes, her dress all dirt and stains. Confound you, Pappina, where's your beauty gone? You are all eyes to–day, when you ought to look like something." He grabbed her fiercely by the arm and shook her. Pappina's hot Italian blood boiled.

"You coward!" she hissed the words. She doubled up her little fist and raised it to strike him. Guiseppe grabbed her hand and shook her again in his fury. Marta sprang to Pappina's rescue with a savage look on her face no one had ever seen there before. Guiseppe loosened his hold on Pappina and pushed her away from him with such force she would have fallen to the ground had not Marta caught her.

"Coward! Fiend! Coward!" the child hissed through her set teeth.

"Coward, eh! Call me names, will you? We'll see after to–night. Marta, wash her impudent face; comb her hair; for heaven's sake do something! They'll think she is no more than a beggar, and they are sick of beggars. We found that out at Amalfi, where the whole town begs."

Marta washed Pappina, combed her hair, and tried to smooth out her dress and make her acceptable to Guiseppe; but he seemed determined not to be pleased.

"Can't you keep your eyelids down a little?" he said to the child. "I tell you, you are all eyes to–day—great big, black, staring eyes! Pinch up her cheeks, Marta; see if you can't get some color in them."

Pappina looked pleadingly first at Marta then at Guiseppe, then burst into tears.

"Stop your crying, you wild–eyed beggar! Lost your spirit, too? What are you good for, I'd like to know, with beauty and spirit both gone!"

Pappina dried her tears and choked back her sobs, while Marta stood as if paralyzed. She longed to soothe the child, yet dared not, her old fear of Guiseppe upon her again.

"There'll be great dancing at the Vittoria to–night. Get up and show me what you can do. You needn't sing; I want to see your dancing."

Pappina did not move.

"Are you deaf, too? Didn't you hear me? I say dance!"

"Guiseppe," came faintly from the frightened child, "I will try to please you to–night, but I cannot dance now. Be good to me; then I shall be happy and dance all night if you wish me to."

"Oh, it's your own way you want again, is it? For once I want mine and I'll have it, too. Dance now—at once!"

"I'll try."

She tried. Her body was quivering from excitement and fear. Her little blistered foot pained her. She couldn't dance. Guiseppe watched her angrily, Marta tearfully, as she lifted her tambourine, struck it and danced one step—two—then dropped on her knees.

"Pieta, pieta [pity, pity], signor," she cried. "I cannot dance now. To–night—with the music, the people and the dancers—I will dance well then; not now, Guiseppe. I pray you, dear Marta, tell him I cannot."

Guiseppe took up a big stick that was lying near him. He struck Pappina once—twice. She was on her feet like a flash. She started to run, Guiseppe seized her by her dress; it slipped through his fingers and before he had time to collect himself she was gone, speeding like a deer down the street. She was running away from Guiseppe, she neither knew nor cared where.

Down the street, turning one corner after another, on, on to the marina, where she was soon lost in the throng of boys and tourists. She jumped into a row–boat just as the oarsman was starting with his load of passengers for the steamer leaving Sorrento for Naples.

There were a few moments of suspense; then she was hurried aboard the steamer with the others. She was safe!

Guiseppe, as he sprang after Pappina, stumbled on his own cruel stick. When he got to his feet the child was turning a corner. He saw the little red dress and its owner disappear from his view forever. He glared in a frenzy at Marta.

"Curse her! Curse her!" he shrieked. "To–day of all days to get away from me! Marta, have you turned to stone? Why don't you move? Why didn't you run after her, instead of standing there staring like a mummy? We must have her before dark. Go—search everywhere. Move!—Don't stop till you find her."