His mother, more fearful and wary, at first denied him her permission, but he did so much, so much ... that at last, the mother satisfied him and, being far from Naples, for family reasons, she wrote him a letter where, showing him all her motherly love ... "who does not know who is not a mother ...", with loving and effective words she exhorted him and advised him on the way to go, in the harsh path of life, repeating that, in the most painful moments, re-read those characters, in which she had infused all her soul, and he would have drawn the comfort that she would send him with her thoughts every day, every hour, every moment. And in fact, how many times in the tortuous path that Fate had traced to him, the poor boy felt the need to read those phrases, so as to resume the courage he felt was missing, and use a spur to overcome all the obstacles he encountered on his journey.
How many times, rereading those characters, he wiped his bitter tears and resigned himself to his worries; how many times he kissed that piece of paper and how many times, finding himself alone among unknown and sometimes bad people, he felt the need for maternal caresses, those sweet caresses are a balm for the hardly felt human heart, and he vented on that little piece of paper the intensity of his affections.
The day of departure arrived and the intrepid Luigi, simulating the displeasure to leave the family, remained calm and prudent until the last moment, giving courage to his parents and repeating, between a hug and a handshake: "When I will be twenty years I will return, when I will be twenty years old I want to be the pride of the family. Yes ... I will be "and he left.
But when he was alone, in his third-class compartment, he gave vent to his tears and with death in his heart he said goodbye to the beautiful Parthenope, where he left his loved ones, to Italy, his beloved homeland, to the beautiful ever blue sky, to fertile countryside, to the luxuriant city, and with his head in his hands, he fell into complete abandonment, until his mind, clouded by the painful and various emotions, clouded his sight. It made him lose the notions of what had happened, it made begin a dream his past and he felt only the jerks and the dull noise of the convoy like a beating and repeating of doors, a recollection of memories and dreams, a set of leaves shook by the wind.
5
After a few days of tiring voyage, Luigi arrived in London, the city with the eternal fogs, it welcomed and adopted the poor Italian boy, but it always conserved its existence as a strict stepmother, subjecting him to the hardest trials, to the hardest fights, to the most harsh rigors and making him experience all the atrocious spasms of the exile, the humiliations of the needy, all the moral and physical pains. As soon as he arrived he was hosted by a relative of a friend of his, and the following day he showed up at an agency to look for a place to earn a living; he was offered a post of garcon in a small pension, and he willingly accepted, just to start work, since he could stay under the responsibility of a with a modest work. In the new place, he was in charge of the hardest services, the most tiring tasks, and in return very little inedible food and inhumane treatments; but he had to endure, because, beyond the need, he wanted to learn English at any cost (not knowing anything about this language, he tried to make himself understood using a bad French he had learned by himself in six months in Italy).
He endured all the hardships, though he often swallowed bitter tears.
After some time, he went to another pension, then into a bourgeois family, and even here he counted a succession of troubles; he occupied other places, always tiring and not very lucrative. Finally he found a "place" in a palace of a Milord, who had since six months a model of bride, a dear and beautiful Lady of twenty years with physical qualities and with the most noble virtues that woman can hold.
The two spouses took Louis as a close look, they took an interest in him; and soon he became their "enfant gaité" (darling).
Giorgio, as the masters called him, was their trustee, and his only mission, in that house, was to bring to the masters, on their orders, a tray with three glasses filled with champagne, one for each master and the other for him. So much was their affection for him that, in the evening, they did not retire to their rooms if their "enfant gaité" had not gone to rest before.
But, like gold, he had to be tried by fire, therefore his adverse destiny did not want to abandon him.
Now he had found a delightful oasis in the desert of his life, he had the misfortune of meeting in the "house master" a perverse man, whose bad instincts, aided by envy, flared up and changed into a relentless hatred for the poor Luigi. The wicked man always amused himself by torturing him with words and deeds, and he bitterly bit the day with his sneers, his lashings, his outrages, continually tearing his wound with the scorn of his beloved homeland "Italy".
Perhaps it was the most painful period of his life and we can easily understand it by looking at it from the psychic side. We think about the poor Luigi alone, without relatives; without friends; let us think of his heart, very much tried by the troubles, the incessant fever of nostalgia that tortured him and we imagined his sad thoughts, his melancholic days, his painful vigils.
Let's see him sad and meditative to tread the foreign soil, wander among unknown people, speak a different idiom, look at a foreign sky and we think about his patriot love magnified by distance, changing to the profound religion that painted Italy not as a beloved land, but as a Supreme Idol, infusing him with courage, giving him faith, constancy, stirring up his leaps and heroic deeds, exhorting him to noble undertakings and making him repeat the verses of Cavallotti in the Song of Songs:
"To her my prayers, I ask her the boldness. Faith, the perseverance, the magnanimous angers. I dream her in the nights, I see her in the nights.
I give her affections, tears, for her I fight and I believe. And the heart beats in turmoil and a fever conquers it, while the sweet image looks at me and smiles at me ".
And who does not love the country?
"... they also love them.
The native caverns, the same proud, " Metastasio says.
So we think about the torment of his heart, about the heart of the exile, he dreams about his country and he raises this dream to the most sublime peaks of the Ideal, he hears insults on it with atrocious and overwhelming words.
Let us think about the revolt of his whole being against the reprobate who dares to despise his most sacred possession, seeking to condemn his religion, ardently hurting his idol. And every day Luigi had to undergo this torture, every moment he felt despising his beloved homeland.
Yet, even though he was tormented by constant insults, Luigi stifled his pain and anger and he had the magnanimity to write to his mother he was pleased and happy, while some tear came to fall on the sheets of paper, as if to deny his words.
Finally the hour of the revolt sounded. One day while Luigi, the Master of the House and all the family members were at table, they were struck by the rhythm of a Neapolitan song "Oi Marì", sung in the street and accompanied by the organ of an Italian wandering player. Hearing the music of the sweet little known song, Luigi felt his heart moved, thundering, his temples beating him like hammers, the blood flowing to his head and a pile of pious memories, dear memories, happy memories coming to invade his adolescent youthful seventeen mind. But, at the same time as he was prey to these sweet emotions, the harsh voice of the Master of Home called him to the harsh reality:
"Do you hear, Giorgio, your Italians? They can do only this, miserable ones! ".
These words were the lit fuse that gave fire to the out mine since some time in the heart of Luigi, in the complete revolt of his whole being. These injuries led him to paroxysm: he forgot himself, angry like a beast who defends his offspring, he would have jumped around the neck of the Master of Home if he was close to him, but as he sat opposite him, he grabbed a glass and he threw it to his face with a mad laugh and a cry of rage like a roar.
Then there was an indescribable scuffle; all the servants became pale, astonished: the Master of the House with a wound in the forehead from which flowed a trickle of blood lost in the thick eyebrows, with eyes inflamed by hatred, with the mouth half open covered by a reddish foam, he wanted to throw himself