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CHAPTER EIGHT
Another boarding place was found with one of the Court House custodians who had living quarters on the semi-basement floor of the Tribunal Building. He was a big-hearted, fine-looking man, Giuseppe Vecchione, and his wife, Donna Matilde, was an affectionate, adorable woman. They had three children, two girls older and a boy younger than myself. I became one of the family, living with them for six years, the balance of gymnasium and lyceum. Their way of living was modest, but the food and care were excellent. The apartment faced an enclosed little garden from which the spring fragrance of boxwood, roses and wisteria flooded my room.
Our only neighbor was the custodian of the other wing of the Court House which housed the General Sessions and the Court of Appeals. I spent much time with his son, Antonio Ferrari, who was several years older than I was and whose talent for writing and dramatics I warmly admired. His emotions and craving for freedom made him leave school and come to America, where we were to meet in later years, under most unusual circumstances.
In this new lodging, the plumbing facilities were not better than in the first one and not as convenient.
The second winter with the Vecchione family I was attacked with a virulent case of typhoid fever. Donna Matilde, quickly understanding the gravity of the illness, had my bed moved next to hers and she watched over me day and night. My mother was kept uninformed. My father was at my bedside every other day. It was the first time I saw him lose his nerve and that added to my agony. Life hung in the balance for nearly two weeks. Donna Matilde’s fervid prayers and her motherly nursing pulled me through.
I was finally sent home to convalesce. It was late March. My town never looked so beautiful to me. Its very air was exhilarating. The hillsides…
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…were splashed with the pink-white blossoms of almond trees, the pioneers of spring, and clusters of fragrant yellow flower from the “ginestra,” a spiky mountain bush that gave inspiration to one of the Leonardi’s finest poems. The towering cliffs seemed to have lost their frown and to be whispering an affectionate welcome to their native boy who had yearned to break away from their locking grip. I was then thirteen years old.
My mother’s loving care and the happy surroundings of my childhood brought new life. Color soon returned to my cheeks, but the recovery was slow. As a result of the disease I was almost completely bald, but soon a downy growth began to reappear and gradually my thick crop sprang out again. Now at sixty, my hair is still abundant and unusually dark.
Nearly three months had elapsed and I was afraid that my school year had been irreparably lost. However, on my return, the faculty decided to give me special tuition, without charge, and the year was saved.
I have several letters written to my parents, from the age of 10 to 12, and which my mother presented me with, when we visited her in 1921. The following are literal translation of partial contents:
1 – Potenza, October 11, 1895. (Second year of gymnasium.)
My beloved Mother, I want you to know that I had a very enjoyable trip…On the same day I took the exams in Mathematics and the Professor told me: “Bravissimo, you have done well” then happy & contented I returned home…Give Grandma a big hug for me…
2 – Potenza, December 23, 1896.
My dearest Mother and Father, …It would make me very happy to spend Christmas with you, but circumstances do not allow me and I am resigned to remain here…I know how you work day and night, but I will not neglect to do my duty and in due time you will reap the fruit of your labor. By studying I will satisfy your ardent wishes and, if God wills, the day will come when I will have reached your goal and mine….How in Michelino? (little Michael)…
P.S. My dear Grandpa, I thank you so much for your present from which you could have abstained. You can be sure that if God permits me I will fulfill my parents’ hopes, being in complete accord with your advice. Wishing you a merry Christmas I pray that you will enjoy a long and happy life.
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P.S. My dear Mother, Please give Christmas greetings for me to all our relatives and friends, so not to bother you by mentioning them one by one.
3 – Potenza, January 20, 1897.
Beloved Mother, If the marks in my last report are a little deficient, it isn’t entirely my fault as I have been sick with my eyes for a long time and I tell you now that, thank God, I am all better. I couldn’t do my homework in the evenings because the lamp hurt my eyes and I had to keep them shielded with a handkerchief. You can be absolutely certain that my next report will be good. I thank you for the stamps you have collected for me and you will please thank those who gave them to you. When I come home for Easter you can give me the collection. My love to all. I kiss you with all my heart…
P.S. The trousers you sent me are a little long and the jacket a little wide at the shoulders.
4 – Potenza, June 23, 1897.
Amata mia madre, I am replying promptly to yours from which I am glad to hear you are all well and so am I…I received the lira you sent me (20 cents) and I thank you immensely…As to my studies I can now announce that I have passed without examinations two principal subjects, Latin and French. The written exams on the other three will start July first and end on the fifth, but we don’t know when the oral ones will take place…I will do my best to get good results and spend the vacations without thinking of anything…
The summer suit you sent me doesn’t quite fit, especially the trousers which are so tight and short that I am compelled to wear the winter ones…I am returning the two empty baskets…
Kisses to all and to you with a true heart. Your aff. son, Antonio.
*****
Here I like to recall a little episode of the third Christmas in Potenza, shortly before my typhoid illness.
Mr. X, born in my town the previous half century, had achieved a certain prominence in law practice and, even more, he was reputed to be high up in the Masonic organization. He was never seen out, except on his short walks between his home and the Court Building. Later, he delegated others to go to Court and remained a complete recluse. He had become a sort of mysterious, legendary figure. His name never appeared in outstanding cases, but he seemed to be a man of means and power. My father had some misgivings and never consulted him in his legal…
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…matters. However, in view of the fact that some day I was to be a lawyer myself, he thought advisable to try and warm up to our fellow townsman.
It being customary to bring some Seasons gifts to professional men, my father bought a large live turkey and asked me to personally deliver it to Mr. X., before Christmas. Dressed in my best clothes, stiff collar and home made starched bow tie, I went to the gentleman’s house, carrying the fat gobbler, a tenuous effort for a lad of my size. It was a cold day, but I was perspiring and short of breath when, after entering a palatial courtyard and climbing a massive flight of stone stairs, I was knocking at Mr. X’s service entrance. A pleasant, full-faced matron opened the door and, on learning who I was, relieved me of the fowl and directed me to the main entrance, at the farther end of a stone platform. The carved walnut door had two highly polished knobs and a heavy brass knocker on the upper panel. I was admitted into an elegant foyer with glossy marble floor and large mirrors. The splendor had me dazed when the door opened and a little man with a flat nose, scat reddish beard, sharp squinty eyes, moved toward me, both hands extended. His manner and speech seemed more ostentatious than cordial. The small, impressive Mr. X. led me into his Library with a wide arch into another room, occupied by several amanuenses around a long table. He sat at a high secretary, on a stool-like chair, from where he could supervise his staff in the adjoining room.
I sat next to him on a similar stool, and my floor contact was lost. A shining silver tray containing cookies and a steaming demi-tasse was brought in by a stately girl, wearing a black uniform and a small white apron. I felt suspended in mid-air, while nibbling at the cookies and sipping the strong coffee. I listened to an outline history of my host, given in slow, staccato words briefly as follows: “Our town is so near and still I have not been back there in thirty years. I am deemed successful, but my life is a ship-wreck. My wife died in this house when very young; the doors to her room have been locked ever since. I lost my only son at the age of twenty and my only daughter is an invalid.” Did that account for his misanthropy and other moral quirks? “I am very happy to see you, a boy of my town. I can almost see myself in you; my memories are flashing back to my mind”…and so on. I answered his many question and he expressed delight at my age and school record. When he learned that I too wanted to be a lawyer, he said: “I hope I can be of help to you, if I live long enough to see the day.”
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The conversation shifted to minor topics and the interview was at an end. As I was about to leave, he said: “Tonnuccio (pet name for Anthony) I am sorry you brought a Christmas present. Your father is not my client and I cannot accept it. You must take it back.” At my expression of dismay, he gently stiffened and I knew the verdict was final. Whether to mollify me, or on second thought, he suavely spoke again. “Tonnuccio, I want the pleasure of your company at Christmas dinner.” I hesitated with stammering apologies, but he added that he would also invite his grand-nephew and one of my schoolmates, Manlio Molfese. Confused and without escape, I accepted.
At the push of a button, the housekeeper came in and led me to the kitchen from where I departed with the turkey in my arms, my face as red as the turkey’s neck.
The humiliation wounded me deeply and I can still feel the sting of it. On my way home, I resolved to write to Mr. X. and decline his invitation. But my friend Vecchione counseled me otherwise, pointing out the possible consequences with an important and tough man like Mr. X. I followed his advice.
The dinner was most sumptuous in setting, food and service, but to me it was a slow torture. Luckily, Mr. X., who liked to hear himself talk, reeled the line out without pause and I just ate and smiled mechanically. Molfese seemed to enjoy the rich meal, aspersed with white and red wines. Mr. X.’s daughter, fifteen or sixteen years old, had a physical deformity, but was quite brave and tensely cheerful. Never again did I visit Mr. X.
One summer, several years later, he came to our town in failing health and was received as a highly respected stranger. He gave me a generous send-off with our town folks, which sounded to me as another piece of hypocrisy. And it was, because he eventually lent his power to bring my father and our family to the brink of ruin.
Next: Chapter 9
