THE DEATH OF GIACOMO
Great was the astonishment at the Italian lodging-house that night when
neither the padrone nor Pietro made his appearance. Great was the joy,
too, for the nightly punishments were also necessarily omitted, and the
boys had no one to pay their money to. There was another circumstance
not so agreeable. All the provisions were locked up, and there was no
supper for the hungry children. Finally, at half-past eleven, three
boys, bolder than the rest, went out, and at last succeeded in obtaining
some bread and crackers at an oyster saloon, in sufficient quantities to
supply all their comrades. After eating heartily they went to bed, and
for one night the establishment ran itself much more satisfactorily to
the boys than if the padrone had been present.
The next morning the boys went out as usual, having again bought their
breakfast and dispersed themselves about the city and vicinity, heartily
hoping that this state of things might continue. But it was too good
to last. When they returned at evening they found their old enemy in
command. He looked more ill-tempered and sour than ever, but gave no
explanation of his and Pietro’s absence, except to say that he had been
out of the city on business. He called for the boys’ earnings of the
day previous, but to their surprise made no inquiries about how they had
supplied themselves with supper or breakfast. He felt that his influence
over the boys, and the terror which he delighted to inspire in them,
would be lessened if they should learn that he had been arrested and
punished. The boys were accustomed to look upon him as possessed of
absolute power over them, and almost regarded him as above law.
Pietro, too, was silent, partly for the same reasons which influenced
the padrone, partly because he was afraid of offending his uncle.
Meanwhile poor Giacomo remained sick. If he had been as robust and
strong as Phil, he would have recovered, but he was naturally delicate,
and exposure and insufficient food had done their work only too well.
Four days afterward (to advance the story a little) one of the boys came
to the padrone in the morning, saying: “Signore padrone, Giacomo is much
worse. I think he is going to die.”
“Nonsense!” said the padrone, angrily. “He is only pretending to be
sick, so that he need not work. I have lost enough by him already.”
Nevertheless he went to the little boy’s bedside.
Giacomo was breathing faintly. His face was painfully thin, his eyes
preternaturally bright. He spoke faintly, but his mind seemed to be
wandering.
“Where is Filippo?” he said. “I want to see Filippo.”
In this wish the padrone heartily concurred. He, too, would have been
glad to see Filippo, but the pleasure would not have been mutual.
“Why do you want to see Filippo?” he demanded, in his customary harsh
tone.
Giacomo heard and answered, though unconscious who spoke to him.
“I want to kiss him before I die,” he said.
“What makes you think you are going to die?” said the tyrant, struck by
the boy’s appearance.
“I am so weak,” murmured Giacomo. “Stoop down, Filippo. I want to tell
you something in your ear.”
Moved by curiosity rather than humanity, the padrone stooped over, and
Giacomo whispered:
“When you go back to Italy, dear Filippo, go and tell my mother how I
died. Tell her not to let my father sell my little brother to a padrone,
or he may die far away, as I am dying. Promise me, Filippo.”
There was no answer. The padrone did indeed feel a slight emotion of
pity, but it was, unhappily, transient. Giacomo did not observe that the
question was not answered.
“Kiss me, Filippo,” said the dying boy.
One of the boys who stood nearby, with tears in his eyes, bent over and
kissed him.
Giacomo smiled. He thought it was Filippo. With that smile on his face,
he gave one quick gasp and died--a victim of the padrone’s tyranny and
his father’s cupidity.(1)
(1) It is the testimony of an eminent Neapolitan physician
(I quote from Signor Casali, editor of L’Eco d’Italia) that
of one hundred Italian children who are sold by their
parents into this white slavery, but twenty ever return
home; thirty grow up and adopt various occupations abroad,
and fifty succumb to maladies produced by privation and
exposure.
Death came to Giacomo as a friend. No longer could he be forced out into
the streets to suffer cold and fatigue, and at night inhuman treatment
and abuse. His slavery was at an end.
We go back now to Phil. Though he and his friends had again gained a
victory over Pietro and the padrone, he thought it would not be prudent
to remain in Newark any longer. He knew the revengeful spirit of his
tyrants, and dreaded the chance of again falling into their hands. He
must, of course, be exposed to the risk of capture while plying his
vocation in the public streets. Therefore he resisted the invitation of
his warm-hearted protectors to make his home with them, and decided to
wander farther away from New York.
The next day, therefore, he went to the railway station and bought a
ticket for a place ten miles further on. This he decided would be far
enough to be safe.
Getting out of the train, he found himself in a village of moderate
size. Phil looked around him with interest. He had the fondness, natural
to his age, for seeing new places. He soon came to a schoolhouse. It was
only a quarter of nine, and some of the boys were playing outside. Phil
leaned against a tree and looked on.
Though he was at an age when boys enjoy play better than work or study,
he had no opportunity to join in their games.
One of the boys, observing him, came up and said frankly, “Do you want
to play with us?”
“Yes,” said Phil, brightening up, “I should like to.”
“Come on, then.”
Phil looked at his fiddle and hesitated.
“Oh, I’ll take care of your fiddle for you. Here, this tree is hollow;
just put it inside, and nobody will touch it.”
Phil needed no second invitation. Sure of the safety of his fiddle,
which was all-important to him since it procured for him his livelihood,
he joined in the game with zest. It was so simple that he easily
understood it. His laugh was as loud and merry as any of the rest, and
his face glowed with enjoyment.
It does not take long for boys to become acquainted. In the brief
time before the teacher’s arrival, Phil became on good terms with the
schoolboys, and the one who had first invited him to join them said:
“Come into school with us. You shall sit in my seat.”
“Will he let me?” asked Phil, pointing to the teacher.
“To be sure he will. Come along.”
Phil took his fiddle from its hiding-place in the interior of the tree,
and walked beside his companion into the schoolroom.
It was the first time he had ever been in a schoolroom before, and he
looked about him with curiosity at the desks, and the maps hanging
on the walls. The blackboards, too, he regarded with surprise, not
understanding their use.
After the opening exercises were concluded, the teacher, whose attention
had been directed to the newcomer, walked up to the desk where he
was seated. Phil was a little alarmed, for, associating him with his
recollections of the padrone, he did not know but that he would be
punished for his temerity in entering without the teacher’s invitation.
But he was soon reassured by the pleasant tone in which he was
addressed.
“What is your name, my young friend?”
“Filippo.”
“You are an Italian, I suppose.”
“Si, signore.”
“Does that mean ‘Yes, sir’?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Phil, remembering to speak English.
“Is that your violin?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where do you live?”
Phil hesitated.
“I am traveling,” he said at last.
“You are young to travel alone. How long have you been in this country?”
“A year.”
“And have you been traveling about all that time?”
“No, signore; I have lived in New York.”
“I suppose you have not gone to school?”
“No, signore.”
“Well, I am glad to see you here; I shall be glad to have you stay and
listen to our exercises.”
The teacher walked back to his desk, and the lessons began. Phil
listened with curiosity and attention. For the first time in his life
he felt ashamed of his own ignorance, and wished he, too, might have
a chance to learn, as the children around him were doing. But they had
homes and parents to supply their wants, while he must work for his
livelihood.
After a time, recess came. Then the boys gathered around, and asked Phil
to play them a tune.
“Will he let me?” asked the young fiddler, again referring to the
teacher.
The latter, being applied to, readily consented, and expressed his own
wish to hear Phil. So the young minstrel played and sang several tunes
to the group of children who gathered around him. Time passed rapidly,
and the recess was over before the children anticipated it.
“I am sorry to disturb your enjoyment,” said the teacher; “but duty
before pleasure, you know. I will only suggest that, as our young friend
here depends on his violin for support, we ought to collect a little
money for him. James Reynolds, suppose you pass around your hat for
contributions. Let me suggest that you come to me first.”
The united offerings, though small individually, amounted to a dollar,
which Phil pocketed with much satisfaction. He did not remain after
recess, but resumed his wanderings, and about noon entered a grocery
store, where he made a hearty lunch. Thus far good fortune attended him,
but the time was coming, and that before long, when life would wear a
less sunny aspect.