At Cava

Pappina was unaccustomed to long walks. She felt lame, her flesh was sore, and furthermore she could not forget Guiseppe's unkindness. It hurt her that he had forced her to sing and dance for her food, and then had scolded her for her lack of animation.

"He said I was no better than his puppets. I hate him!" she muttered to herself as she trudged along in the growing dusk. "That franc was mine; that fine gentleman gave it to me. I wish I hadn't given it to Guiseppe. It was mine. If any one gives me money again I'll keep it for myself. I'll hide it away for Marta and me. Guiseppe may starve—I shan't care. I hate him."

So the little girl was thinking all the way from Pagani to Cava. The road was hard and rough. Occasionally Pappina, her aching feet hurt by a sharp stone, would utter a little cry, "OlÀ [Oh]!" as she jumped aside, but except for these few exclamations there was complete silence. Marta, in deep study, again and again stretched out her bony hand and laid it caressingly on the head of the tired little girl trudging uncomplainingly yet sullenly along the deserted road.

Guiseppe was determined to reach Cava that night. His snapping black eyes looked keenly ahead for the spires and the lights of the village.

As he saw them dimly in the distance he inwardly rejoiced that the day's tramp was almost over. A half–mile from the village he halted beneath a large tree which protectingly spread its branches beside the road.

He leaned the Punchinello box against the trunk of the tree and, still without speaking, threw himself on the ground.

In spite of her fatigue, Pappina stood with her hands clasped, looking at the distant lights of Cava. Marta, rolling together her apron and her shawl as a pillow for Pappina's head, watched the child and waited for her to speak or move. Pappina did neither.

"She is such a tired little girl," Marta said after a few moments, as she took Pappina gently by the hand. "Vieni, carina, resta [rest]."

For a moment Pappina hung back, then she clung to Marta in the dark and whispered: "For you, Marta, for you, because you are good to me."

Marta took the child in her arms and carried her to a resting–place. She kissed the little hand, her whole heart going out to Pappina in love and compassion as she blessed her with the words "Dio vi benedica. Buona notte, carissima [God bless you. Good–night, dearest]."

Only Guiseppe rested well. Marta felt too keenly the wrong done Pappina to sleep at all.

"He'll kill the baby," her thoughts ran. "He shows her no mercy. Oh! what can I do? There'll be trouble—I feel it, I know it. I must protect her. How sweet, how patient, how gentle she is when he is good to her!"

Marta heard the deep breathing of Guiseppe sleeping, heard Pappina muttering in her disturbed slumber: "I hate him! I hate him!"

Guiseppe was awake at the first peep of day. Seeing Marta bending over Pappina, he commanded her: "Shake the willful child; bid her get up at once. It's fete day."

Marta during her night's revery had determined to protect Pappina at any cost to herself, so she pleaded for the child:

"Yes, Guiseppe, it is fete day, and for that reason you had better let Pappina rest for a little while. She is exhausted from her long tramp yesterday. She will have much excitement, singing and dancing all day, even late in the evening. We can find our breakfast and I will bring Pappina's to her. Let her rest, I pray you, Guiseppe; let her rest."

Marta stood before her husband, her worn face shining with earnestness. Guiseppe looked at her in surprise; then laughed brutally.

"Bravo, Marta!" he cried. "I didn't know you had it in you. You want the child to sleep, eh?" Then closing his eyes just a little, like a tiger before he springs, he went on: "So you will not awaken her? Then it is Guiseppe, the tyrant—eh, Marta?—who must rudely arouse the sleeping princess from her morning slumber."

As he finished speaking he moved toward Pappina, who was tossing restlessly on her hard couch, but Marta sprang between him and the child.

"Guiseppe, I have always obeyed you, have I not?" she entreated in a low voice. "Look at Pappina: her restlessness shows how tired she is. Guiseppe, hear me! I beg you to let her sleep and be rested for her hard day's work." Marta leaned forward and placed her hands on the man's arm as she went on: "I have asked few favors, demanded none, but now for this once, Guiseppe, I pray you grant me my request! Let her rest!"

Guiseppe, hesitating, ran his hand several times through his black hair as he looked from Marta to Pappina, still asleep on the ground. He knit his brow, struggling with himself as though it were a hardship to grant his wife a favor.

"Guiseppe," Marta bravely began again, but he interrupted her.

"Come on," he said roughly. "I'll humor you this time. I'll let her sleep."

So it came about that Pappina awoke under the big tree in the early morning sun to find herself alone. Suddenly a great fear seized her. Perhaps Marta and Guiseppe had gone off and left her. She sprang up and ran to the road, looking wildly about for them. In her terror she did not notice the Punchinello box leaning against the tree, and she started toward the village, crying aloud: "Marta, Marta!"

Her tears flowed freely, and between her sobs she continued to cry for Marta and occasionally for Guiseppe. It was with Guiseppe's name half–spoken on her lips that the little frightened child stopped crying.

"Guiseppe! Gui—oh! I hate him! I hate him more than I did last night!" The memory of how he had treated her the day before came over her like a flood. "It is fete day at Cava; he said so. All I earn is mine, and when I sing the Garibaldi I shall have my tambourine full of money. Oh, how glad I am! Then I can go home."

As she hurried on, her plan grew clearer. She would strike out for herself. Then suddenly she stopped again, like a butterfly halted and shifted in its course by a vagrant wind.

"Oh, Marta! If you were only with me, I should not care," she sobbed.

Buffeted by conflicting feelings, Pappina sped on toward the village of Cava.

Marta ate but little. She started back to find Pappina, leaving Guiseppe to finish his breakfast alone.

"She'll like what I have brought her," she took pleasure in thinking as she approached the spot where they had camped for the night. She saw no signs of Pappina astir. "She's still asleep, tired out, poor baby! I'm so glad Guiseppe let her rest."

She smiled on the friendly tree as she neared its welcome shade. She peeped around the trunk; no one was there. Down went the bowl of milk with a crash to the ground.

"Pappina gone!" She stood speechless and terrified. Recovering herself, she ran through the bushes, crying: "Pappina, Pappina, Pappina! Where are you, carina?"

No answer came to her cries.

"Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?" she moaned as she ran to and fro, wringing her hands. "What will Guiseppe say? How can I tell him Pappina is gone? He'll say it is all my fault. How can I endure his rage and disappointment? And my Pappina!—oh, I should not care for Guiseppe's anger if I knew she was safe."

Poor Marta! For the first time in years she gave way to tears. Her whole frame shook with sobs.

Guiseppe, meanwhile, having finished his meal, was growing impatient at Marta's delay. The streets were filling with people.

"What detains them?" he asked himself. Then the thought occurred to him that perhaps Marta's warning had come true and the child was sick again. "God forbid that she is ill!" the man ejaculated as he piously crossed himself.

He heard the sound of the bugle calling the soldiers for drill. Priests and children were assembling for the march into church. Women and men in festival garb were hastening to mass. Bands, boys, and venders were everywhere. Guiseppe paced impatiently up and down, growing more nervous every moment. Then another thought came to him:

"Perhaps they've forgotten I'm waiting. Marta may have forgotten. She's getting to be a bigger fool every day over that headstrong child. Well, the minx certainly has grit, and such spirit! Per bacco! She's lamb and tigress combined. If she were like other children I could beat her, but—well, I'll be hanged if I could beat Pappina!"

Guiseppe's anxiety was increasing every second. "The crowds are even now going to mass," he muttered. "I'll go and meet them." He started with rapid strides toward the spot where the three of them had spent the night. He halted on hearing Marta's sobs. A great fear overcame him; then, recovering himself, he rushed on like a madman toward the tree where Marta sat, sobbing in her grief and fear. He took in the situation at once.

"What!" he exclaimed, "Pappina not here! Where is she?"

He stood dazed. The calamity of losing Pappina on fete day crushed him. Then, arousing himself, he shook Marta roughly by the shoulder and showered imprecations upon her.

"You fool! You dog! And to–day is fete day. You're in league with the little imp against me."

"Oh, Guiseppe—"

"Don't speak to me! I humored you, and what do I get in return? You rob me of my living. Thief! Snake!" In his anger he kicked over the Punchinello box. "And I've only these poor puppets left," he cried.

"Guiseppe, have pity!" Marta begged, shrinking as far away from him as she could. "The crowd may be great, but we shall find her. I will rest neither night nor day till we have found Pappina."

In the meantime Pappina had darted through different lanes and streets seeking the center of the town, but such a little girl could not find her way about alone, and her freedom began to frighten her. Also, she was growing very hungry, for she had had no breakfast.

Just as she was beginning to be sorry she had not Marta to turn to in time of need, she saw a milk–seller milking her cow in front of a house.

The milk–sellers in Italy, especially in small towns, use their cows as milk wagons. They halt the animals before the doors of their customers, and milk what the purchasers want.

Pappina approached the rosy–cheeked woman who sat milking.

"I am hungry," she said, eyeing the milk wistfully. "If I sing for you, will you give me a drink of milk?"

The milk–vender had many children of her own. She looked kindly into Pappina's eager, flushed face as she replied:

"You need not sing to earn the milk. All Betty's milk is sold, but she will give an extra glass for a hungry little girl; won't you, Betty?" She stroked her cow as she spoke.

Pappina drank the milk, sang a little song, and, refreshed, moved happily on.

"First I will go to mass," she promised herself as she pursued her way. "Then the crowd will fill my tambourine and I can go home to my mother. Oh, I want so to see them all!"

In her confusion she retraced her steps. Suddenly she caught sight of Guiseppe, who was gesticulating wildly.

"Oh," she cried, "I hate him! Perhaps he remembered that it is fete day and went back for me. I won't let him find me. I must run and hide."

She turned and fled, looking back occasionally to see if she had been followed.

It is impossible to tell where or how long she would have run, had not her attention been attracted to a strangely dressed man. He was clad in a long robe of sackcloth, and around his waist was a girdle of rope from which hung a wooden cross. A crown of thorns was on his head and a heavy cross was strapped to his back. He carried a bundle from which he took little crosses now and then. These crosses he nailed to every door where no one objected—a warning lest the gayeties of the fete celebration should make people forget the welfare of their souls.

Pappina was so absorbed in watching him that she did not notice Marta's approach.

"Carina, carina!" the woman cried, clasping the child to her.

Pappina began to cry.

"I don't want to go back to Guiseppe," she sobbed. "I love you, Marta, but I hate Guiseppe. If you take me back he'll try to beat me."

It took Marta some time to calm Pappina, to make her understand that it was all a mistake that she had been (as she thought) deserted.

"Look at my eyes, carina. Are they not still red from weeping? There is no happiness for me away from the little one who holds my heart."

They went to join Guiseppe and the throng moving to the church. As they approached the showman, Pappina clung tightly to Marta's hand; her steps grew slower. She looked into Marta's face.

"Must we go to him?" she asked plaintively. "He looks so cross, Marta."

"Yes, yes, we must go, but you must not fear. Guiseppe will be glad to have you back."

Being thus reassured, Pappina smiled at Guiseppe as he came to meet them, but her smile was met by a cold stare from the man.

"So you found her," he said curtly to Marta. "It is well for you both. Come on."

"I know I shall always hate Guiseppe," Pappina said softly to Marta. "If he's bad to me I won't sing."

All along the way to church they passed booths filled with tempting viands. When Pappina caught sight of a fine big pig hanging on a stick she stopped.

"Guiseppe, I'm starved for a piece of pig."

Guiseppe scowled. "I've already had trouble enough with you for one day," he said. "You are here to sing, to dance, to earn money; do you hear? Come at once."

"Yes, Guiseppe, I hear you, but you know I can't sing when I'm hungry. I do no better than your puppets. You said so yourself."

She waited a moment for his reply. He made none. Lifting her dark eyes, Pappina looked pleadingly into Guiseppe's face.

"Buy me some," she begged. "I'll sing, then, the very best I can. Won't you, please, Guiseppe?"

Guiseppe was in no mood for trifling. He stretched forth his hand and took Pappina roughly by the arm. As they started to leave the booth the vender called: "Un soldo! Un soldo!" The child stopped.

"Guiseppe, do you hear? Only a penny."

"Un soldo! Un soldo!" again cried the vender.

"Only a soldo, dear Guiseppe," Pappina pleaded, "and I do so want some! Let me sing for some."

"Stop now and sing for a half–penny's worth of pig! Simpleton! If you must have some, here—" He took a soldo from his money–bag. So Pappina got her piece of pig.

Guiseppe, Marta and Pappina joined the worshipers, leaving before mass was over in order to find a good place in which to begin the Punchinello show as soon as the throng had finished its devotions.

As the people began to leave the church, Guiseppe started the show. One play was over by the time the priests, bearing bright banners, had marched from the sanctuary. Guiseppe was preparing to begin the second play when Pappina sprang suddenly to his side.

"Stop, Guiseppe, I beg you! Let me sing for them." She pointed to the hundred children dressed in white who were marching out of the church. Without waiting for permission to sing Pappina laid her tambourine on her breast, clasped her hands over it as if in prayer, raised heavenward her eyes and sang:

"Ave Maria, gratia plena."

As though an angel's voice had reached them, the priests and children halted in their march, the motley crowd stood spellbound with bowed heads. Even Guiseppe, after his first surprise, crossed himself. The tears were streaming down Marta's face.

"Ave Maria, gratia plena." Clear and sweet rang the child's voice. "Ave Maria, Amen."

From the lips of the priests and the white–robed children came spontaneously in response, "Amen," and the crowd gathered about the diminutive singer murmured softly, "Amen."

For a moment there was a deep silence, then one by one, as though moving to an altar, those who had listened to her singing, almost reverently deposited their offerings in Pappina's tambourine.

The spirit of devotion awakened on the street, made it seem almost a sacrilege to continue with the Punchinellos.

The music of drums and fifes came faintly from the distance. Nearer and nearer the slender carabinieri approached, the silver trimmings on their black uniforms glistening in the sun. On horseback and on foot they came, and passed. Round the corner with rapid tramp came the bersaglieri (sharpshooters). They drew up in two lines and executed with precision the orders of their lieutenant, the cock's plumes on their stiff black hats fluttering in the light breeze. Confetti, serpentine, even bon–bons, were thrown about in profusion.

So began fete day in Cava, and so it passed as other fete days throughout the land of Italy, differing from them only in the gloriously beautiful illuminated cross at the very summit of Monte Castello. On the peak of this mountain lives the "Hermit of Monte Castello." Each year he begs funds sufficient to illuminate grandly his mountain home on fete day.

Guiseppe had kept Pappina singing and dancing all day, till it would seem her throat and feet must surely both give out. Marta dared not interfere. "Will the day never end?" she kept asking herself. She rejoiced when the festivities began to wane, when the streets became deserted, when one by one the lights went out.

"Well," said Guiseppe, looking about him, "seems as if every one but us has gone. I suppose we shall have to get along and find a place to sleep."

"Is there not money enough—can we not afford to remain in Cava over night, to have beds?" Marta timidly asked. "The ground is so hard for the child," she added.

"Marta, you have less sense every day," was Guiseppe's angry reply. "Bed for the child, eh? Next thing you'll be wanting me to carry around a cradle for her to sleep in. You'll want her to ride in a carriage. Aren't the nights warm and pleasant? The ground is good enough for me to sleep on; it's good enough for you; and it's good enough for the child."

Marta made no further appeal, but taking Pappina in her arms carried her where Guiseppe led.

"I've had a happy day. Oh, I liked the lights, the music and the people, but I'm so tired," Pappina told Marta as she laid her head on her improvised pillow and went at once to sleep.

Guiseppe took out his greasy pouch, and chuckled as he counted time and again his gains.

"It's been a good day, Marta, the best I've ever had. Per bacco, how she sang the Ave Maria! A good day." He patted his money bag. "A good day. Good–night, Marta."

Guiseppe, too, was soon asleep. And Marta? She shared neither Guiseppe's joy nor Pappina's happiness. She longed to be back in Naples, to take the child away from the applauding public. She kept saying to herself:

"It's a crime to make her the object of so much attention. It may spoil her, ruin her. What can I do? If only together we might run away to England, to America!"

In her fear of Guiseppe even the thought frightened her. She hated her weakness in not refusing to let the child continue such a life. Years of servitude to her tyrannical husband had made her afraid to express any wish or will of her own.

"I will pray," she said softly. "I will ask God to save my baby Pappina from this strain, these hardships, and the wrong we are doing her."

She knelt by Pappina's side. Taking one of the child's hands in hers, she prayed fervently for God's blessing on the little one and for the realization of her heart's desire—to see Pappina free from Guiseppe's selfish tyranny.

Because of her great faith in prayer, a peace stole upon her, a confidence that Pappina would be protected and liberated in some way best for all.

"We will wait," she murmured to herself. "A prevision will be made. We will wait."