SORRENTO, WHERE HARDSHIPS END
"Fifteen miles to Sorrento. As near as I can find out, there'll be
no money for us along the way," Guiseppe muttered as they left St.
Andrew's Cathedral.
"There's Positano," said Marta, "and the villas. You have passed so
many and stopped at none."
Guiseppe looked surprised.
"So I have, fool that I am! Why didn't you speak of it before?"
Marta made no reply and the three walked on in silence. Guiseppe
evidently was brooding over the money he had missed, for after some
half hour's tramp he turned to Marta.
"Why didn't you speak?" he growled. "Lords and ladies in the villas we
have passed, and no money for me! Do you think we've done so well we
can afford to lose a chance? Marta, you seem to have a way of keeping
your mouth shut when you should open it, but you have been free enough
with your tongue lately when you should have held it."
Guiseppe was growing almost unbearable. He grumbled at everybody and
everything.
When they met women carrying wood to town, wine-venders and
occasionally foreigners, he received their greetings with a scowl. Once
or twice tourists had tossed Pappina a few _soldi_, but no one wanted
the Punchinellos.
The three visited a few villas, going up the alley, as it would be
called in America, by the side of the house. The Punchinellos played,
and Pappina sang and was paid and fed, but nothing satisfied Guiseppe.
He grumbled continually. The harvest made on fete days had spoiled him
for small gains.
"I'm sick of picking up meals wherever we can find them, and of
sleeping on the hard ground," he said repeatedly to Marta, as though it
were her fault that he was enduring discomforts. Guiseppe had been too
many years in his home not to miss it. "Some people may like to tramp
all over the country and pick up a living like dogs in an alley, but
I'm sick of it, I tell you."
It was first Marta, then Pappina who was made to feel his ill-humor.
Neither cared to speak either to him or each other as hand in hand they
followed Guiseppe. Once in a while he would turn to look behind, with
ugly words to one or both.
They made few stops. When told to sing, Pappina made every effort to
please Guiseppe, but no matter how well she sang and danced he found
fault with her.
They were two days on the road from Amalfi to Sorrento; Guiseppe never
once softened toward either Marta or Pappina. It was not to be expected
that his wife should resent his treatment, for she was used to it; but
Marta was in constant fear that Pappina would lose her temper and there
would be trouble. The poor woman was relieved each night when the two
were asleep and there had been no outbreak from the child.
Nothing on the road interested Pappina; the luxuriant lemon and orange
groves were passed unnoticed as she trudged, worn and footsore, along
the hot, dusty road between the high garden walls.
As they neared Sorrento, Marta tried to interest the child.
"Look, _carina_," she said, "these deep places are called ravines.
Years ago when people believed in fairies, they used to say dwarfs
lived all about Sorrento in these deep ravines that enclose it."
Pappina made no reply. She seemed tired of everything except Marta. She
held her good friend's hand tight and drew closer to her every time
Guiseppe turned to look at them.
As soon as the town was reached Guiseppe began his growling anew.
"Sorrento! So this is the town old Genaro talks about. Crowing over me!
Seems to think he knows such a lot. Bah! Tasso! Tasso--bah, I say!"
"Is that where I am to sing, Guiseppe?" Pappina asked timidly as she
shook the dust from her frayed little frock.
"I'm not talking to you. You had better learn to mind you own business.
Marta, I'll not leave this town till I see where the sister of that man
Tasso lived, and I'll see his statue, too."
"Tasso." Marta spoke the name softly, not daring to question.
"Yes, Tasso. You don't know anything about him, and you don't need to
know. If old Genaro thinks we haven't seen scenery since we've been
traveling around the country, he's fooled."
Pappina looked shyly into Guiseppe's set, hard face. Her curiosity was
aroused and she wanted to know about Tasso.
"Signor Genaro might ask me about Tasso," she suggested, "and I don't
know anything about him, do I?"
Guiseppe looked at Pappina for a moment as though it were on his lips
to rebuke her, turned on his heel and started to walk away, then came
back.
"You're right for once, girl," he said, grudgingly. "Genaro might ask
you, and I want you both to let him see you know about Tasso. It won't
hurt either of you to learn something. Tasso was a famous poet. Well,
let me see--what was it old Genaro told me? Oh, yes; I remember. He was
very wild and ran away from home. The house where he was born and the
rock on which it stood were swallowed by the sea, but his sister's
house is here and the thing to do is to see that and to go to the
Piazza and see his statue."
"Now I remember," said Marta. "I went with the countess. She told me
that he came back to his sister's house disguised as a shepherd, and
that is why her home is of interest to tourists."
"Bah! What do they care--what do I care--about a poet who has been dead
over three hundred years? I'll go--I'll go. I'll give old Genaro to
understand that I saw everything worth seeing. Marta, keep your eye on
the upstart, or she'll be going too. Mind what I tell you."
He mopped his brow, handed the Punchinellos to Marta, and was off.
Pappina heaved a sigh of relief as she watched him go down the street.
When he was quite out of sight, she took off her shoe and showed Marta
the money she had hidden away. There were two francs and small coins in
plenty.
"Don't tell Guiseppe; will you, Marta? It's for you and me to run away
with to America when Guiseppe gets too bad. Take it, Marta, and keep it
for us."
[Illustration: Tarantella dancers]
The tears came to Marta's eyes and her voice shook as she replied:
"No, no, it's yours, _bambina_. Hide it back in your shoe. Marta likes
to know her little one has money snugged away where she can use it if
she needs it."
Guiseppe soon returned in the same bad humor in which he had been all
the way to Sorrento.
"Those Americans have sent for the Tarantella dancers to come to the
Vittoria Hotel to-night to dance the Tarantella for them. They say they
dance it better here than in Naples. We will take the upstart there and
see what she is worth. Fix her up. There'll be a crowd."
He looked at Pappina. Her face was drawn and white, her hair
disordered, her frock soiled, wrinkled and torn.
"What's the matter with the girl?" he asked. "She looks like a hungry
beggar. See her shoes, her dress all dirt and stains. Confound you,
Pappina, where's your beauty gone? You are all eyes to-day, when you
ought to look like something." He grabbed her fiercely by the arm and
shook her. Pappina's hot Italian blood boiled.
"You coward!" she hissed the words. She doubled up her little fist and
raised it to strike him. Guiseppe grabbed her hand and shook her again
in his fury. Marta sprang to Pappina's rescue with a savage look on
her face no one had ever seen there before. Guiseppe loosened his hold
on Pappina and pushed her away from him with such force she would have
fallen to the ground had not Marta caught her.
"Coward! Fiend! Coward!" the child hissed through her set teeth.
"Coward, eh! Call me names, will you? We'll see after to-night. Marta,
wash her impudent face; comb her hair; for heaven's sake do something!
They'll think she is no more than a beggar, and they are sick of
beggars. We found that out at Amalfi, where the whole town begs."
Marta washed Pappina, combed her hair, and tried to smooth out her
dress and make her acceptable to Guiseppe; but he seemed determined not
to be pleased.
"Can't you keep your eyelids down a little?" he said to the child. "I
tell you, you are all eyes to-day--great big, black, staring eyes!
Pinch up her cheeks, Marta; see if you can't get some color in them."
Pappina looked pleadingly first at Marta then at Guiseppe, then burst
into tears.
"Stop your crying, you wild-eyed beggar! Lost your spirit, too? What
are you good for, I'd like to know, with beauty and spirit both gone!"
Pappina dried her tears and choked back her sobs, while Marta stood as
if paralyzed. She longed to soothe the child, yet dared not, her old
fear of Guiseppe upon her again.
"There'll be great dancing at the Vittoria to-night. Get up and show
me what you can do. You needn't sing; I want to see your dancing."
Pappina did not move.
"Are you deaf, too? Didn't you hear me? I say dance!"
"Guiseppe," came faintly from the frightened child, "I will try to
please you to-night, but I cannot dance now. Be good to me; then I
shall be happy and dance all night if you wish me to."
"Oh, it's your own way you want again, is it? For once I want mine and
I'll have it, too. Dance now--at once!"
"I'll try."
She tried. Her body was quivering from excitement and fear. Her little
blistered foot pained her. She couldn't dance. Guiseppe watched her
angrily, Marta tearfully, as she lifted her tambourine, struck it and
danced one step--two--then dropped on her knees.
"_Pieta, pieta_ [pity, pity], signor," she cried. "I cannot dance now.
To-night--with the music, the people and the dancers--I will dance well
then; not now, Guiseppe. I pray you, dear Marta, tell him I cannot."
Guiseppe took up a big stick that was lying near him. He struck Pappina
once--twice. She was on her feet like a flash. She started to run,
Guiseppe seized her by her dress; it slipped through his fingers and
before he had time to collect himself she was gone, speeding like a
deer down the street. She was running away from Guiseppe, she neither
knew nor cared where.
Down the street, turning one corner after another, on, on to the
_marina_, where she was soon lost in the throng of boys and tourists.
She jumped into a row-boat just as the oarsman was starting with his
load of passengers for the steamer leaving Sorrento for Naples.
There were a few moments of suspense; then she was hurried aboard the
steamer with the others. She was safe!
Guiseppe, as he sprang after Pappina, stumbled on his own cruel stick.
When he got to his feet the child was turning a corner. He saw the
little red dress and its owner disappear from his view forever. He
glared in a frenzy at Marta.
"Curse her! Curse her!" he shrieked. "To-day of all days to get
away from me! Marta, have you turned to stone? Why don't you move?
Why didn't you run after her, instead of standing there staring
like a mummy? We must have her before dark. Go--search everywhere.
Move!--Don't stop till you find her."