 | Chapter XVI.
The Yellow Dwarf. The tenant-house, or,, Embers from poverty's hearthstone |  |
16. Chapter XVI.
The Yellow Dwarf.
WHEN an impatient citizen, annoyed by the monotonous
bray of a third-class organ under his window,
flings a subsidizing coin to the wretched son of Italy
without, in vain hope of release, and then, in desperation,
hears the solemn waltz or sepulchral quickstep maliciously
renewed, it is not to be denied, nor marvelled at, that he
gives vent to his chagrin in splenetic expletives. But of
aught save the ring of metal on the pavement, the scion
of Italy takes little heed, intent on finishing his allotted
number of crank-turns, whereafter, shifting his instrument
by its strap, he saunters leisurely to another halting-place.
Thus on, through the highways and by-ways of the great
city, attracting at corner curbstones close throngs of
curious urchins, whose untutored tastes have not yet
learned to distinguish between different gradations of
orchestral effect. If, haply, the Italian be attended by a
dancing-girl, with close-fitting bodice and embroidered
skirt, whose fingers deftly vibrate over a tambourine,
holding its cup aloft, to catch small drops of copper or
silver rain; or if, more captivating still, a restless ape, in
flaming regimentals, perch upon the stroller's back, chattering
a punchinello-ball-room displays its groups of clockworked
manikins—then shall your first-born urchin,
O good citizen! desert the maternal knee, and with wild
delight, clapping his eager hands, yield to the charming
of the vagrant music-murderer whom your more fastidious
ears are closed against in operatic horror.
All the live-long day, and far into the night, you hear
the organ-drone. Long after the city streets have been
deserted by all save travellers, a solitary Italian will plant
himself at your door, and deal out his hum-drum notes to
silence and darkness. At last, however, the organ-grinder
goes home, and leaves his last victim unmolested till the
morrow.
There was one, we may be sure, who halted opposite
Foley's Barracks, in the early morning, though with little
prospect of a douceur from the ragged, unkempt urchins
swarming at the windows. There was a monkey, it is
not to be doubted, that played his pranks in the gloomy
purlieus of Kolephat College. Very likely a tambourinc-girl
whirled, sometimes, in front of the miserable pile of
tenant-houses, where “Old Pris” the rag-picker lay dying
in the dwarf's room. But no such figure danced in the
snowy street, or through the muddy gutter, when Mordecai
Kolephat, the Jew, after listening to the confession of
his “old acquaintance,” emerged once more upon daylight,
and wended his way towards his home. Nevertheless,
had the Hebrew desired to inspect the abodes and
surroundings of organ-grinders and their attachés, he
would not need to have left that block of buildings which
but a few rods distant, in the rear of the apartment where
the rag-picker had died, that an entire floor of the shattered
dwelling was occupied as a rendezvous and lodging-place
for yellow-faced and black-headed men, belonging to
that “army of Italy” who traverse, night and day, with
heavy load, the streets of this metropolis.
Long before the interview between Mordecai and Old
Pris, various squads of this army, that harbored in the
tenant-house, had dispersed on their daily perambulations.
But still, in a dingy room on the floor devoted to their
accommodation, some dozen Italians of both sexes, were
disposed in different attitudes. The group was composed
of a withered and nearly superannuated man, an aged
woman, who might be his wife, with a strong gipsey face,
three younger women, and a half-dozen children of both
sexes. The old man sat on a block, in one corner of the
apartment, and held in his palsied hands a string of beads,
with a wooden crucifix depending, on which he seemed to
be mumbling unintelligible prayers. The elder woman
crouched upon the floor, engaged in knitting, as were
likewise two of the younger females, while the third stirred
with a wooden spoon some smoking beverage in an iron
pot that stood upon a furnace in the fire-place. Two
boys were sorting rags near the fire, another engaged in
repairing the broken pipes of an organ, and the rest, mere
babes, were crawling or asleep upon the floor. Three
straw beds, with rug-quilts spread over them, were ranged,
head to foot, on two sides of the room, which, in dimensions,
was about sixteen feet square, and, in addition to its
chained near a pile of wood-chips, over which they were
constantly springing.
Such was one dwelling, or home, of Italian organ-grinders,
in which, at the present time, twelve occupants
remained, and which, each night, accommodated three more,
the husbands of the younger women, making in all fifteen
persons confined within four walls of sixteen feet to each.
Three families thus existed in a single room; and upon the
same floor of the tenant-house were other rooms with like
“accommodations” for like wanderers of the streets. It
may now appear no marvel to the good citizen, who learns
for the first time these facts, that the organ-grinder beneath
his window seemed reluctant, even at midnight, to
“move on” towards such a crowded home.
The apartment was not, indeed, so dark as the basement
lodging wherein dwelt the mulatto dwarf and his negress
mother. Two windows, overlooking the court, admitted
light, and the removal of a knot or two of rags from
sundry broken panes could afford, if such a thing were
thought of, some apology for ventilation. But, in dirt
and grimness, the room might boast of peerlessness; for
the floor was thick with hardened mud, and the walls and
ceiling black from the furnace smoke. Yet, over the beds
hung two or three pictures of saints—cheap daubs, it is
true—but sufficient to relieve the cheerlessness around,
and impart some air of civilization to what might else
have appeared barbarian life.
Civilization! well may the political philosopher despair
of that civilization which goes not hand in hand with
refinement which exalts the temples of his faith to the
perfection of architecture—investing his worship with all
the attributes of physical grandeur—and yet leaves the
tenant-house, its surroundings, and its associations, to
remain a blot upon civilization and a libel upon religion!
The female who stirred the contents of the iron pot
paused in her task, as a voice sounded at the door of the
room, and turned her head in time to greet with a nod of
welcome the visitor who entered; for it was, indeed, a
visitor, and one, as it seemed, in much favor with the
denizens, particularly the younger portion, who began a
confused jargon of welcome, as they crowded forward.
The new-comer was, in good sooth, of attractive face and
manner—a young girl, perhaps ten years old, with features
of surpassing beauty, and figure that seemed, as she
moved on over the floor of that miserable room, the very
mould of grace.
“Ninetta!” cried the woman, embracing the visitor;
and “Ninetta!” echoed a chorus of shrill voices, as the
children clustered about her, plucking at her dress, or
lifting their mouths for the kiss she bestowed on each.
“And where have you stayed so long?” asked one of
the females, who sat knitting, whilst the elder woman,
after nodding her head thrice, in measured recognition,
pointed to a wooden box, as a seat for the guest.
“I have been making great fame,” answered the young
girl, speaking, as she had been addressed, in the Italian
tongue. “Maestro Freidrich promises that I shall be
cara mia! you should see me! Look, monna!”
Saying this, the speaker made a bound into the middle
of the floor, and, poising her little form on the points of
her left toes, lifted the right foot slowly, and then began
a rapid pirouette around the apartment, much to the
delight of the urchins, who shouted and clapped their
hands at the performance.
“There, Monna Maria! how do you like that? Is it
not a pose? The Maestro says it will make our fortune
when we accomplish a grand contract with the theatre!
What do you think, Monna Maria?”
All these words were uttered during the pauses of the
girl's evolutions, and were spoken to the old woman who
sat, knitting, upon the floor, and who only shook her
head in reply.
“Ah, monna! you are angry with me!” cried the
visitor, ceasing her dance, and stooping suddenly beside
the old woman. “But I have not forgotten you, cara
monna! See!—I have brought you money!—look! it
is the bright gold!”
She drew from her pocket, in speaking, a quarter-eagle,
and held it up before the Italian woman's eyes, which glistened
with an expression of cupidity, as she stretched out
her bony hand to take the coin.
“Ah, monna! you are not angry now! And I have
saved it all—from the Maestro's gifts—to bring to you,
who do not love me.”
The brilliant eyes of the child filled with tears, as she
murmured these words, and her emotion seemed to affect
deliberate tone, saying—
“No, Ninetta! that is wrong of thee!—much I love
thee, little one! It is a fine gift thou bringst me! much
I love thee!”
The other women exchanged glances, as they saw the
elder one place the quarter-eagle in her mouth, and both
commenced to compliment their visitor, at once, concerning
her proficiency as a dancer. But, ere she could
reply, a knock was heard, and one of the children opened
the door, disclosing a grotesque figure upon the threshold.
It was the dwarf mulatto, who at once shuffled forward
towards the spot where sat the beldam who had received
the coin, and whispered a few words in her ear which
apparently startled her somewhat, causing a sudden exclamation
to break from her lips:
“Dead!” she muttered, staring at the mulatto.
“Clean gone!” answered the latter. “I know'd you
and her was old friends,” he added, with a chuckling
sound; “and so I t'ought I'd let you know.”
“Who is dead?” asked the child Ninetta, regarding
Monna Maria with a curious look.
“She is dead, bambina, whom thou didst hate—`Old
Pris,' who beat thee in the street!—dost recollect?”
“Yes, monna! but she knew not what she did, for she
drank! Is she dead, poor Old Pris? I am sorry, Monna
Maria!”
“Go! you are a strange one!” said the woman.
Then, addressing the dwarf, “Who was with her?” she
demanded.
“Him—she sent for—the rich Jew, that owns all these
houses,” answered the mulatto; “and a long time they
had of it, like old friends. He's to send a coffin, and she'll
be buried to-morrow.”
“Aha!” muttered the crone, as if annoyed and disappointed
at what the dwarf related; and then she mumheld
other words which were unintelligible to the listeners.
Ninetta watched the workings of her grim face, and said,
in a low tone:
“I would like to see poor Old Pris—now she is dead,
and cannot speak cross, or curse me, Monna Maria!
Come, let us go, and look at her!”
“Go not near the witch,” returned Monna Maria,
threateningly lifting her finger. “She may have power
to harm thee still.”
“Nay, I fear her not. Let us go, good Monna Maria.
Listen! I will save more money—bright gold—for you!”
she added, in a whisper.
“Have thy will, then, bambina,” said the croue, laying
down her needles, and rising from the floor, displaying, as
she stood erect, a very tall figure, with gaunt limbs. She
then took a long cane from a corner where it stood, and
leaning upon it, clasped the extended hand of Ninetta, and,
thus supported, hobbled after the dwarf, who led the way.
The dotard on the block looked vacantly after them, as
they crossed the threshold of the room, and then continued
to tell his beads; and the remainder of the family
went on with the avocations which had been interrupted.
When the yellow dwarf and his companions reached the
murky apartment in which the former dwelt, they found
frame over a fire of pine-knots, purchased at a neighboring
grocery, the blaze of which penetrated through the
room, illuming its filthy corners, and disclosing the corpse
of Old Pris, stretched rigidly, as she had died, an hour
before. Monna Maria drew nigh the body, and regarded
it with attention, while Ninetta remained a little space
behind, as if fearful to encounter the malevolent eyes
which she remembered to have shrunk from, years before.
The mulatto whispered to his mother, and the hag replied
in her mumbling monotone, and the two then moved
away, as before, to the bundle of rags near the dingy
window.
“Monna Maria! do you think Old Pris is gone to
heaven?” asked Ninetta, hesitatingly drawing nearer to
the dead rag-picker.
“No! she was heathen and heretic,” answered the
Italian woman, sharply.
“But, maybe to Purgatory, Monna Maria?”
“No! she's lost—her soul is with the devils!—there
was no priest to confess her, child, and she died in mortal
sin.”
“O, dreadful!” murmured Ninetta, with a shudder. “I
wish I had known she was to die—I would have gone for
Padre Clement, and he should have forgiven all her sins,
even if I had to starve till I earned the money. It is so
sad to think she must be burned forever, Monna Maria!”
“Tush, child, thou couldst do no good. Ten thousand
masses would hardly have been enough to release her from
Purgatory, even if she had received the sacrament before
truth were known to thee.”
“Nay, Monna Maria; freely did I forgive her ill-nature,
in cursing and striving to hurt me, so long ago. She was
old and lonesome, and the strong drink made her crazy
sometimes.”
“Ay, ay!” muttered the old woman, “that's not the
wrong—that's not the hurt she did thee, bambina! But,
peace!—soon, I doubt me, thou'lt know all!”
“What is it, Monna Maria?”
“No matter! There'll be one coming for thee soon, it
may be!” said the crone, evasively, stooping beside Old
Pris, and pretending to examine the dead features closely.
As she did this, a dirty scrap of folded paper, held tightly
in the old rag-picker's fingers, suddenly caught her notice,
and she hastily drew it out, scanning, with eager glance,
some printed letters upon one side. Ninetta saw it, too,
and inquired—
“What's that, Monna Maria?”
“Nothing, bambina! See! have you not looked at the
dead heathen long enough? Come! let us go away.”
Saying this, the Italian hastily concealed the slip of
paper; and, sustaining herself upon the oak staff which
she carried, turned towards the door. Ninetta gave one
more sorrowing look at the corpse, and then covered her
brilliant eyes with her white hand.
“Oh!” murmured she, “if the poor soul was only in
Purgatory! but, alas! to be burned forever and ever!”
“Come, child! what art crying for? She was no
friend, little fool!”
“Ah, Monna Maria! she is dead now!” replied Ninetta,
and then went slowly away, with her gaunt companion.
The mulatto watched them both, till they had disappeared,
and then accosted his negress mother.
“Mus' be one o'clock, nigh, old ooman.”
“He, he!” mumbled the hag, “one o'clock. Dat dream
was a good 'un. Two, tree, and one! Go, boy, and see.
He, he!”
She chuckled to herself, hoarsely, and relapsed into
incoherent muttering, while her dwarf son moved his grotesque
figure away, passing through the door and entry,
and out into the narrow street in front of the tenant-houses,
till he reached a corner of the block. Here pausing,
he descended a few steps, and pushed open the door
of a basement-room, over the lintel of which was inscribed
the single word “Exchange.”
It was a strange place for such a word to appear in—a
word suggestive of financial operations that one would
hardly expect to meet with in so miserably poor a neighborhood.
In flaming letters, near the open doors of
fashionable hotels, or down in the haunts of trade and
business, where brokers like Mr. Jobson might be supposed
to congregate, a word like this, designating the transfer
of money, or stocks, or lands, would have had legitimate
place and significance; but, in the present locality, over a
shattered basement door, surrounded by tottering hovels,
it could not but appear, to the reflective observer, as
somewhat out of its meridian. Whatever the incongruity
might be, however, it certainly did not strike the dwarf
mulatto, who, with shambling gait, entered the room,
wretched-looking people, black and white, seated on
wooden benches ranged along the walls, and eyeing, with
furtive glances, the movements of a greasy-haired young
man, who stood at a desk behind what seemed to be a
counter, and whose figure was partly concealed by a faded
green curtain depending from a wire stretched over his
desk to a point near the door. In the middle of the floor
stood a cast-iron cylinder stove, red hot, from which a dry
heat radiated, filling the place with close and stifling air.
In the countenances of the people who occupied the
benches might be traced every variety of expression,
resulting from different habits of life. There was the
bloated face of one long sunk from all good opinion and
social standing by an unrestrained indulgence of his appetites;
there was the low-browed, bulging face of an Irish
female, with intelligence scarce one degree removed from
mere instinct; there was the sharp chin and small greedy
eyes of one who was a prey to covetousness, and near him
the unquiet visage of an habitual gambler. All types of
poverty, stupidity, dissipation, and recklessness were visible
in the waiting crowd of that basement shop, over the
door of which was inscribed the word “Exchange.”
“Exchange!” Here came the boy of twelve, the stripling
but a few years older, the female child, and the girl
just verging on womanhood, which it had been better for
her if she never reached. Here staggered in the adult
man and woman, with garments ragged, seant, and filthy.
Here tottered from the street grey-headed males and
females, long since forgetful of human character or duties.
their degradation for dignity—their viciousness for morality—their
disease for health and life? Alas! no! they
brought less of every cruel burden than they were doomed
to carry forth again; they entered oftentimes with longing
hope, but left that gloomy basement disappointed and
despairing.
“Exchange!” Here was the “'change” of the poor,
the ignorant, the superstitious! The greasy-haired youth
at the desk unrolled a scroll of paper, on which were
printed irregular lines of figures, in many gaudy colors,
and as he scanned each figure closely, appeared to compare
it with other figures entered on the pages of a book
before him. Meanwhile, the lookers-on watched his countenance
with great anxiety.
“Two—Three—One! A hit!” at length said the
young man, measuredly.
“Two—three—one!” was passed from mouth to mouth,
and then a half shriek sounded from one corner, and the
dwarf mulatto sprang towards the counter, tossing his
yellow arms above his head, while his black eyes sparkled
like live coals, from excitement.
“A hit!—how much?” he demanded, with breathless
impatience.
“Seventy-two dollars, Josh!” answered the clerk, looking
up from his scroll. “There's only one other hit today:
that's five dollars to Two, Five, Seven.”
“Hooray! that's mine, too!” yelled the dwarf Josh.
“Them's my numbers.”
“Is that so? You're in luck, Josh!” said the clerk.
the concern.”
Saying this, the greasy-haired youth shut up his book,
and the motley inmates of the shop began to crowd about
the dwarf, who at once put on an air of importance, listening
to their remarks with dignified condescension, while
the policy-dealer proceeded to count out, in bank-notes,
the amount of money to which, as a winner in this day's
lottery, the mulatto was entitled.
“Was it yo'r ould mother that dhramed the won—
three—two?” inquired a red-faced Irishwoman, gazing
admiringly at the squat figure of the fortunate policy-player.
“She's a dreamer, as knows how to dream,” remarked
a flat-nosed boy, crowding forward. “Ain't she, Josh!”
The dwarf smiled benignly, pleased at the compliment
to his venerable parent, the negress; and then, as the
dealer finished counting the money, stretched up his hand
to the desk to receive it.
“What are you going to do with all this money, Josh?”
asked the policy man, with a pleasant grin. “Take off
seven-seventy for our ten per cent., and then you'll have
most seventy dollars left. Great deal o' money, Josh.
Better let me keep it safe for you.”
“No you don't, master,” answered the dwarf, with a
leer, at which the group around him laughed vociferously,
as is customary when a wealthy man delivers himself of a
jest. “If you please, I'm a-goin' to use that money,
master.”
The dealer grinned, and handed a roll of notes to the
and tucked them securely away under the lining of
his ragged waistcoat. Then, looking around upon the
gaping spectators, black and white, who had almost forgotten
their own disappointments in wondering admiration
of the little man whose mother had “dreamed him” such
a brace of “hits,” Josh held up a dollar that he had separated
from the rest of his fortune, and with great politeness,
invited all present to take a glass of beer at his
expense—a proposition which was received with hearty
applause by the policy-players, who thereupon, with loud
shouting, followed the yellow dwarf to the adjoining
corner grocery.
And this was the signification of “Exchange!” Here,
in the dingy basement of a tenant-house, was located one
of those pit-falls which waylay the steps of discontented
poverty—the shop of a policy-dealer, where, in defiance
of the laws, unchecked by authorities, the trecherous
lines of fraud are spread to snare the ignorant, thriftless,
and superstitious dwellers in surrounding hovels. Here,
for the sums of three cents, a dime, a quarter or a half-dollar,
the wretched man or woman may select numbers
of a lottery on which to stake the miserable pittance
earned by some job or other. Here, where chances are
nearly all on the side of the dealer, a lucky “hit,” or winning,
may secure some prize of five or ten, but seldom
over one hundred dollars. Such hits, it is true, are rare,
as deaths by lightning, but still like ignes fatui, they
lead expectant worshippers of fortune, day by day, and
year by year, till health, means, reputation, life itself, is
passion. Not in one lane, or alley, or squalid quarter,
but dispersed thickly through the great city, wherever
poverty dwells, or want sharpens the desire for gain, or
credulity listens to flattering expectations, there may be
found the illegal and destructive policy-office, crouching in
a sordid nook of some dilapidated square, with miserable
people clustered near its entrance, and over its door or
window the single word “Exchange.”
| Chapter XVI.
The Yellow Dwarf. The tenant-house, or,, Embers from poverty's hearthstone | |