RISTOFALO AND THE RECTOR.
Be Richling's feelings what they might, the Star Bakery shone in the
retail firmament of the commercial heavens with new and growing
brilliancy. There was scarcely time to talk even with the tough little
rector who hovers on the borders of this history, and he might have
become quite an alien had not Richling's earnest request made him one
day a visitor, as we have seen him express his intention of being, in
the foul corridors of the parish prison, and presently the occupant of a
broken chair in the apartment apportioned to Raphael Ristofalo and two
other prisoners. "Easy little tasks you cut out for your friends," said
the rector to Richling when next they met. "I got preached _to_--not to
say edified. I'll share my edification with you!" He told his
experience.
It was a sinister place, the prison apartment. The hand of Kate
Ristofalo had removed some of its unsightly conditions and disguised
others; but the bounds of the room, walls, ceiling, windows, floor,
still displayed, with official unconcern, the grime and decay that is
commonly thought good enough for men charged, rightly or wrongly, with
crime.
The clergyman's chair was in the centre of the floor. Ristofalo sat
facing him a little way off on the right. A youth of nineteen sat tipped
against the wall on the left, and a long-limbed, big-boned, red-shirted
young Irishman occupied a poplar table, hanging one of his legs across
a corner of it and letting the other down to the floor. Ristofalo
remarked, in the form of polite acknowledgment, that the rector had
preached to the assembled inmates of the prison on the Sunday previous.
"Did I say anything that you thought was true?" asked the minister.
The Italian smiled in the gentle manner that never failed him.
"Didn't listen much," he said. He drew from a pocket of his black
velveteen pantaloons a small crumpled tract. It may have been a favorite
one with the clergyman, for the youth against the wall produced its
counterpart, and the man on the edge of the table lay back on his elbow,
and, with an indolent stretch of the opposite arm and both legs, drew a
third one from a tin cup that rested on a greasy shelf behind him. The
Irishman held his between his fingers and smirked a little toward the
floor. Ristofalo extended his toward the visitor, and touched the
caption with one finger: "Mercy offered."
"Well," asked the rector, pleasantly, "what's the matter with that?"
"Is no use yeh. Wrong place--this prison."
"Um-hm," said the tract-distributor, glancing down at the leaf and
smoothing it on his knee while he took time to think. "Well, why
shouldn't mercy be offered here?"
"No," replied Ristofalo, still smiling; "ought offer justice first."
"Mr. Preacher," asked the young Irishman, bringing both legs to the
front, and swinging them under the table, "d'ye vote?"
"Yes; I vote."
"D'ye call yerself a cidizen--with a cidizen's rights an' djuties?"
"I do."
"That's right." There was a deep sea of insolence in the smooth-faced,
red-eyed smile that accompanied the commendation. "And how manny times
have ye bean in this prison?"
"I don't know; eight or ten times. That rather beats you, doesn't it?"
Ristofalo smiled, the youth uttered a high rasping cackle, and the
Irishman laughed the heartiest of all.
"A little," he said; "a little. But nivver mind. Ye say ye've bin here
eight or tin times; yes. Well, now, will I tell ye what I'd do afore and
iver I'd kim back here ag'in,--if I was you now? Will I tell ye?"
"Well, yes," replied the visitor, amiably; "I'd like to know."
"Well, surr, I'd go to the mair of this city and to the judge of
the criminal coort, and to the gov'ner of the Sta-ate, and to the
ligislatur, if needs be, and I'd say, 'Gintlemin, I can't go back to
that prison! There is more crimes a-being committed by the people
outside ag'in the fellies in theyre than--than--than the--the fellies in
theyre has committed ag'in the people! I'm ashamed to preach theyre! I'm
afeered to do ud!'" The speaker slipped off the table, upon his feet.
"'There's murrder a-goun' on in theyre! There's more murrder a-bein'
done in theyre nor there is outside! Justice is a-bein' murdered theyre
ivery hour of day and night!'"
He brandished his fist with the last words, but dropped it at a glance
from Ristofalo, and began to pace the floor along his side of the room,
looking with a heavy-browed smile back and forth from one fellow-captive
to the other. He waited till the visitor was about to speak, and then
interrupted, pointing at him suddenly:--
"Ye're a Prodez'n preacher! I'll bet ye fifty dollars ye have a rich
cherch! Full of leadin' cidizens!"
"You're correct."
"Well, I'd go an'--an'--an' I'd say, 'Dawn't ye nivver ax me to go into
that place ag'in a-pallaverin' about mercy, until ye gid ud chaynged
from the hell on earth it is to a house of justice, wheyre min gits the
sintences that the coorts decrees!' _I_ don't complain in here. _He_
don't complain," pointing to Ristofalo; "ye'll nivver hear a complaint
from him. But go look in that yaird!" He threw up both hands with a
grimace of disgust--"Aw!"--and ceased again, but continued his walk,
looked at his fellows, and resumed:--
"_I_ listened to yer sermon. I heerd ye talkin' about the souls of uz.
Do ye think ye kin make anny of thim min believe ye cayre for the souls
of us whin ye do nahthing for the _bodies_ that's before yer eyes
tlothed in rrags and stairved, and made to sleep on beds of brick and
stone, and to receive a hundred abuses a day that was nivver intended to
be a pairt of _anny_body's sintince--and manny of'm not tried yit, an'
nivver a-goun' to have annythin' proved ag'in 'm? How _can_ ye come
offerin' uz merrcy? For ye don't come out o' the tloister, like a poor
Cat'lic priest or Sister. Ye come rright out o' the hairt o' the
community that's a-committin' more crimes ag'in uz in here than all of
us together has iver committed outside. Aw!--Bring us a better airticle
of yer own justice ferst--I doan't cayre how _crool_ it is, so ut's
_justice_--an' _thin_ preach about God's mercy. I'll listen to ye."
Ristofalo had kept his eyes for the most of the time on the floor,
smiling sometimes more and sometimes less. Now, however, he raised them
and nodded to the clergyman. He approved all that had been said. The
Irishman went and sat again on the table and swung his legs. The
visitor was not allowed to answer before, and must answer now. He would
have been more comfortable at the rectory.
"My friend," he began, "suppose, now, I should say that you are pretty
nearly correct in everything you've said?"
The prisoner, who, with hands grasping the table's edge on either side
of him, was looking down at his swinging brogans, simply lifted his
lurid eyes without raising his head, and nodded. "It would be right," he
seemed to intimate, "but nothing great."
"And suppose I should say that I'm glad I've heard it, and that I even
intend to make good use of it?"
His hearer lifted his head, better pleased, but not without some
betrayal of the distrust which a lower nature feels toward the
condescensions of a higher. The preacher went on:--
"Would you try to believe what I have to add to that?"
"Yes, I'd try," replied the Irishman, looking facetiously from the youth
to Ristofalo. But this time the Italian was grave, and turned his glance
expectantly upon the minister, who presently replied:--
"Well, neither my church nor the community has sent me here at all."
The Irishman broke into a laugh.
"Did God send ye?" He looked again to his comrades, with an expanded
grin. The youth giggled. The clergyman met the attack with serenity,
waited a moment and then responded:--
"Well, in one sense, I don't mind saying--yes."
"Well," said the Irishman, still full of mirth, and swinging his legs
with fresh vigor, "he'd aht to 'a' sint ye to the ligislatur."
"I'm in hopes he will," said the little rector; "but"--checking the
Irishman's renewed laughter--"tell me why should other men's injustice
in here stop me from preaching God's mercy?"
"Because it's pairt _your_ injustice! Ye _do_ come from yer cherch, an'
ye _do_ come from the community, an' ye can't deny ud, an' ye'd ahtn't
to be comin' in here with yer sweet tahk and yer eyes tight shut to the
crimes that's bein' committed ag'in uz for want of an outcry against 'em
by you preachers an' prayers an' thract-disthributors." The speaker
ceased and nodded fiercely. Then a new thought occurred to him, and he
began again abruptly:--
"Look ut here! Ye said in yer serrmon that as to Him"--he pointed
through the broken ceiling--"we're all criminals alike, didn't ye?"
"I did," responded the preacher, in a low tone.
"Yes," said Ristofalo; and the boy echoed the same word.
"Well, thin, what rights has some to be out an' some to be in?"
"Only one right that I know of," responded the little man; "still that
is a good one."
"And that is--?" prompted the Irishman.
"Society's right to protect itself."
"Yes," said the prisoner, "to protect itself. Thin what right has it to
keep a prison like this, where every man an' woman as goes out of ud
goes out a blacker devil, and cunninger devil, and a more dangerous
devil, nor when he came in? Is that anny protection? Why shouldn't such
a prison tumble down upon the heads of thim as built it? Say."
"I expect you'll have to ask somebody else," said the rector. He rose.
"Ye're not a-goun'!" exclaimed the Irishman, in broad affectation of
surprise.
"Yes."
"Ah! come, now! Ye're not goun' to be beat that a-way by a wild Mick o'
the woods?" He held himself ready for a laugh.
"No, I'm coming back," said the smiling clergyman, and the laugh came.
"That's right! But"--as if the thought was a sudden one--"I'll be dead
by thin, willn't I? Of coorse I will."
"Yes?" rejoined the clergyman. "How's that?"
The Irishman turned to the Italian.
"Mr. Ristofalo, we're a-goin to the pinitintiary, aint we?"
Ristofalo nodded.
"Of coorse we air! Ah! Mr. Preechur, that's the place!"
"Worse than this?"
"Worse? Oh, no! It's better. This is slow death, but that's quick and
short--and sure. If it don't git ye in five year', ye're an allygatur.
This place? It's heaven to ud!"