FAILURE OF BANCA TOMATO
THE banking house and steamship office of Signor Tomato had reached
the border of a crisis. Inch by inch the despairing padrone had seen
his well of profit dry up. No longer did labour contractors come to
him for men, and for more than a year he had not taken in a _soldo_
of commission on wages. Even Anselmo the baker, who for two loyal
years had bought a four-dollar draft on Naples, took his business to
an upstart rival, and people sneered at the sham packages of Italian
currency exposed in the little window. The slow but ever-crumbling
wreck had left him at last with only the steamship tickets to cling to;
but even this spar of hope failed one day when a ship of the Great
Imperial International General Navigation Company was stabbed to death
off the Banks, and a half dozen of Signor Tomato’s clients returned
to Mulberry minus their tin pans, mattresses, and other baggage, but
well charged with denunciation of the agent who sold them the trouble.
Thereafter it would have been as easy to get home-goers to take passage
in a balloon as to book them for the G. I. I. G. N. C. line.
Crushing as it was, this disaster might have been tided over had not
a long season of domestic reverses added to the difficulty. For three
years there had been no christening party in the tiny parlour back of
the nankeen sail, and during that period the bank’s advertisement in the
_Progresso_ had appeared without the famous foot line, “Also a baby
will be taken to nurse.” The first families of Mulberry had always bid
high for Bridget’s offices, and the advent of a new Tomato had never
failed to mark an era of prosperity in the bank’s history. Bridget’s
vogue was greatest among the Neapolitan mothers, who do not hold with
the American dairy wife that it is seldom the biggest kine that yield
the richest quarts. But psychological reasons were not lacking for the
favour in which the rugged Irish woman was held. In the minds of her
patrons was rooted the conviction that for a child of Italy, destined
to fight out the battle of life in New York, there could be no better
start than the “inflooence” of a nurse of Bridget’s race.
The brave figure she presented at these stages! How all Mulberry stood
dazzled as she passed, splendid in the time-honoured costume of the
Neapolitan _balia_! Tradition demanded a deep-plaited vesture of blue
silk or crimson satin, which could be hired of any midwife. Bridget
always rejoiced when her employer said crimson satin, for that was her
favourite as well as Signor Tomato’s. But there were other points of
the outfit that gave her little delight. These were the smoothing and
shining with pomatum of her crow-black hair, and the sweetening of
it with cologne; a gilded comb in her topknot, and pendent therefrom
long broad ribbons to match her gown; rosettes in her ears, silver or
pearly beads wound in double strings circling her ample neck; rings
galore on her chubby fingers. And the skirt! Short enough to show her
insteps, white-stockinged in low-cut shoes. Seen from a distance,
moving not without pride across Paradise Park, she resembled a huge
macaw or other bird of tropical plumage.
[Illustration: Bridget in _balia_ array.]
“Troth, it’s the divvil’s own ghinny I am now, and no misthake,” she
had told herself more than once when a new engagement found her in
_balia_ array. “Phat they’d be sayin’ at home to the loikes iv me I
don’ knaw, and may I niver hear. Musha, mother darlint, did y’ iver
drame they’d make a daygoe iv yer colleen Biddy? Niver moind, it’s an
honest pinny I’m layin’ up agin the rainy day whin there’s not a cint
comin’ to the bank.”
But the rainy days had been too many, and the fruits of those golden
times were always eaten up. Since the loss of the Great Imperial
Company’s ship the tide of prejudice had submerged Signor Tomato.
People would not go to him even to exchange a ten-lire note for
American coin. Public sentiment vented itself also against the Jack
Tar, that steadfast emblem of the bank’s steamship connection which
had stood at the door day and night for half a decade. The hand of
juvenile Mulberry had ever been against the old sailor, but now he was
an infuriating mark, an object of fiercest hatred to the relatives
and friends of the passengers who lost their tin pans and mattresses.
Passing by, they would draw their knives and slash at his neck, or
thrust the point at his heart. Every night brought fresh attacks upon
his weather-beaten person with axes and clubs until the banker found
his silent partner’s occiput lying in the gutter one morning. This was
the last fragment of the head that he had been losing for weeks. Signor
Tomato took the incident as an omen of blackest import. An hour later
he said to Bridget:
“Guess ees-a come de end-a now. Doan’ know what ees-a goin’ do
everybodee. All-a black, so black. What-a good I am? Tell-a me dat.
Tink I’m better goin’ put myself off de Bridge. I’m do it, you bet, if
I’m not-a love you and lil Pat and Mike and Biddy.”
“That’ll do ye, now,” said Bridget, putting her arm around the little
man, who pulled at a black pipe. “That’ll do ye, Dominick Tomah-toe.
Off the Bridge is ut? Not while yer own wife’s here to kape hould iv
yer coat-tails. Phat’s that sayin’ ye have about the clouds with the
silver insides? Sure, I know it in Eetalyun when I hear it, but I can’t
say it in English. Phat is it, annyhow?”
He shook his head gravely. “To-day I not-a tink of _proverbi_. My poor
wife, you not-a know how moocha granda troub’ have your Domenico.”
“Arrah, do I not? Mebbe it’s mesilf that knows betther than ye. But
don’t be talkin’ iv the Bridge, Dominick dear, whin ye have so many iv
thim that love ye. Look at us now, will ye? Here’s mesilf, and”--she
went to the door and called--“Pat, Mike, Biddy! Here to your fatther
this minute, and show him the frinds he has.”
Three tousled black heads and bright faces came trooping into the bank.
Signor and Signora Tomato caught them up and covered them with caresses.
“What’s the matter, mah?” asked Mike, the oldest, looking up into his
mother’s tearful eyes.
“Nothin’ at all, Mickey darlint; nothin’ but the warrum weather. Sure
yer fatther’s always downhareted wid the hate, and it’s mesilf that do
be shweatin’ around the eyes. Away wid yez now; back to yer play, me
jewels, but kape forninst the shop.”
“I can’t play any good,” said Mike glumly.
“And why not?”
“’Cause Paddy’s got the roller-skate.”
Bridget swallowed the lump in her throat, and could not help thinking
of the affluent past when the babies “was comin’,” and there was a
whole pair of roller-skates in the family.
“Never moind, laddie,” she said, “be a good bye, and ye’ll have the
handle iv the feather duster to play cat with.”
Mike danced for glee, for here was a joy hitherto tasted only in
dreams. Ever since its detachment from the worn-out feathers the handle
of the duster had been used as a rod of correction, often raised in
warning but rarely brought down upon a naughty Tomato.
“Me want somethin’,” said little Biddy, an eloquent plea in her big
black-walnut eyes, while Mike made off with the precious stick.
“Iv coorse ye do, me ruby, and somethin’ foine ye’ll have, be the Lord
Alexander! Here, take ye this, and go beyandt to Signory Foli and buy
the best bit iv wathermelyun she has on the boord. Moind ye get it
ripe, and tell the signory if she gives ye annything else I’ll be down
there and pull the false wig off her. Away wid ye now, and come back
with the rind.”
She had reached in the window and taken from a very small collection
of coins one cent. Her husband witnessed the act of rash extravagance
without even a look of reproach, which argued that the crisis in the
bank’s affairs had driven him to an unwonted mood. Presently Biddy
bounded into the room bearing a thin watermelon rind on which scarcely
a trace of the red remained. Bridget took it, and while her offspring
stood as though used to the treatment, rubbed it over her face with
loving care, thus affirming the Neapolitan tenet that the watermelon
is thrice blessed among fruits, for with it one eats, drinks, and
washes the face. The maternal apron applied as a towel, Biddy broke
away and made for Paradise Park, where she was soon romping with other
tangle-haired youngsters around the band stand.
After a brief silence, during which Pat had shot by the door on the
roller skate, Signor Tomato remarked, jerking his thumb toward the
headless Jack Tar:
“To-day I am feel lik-a him--no head, no northeen. For God sague, me,
I’m go crezzy.”
“Bad luck to the hoodoo, annyhow,” said Bridget, shaking her red fist
at the mutilated relic of a once noble though wooden manhood. “It’s the
Jonah iv a sailor y’are iver since we bought ye from the Dootchman,
sorra the day. Phat am I at all at all, that I didn’t take the axe t’ye
long ago? Be the powers, it’s not too late yit, and I’ll do it this
minute. Betther the day betther the deed, for there’s not a shtick in
the house agin the fire for the dinner soup.”
In rough-and-tumble wrestling fashion she seized the sailor, laid him
low, and dragged him over the curb to the roadway. Then she bustled
into the bank, and quickly reappeared armed with a rusty axe of long
handle. And while Signor Tomato looked on, his face a picture of rising
doubt and fluttering hope, and passing women set down loaded baskets
from their heads to gaze in voluble wonder, Bridget brought the Jack
Tar’s long-suffering career to an ignoble end.
“Mike, Pat, Biddy!” she cried, resting on the axe when the task was
finished. “Come you here and carry in the wood.”
She had left no part of the structure intact save the platform and
wheels. These she kept for Pat to play with. “It’ll do him for a
wagon,” she reflected; “then Mike can have the shkate all to himsilf.”
The banker’s spirit was utterly broken, else he would never have
permitted without verbal protest at least this outrage upon his old
silent partner.
“Ees-a one old friend no more,” he mused sadly, looking at his wife
and shaking his head. “I’m don’ know eef-a you do right.” Then in his
native patter he quoted the Neapolitan saw: “Who breaks pays, but the
fragments are his.”
[Illustration: Jack Tar’s ignoble end.]
“Glory be!” shouted Bridget. “Sure ye’re betther already. It’s the
furst provairb I’m afther havin’ from yer this day. Arrah, don’t
bother about that owld divvil iv a wooden man. No friend iv the family
was he, Dominick dear, and it’s mesilf that knows it. Not a sup iv good
luck had we from him in the five year he stood forninst the dure. Wisht
now, lave us look for betther toimes now that his bones bes blazin’
under the black pot.”
Scarcely had she finished speaking when the postman stepped up and put
a letter in Signor Tomato’s hand--a message that heralded an instant
change of fortunes. The banker’s eyes bulged and he grew more and more
excited as he read. “Phat is it, annyhow?” asked Bridget, but he was
too absorbed to answer. Not till he had come to the end did he tell her
the contents. The letter bore the postmark of Jamaica, Long Island, and
was dated two days after Bertino’s flight and a week before the day set
for the wedding of Juno and Signor Di Bello:
EMINENT SIGNOR TOMATO: You remember what I told you touching the bust
of the Presidentessa. Well, it is still in Dogana [customhouse]. I
send another letter in this, the letter of my friend the sculptor. Oh,
I am so sorry! On his letter I have written that they shall give it
to you. This will make them give it to you if you want it. I can not
pay the tax, and my friend must not wait so long for nothing, because
I think it will be a long time before I shall take it, and I have so
much trouble, such grand disturbances. He is as fine a sculptor as
any in Italy, my word of honour. Now, you take the bust from Dogana
and you make money with it, to become his agent in America, like I
intended. You do right by my friend and you will not lose. He will
make more busts and you can sell them. He is Armando Corrini, of
Cardinali, province of Genoa. If you do not reclaim the bust from
Dogana, write it to him, because I will not write again to you, and
neither you nor any one else will know where I am.
BERTINO MANCONI.
“_Bravissimo!_” cried Signor Tomato, the grand possibilities of the
writer’s suggestion unfolding before his mind. “My dear wife, I’m blief
you right for chop-a de Jack-a Tar. You know de proverbio: When ees-a
cast out de devil ees-a come down de angelo.”
“And where’s the angel, I dunno?” asked Bridget.
“Ah, you no see northeen. Ees here, in de lettera. Angel ees-a Bertino
Manconi. He send-a good news.”
“Ho-ho! The laddybuck that putt the knife in his uncle. Sure it’s the
furst toime iver I knew angels carried stilettos.”
“Wha’ differenza dat mague?” Fired with a new purpose, the banker was
himself again, and spoke with spirit. “Maybe he goin’ know wha’ he’s
about. For me dat ees-a northeen. Ees-a de statua--de Presidentessa
I’m tink about. You know wha’ dat ees? Guess-a not. Well, I’m tell-a
you. Ees-a var fine, I’m know. Dees-a Bertino he ees-a been show me
de lettera from de Dogana. It say he moost-a pay one hoon-dred and
forty dollar. Ah, moost-a be sometheen stupendo. Tink I’m goin’ mague
moocha mun by dees-a statua, and de next-a one he mague ees de King of
Tammany Hall. How moocha you tink I’m sell-a him? Ah! fine, fine! De
Presidentessa, maybe I’m sell-a her to de Presidente. Who know? Guess-a
Signor Tomato he ees-a rich-a mahn, he sell-a so many statua to de
grandi signori of America.”
The more his eager fancy played about the bust the bigger grew the
fortune to which it seemed the stepping stone. From its siren lips
there flowed a far-off subtile song, which bade him do and dare, go
forth and possess, and by that token end his long night of poverty in
a glorious dawn of riches. And with gaining allure came the oft-sung
refrain: “The devil cast out, an angel descends; the devil cast out,
an angel descends.” Surely it was a fulfilment of that fine proverb,
so wise with the wisdom of Naples’s centuries. No eye could see, no
ear catch, a plainer truth. The Jack Tar, devil of bad luck, not only
cast out, but, grace to the strong arm and inspired axe of Bridget,
dead for evermore. And the bust was the descending angel. Yes; he
would obey the voice of Heaven’s courier and take the Presidentessa
from the customhouse, though it asked every _soldo_ in the window. La
Presidentessa! The First Lady of the Land? _Dio magnifico!_ And to him,
Domenico Tomato, had fallen the matchless honour of presenting this
great work of art to the American people! Not an hour must be lost. To
the Dogana at once and release the angel of wealth.
Bridget had the best of reasons for lacking faith in her husband’s
business projects, so she set her face and tongue stoutly against this
proposed adventure into the field of fine art. To her bread-and-butter
view it meant a leap into starvation. She knew he could not meet the
customs demand of a hundred and forty dollars save by paying out every
piece of money that was on exhibition in the window--by parting
with the bank’s entire capital. In stirring figures she pictured the
distress and ruin that he was going to court. But to no purpose. From
the outset it was clear that her Hibernian substance would not prevail
against his Italian shadow. Even while she begged him for the sake
of the “childer” to desist, he went about gathering up the money. He
untied the sham packages, and from the top of each picked off the one
real bank note and threw the sheaf of blank slips under the little
counter. Then into a chamois bag he swept the large heaps of coppers,
the small heap of silver, and the very few gold coins that were in the
collection. “Who nothing dares, nothing does,” he quoted grandly, as he
pocketed the money, and made for the door.
“The howly Patrick forgive ye,” said Bridget, following him to the
street. “Ivry cint betune yer family and the wolf! Worra, worra,
Dominick Tomah-toe, ye’ll rue this day whin they’re singin’ at yer
wake.”
“Oh, ees-a better you goin’ shut up,” returned the banker, in a tone
meant to be gentle and reassuring. “Ees-a whad for you mague so moocha
troub? I’m tell-a you ees-a better you goin’ shut up. Why? ’Cause you
not understand de beautiful art-a. Good-a by, my dear wife. When I’m
com-a back I’m show you sometheen var fine.”
He went to a rival banker and turned all his Italian money into
American. Then he borrowed a push-cart and worked his way at great
peril among the trucks and cable cars to the seat of customs. It took
all day to unwind the red tape that bound the bust, and the clerks
counted it a capital joke to watch the half-frantic little Italian
tearing from one window to another in search of the proper authority.
Darkness had fallen when, with the big case on his cart, he pushed
into Mulberry and stopped before the broken bank. At the door sat
Bridget with her knitting, and Pat, Mike, and Biddy were romping on the
sidewalk.
“Ees-a var heavy de Presidentessa,” he said, tapping the box. Bridget
sprang up and lent him the aid of her sinewy arms. Full of wonder, the
children followed them with their burden into the bank. With a finger
on his lip, Signor Tomato turned the key in the lock and covered the
window so that outsiders might not look in.
“Ees-a grand secret-a,” he whispered; “moost-a see nobodee.”
By the dim light of an oil lamp he set to work with cold chisel and
hammer ripping off the lid of the case. When he had lifted out the
precious one, removed the wrapping paper from her face, and set her up
on the counter, he stepped back to feast his eyes.
In the first moment of the awful disillusion, it seemed to Bridget
that her little man had lost his reason. He had seen portraits of the
President’s wife, and after looking steadily a moment the desolate
truth darted upon his consciousness that the bust was not of her. It
possessed not a single point of likeness. To the turn-up nose of Juno
the sculptor had granted no touch of poetry, and it stood forth in
all the cruel realism of coldest marble. While the terrified children
clung to their mother’s skirts, Signor Tomato thrashed about the shop,
beating his temples with loosely closed fists and crying, “Woe is me,
woe is me!” He would not be comforted, nor could Bridget quiet him to
the degree of telling her the cause of his mad goings-on until she
caught him by the arm and commanded that he be a man and tell her his
trouble. God had gone back on him, he said, and the world had reached
its end. To-morrow there would be no Domenico Tomato.
“Look-a, look-a!” he cried, pointing to the bust tragically. “Dat-a
face! O, for God sague! Dat ees-a not de Presidentessa!”
“What! It’s not the Furst Lady iv the Land?”
“No, no; ees-a de last lady, I’m tink. Ees-a lost evrytheen.
_Misericordia!_ What I’m do now?”
Bridget thought bitterly of the proverb about the angel descending when
the devil is out, but she had no heart just then to twit her husband by
a sarcastic recital of it, although the tempter put the words on her
tongue. But she could not hold back an angry thrust at Bertino, who
rose now in black relief as the author of their present and greatest
trouble. At sound of his betrayer’s name the banker became calm. He
stood silent a moment, and then, with upraised fists tightly clinched,
swore that Bertino’s blood should answer. Then he took up again his
wild lamentation, railing against heaven and earth. He went over the
whole catalogue of his disasters, and closed with the news to Bridget
that for three months not a nickel of shop rent had been paid. He had
staked his all on the Presidentessa, and now that she had proved false
they had no place to lay their heads.
Bridget treated herself to a flood of tears, and the children kept
her company. All at once Signor Tomato stopped wailing, and startled
her by saying resolutely that they must all leave Mulberry--right
away, that very night. His dear wife need give herself no care as to
their destination. Enough that her loving husband, with an eye on
the trickster Fate, had always kept a refuge in the country--a place
of shelter for his family whereof he had never spoken. It was not
far. They could load their household stuff on the push-cart still at
the door, and be off under cover of the night. In the sweet country
perhaps their fortune would change. After all, it was good to fly from
Mulberry, out to the free meadows, amid trees and flowers, where birds
sang, and one could see the big gold moon hanging over the fields for
hours and hours. Some picture of his fatherland had flashed in his
vision, and Bridget, catching the buoyancy of it, offered a “Glory be!”
for the chain of events that was to lift her out of “Ghinnytown.”
“Arrah,” said she meditatively, “maybe it was an angel, afther all.”
“Ah, yes; who knows?” he said in Neapolitan, and she knew a proverb was
coming: “Chance is the anchor of hope and the tree of abundance.”
Their poverty brought its blessing in the fact that they were able to
crowd all their worldly holdings--not forgetting the bust and Mike
and Pat and Biddy--into a single load of the push-cart. The puzzle
of bestowing the children so that they might be comfortable enough
to sleep during the long journey at hand was a teasing one. But
the Tomatoes were equal to it, though it called out all the genius
for _multum in parvo_ of which experience had made them masters.
What bedding they owned was spread on the bottom of the cart, and
the furniture so stacked as to form a low arch, beneath which the
youngsters crept with shouts of glee. A bed not made up on the floor
had played no part in their happy lives, and this sally abroad in the
darkness and open air seemed a much better thing than huddling in the
cote back of the nankeen sail, where Bridget kept her doves at night.
While the parents moved back and forth, carrying the remaining odds and
ends and finding a place for them on the cart, anxious treble voices
issued from the load:
“Mah, did yer put in the skate?”
“Don’t fergit der duster handle.”
“Where’s der Jack Tar wagon?”
“Say, Biddy’s gone ter sleep.”
At last Domenico locked the door, and with Bridget by his side at the
shafts, began the exodus from Mulberry, first stopping to shake his
fist at the scene of his downfall and observe:
“I’m no dead-a yet, you bet-a!”
“Dead is it?” said Bridget, as she put her strength to the crossbar.
“Sure it’s yersilf’ll live manny a day to wink at the undertaker.”
It was smooth going over the asphalt of Bayard and Mulberry Streets,
and silently the strange caravan trundled along. San Patrizio tolled a
late hour for that quarter of early-rising toilers--eleven o’clock--and
the sidewalks, which had swarmed with buzzing life earlier in the
night, now gave back the echo of but a few heavy footfalls. From
Paradise Park the wooing children of Italy had departed to their homes,
leaving the benches to all-night lodgers of other climes. Passing the
Caffè Good Appetite, the Tomatoes were startled by a mighty chorus of
“bravoes” and “vivas,” followed by the clink of wineglasses. It was
Signor Di Bello and his boon comrades. The merchant had just announced
his betrothal and coming marriage to Juno.