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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
There were approximately four months left for the final law degree examination, before which I had to be examined in four more subjects and submit a written “thesis.” On to the latter, I had decided to take as my theme: “Guilty by Default,” about which I had acquired considerable sad knowledge from the past. Three of the subjects were pretty well under control and could be polished without difficulty, but the fourth one was the looming specter. This was “Political Economy,” a dry subject which had nothing to do with law, but a compulsory one, due to the fact that many law graduates went to administrative branches of the government. To make things worse, this subject was taught by Prof. Francesco Saverio Nitti, a mean and dyed-in-wool formalist. The professor was highly respected as an economist, but heartily disliked by pupils and fellowmen for his cynical, sneering, conceited attitude. He came from my Province, but we never boasted of the accident. Politically, he was compromiser. Nitti became Prime Minister of Italy during the unrest following World War I and, but his policies of distrust, bickering and trying to outsmart everyone, the entire nation was thrown into utter disorder and despondency. When Mussolini took over, Nitti ran to France, where he continued to plot, virtually betraying the interests of his country.
Nitti was the same failure as a professor. His classroom was deserted and his text book, a thick volume bulging with statistics, was the most unpopular among students. I attended only two of his dry lectures and never attempted to read his book.
Here was where another lucky break came. A classmate of mine, Giuseppe Piccolella, several years my elder, persuaded me to leave the grimy little room I was living in and share the large, clean, sunny room he had near the University, but in a better neighborhood. I discussed with him all my problems, the dilemma of four examination before the final one and having to digest the book on “Political Economy.” The rule…
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…was to leave only a couple of exams for the last period, but it had been for me a “tour de force” to be left even with four subjects. Frankly, I couldn’t see any human possibility of graduating in the coming July. Still, if I deferred graduation to the Fall term, it would have given much satisfaction to those who were waiting, with green eyes and malice in their hearts, to laugh and say that I had not made the grade, after all.
It had been a supreme effort to wade through my studies and family troubles, and now I had come to the end of my mental and physical endurance. I was tired, discouraged, ready to throw the sponge, when Piccolella begged me not to give up. Angels are not in paradise, but all around us. We are all living instruments of God, called to play our part at one time or another. At the point, Piccolella played his part decisively. He even belittled himself to spur me on. “With your intelligence and prodigious memory,” he would say, “I would tackle ten subjects instead of four. I only have one exam and will have time do some of the research for you on the thesis. But, for Heaven’s sake, go on and put it over. You can do it.” “You can do it,” that was the message he kept ringing in my ears. And I buckled up for the last pull.
I mastered the three subjects to the best of my ability, skimmed over the Political Economy book, prepared many notes on the thesis, which Piccolella helped me to revise, also making a final copy of it, in beautiful handwriting. With the quotations, it covered nearly a hundred pages. The thesis filed at the University’s Secretariat, Piccolella and I planned the next steps. The examination spread in several sessions, from early June to late July. It was decided that I would take the exams as early as possible on the three relatively safe subjects and leave the knotty one to the very last.
By the latter part of June I had successfully hurdled the three exams and Piccolella had completed his last. We took a day off at a seashore resort, went to bed at nine P.M. and didnt get up until nine or ten next morning. For breakfast we usually had a large bowl of milk and coffee, into which we dunked plenty of bread. The milk was supplied by goats which were led through the streets and milked while waiting. From our third floor balcony, we would lower a basket containing two centimes and a can which would come up filled with warm foamy milk. Our dinner, at three P.M., consisted as a rule of a large plate of spaghetti or string beans, with tomato sauce, a small steak, fruit, wine and coffee.
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Piccolella was the cook. In the evening we would go out for some ice cream and cake, while listening for an hour to a public concert.
Now, I was ready to dive headlong into Political Economy. For two weeks, I put in fourteen to fifteen hours daily and, during the last few nights, I hammered at it until two or three A.M., under the stimulus of strong coffee which Piccolella kept percolating.
The day of reckoning came. The roster of a hundred or more students to be examined was posted in alphabetical order. Having letter “C,” I was the sixth or seventh on the list. There were two roll calls, with the choice of answering either one. The large amphitheater classroom was packed with candidates and many spectators. At a round table, in the well of the amphitheater, were sitting Prof. Nitti and two other professors.
Audience heaving in silent suspense, the first six names are called. No answer. My name is reached and I sit tight. The whole list is exhausted without a volunteer. It was a deliberate mutiny. Word had gone around that Nitti was in bad humor and none of us wanted to risk his neck. Nitti delivers an acidulous sermon and adjourns till two P.M., for the second call.
At two P.M., the same setting as in the morning. I am in the mid-section of the amphitheater, with Piccolella squeezing my arm. Slowly the first names go by, unanswered. “Campagna” is called. I feel pushed into the aisle and walking down, as to a capital execution. I am facing the three austere professors. Nitti says: “You are smiling. You must be sure of your ground.”
“Not sure professor, but I have studied a great deal!”
“Bravo, from what Province are you?”
“I have the honor of being from your Province.”
“I am please to hear that. Which town?”
“Castelmezzano.”
“Where is it exactly?”
“About twenty miles south of Potenza, less than a mile from Pietrapertosa, the birthplace of our illustrious Torraca.”
“Benissimo. I hope you too will do credit to our Province.”
“I shall do my best.”
“Please sit down.”
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“Thank you.”
I hear a long question and, before it is finished, I start to unreel the answer. I talk as in a trance. I see page 174 in the book and I read from it. Nitti looks at me with an inscrutable poker face. The book faces away and I stop. Nitti says: “That is not the answer to my question…You didn’t let me finish.”
“I am sorry, will you kindly repeat the question?”
“No, I am satisfied that you have really studied and I accept your answer. Now, to comply with the formalities, I’ll ask you one other question.”
It is an elementary one and, with congratulation from Nitti, I receive a mark of twenty-eight, which is only two short of the maximum and one of the highest ever given on the subject of Political Economy. It was have been ten from Nitti and nine from each of the other examiners. I certainly got away with that one.
I was ready for the degree examination, based principally on a discussion of the thesis. I waited for my name to be posted for the final test. Only three days remained for the closing. I called on the Secretary of the University who, after looking high and low, told me that the thesis had not been received. I exhibited my receipt and was told to return later. The thesis had been found and I was requested to appear for the test on the following day. As the test went on, I gathered that the professor, who was to report on the thesis, had not had the time to read it. He was rather vague in his questioning. The other two professors wandered in different field and the discussion turned into a friendly conversation.
On July 27, 1906, I was notified that the degree of “Doctor of Jurisprudence” had been conferred on me, “with honors.” Owing to the lateness of the date, the diploma would be mailed to my town.
On receiving the flattering news, I sent a jubilant telegram to my mother and, with my friend and coach Piccolella, we went on a carousal.
Piccolella left for his town, in the Province of Avellino, and we never met again, although we corresponded for many years. He became an able lawyer.
After the long drill, I had lost much weight and decided to remain in Naples a few days to recuperate.
(image of diploma – translation of diploma)
In the name of K.M. Victor Emanuel III King of Italy
By the Grace of God and the will of the Nation, we the Rector of
the Royal University of Naples, having seen the final certificate
of the course of studies completed and of the examinations sustained by
Mr. Anthony Campagna
son of Giuseppe and of Agata Taddei. Born at Castelmezzano in the Province of Potenza on December 31st, 1884. Hereby proclaim him Doctor of Laws, and the present Diploma is awarded to him so that he may establish his rights under the law.
Awarded by the Royal University of Naples on the 24th day of August, 1906.
The Rector Carlo Fadda
Registered – Fol. 23, No. 221
The Secretary in Chief Grigli. Tartufari
The President of the Faculty Giov. Lomonaco
Approved in the Examinations for Degrees of July 26th, 1906.
Next: Chapter 26
