Make me love mother more

• When I first landed in America a year or two ago, some pleasant people met me and there was a little excitement. That's why I can't quite remember which was the downtown building they first pointed out to me, and whether it was an insurance building or a newspaper building, or what it was. But I remember the pang of disappointment that pierced me when the car was held up at the front door of that noble edifice and there weren't any roses 'round it.

"Where, where," I cried, "where are the roses 'round that door?"

They all looked at me and looked at each other and then hurriedly talked about Eugene O'Neill and the Prince of Wales and fried chicken. I pretended to be interested because, on the whole, they were nice people and I hadn't seen some of them since I was two and I wanted to be friendly. But it was evident to me that they wanted to steer clear of any reference to roses growing 'round the door for one of two reasons: one, because roses growing 'round the door made my friends love their mothers so much more poignantly than everyone else in the United States loved their mothers, that they simply couldn't bear any reference to the subject; or, conversely, two, that my friends were the only inhabitants of the United States who didn't love their mothers at all, for which reason they never planted roses 'round their own doors and hated to see them growing 'round other people's doors.

LOUIS GOLDING

'Way down in Tennessee That's where I long to be, Right on my mother's knee, She thinks the world of me. The roses 'round the door Make me love Mother more. .

—Old song

Whatever the truth was, I was frightfully disappointed about that doorway without any roses 'round it. I had for years been an impassioned student of the folk-songs of America; for it had been, and still is, my conviction that if you want to understand the great heart of a people you study its folksongs. The Keyserlings and the Washington Irvings and the Marco Polos are good reading, but they only skim the surface of the countries they visit, however ponderously, however elegantly. And all the American folk-songs that had been coming across the Atlantic for a . decade or so insisted on the American's love for his mother. One day was officially put aside for her (the English too have a Mothering Sunday, but it cuts no ice at all) ; but all the other days in the American year seemed to be saturated with the lady. With her ringlets and her knittingneedles, she presided over the films, the magazines, the novels, of America more pervasively than Astarte over Syria or Demeter over Sicily. All this matrophily (you can call it philomatry, if you like) seemed to me to achieve its Marseillaise, its Tipperary, its ultimate anthem, in the sublime song about the roses 'round the door making me love mother more.

• I couldn't quite see the causative relation between the two phenomena. But I was humble enough to realise that though I was quite fond of my mother, I didn't go to it in the incandescent American manner. At all events, the song imposed the absolute conviction upon me that when I went to America, there wouldn't be a mortician's or realtor's office all the way between Massachusetts and Texas where roses weren't either growing, or being hastily planted, 'round the door. . . . And then, as I say, I came to New York and there wasn't a single rose 'round the door of the World Building or the Times Building -or Carnegie Hall or anywhere. It was very disheartening. It is possible that the new American passion was already beginning to oust the old one, the passion of the male parent for his male offspring, his sonny boy. I won't go into that now. I want to talk about roses and loving mother. I want to say how I went on from New York to Chicago, from Chicago to St. Louis, from St. Louis to New Orleans, looking with eager and melancholy eyes for mother-love and the roses symbolic of it. But for months and months I couldn't see any signs that Americans loved their mothers any more than Turks or Czechs. No roses grew 'round any door anywhere.

And then I went to the ball that Luigi organized, down on Third Avenue, quite low down on Third Avenue. And the climax of that ball was such a glowing, golden piece of mother-love, that whenever I recall it, the scent of matrophilous roses is in my nostrils, and a shower of philomatric tears starts in my eyes.

• It was, in a sense, a very exclusive ball.

A de la Rochefoucauld ball couldn't hold a candle to it for exclusiveness. They were so particular about who came in, that a gatecrasher was as likely as not to get a bullet in his neck. The most that Lady Londonderry could do with her gate-crashers some time ago, was to tell their names to the gossip-writers. Which shows how much more exacting an affair was Luigi's ball on Third Avenue, just above Trotzheim's Cafeteria.

Luigi had organized the ball, but it was for little Piero's benefit. It was organized for the night that little Piero came out of prison. He had spent quite a lot of time in hospital, too. He had had real bad luck. This is what happened. Luigi runs the bright and affectionate gang of Calabresi that operate on that section of Third Avenue. Live and let live, is their motto. Every now and again they hold up some drug-store or clothing-store or some other nice friendly store on their beat. They don't interfere with anybody else and they don't want to be interfered with. They just help themselves to the contents of the cash-register and a few portable goods and then they go off home to Luigi's house or little Piero's or Mimo's, perhaps, and they share out, and drink a glass of something. Or their mothers or wives set a dish of pasta ascuita before them, and they crack a bottle of that sandpaper liquor that comes from California and reminds them of the stuff they make on the foothills of Aspromonte, in their native Calabria. And they cry a bit, because they love Calabria dearly and things don't shape so that they're likely to be that way again.

And Luigi cries just a little more than the others, because the others have got their mothers in New York, or they don't care about their mothers anyway; but he, Luigi, loves his mother dearly, and she is away across the sea, in a small cottage in the hills that lie tranquil and still above Catanzaro.

And a day or two later they go out and hold up a furrier's store, perhaps. And the furrier doesn't get too excited; because he's not the man to interfere with anybody earning an honest living; but Luigi cries again when he gets back home and holds up that lovely silver-fox stole which has come to his share, because la mamma, la carina, la mamma, is so cold in the winter and the asthma gets hold of her, and how warm and lovely it would be for her in that stole of silver fox!

Or sometimes they don't hold up the store in the daylight. Because Luigi and Piero and all of them are such considerate people, and they understand that a hold-up often disorganizes business for an hour or two. So they just do their work at night, instead. They have all the latest jimmies and blow-pipes and saws, and they're always careful not to leave any mess about the place. And once they arranged to pay a visit to a watchmaker-andjeweler who hadn't been in the country long.

And it is not known exactly what happened. It's quite clear that the watchmaker hadn't entered into the spirit of the thing at all; he hadn't any of that esprit de corps which made things so easy between Luigi and his Calabresi, on the one hand, and the group of Third Avenue store-keepers with whom they co-operated, on the other. The watchmaker slept in a tiny room behind the store, and when the gang appeared, he behaved most indecently. He telephoned to the police and fired a revolver and screamed and made a thorough nuisance of himself. With the consequence that the police had to do something about it and they came and were very officious. Luigi and the others got away safely. But it was little Piero who got it in the neck, or the knee-cap, rather. He lost a brand-new set of tools, too, which had been sent on approval. He had to pay for them, or at least the gang had.

Continued on page 99

(Continued from page 47)

The consequence of all this was that little Piero's fortunes were at a bad ebb, financially. He'd have to buy himself a new set of tools. Things were a little difficult.

And then his friend, Luigi, had the brilliant idea of this ball at Trotzheim's. For Luigi would do anything in the world for Piero. After his mother, little Piero was nearer to Luigi's heart than anyone living. (Luigi was married, of course. But he didn't seem to care much for the signora. He was often seen dragging her across the floor by the hair. But that, apparently, doesn't prove anything. For little Piero absolutely adored his wife, yet he too, used to try and drag her across the floor by the hair. But she was much bigger than Piero, and he couldn't drag her far. Luigi could beat him at the game by a good four yards.)

So Luigi, who loved Piero, organized this ball. As I said before, it was a very exclusive ball. The only people who were allowed to buy tickets were the store-keepers in that section of Third Avenue where Luigi and his Calabresi operated.

Of course there wasn't any question of disguising from the store-keepers that the main purpose of the ball was to provide a new set of tools for Piero, so that he could go and open up their stores and safes and things. There ■were one or two store-keepers who made some difficulty, at first, about buying tickets; but Luigi and the boys made it quite clear to them that their stores would receive attention, anyway. And it was all a question of a few odd revolvers going off in their teeth during the process, or no revolvers going off, and everything nice and orderly, as before.

The affair was a great success, socially, but it was at least as great, financially. Luigi had charge of all that side of it. He just shovelled the money in. It was a roaring good gate. Piero was a little light-headed, partly because it was all such a change after the slow time he'd been having upcountry, and partly because he was, very properly, the hero of the evening, and every-one, store-keepers, or Calabresi, insisted on his having one with them. The other Calabresi were a bit gay, too, because, in a sense, the occasion gave the cachet to their social standing. Only Luigi kept a clear head. You have to, when you're in charge of the money.

And when everyone had sung how Piero was a jolly good fellow, and the guests had gone, and it was about time to check up, Piero and the other boys went round to the cloak-room where Luigi had been sorting out the dollar-bills. But Luigi wasn't there, or the dollar-bills either. They only found the Signora Luigi, lying on the floor, moaning fit to break her heart. For she loved Luigi, despite his habit of dragging her along the floor by the hair, and Luigi loved Piero. He had told her to let them know how he loved Piero—so deeply that his heart was breaking. He wept, the poverino, like a small child. But he loved la mamma more. So he was taking this opportunity to go back to la mamma in Calabria. There was a boat leaving for Naples that very night. There'd be no difficulty about that side of it. He was going back to la mamma and their little cottage among the vineterraces above Catanzaro, and he would grow roses round the door, for they made him, he hardly knew why, love la mamma even more. But he loved Piero also. He bade his wife tell him so. He loved Piero dearly.