THE COMIC OPERA CHORUS: "AND SAID, 'WHAT A GOOD BOY AM I!'"
"The eighth district, members of the Honorable Society," said Mr.
Gumama, bowing to the assembly as if he were ascending a throne, "it is
my duty to inform you that, for reasons which you shall presently know,
Nicola Pascoe is no longer our capo d'intini. Unworthy that I am," he
continued with pomp, "be pleased to signify by the vote whether it is
your pleasure that I assume this post of glory."
It was their pleasure and the vote acclaimed it. Instantly Beppo, the
merchant's brother-in-law and three or four other lads ranged chairs and
barrels in a circle nearly as might be round the kitchen-table and all
of the assembly that could find seats sat quietly down. Mr. Gumama
filled the earthen jugs with wine and they were passed from hand to
hand, each man taking a ceremonial draught; then the man at Mr. Gumama's
right rose and, with dramatic gesture and winy mouth, kissed him on the
forehead. So, in turn, did each of those to whom, by some mystic
precedence, the seats at the table had been spontaneously allotted. All
was accomplished with due ceremony, but rapidly and with an undertone of
nervous expectation, the weight of some unusual circumstance. It was
another and less flowery version of the festivity which had so amused
Herrick that evening, a month ago, when it had frothed round Nicola
Pascoe under the sail-cloth of the table d'hote. Almost immediately the
meeting proceeded to business.
The man with the carnation and the resplendent shoes rose ponderously
and began to hurry through a fortnightly financial report. This report
was starred with titles--capos of various departments, first voters,
senior members, cashiers, secretaries--and with references to local
districts, twelve or fourteen of them, into which that blundering
mammoth baby, New York City, would have been surprised to find itself
divided. The administrative looting of these departments was again
crossed off into eight sub-divisions--paranze, the treasurer called
them, each of which had, apparently, its own committee and procedure;
for each paranza had turned over its earnings to its capo d'intini,
these capos in turn had passed them to the capo in testa who had turned
them into the treasurer in exchange for a receipt. One of these receipts
Mr. Gumama now produced. The fortnightly gains were deposited upon the
table in two cigar-boxes; in one the baratolo, won at games and
swindling; the other held the sbruffo, more heroically acquired from
extortion or theft. Every one began to praise what he had himself
contributed, and it became evident that the apprentices, like Beppo,
were expected to do most of this light work. However, save for a glass
of wine to each, which they were told to drink thankfully, they did not
share in the spoils they had so largely produced. These were apportioned
by Mr. Gumama without the protestation of a single voice. Percentages
for three funds were set aside; one for what was politely called "social
expenses," which, to a gross mind, might have suggested corruption; one
for legal defense; the other for pensioners--retired members, families
of those unfortunately detained in jail, and widows of members deceased
while in good standing. Not till then was the remainder paid equally
into each individual hand, in a model of just and scrupulous
dealing.--As, in various dialects, a foam of pent-up exclamations now
rose, Mr. Gumama again looked at his watch and, with an awe-inspiring
contraction of his beautiful brows, once more betook himself to the
window.
A slick, sleek oily youth in a gray derby began to deliver some mail
which he had just collected from the branch post-office in Marco
Morello's drug-store down the street; among the innocent pleasantries of
indecent post cards there seemed to be at least two enigmatic warnings
in dirty envelopes and a happy suggestion of workable scandal about a
rich jeweler; one postal, demanding in scarcely legible and very
illiterate Neapolitan slang the "suppression" of a woman who had turned
the writer out of his job in her fake employment agency, was frowned
upon by Mr. Gumama as unnecessarily careless. Directly the meeting had
formed itself into a rough semblance of a court, the writer of the
careless postal was condemned to be suspended for six months, so that
his earnings were cut off from both sources.
One of the laborers rose to complain that the capo of his paranza had
sentenced him to a week's suspension for quarreling with a companion;
the evidence showed injustice and the complaint was sustained. A
saloon-keeper broke into passionate appeal against another sentence of
suspension, this time for a year, because he had shed a tear of pity for
the child of a wine-merchant which had died while held for ransom. But
his capo d'intini, the head of a whole district, had seen the tear and
the punishment was confirmed. A picciotto di sgarro, a novice, who had
passed two duels with credit, was found to have hesitated in obedience
and was expelled from possible membership for all time. Now popped up a
red, bushy stub of a man, with a full tuck under his chin and a certain
unshaven dinginess, to declare that something outrageous was going on in
his neighborhood: there were rowdies who hung about the street corners
and offended the female foundlings of the good sisters, making remarks
when these took exercise! The gentle ladies had appealed to the police
in vain, but to the Honorable Society they could now in tranquillity
trust. The Honorable Society, shocked and indignant, assumed the future
immunity of the female foundlings for a slight consideration. Finally
amidst an ominous silence Balbo the Wolf, a chauffeur, a full member,
was convicted of having practised extortion without orders and on his
own account.
"Lupo Balbo," said Mr. Gumama, in the profound chest notes of an
outraged parent, "you deserve to sleep forever. You have broken your
oath of humility, you have rebelled against your father and scandalized
your mother, you have taken food from the mouth of your family, for the
Society is your family and your father and your mother.--Tommaso
Antonelli--" He spoke low and quick to a man near him, who sprang
forward, there was an instant's sharp, half-voluntary struggle and then
Antonelli drew back with a dripping razor in his hand. Lupo, the
chauffeur, covered a face marked forever with a double slash. And Mr.
Gumama somewhat unnecessarily added, "The spreggio is for you the
punishment, you wolf Balbo. Bathe your face, there in the pitcher by the
innocent vine, and leave the council." Lupo Balbo, no more than his
predecessors, winced, argued, nor rebelled. Against the decree of the
capo no appeal was possible.
All this time--so much shorter a time than any agreeable social club
would have taken to despatch a single item of business--the human
bundles had remained propped against the wall; silent perforce and
wrapped in the indifference of their own doom. Mr. Gumama now turned an
attentive eye upon these lumps of misery, and a kind of brightening
glimmered through the assemblage; the duller preliminaries were disposed
of at last.
The poor souls being brought forward the capo pronounced their names
with scorn. "Luigi Pachotto and Carlo Firenzi, you deserve no trial.
But the Society honors its strict laws and does not condemn without
justice. Beppo, Chigi, remove those gags." The eyes of the human bundles
goggled avidly forward; their mouths puffed moistly in physical relief.
Still, they made no complaint.
"Full members of the Society, alas!" Mr. Gumama tragically continued,
"members, also, of our Arm of Justice, ere the Society accepted that Arm
as part of its own body, we have received demands for your suppression
and, from our camorrista scelto, proof of your guilt. Luigi Pachotto, of
the eight crimes against the Society which incur the penalty of death
you are charged with the first--Number one, to reveal the secrets of the
Society. And you, Carlo Firenzi, with the second,--spying on behalf of
the police. It is true that Lupo Balbo was guilty of the sixth, and I
made his penalty little. But of such crimes, like disobedience, the
punishment at its worst is death. Yours are the crimes of treachery, for
which the death is slow. Most for you, Carlo Firenzi, there can be no
excuse. When you began to suspect the news which I am about to break to
the paranza you turned police operative and betrayed the system by which
our unfortunate friends communicate in horrible prisons and become
properly organized. And when, last night, you were set by the paranza to
do a service this morning to your basista you gave notice to the police.
So that they came and took back the friend of our basista and now guard
the nest of our social gatherings. Did you think the Arm of Justice had
grown too weak to punish? Carlo Firenzi, what have you to say?"
He had nothing to say; only, hanging his head, he ground his teeth. Yet
the form--the form? the very core and gist--of a trial was put through;
the evidence heard and questioned, the witnesses confronted with the
mute despair of a guilt taken red handed and making no denial; fifteen
minutes of the truth passionately sought and no law-game played.
The conclusion, however, was foregone and Firenzi was soon stood back
out of the way. "Luigi Pachotto, you have, I believe, affirmed good
intention. You knew that the old-days' Arm of Justice, now the fifth
paranza of this eighth district of the Honorable Society, had long
sheltered in its midst, all unknowing, a traitor to the Honorable
Society." He had touched a spring that vibrated through the whole room.
Unable to proceed he waited till the murmur of incredulous horror that
had risen to a growl should die away. "You betook yourself to the capo
in testa of the Honorable Society rather than to your old friends of the
Arm or even to this district, and to him pointed out the whereabouts of
the traitor. Did you dare to insinuate that the Arm itself would not
have punished had it known? What good to it or to the Society did you
expect of this?"
It was more a slur than a question and he answered it in a hopeless
mumble. "I did it for the good of the Arm and to make our peace with the
Honorable Society. I say it, who am about to die--I thought to resign
the traitor, to give him into its hand who sullies ours, to be done with
him and at peace."
"Luigi Pachotto, you took too much upon yourself! It is for the Arm to
make its own terms. I think it was your private peace you wished to
make, thus to save your own throat. But you have cut it." Mr. Gumama
paused and sententiously expanded his beautiful brows. "Nevertheless, it
may be that you are to be shown strange mercy!"
The murmur rose again, humming with amazement.
"The Society can be merciful for its own just ends. There is a service
to be rendered, a deed to be done, beyond the skill of any garzione di
mala vita, its apprentice, or yet of its novice, the picciotto di
sgarro, the young one. It should be done by one who is past life.
Therefore, the Society, yet a little while, suspends your execution."
Pachotto was thrust into the background and Mr. Gumama, who all this
time had been seated at the table, rose and leaned forward, indicating
that the meeting had reached its climax.
"Dear friends, you observed well what Pachotto said? For this have we
come together. We of the Fifth paranza, Hands of the Arm, we, in
particular, must take heed to ourselves." He paused, collecting
attention. But it was already in his pocket. "He who used the Arm of
Justice to shelter a traitor, is its long-time chief, Nicola
Pascoe--called in the country from which he carried his bowed head,
Nicola Ansello! Ah, you know the name! Then you know well that the
serpent whom he nourished in our bosom is the traitor at whose word, ten
years ago in Italy, four members perished!"
A shudder shook the assembly. Many crossed themselves. Mr. Gumama, in
the relish of his own rhetoric, grew increasingly impressive. He was,
moreover, extremely pale. "The Society passes sentence--that Arm still
enfolds the traitor!"
The assembly cried out as against a sacrilege and its cry was menacing.
The Hands of the Arm were now easily distinguishable by their very long
faces.
"Ah, my friends," wailed Mr. Gumama with a sudden shrillness, "the
Society falters not, but strikes--Fifth paranza, Hands of the Arm, it
condemns us, every one!"
A horrible yelling broke loose like a storm. Sobs and hysterical curses
strangled together amidst the revilements of the now inimical district.
One man was seized with convulsions and had to have wine and water
dashed over him, another fainted and got stepped on. Mr. Gumama remained
superior and at last made himself heard. "But was it not from the
Society I learned lenience to Pachotto? Does it not, in wisdom, leave me
in place to address you? On one condition the Society withdraws its
condemnation."
The very melody of howling rose. "The condition! Tell! Tell!"
"First, lest too great the shock, listen a moment. You know well how in
this America where, since Italy drove her forth, she grows so great, the
conditions of the Mother Society are greatly relaxed; so that, in a new
country, she may strengthen herself with all her children. When heads of
small societies, existing ere here she had waxed great, came to be
absorbed in her she accepted the members for whom they vouched without
requiring the apprenticeship nor the novitiate. So it was with the Arm
of Justice. Of all the small societies we were the most distinguished.
It was not seemly so superior a collection should exist outside the
Honorable Society. So much truth do I speak that in accepting us it made
our chief, Nicola Pascoe, chief of this district, made ourselves into
one paranza where we are yet a unit with our own rules, fifth paranza of
the eighth district. The Society decrees that after to-day this paranza
shall be broken up and scattered among the others and that name, the Arm
of Justice, be spoken no more. So shall the true forget the traitor!"
His breath failed him. But fortunately his audience came to his rescue
with a hissing snarl--"Traditore! Traditore!"
"Fellow members, it is nothing. We who are innocent expect to suffer for
the guilt of friends. What I entreat, it is that you examine what kind
of a friend Nicola Pascoe has been to us. It is true he found us little
and made us great. It is true he taught us, formed us and was our
leader. But knew we who he was? Did he tell us he had fled from Naples
to this place carrying in his arms a traitor? Now that we know, to us
what is he?--Ah, we, guileless, true shoot of the parent vine, branch of
her root, of the Honorable Society the pious children!" Mr. Gumama,
sincerely overcome by this pastoral vision, rolled up his eyes for a
long pause. But as he had to sneeze he continued, "Hands of the Arm,
for to-day we are still ourselves. For to-day I might have called one
last meeting of the fifth paranza and we, all alone, have discussed our
own affairs. But that there may be no stain on us of secret counsel we
show our hand to the whole district.--How may we again be dear children
of the Mother from Naples, held safe in her embrace? Hands of the Arm,
to save the Arm cut off always the Hand, one, three, how many, it is no
matter! Hear the one condition of the Honorable Society: We divulge the
whereabouts this night of Nicola Pascoe, the basista and all their
house; we offer them neither warning, shelter nor defense; we lead,
ourselves, this district in their suppression!" And he leaned towards
them, glaring and sweating, his voice still cautiously lowered and
waited their answer with open mouth.
They who never yet had disobeyed Nicola Pascoe stared at him a trifle
wanly, huddling one on the other. Astonished gutturals mingled hoarsely
with shrill peeps; "Body of Bacchus!" "Woe, woe! Beware!" "Presence of
the devil!" clashed with gobs of thieves' slang and the less amiable
expressions that were overwhelmed by the general assurances of the
district that the paranza had no choice.
Then a well-to-do little soul with a black beard rose to speak. "Listen
to the voice of reason. If we condemn ourselves, can we save Nicola
Pascoe? But if we condemn Nicola Pascoe, we still do save ourselves! All
must not die--a few it is better to die! It is well I should say this,
for I am a man of gentle speech. I do not wish to be thought like a bad
murderer nor the companion of murderers. I am a business-man--a dealer
in tortoise-shells which I send mostly to Chicago, and I am unique for
the perfection of my wares. I have now the one hope for the support of
my family and small children--that the Society if it suppresses us all
will leave upon each of us its mark. That would cause a sensation and
perhaps advertise my unique tortoise-shells to improve the business for
my wife. But this hope is not enough. Nicola Pascoe, the basista, all,
all, suppress them! Me, I wish to live!" He sat down.
But then, from Nicola's closer brethren immediate and violent opposition
arose, with arguments that Nicola himself had done no wrong and pleading
for a lighter sentence. The meeting was in scarcely less than an
apoplectic fit when, from its outskirts, a young farmhand shrieked out
that they must take the counsel of the good priest, the Angel of the
Society.
A tall man at once began to weep and to utter horrible invectives
against the last speaker, while Mr. Gumama exhorted him to be more calm.
It turned out that the Angel of the Society was in jail for perjury and
that the tall man was his brother. "I must leave the room! I must have
air! How could he, the bad of heart, the pig, mention my brother before
me--"
"Angelo, you are a man and must show more strength! Antonio was not
aware of the trouble of your brother--"
"Not aware of--He who celebrated masses for the soul of King Humbert, he
who remained tender to us though all other fathers refused us absolution
while we practised our profession, he who among us was best for
plausible defenses, that holy man!"
"We revere him. But it is impossible to allow you to leave the room
every time he is mentioned! You have disordered in that way the last
four meetings!"
Angelo threw himself on the ground with cries of injustice, and an
equally angry person started up from his corner. "What is he screaming
about? Has he the only feelings to be considered? Do I thus weep like a
woman? I, too, have a brother in a dark prison--and if I were with him I
would be more safe! While that one there slobbers do I wish to die? And
to thus make a martyr not only of me, but of that holy soul, my mother!
Who, at eighty-four would weep for me and tear her sacred hair, all
gray!" A chorus of sympathetic wails responded to this touching
reference. "Me, I see in this room one who once took my lock of that
hair for another woman's!" Hisses arose. "Yet do I ask to leave the
room? Let it be the house of Pascoe which forever leaves this room.
Rather than meet in the dark with the agent of the Honorable Society I
will surrender me to the police!"
This, indeed, achieved tumult, breaking into personal rancors in which
the issue of Nicola seemed to vanish.
"You are a liar! He did not--"
"I will swear on the ashes of my father and of my dead son!"
"You would swear on anything!"
"Beware! Beware the anathema!"
"I am sorry for you--I take you to my bosom!"
"I curse you down to the seventh generation!"
"Once you dug, quiet, in my sewer! But now you are proud and a
gentleman--"
"I was always more of a gentleman than you are!"
"I remind you that you must die!"
At last the voice of Mr. Gumama was able to make itself heard.
"Beautiful friends, the vote, the vote!--Ah! Now, attention! This is
what you do not know. Who thinks to be faithful to Nicola Pascoe, is
Nicola Pascoe faithful to him? Nicola Pascoe flees away! A-a-ah! Doubt
you that the Society will have _some_ atonement? He flees to Brazil,
this coming sunrise, he and his, and leaves us to bear his blame!"
It was enough. The meeting could not speak; it could only shake and
froth in one united epilepsy. As the fifth paranza found voice it
groaned, "We have been betrayed! We are innocent! We have been cast like
lambs to the slaughter! He has trampled not only on the human but the
divine law! He leaves us to perish in this infamous market--" And a
very old man, as he called down upon the Pascoes all the curses of
heaven mixed with descriptions of his sufferings from nightmare as a
child, put up insane appeals for their punishment. He rose from hysteria
to hysteria; sobbing with exhaustion he buried his face in his hands
after summoning God, personally, to convince Nicola's friends; suddenly
he raised his head and, plucking at one of his wild eyes, with a
sweeping movement he cast a small object apparently at Jehovah's feet.
His magnificent gesture defying their mercies, he lifted to their gasp
of amazement the seared, empty, gaping socket in his ancient, bearded
face, and, uttering a choking shriek, he fell to the ground. A stampede
of horror was averted by Mr. Gumama, who picked up the eye-ball, cast it
down again and ground it under foot. It was glass.
There being no hope of capping this climax they got down to business and
surrendered Nicola in a wink. There remained to be dealt with a flourish
of Mr. Gumama's. "This is all demanded by our kind Mother. But shall we
not give a little more? Shall she herself be obliged to slay the serpent
that we have fed and made strong? Will she not be pleased by a little
more zeal on our part, while still we are ourselves? My friends, I have
made a little arrangement." Fortunately for Mr. Gumama's climax as he
now sent another of his impatient glances out of the window he gave an
uncontrollable cry of relief. "Here they come!"
Strolling along the sidewalk appeared three men, all evidently Italians;
but two, in their rough clothes, lumpish sailors. The slenderer and
finer-made came sauntering between them; he had a charming smile with
which he listened attentively to some oath embroidered anecdote. As they
entered the garage one of the sailors, looking up, caught the eye of Mr.
Gumama and made a quick signal. "Bene! They have not been followed!" Mr.
Gumama exclaimed. "By the grace of heaven they have not been followed!
And he has no suspicion!" The confidential aides purred aloud, the whole
meeting slightly relaxed and the man with the knife decided to sit down.
But he kept his knife in his hand.
Mr. Gumama stationed two men at the window to watch the sidewalk and
then motioned half a dozen distinguished members to the stairs.
Crouching forward they could see the slight man leaning in the doorway,
whistling, and glancing up and down the swarming street with quick, dark
eyes. Mr. Gumama squatted until he was in danger of falling through the
opening and pointing a long, soiled finger at the slight man, "Il
traditore," hissed Mr. Gumama. "He whom Nicola and the basista shelter
in our midst! Alieni, o' n'infama! Traditore! He, Filippi Alieni!"