THE PADRONE
Although I knew later how beautiful was the city of Paris, the slums,
being my first glimpse, created anything but a favorable impression.
Vitalis, who seemed to know his way, pushed through the groups of people
who obstructed his passage along the narrow street we had just turned
down.
"Mind, you don't lose me," cautioned Vitalis.
But his warning was not necessary, for I trod upon his heels, and to be
more sure of him I held a corner of his coat in my hand.
We crossed a big courtyard to a dirty, dismal house where surely the sun
had never penetrated. It was the worst looking place I had seen so far.
"Is Garofoli in?" asked Vitalis of a man who, by the light from a
lantern, was hanging rags against the door.
"I don't know; go up and see for yourself," he growled; "the door's at
the top of the stairs; it faces you."
"Garofoli is the _padrone_, Remi, I told you about," said Vitalis; "this
is where he lives."
The street, the house, the staircase was not in the nature to reassure
me. What would this new master be like?
Without knocking, Vitalis pushed open the door at the top of the stairs,
on the top floor, and we found ourselves in a large attic. There was a
great empty space in the middle of the room, and all around the walls
were beds, a dozen in all. The walls and ceiling that had once been
white were now filthy with smoke, dust, and dirt. On the walls was a
drawing of a head in charcoal and some flowers and birds.
"Are you there, Garofoli?" asked Vitalis; "it is so dark I can't see any
one. It's Vitalis."
A weak, drawling voice replied to Vitalis' question.
"Signor Garofoli has gone out; he will not be back for two hours."
A boy about twelve years of age came forward. I was struck by his
strange looks. Even now, as I write, I can see him as I saw him then. He
had no body, so to speak, for he seemed all legs and head. His great
head was out of all proportion. Built so, he could not have been called
handsome, yet there was something in his face which attracted one
strangely, an expression of sadness and gentleness and, yes ...
hopelessness. His large eyes held your own with sympathy.
"You are sure he will not be back for two hours?" asked Vitalis.
"Quite sure, Signor. That will be dinner time, and no one ever serves
dinner but Signor Garofoli."
"Well, if he comes in before, tell him that Vitalis will be back in two
hours."
"Very well, Signor."
I was about to follow Vitalis, when he stopped me.
"Stay here," he said; "you can rest.
"Oh, I'll come back," he added, reassuringly, noticing my look of
anxiety.
"Are you Italian?" asked the boy, when Vitalis' heavy step could no
longer be heard on the stairs.
"No," I replied in French, "I'm French."
"That's a good thing."
"What! you like the French better than the Italians?"
"Oh, no, I was thinking of you when I said 'that's a good thing,'
because if you were Italian you would probably come here to work for
Signor Garofoli, and I'd be sorry for you."
"Is he wicked, then?"
The boy did not reply, but the look he gave me spoke more than words. As
though he did not wish to continue the conversation, he went over to the
fireplace. On a shelf in the fireplace was an immense earthenware
saucepan. I drew nearer to the fire to warm myself, and I noticed that
the pot had something peculiar about it. The lid, through which a
straight tube projected to allow the steam to escape, was fixed on the
saucepan on one side with a hinge and on the other with a padlock.
"Why is that closed with a padlock?" I asked, inquisitively.
"So that I shan't take any of the soup. I have to look after it, but
the boss doesn't trust me."
I could not help smiling.
"You laugh," he said sadly, "because you think that I'm a glutton.
Perhaps, if you were in my place, you'd do the same as I've done. I'm
not a pig, but I'm famished, and the smell of the soup as it comes out
through the spout makes me still hungrier."
"Doesn't Signor Garofoli give you enough to eat?"
"He starves us...."
"Oh...."
"I'll tell you what I have done," went on the boy, "'cause if he's going
to be your master, it will be a lesson for you. My name is Mattia.
Garofoli is my uncle. My mother, who lives in Lucca in Italy, is very
poor and has only enough for herself and my little sister, Christina.
When Garofoli came to beautiful Lucca last year he brought me back with
him. Oh, it was hard to leave my little sister.... Signor Garofoli has a
lot of boys here, some of them are chimney sweeps, others rag pickers,
and those who are not strong enough to work, sing in the streets or beg.
Garofoli gave me two little white mice to show to the public and I had
to bring him back thirty sous every night. As many sous as you are short
a day, so many blows you get. It is hard to pick up thirty sous, but the
blows are hard, too, especially when it's Garofoli who gives them. So I
did everything that I could to get the money, but I was often short.
Nearly all the other boys had their money when they returned at night,
but I scarcely ever had mine and Garofoli was mad! There is another boy
here, who also shows mice, and he's taxed forty sous, and he brings that
sum back every night. Several times I went out with him to see how he
made it...."
He paused.
"Well?" I asked.
"Oh, the ladies always said, 'Give it to the pretty little one, not the
ugly boy.' The ugly one, of course, was I; so I did not go out with him
any more. A blow hurts, but it hurts more to have things like that said,
and before a lot of people! You don't know that because no one has ever
told you that you are ugly. Well, when Garofoli saw that beating me
didn't do any good, he tried another way. Each night he took away some
of my supper. It's hard, but I can't say to the people in the streets,
who are watching my mice: 'Give me something or I won't get any supper
to-night!' They don't give for that reason."
"Why do they give?"
"Because you are pretty and nice, or because you remind them of a little
boy they've lost, not because they think you're hungry. Oh, I know their
ways. Say, ain't it cold to-day?"
"Awful cold."
"I didn't get fat on begging," went on the boy. "I got so pale and then,
after a time, I often heard people say: 'That poor child is starving to
death.' A suffering look does what good looks can't do. But you have to
be very starved for that. They used to give me food. That was a good
time for me, because Garofoli had stopped giving me blows just then to
see if it would hurt me more to go without supper, so when I got
something to eat outside I didn't care. But one day Garofoli came along
and saw me eating something, a bowl of soup that the fruiterer gave me,
then he knew why I didn't mind going without supper at home. After that
he made me stay at home and look after the soup here. Every morning
before he goes out he puts the meat and the vegetables into the saucepan
and locks the lid on, and all I have to do is to see that it boils. I
smell the soup, but that's all. The smell of the soup doesn't feed you;
it makes you more hungry. Am I very white? As I never go out now I don't
hear people say so, and there's no mirror here."
"You don't seem any paler than others," I said.
"Ah, you say that because you don't want to frighten me, but I'm glad
I'm sick. I want to be very ill."
I looked at him in amazement.
"You don't understand," he said, with a pitiful smile. "When one is very
ill, they take care of you or they let you die. If they let me die it
will be all over, I shan't be hungry any more, and there'll be no more
beatings. And they do say that when we die we go up and live with God.
Then, if I'm up there, I can look down on Mamma and Christina, and I
can ask God not to let my little sister be unhappy. Also, if they send
me to the Hospital, I shall be pleased."
The Hospital! No matter how sick I felt while tramping across the
country, if I thought I might be sent to the hospital I always found
strength to go on.
"I'm quite ill now, but not ill enough to be in Garofoli's way," he went
on in his weak, drawling voice, "but I'm getting weaker. Garofoli,
fortunately, hasn't given up beating me entirely. He beat me on the head
eight days ago and, look, it's all swelled out now. You see here, this
big bump? He told me yesterday it was a tumor, and the way that he spoke
I believe that it's something serious. It hurts awful. I'm so giddy at
night when I put my head on the pillow I moan and cry. So I think in two
or three days he'll decide to send me to the hospital. I was in the
hospital once, and the Sisters speak so kind to you. They say, 'Put out
your tongue, little boy,' and 'There's a good boy,' every time you do
anything they tell you to do. I think I am almost had enough now to be
sent there."
He came and stood quite close to me, fixing his great eyes on me. Even
though I had not the same reason for hiding the truth from him, I did
not like to tell him how terrible he looked with his great glittering
eyes, his hollow cheeks, and his bloodless lips.
"I should think you're ill enough to go to the hospital," I said.
"At last!"
With dragging limbs he went slowly over to the table and began to wipe
it.
"Garofoli will be here shortly," he said; "we mustn't talk any more."
Wearily he went round the table, placing the plates and spoons. I
counted twenty plates. So Garofoli had twenty boys. As I only saw twelve
beds, they evidently slept, some of them, two in a bed. What beds! what
sheets! the coverlets must have been brought from the stables when they
were too old and not warm enough for the horses!
"Don't you come here," said the boy, "Try to get somewhere else."
"Where?"
"I don't know. No matter where, you'd be better than here."
The door opened and a child came into the room. He carried a violin
under his arm and a big piece of wood in his hand.
"Give me that bit of wood," said Mattia, going up to the child.
But the little fellow held the piece of wood behind his back.
"No," he said.
"Give it me for the fire; the soup'll be better."
"Do you think I brought it for the soup? I've only made thirty-six sous
to-day and I thought this bit of wood might save me a beating. It's to
make up for the four sous I'm short."
"You'll have to pay. Each in his turn."
Mattia said this mechanically, as though the thought of the boy being
punished gave him satisfaction. I was surprised to see a hard look come
into his soft, sad eyes. I knew later that if you live with wicked
people you get to be like them in time.
One by one the boys returned; each one as he came in hung his instrument
on a nail above his bed. Those who were not musicians, but simply
exhibitors of trained animals, put their mice and guinea pigs into a
cage.
Then a heavy step sounded on the stairs and a little man wearing a gray
overcoat came into the room. It was Garofoli. The moment he entered he
fixed his eyes on me with a look that scared me. Mattia quickly and
politely gave him Vitalis' message.
"Ah, so Vitalis is here," he said; "what does he want?"
"I don't know," replied Mattia.
"I'm not speaking to you, I'm speaking to this boy."
"He is coming back and he will tell you himself what he wants," I
replied.
"Ah, here's a little fellow who knows the value of words. You're not
Italian?"
"No, I'm French."
The moment Garofoli entered the room two small boys took their places,
one on each side of him, and were waiting until he had finished
speaking. Then one took his felt hat and placed it carefully on the bed,
and the other brought forward a chair. They did this with the same
gravity and respect that a choir boy waits upon a priest. When Garofoli
was seated another little boy brought him a pipe stuffed with tobacco,
and a fourth offered him a lighted match.
"It smells of sulphur, animal," he cried, throwing it in the grate.
The culprit hastened to repair his mistake; lighting another match he
let it burn for a time before offering it to his master. But Garofoli
would not accept it.
"No, you imbecile," he said, pushing the boy aside roughly. Then he
turned to another child and said with an ingratiating smile:
"Ricardo, dearie, bring a match."
The "dearie" hastened to obey.
"Now," said Garofoli, when he was comfortably installed and his pipe
burning; "now to business, my little angels. Bring the book, Mattia."
Garofoli made a sign to the boy who had lit the first match.
"You owe me a sou from yesterday; you promised to bring it to-day. How
much have you brought?"
The child hesitated for a long time, his face showing distress, "I'm
one sou short," he said at last.
"Ah, you're one sou short."
"It's not the sou for yesterday; it's a sou for to-day."
"That makes two sous! I've never seen the like of you!"
"It's not my fault."
"No excuses. You know the rules. Undo your coat; two blows for
yesterday, two for to-day, and no supper, for your impudence. Ricardo,
dearie, you're a good boy and you deserve some recreation. Take the
strap."
Ricardo, the child who had lit the second match, took down from the wall
a short-handled whip with two leather-knotted straps. Meanwhile, the boy
who was short two sous was unfastening his coat. Then he dropped his
shirt, baring his body to the waist.
"Wait a minute," said Garofoli, with an ugly smile; "you won't be the
only one, perhaps; it's always pleasant to have a companion."
The children stood motionless before their master. At his cruel joke
they all forced a laugh.
"The one who laughed most is the one who is short the most," said
Garofoli; "I'm sure of that. Who laughed the loudest?"
All pointed to the boy who had come home first, bringing his piece of
wood.
"How much are you short, you there?" demanded Garofoli.
"It's not my fault."
"And the one who says 'it's not my fault' will get an extra cut. How
much is missing?"
"I brought back a big piece of wood, a beautiful piece of wood...."
"That's something. But go to the baker's and ask him to exchange your
wood for bread, will he do it? How many sous are you missing? Speak
out!"
"I've made thirty-six sous."
"You're four short, you rogue. And you can stand there before me like
that! Down with your shirt! Ricardo, dearie, you're going to have a good
time."
"But the bit of wood?" cried the boy.
"I'll give it to you for supper."
This cruel joke made all the children who were not to be punished laugh.
All the other boys were then questioned as to how much they had brought
home. Ricardo stood with whip in hand until five victims were placed in
a row before him.
"You know, Ricardo," said Garofoli, "I don't like to look on, because a
scene like this always makes me feel ill. But I can hear, and from the
noise I am able to judge the strength of your blows. Go at it heartily,
dearie; you are working for your bread."
He turned towards the fire, as though it were impossible for him to
witness this chastisement.
I, in my corner, trembled with indignation and fear. This was the man
who was going to be my master. If I did not bring him back the thirty
or forty sous that he demanded of me, I should have to be whipped by
Ricardo. Ah, I understood now how Mattia could speak of death so calmly.
[Illustration: "FOR EACH CRY YOU WILL RECEIVE ANOTHER SLASH."]
The first lash of the whip, as it cut into the flesh, made the tears
spring to my eyes. I thought that I was forgotten, but I made a mistake;
Garofoli was looking at me out of the corner of his eye.
"There's a boy with a heart," he said, pointing to me; "he is not like
you other rogues; you laugh when you see your comrades suffer. Take this
little comrade for an example."
I trembled from head to foot. Their comrade!
At the second blow the victim uttered a wail, at the third a piercing
shriek. Garofoli lifted his hand; Ricardo stopped with raised whip. I
thought Garofoli was going to show mercy, but it was not so.
"You know how much it hurts me to hear you cry," said Garofoli, gently,
addressing the victim. "You know that if the whip tears your skin, your
cries pierce my heart. So then I warn you that for each cry you will
receive another slash, and it will be your own fault. If you have any
affection or gratitude you will keep silent. Go on, Ricardo."
Ricardo raised his arm and the strap curled on the backs of the victims.
"Oh, Mamma, Mamma," cried one.
Thank God, I saw no more of this frightful torture, for at this moment
the door was thrown open and Vitalis entered.
In a glance, he understood all. He had heard the shrieks while climbing
the stairs. Running to Ricardo, he snatched the whip from him, then,
wheeling round upon Garofoli, he stood before him with folded arms.
It all happened so quickly that, for a moment, I was dumbfounded, but
Garofoli quickly recovered himself and said gently:
"Isn't it terrible? That child has no heart."
"Shame! It's a shame!" cried Vitalis.
"That is just what I say," murmured Garofoli.
"Stop that," commanded Vitalis; "it's you, not the child! What a
cowardly shame to torture these poor children who cannot defend
themselves."
"Don't you meddle in what does not concern you, you old fool," cried
Garofoli, changing his tone.
"It concerns the police," retorted Vitalis.
"You threaten me with the police, do you?" cried Garofoli.
"Yes, I do," replied my master, nowise intimidated by the bully's fury.
"Ah, Vitalis," he hissed, "so you'll talk? Well, I can talk also. Your
affairs do not concern me, but there are others who are interested in
you and if I tell, if I say one name.... Ah, who will have to hide his
head in shame?"
My master was silent. Shame! His shame! I was amazed, but before I had
time to think, he had taken me by the hand.
"Come, Remi," he said. And he drew me to the door.
"Oh," cried Garofoli, now laughing, "I thought you wanted to talk to me,
old fellow."
"I have nothing to say to you."
Then, without another word, we went down the stairs, he still holding me
tightly by the hand. With what relief I followed him! I had escaped from
that tyrant! If I had dared I would have thrown my arms around Vitalis'
neck.