Another Reconciliation

Guiseppe, his cheek still smarting from Pappina's blow, strode along toward the Quay and its beautiful walk, Corso Garibaldi.

In spite of his intoxication, Guiseppe was conscious of a new respect for Marta, awakened by her fearless defence of the child she loved.

"They are both against me," he muttered. "Marta—staid, timid Marta—she becomes a lioness when she fights for Pappina. Who would believe it? But she is right, Marta's right. I can't beat the minx and keep her. They are two against me, two against me."

Time and again he turned his head and glared fiercely from under his shaggy eyebrows at Pappina, and without his usual bullying look at Marta. His gaze was met unflinchingly by both, who, as he said, seemed banded against him.

Pappina would not admit, even to herself, that she was afraid of Guiseppe in his drunken, quarrelsome condition, but Marta noticed that the little hand in hers trembled and held her own more tightly whenever Guiseppe turned toward them.

Worn and tired from the long tramp, Pappina inquired of Marta: "Where is he going? I can't walk much farther. I feel weak, Marta."

"Poverina [poor little one], I do not know, but we are together and you are safe with me," Marta replied as they followed Guiseppe through the merry crowd that was enjoying the pleasures of the walk and the beauties of the moonlit bay.

When he reached the theater, he stopped and put down the Punchinellos. Assuming a bravado air, he ordered Pappina to sing.

"You remember what I said?" he asked. "You shall sing all night if I will it so. Marta knows me. She can tell you that I say what I mean and mean what I say. It is not the Punchinellos to–night, it is you." He shook his fist in Pappina's face.

Rebellious, tired, and hungry, she quickly lifted her clenched fist to strike again, but Marta enfolded the little doubled–up hand in hers.

"It is best to obey to–night," she whispered. "Sing for me, my bird, for I love you."

Marta's loving words appealed to Pappina as nothing else would have done. She rose quickly and sang the best she could. The poor little girl put no animation in the vivacious song she tried to sing; it might have passed for a funeral dirge.

After the long tramp it was hard for the child to stand and sing; to dance was impossible. There was a plaintiveness in her voice and in her manner. She was but a baby, forced beyond her strength; made to sing for her food.

Her face looked drawn and white, even her lips were colorless. At times her voice could scarcely be heard. When she staggered in her efforts to dance, as she did many times, she looked helplessly and appealingly at Marta.

Guiseppe's eyes were on the crowd only. He noticed their interest in the singer, and nothing more. When Pappina finished the song, he shouted: "Give! Give! Here, little one, pass your tambourine."

Marta knew and the people knew. The tambourine was passed.

"Fill, so the brute will take her home." Only Marta of our three wanderers understood these words, spoken in English.

Guiseppe quickly took possession of the money. "I am thirsty. Wine, wine!" he exclaimed, "I must have wine. Who wouldn't drink, with her—" He pointed to Pappina and left the sentence unfinished. "Wait for me here, and don't move or I'll kill you both."

He was out of sight in a moment, disappearing into a wine shop. They heard his boisterous laugh within. Marta took Pappina's hand in hers.

"Carissima," she said, "you are so hungry and so tired! Guiseppe is not himself. He forgets."

A new light shone in Pappina's eyes. She was given new strength. This time she would sing, not from fear of Guiseppe, perhaps not from love of Marta. She was just a worn–out, tired little child whose tender age should have ensured her protection at home—only seven years old, but forced to battle with the world, seeking refuge through her songs from storms and hunger, a weatherbeaten bird. For her there was now no place called home, no place to lay her tired little head. She knew that to sing and dance meant money, and that she and Marta were hungry and in need of money for supper. She took her tambourine from Marta, threw it high in the air, caught it, and began to dance.

The gaping crowd that had watched her efforts before stood almost aghast as she swayed and tipped and toed, till one would have thought her little feet would refuse to take another step. Then, pausing a moment to take breath, she started to sing the rollicking song Guiseppe had just taught her—with gestures and grimaces, stopping to speak, dashing into song, now laughing so infectiously that every bystander joined with her.

She finished the song in an uproar of laughter, applause, and shouts of "Bravo, bravo!"

The enthusiastic listeners fairly threw soldi at her. Pappina wanted them for supper for Marta and herself. They had tramped all day with but a bite of bread in the early morning. Pappina's haggard little face glowed with pleasure as she took the well–filled tambourine to Marta.

"See, Marta, yours to–night—not Guiseppe's—yours!"

"No, not mine; it is yours alone, carissima."

"Then it is yours and mine. Come, let's go. Macaroni, Marta! Hurry, dear Marta."

"Pappina, mia carissima, Pappina!" Marta walked a few steps then stopped. "Should Guiseppe return and find us gone!" Even as she spoke she did not feel her usual fear.

"But I am starved, Marta. I must eat, unless, dear, good Marta, you who love me say I mustn't."

Marta hesitated for a moment, looking down the street to see if her husband was returning. He was nowhere in sight. Her love for Pappina conquered her fear of Guiseppe's displeasure.

"Wait for me here," she said. "I will go and bring us food."

With all haste it was purchased and eaten. It was long after they had finished their simple meal that Guiseppe returned from his revelry.

His mood was changed. He had drank so much wine he could scarcely stand up. He loved the little girl who had filled his purse. He laid his hand caressingly on her head. She shuddered at his touch, and clung close to Marta, who looked fearlessly into Guiseppe's face and said sternly:

"I am used to your thoughtlessness, used even to cruelty; but Pappina is worn out, and she must have her rest."

"Eh! What's that you say? She's tired? Macaroni and a bottle of wine will build her up. Come on, sweet one." Stretching out his hand to Pappina, he continued: "Throughout the town those who have seen you and heard you to–night sing your praises. They believe you are mine. Ebbene! So you are, sweet one—so you are."

"Guiseppe," and Pappina looked pleadingly into his half–closed eyes, "Guiseppe, if you love me so much, take me where we shall sleep to–night. I'm not hungry, Guiseppe, but I'm so tired. I want to go to sleep."

Worn out, Pappina began to cry. Marta quickly gathered the child into her arms and carried her to a place Guiseppe selected as suitable to spend the night.

Sabbath morning! So beautiful it dawned that it seemed to be wooing man, woman and child to worship the God who could give to his children so perfect a day. Flowers, grass, birds and sky, with the bright Bay of Salerno in the glint of the morning sun, all attested to the wonders of a marvelous world with its perfection in every phase of nature as it appeared this Sunday in Salerno.

Guiseppe slept in a drunken stupor. Marta was afraid to speak, even in a whisper, for fear of disturbing his slumber. Pappina, harboring a feeling of hatred stronger than ever, grew tired of waiting for Guiseppe to awaken.

"Marta," she said softly.

"Sh!" Marta raised her finger to silence Pappina, who for a time sat quiet. Then the stillness began to irritate her.

"Marta," she began again and once more Marta tried to silence her, but this time in vain. "I won't 'sh,' for it must be time to go to church, and surely he," (pointing to Guiseppe), "ought to pray."

Guiseppe, hearing her voice, sat up and looked about him in a dazed way out of his bleary eyes. Pappina, seeing him thus, needed courage to speak at all, but with her characteristic fearlessness she said:

"Come, Guiseppe, it's Sunday. We must go to church."

"Sunday! Let me sleep. Sunday, did you say? There's nothing to do on Sunday except pray. I'll sleep. If you two simpletons want to pray, go on to church and let me alone. Get along, I'll wait." He fell over on the ground and was soon snoring loudly.

Hand in hand Marta and Pappina walked away.

"I dared not ask Guiseppe for money. You saw, carina, he is not yet himself."

Pappina's face was wreathed in smiles as she stooped down to bring up soldi she had hidden in her shoe the night before. It was not the cleanest hand in the world that handed the money to Marta, but the little grime on it did not prevent Marta from seizing it and covering it with kisses.

"I am so glad, so glad, carina!" she exclaimed. "Now you need not go hungry to church."

After a hasty breakfast they were soon in the celebrated St. Matthew's Cathedral. Marta, fearful of Guiseppe's displeasure if he were to awaken and be kept waiting too long, wished to say a short prayer and return at once, but Pappina was anxious to follow the people and see the things that interested them. She suddenly seized Marta by the arm and almost dragged her out of the church. There was a look of terror on the child's face.

"Carina, what is it?"

"Those ladies—you saw them, Marta! The man with them—you said he was a guide—didn't you hear what he was telling them?" She covered her face with her hands. "Oh, I cannot bear to think of it!"

"No, I did not hear. Tell me, what did he say that frightened you? Perhaps you didn't understand."

"Oh. I did. I heard every word. He told them that three saints' heads had been cut off right by that column where we were standing. It scared me so that now I am afraid to go back, and I wanted so much to go to the tomb of the Pope. The guide said one is buried in the church. You have seen so much, Marta—have you ever seen a Pope's tomb?"

"No, carina, but we must go back now, at once, to Guiseppe."

"Back to Guiseppe," Pappina repeated slowly, "back to Guiseppe." She grew thoughtful. "Marta, must we go back to Guiseppe? May we not run a way?"

"Oh, my sweet baby, we must—we must go back to Guiseppe!"

They met him walking to meet them. He smiled kindly as they approached him. He even held out his hand to Pappina, but she paid no attention to his overture for friendship and forgiveness.

"Have you already said your prayers?" he asked, looking at Marta.

"Our prayers were short," she replied. "We thought you would not like to be kept waiting."

"And Pappina! She has no use for Guiseppe this morning." He took one of her curls in his hand as he spoke.

"You were bad yesterday, Guiseppe," Pappina answered with a jerk of her head that snatched the curl from his hand.

"You are right, bambina, you are right. Forgive me. Guiseppe was a regular brute yesterday; wasn't he?" he asked in a tone that seemed to crave denial from the child.

"You were, Guiseppe," she replied with a sunny smile as she took hold of his hand, "you really were; but if you are sorry, I'll forgive you."