THE SICILIAN COUNTRYSIDE
It seemed wise, during our stay in Gualtieri-Sicamino, to make a study
of more than lay in the province of Messina, and so we pursued the same
methods of research employed in the provinces of the mainland, but found
the conditions of life among the Sicilians so equable with that of
Gualtieri-Sicamino, that to tell what we saw elsewhere would be but to
repeat what is said of the village home of the Squadritos, with the
exception of a few notable incidents.
The northern side of the island is much more fertile and is therefore
more densely populated than the southern slopes, which are unprotected
from the hot winds from Africa; and in the mountains back from Girgenti
and Sciacca where travel is quite difficult except on mule-back, the
state of the people is of the most primitive sort, and a man who can
read and write is a man of distinction in the community in which he
lives. Some of the families are of a complexion that is nearly Malayan,
and their long black hair is beautiful to see. Wherever a branch office
of a steamship ticket broker has been established and emigration
started, or wherever the tourist goes scattering gold, there is a marked
difference from the communities where a stranger is nearly a
catastrophe.
[Illustration: Visitors in the Author’s Room—Teresa di Bianca—The Old
Woman up the Valley—Shyness in Shawl and Pattens—Small Children Labor in
the Fields]
The western end of the island is the famous Marsala wine district, and
one firm controls all of the best vineyards but a few, which are
gradually being forced into the monopoly. One man who was regularly
employed by this company told me that he received thirty-five lire per
month for ten hours’ labor per day (about twenty-one cents per day).
Catania is the exporting centre of the eastern end of a rather
prosperous sulphur-mining district on the eastern coast of the island,
and in this harbor are vessels constantly loading with sulphur for the
American and German markets. It is estimated that about fifty thousand
people derive their livelihood from this industry, and it is the one
notable industry other than agriculture in the entire island. The
largest though not the most fertile plain of Sicily is about Catania,
and some very fine estates are to be found there, owned for the most
part by wealthy people in Messina or Naples, perhaps resident in the
beautiful cities of northern Italy.
The political disturbances which have made Sicily an uncertain quantity
in years past, the comparative isolation of Palermo from the central
government, and the effect of the traditions of the Sicilian Vespers
(1282 A. D.) which are well known to every man, woman and child, topped
by the natural supremacy of the educated unscrupulous over the ignorant
well-meaning, have caused Palermo to become to a certain extent what
Naples is,—the scene of aggregated rogueries. The past twenty years have
seen malfeasances by high officials, impositions by aristocrats,
commercial and political plots, and outrages by declared criminals,
which brand the beautiful capital of the Sicilian state as a
nesting-place of the boldest and most nefarious malefactors in all
Italy. The common people are not dishonest in the degree that the
Neapolitans are, but the educated classes can boast some bright and
shining lights in the public and private hold-up game that should make
even St. Louis or Philadelphia envious. An English officer of a
Liverpool tramp steamer, who has spent a very great deal of time in
Palermo when shore superintendent of a line in the lemon trade, told me
that “a Palermo politician can give any Tammany district leader cards
and spades, and beat him with his hands tied.”
Col. John A. Weber, of Buffalo, formerly Immigrant Commissioner at the
Port of New York, thinks immigration should be encouraged to an even
greater volume than at present, but that dishonest and illegal
naturalization is a rotten spot in the matter. In this he is correct,
and I would add that my observations have been that more men from
Palermo, who have found even that city too hot for them, are engaged in
the brokerage of naturalization papers in the United States and Italy
than any other city’s representatives. A bill newly introduced by
Congressman Gulden, of New York, is intended as a corrective, but I
doubt its efficiency.
One of the first things that strikes the American visitor to the rural
districts of Calabria, Sicily or Apulia, and even farther north, is the
antiquated processes employed by the farmers. A man who knows what a
sulky plow and a harvester are rebels at the sight of an entire peasant
family spading up a field or reaping a crop with sickles, and there is a
vast difference between a big green and red Studebaker wagon drawn by
two good horses and loaded to the top boards with apples or potatoes,
and a string of donkeys, women, and children laden with paniers and
head-baskets; but the introduction of modern farming methods into Italy
would have an effect equivalent to a visit of plague. The three million
three hundred thousand people who live from the soil in Sicily, for
instance, win for each his portion of food stuffs by hand labor on the
farms or in the village workshops, where work is traded for food very
often directly; and the introduction of machinery which would dispense
with the labor of more than half the people would upset the system of
division of products of the soil and prove a terrible calamity.
Outside of the number of a few noted vineyards where there are power
plants for wine-making, the great volume of Sicilian wine, which is
strong, of good nutritious quality and flavor, is produced by hand
processes. The grapes are gathered in season by men, women and children,
and borne in paniers or baskets to the trampling-vats, which are often
two miles from the vineyard, and in some instances more. I have seen a
half-dozen little girls, the youngest too small to speak plainly, the
oldest not over eight, going plodding along in the dust between vineyard
and press, with loads of grapes on their heads.
The grapes are dumped into the stone-built, plastered trampling-vat,
which drains into a butt, and when enough, say a layer of six inches of
thickness, has been put in, the peasants get in with pants and skirts
rolled up, and tramp the grapes into a pulp. This trampling is usually
given up to old men or women whose sight is defective, or whose hands
are distorted by accident or rheumatism from years of wine-drinking, and
who are thus not so valuable at picking and carrying grapes. I remember,
at a press near Collesamo, seeing two old women trampling grapes with
their skirts rolled up and pinned about their hips, and far up on their
thighs were the purple stains of the fruit. As they tramped they sang
the high, nasal, droning _canto_ of their village.
The pulp is taken out in forms and put into a press which operates by
screw power, the screw being a huge beam of wood which has had a screw
thread carved on it by hand, and the power is the leverage of a pole
mortised into the top of the upright screw, and sloping down to where
two men can seize it, or a horse, ox or donkey be hitched to it.
One of the wine-presses in Gualtieri is owned by a fine old country
gentleman by the name of Betto, a freeholder who has prospered in the
heating and forging of the several irons he has in the community fire;
and after a visit to his press he took us up to his house, one of the
very best in the region, and set before us wine that was so old it had
changed color twice and was, at the time of uncorking, a pale amber with
light-flecks in it here and there.
If there were spots in the southern provinces on the peninsula where the
irrigation systems were worthy of note, then indeed did the artificial
watering of the soil in Sicily appear wonderful. In that extremely
fertile spot called the Conca d’Oro “Shell of Gold,” which surrounds
Palermo, not only is every natural spring and stream sought out and
redirected, but deep artesian wells tap the subterranean waters. Where
the sides of the mountains in the interior are terraced far up, in an
effort to increase the area of tillable land, water conduits have been
hewn out of solid rock in spots, and streams carried for miles over
barren places to moisten a patch or two of productive soil. Looking on
such works of patience, one can fully realize the hard necessity of the
Sicilian; and one cannot help thinking how much better it would be for
all concerned if the Sicilian peasant, when he emigrates to the United
States, instead of becoming a barber, a fruit-peddler, a trencher, or
following some other of the favorite temporary pursuits which allow the
immigrants to congregate in large cities or their environs, he should be
given an opportunity to try his irrigating skill on some of the fine
undeveloped land in the West, where a little carefully applied water and
seed will bring any man a wealth of results at harvest-time.
I do not think there was a soul of reasoning years within a radius of
several miles of the mountain village of Gualtieri-Sicamino who did not
know that on the last Tuesday of September, Antonio Squadrito, with a
part of his family, a number of neighbors, and his two American friends,
would be leaving for Naples, to embark thence on the _Prinzessin Irene_
for New York. When, in the sixth year preceding, Antonio had been one of
a handful of the first emigrants from that section, every one, even his
own family, had been dubious and pessimistic about the venture. Since
then more than one tenth of the population has followed him, and any
remaining pessimism was restrained, and those who were too poor to go,
too old or too well situated to take new chances, vented openly
expressions of envy.
From San Filipo, a near-by village, where almost half of the people have
the dreaded eye-disease, trachoma, an old man hobbled over to Gualtieri
to ask if there was not some way that he could go to America. He had a
nephew earning $1.20 a day in the mines in Belmont County, Ohio, and he
felt sure that if he got there his nephew would find him work enough to
do. He said he could sell his few belongings for five hundred lire,
enough to take himself and his wife to Ohio. I looked at his gaping,
granulated lids and told him that he could never go. He sat with his
head bent on the top of his staff for a longtime in silence, then, with
working features and trembling hands, rose and said good-bye. A day or
so later a very brown, shy little girl brought over three fine squashes,
a present to us from the old pair.
I was somewhat concerned when I learned that Concetta Fomica, a
beautiful young girl of sixteen, a relative of the Squadrito family, who
was to go with us, was the daughter of a San Filipian and had lived in
the afflicted village. She had some slight inflammation of the eyes, but
it did not seem to be trachoma, and Dr. Giunta, the village medico,
assured me that, though her father had it, she did not. Since the
disease is highly contagious by contact of hand, towel, handkerchief or
anything that the head touches, and there are few oculists who claim to
be able to effect permanent cures and none who are able to remove the
cicatrices from the inside of the lids, the causes for concern can be
easily understood. There were only two cases in Gualtieri, so Dr. Giunta
said, and one was her father. He is blind almost half the time. Those
who are known to have the disease are required to have separate toilet
articles for their own use.
Antonio, as the actual head of the Squadrito family, was in hot water
constantly over the matter of who should go to America and who should
not. All of the remaining members of the family, with the possible
exception of the eldest daughter, Giovanina, and the mother, were wild
to come to America and join the three brothers at their little barber
shop in Stonington, Conn. Giovanina alone was looking forward to the day
of her marriage with her soldier lover. The small boys were simply
insane on the subject of America. One of them approached my wife with an
air of great mystery one day and confided to her a plan whereby he would
himself borrow the money to buy his ticket, and she could hide him under
her shawl and bring him through. But a great reversal in the family
plans came when Giovanni, the father, who, remembering his two hard
years in America, announced that he had come home to stay. He said he
liked home and village life too well to go back. I told him that I
believed the restless germ of the American spirit lurked somewhere in
his system and that he would change his mind. This has proved entirely
true. As I write, a letter lies before me in which he says that he wants
to come back. Home comforts and familiar pleasures and labors are all
right, but he “can’t stand it.”
When the father had so decided, there was no question as to whether the
mother should come, and the small boys’ chances were effaced. Nicola
decided to stay by his prosperous smithy, Maria clung to her mother, and
Vincenzo, who had a cartilaginous growth over his left eye, was told to
wait till his eye had been operated upon and then he might come. Of
course, there was a small storm, especially from the younger members of
the household; but Antonio poured oil on the troubled waters by
promising to return next year and take every one who would go. It was a
treacherous compromise, and since the father has changed his mind I
believe this year will see nearly the entire family in America.
We were to be joined at Messina by Giuseppe Cardillo and several other
people, and by the Papalia family from Monforte-Spadafora; but our party
as finally constituted had the following people from Gualtieri, and
throughout the trip they continued to be our party proper and were
directly under our care:
Antonio Squadrito, Camela Squadrito and her child, Caterina; Mrs.
Squadrito’s brother, Giovanni Pulejo, a barber; Felicia Pulejo, a
nephew; Concetta Fomica, the pretty young cousin; Antonio Nastasia, a
sixteen-year-old boy neighbor; Gaetano Mullura, in the same category;
Nicola Curro, aged twenty-seven, an intimate friend of the family, a
finished cabinet-maker; Nunzio Giunta, son of a prominent family of the
village, a big, powerful fellow of twenty-three, just out of five years’
service in the police or Carabineers; Antonio Genino, twenty-one years
of age, a cheese-maker going to a cousin in Philadelphia; and Salvatore
Niceta, Benedetto Runzio, Luciano Sofia and Salvatore Damico, four
farmer-boys from Gualtieri-Socosa, a detached village of the community,
all going to the Banca Gelantado in Philadelphia, destined for the
mines.
These boys afforded a very fine example of the latest methods of evading
the contract-labor law. They had no contract in writing, merely the
letter of an uncle of one of them promising work if they would come. He
was not to employ them, but he would turn them over to men who would.
This is the method by which scores of big corporations in America, which
dare not import Italian laborers by reason of the law on this matter, do
it by making the contract here with a relative or friend of some group
of men in an Italian community, and the relative or friend brings them
over. The men are instructed to answer the question as to whether they
have been promised work or not by saying they have not. Out of 1903’s
approximate million emigrants, only 1,086 were refused admittance as
alien contract laborers. One large industrial corporation at Buffalo, N.
Y., alone received nearly half that many, and those who passed
successfully through to other parts of the country can be easily
imagined. I do not hesitate to say that it is impossible to defeat this
fraud by any operations on this side of the sea.
In a later chapter there will be shown the outlines of a plan which will
offset the weaknesses of the enforcement of the alien contract-labor
law, and I shall throw light in numbers of places on the true meaning of
“assisted emigration.”
The first official procedure of the many and intricate ones necessary
for the departure of emigrants and their admission to the United States
was the obtaining of the passports for the male members of the party.
The women and children are entered on the passport of some man of their
family or party. The first step is getting the birth certificate from
the secretary of the municipality in which one is born, so Antonio, the
elder Pulejo, Concetta’s father, young Giunta, Curro, and the father of
the Socosa boys went before Giacomo Marini, and when he had consulted
the register and found that all had been duly born in Gualtieri,
birth-certificates were issued, signed by himself and the president of
the municipality, or mayor. As for myself, wishing to return as an
Italian to America and not as an American, a birth-certificate was
issued to me as having been born _nel commune di Londra_, son of Paolo
Brandi and Migone Caterina. I regret to say it was necessary to take
undue advantage of the old secretary to carry my point. Precious little
good it did me, though.
These birth-certificates were then forwarded by Carmelo Merlino, the
shoemaker steamship agent, who was on a high wave of prosperity through
sending so many people at once, to one Mazzulo, in Messina, whose
nominal duties are to take the birth-certificates before the _questura_
or police headquarters of Messina district, where the personal record of
each man in the district is kept for both military conscription and
reserve, as well as criminal vigilance purposes. If there was anything
in that record which would cause the questor to think that one of our
party should be refused permission to depart, he would not issue the
passport, and the emigrant could not leave the country, as each person
must have a passport in which is an identifying description of the
bearer so complete as to make an exchange of passports impossible with
the careful scrutiny which is given them by the Italian police officials
in Naples.
As things fell out, none of our party were refused the very necessary
passport except myself. The accuracy of the Italian system is shown by
this. I was refused because they had no record of me; and my
birth-certificate was returned as irregular, and the local police would
have arrested me if I had persisted in trying that method.
Now, all of this goes to prove one of the most important facts in
connection with Italian emigration: that the _questura_ of each district
is slowly and effectually clearing the district of its criminal class by
dumping the lot into North and South America, the most dangerous coming
to the United States as the best field for their further operations.
Here is the syllogism:
Since American police records and prison statistics, especially those of
the United States secret service, show large and increasing numbers of
Italian criminals in this country;
[Illustration: Giacomo Marini, the Municipal Secretary—Nicola Squadrito
at Work (_Carmelo Merlino at the right_)]
And since the mass of these can enter only by immigration;
And since the immigrant must have a passport from the chief of his local
police district;
And since every criminal’s record is kept in the district in which he
was born, and he must go there to get the birth-certificate on which he
gets his passport,—
Then these thousands of passports issued annually to criminals are given
by chiefs of police who know the records of the men who are receiving
them, and are thus deliberately ridding their districts of them to save
themselves trouble and increase their reputation for efficiency.
That those secret instructions which are issued from Rome to the chief
of each district advise any such procedure I do not believe. They do
advise, so I have been reliably informed, that passports be not issued
to prostitutes easy of detection, or to persons over forty-five not
accompanied by sons, inasmuch as both classes are very nearly sure to be
turned back and to become a matter of expense to the government. That is
the bugaboo of Italian statesmen,—expense.
In my own case I knew I would have no difficulty concerning my passport
until I came to the gate in the police-office in Naples; then I must
have a passport either American or Italian. Any chance of getting an
Italian one had been quickly shattered; and yet, if I went on the ship’s
manifest as an American I would not be entering the United States in the
desired rôle. The solution of the difficulty was not reached till we
were in Naples.
When Antonio and the others had their passports, then the tickets were
issued to them by the agents, and not before, the lot being returned to
Gualtieri by post. Now there was no turning back. Camela began to waver,
and hourly there was some new dread to suffuse her eyes with tears.
One day Antonio Nastasia’s father went to Messina, taking some of the
money which he had labored hard as a tinsmith and sheet-iron worker to
accumulate, and spent nearly all of it in buying clothes for little
Antonio to wear. Curro spent a month’s wages on a new suit. Giunta’s
relatives prepared him a considerable wardrobe, and altogether nearly
half as much as was needed to pay the passage of the entire party was
spent in buying Italian clothes to wear to America. The senselessness of
this proceeding is plain when it is said that few of these new clothes
were worn after the first day or two in the States.
Something else equally ill-advised was the making of huge trunks by
Nicola Squadrito and others, in which the families of the departing ones
packed quantities of every conceivable sort of supply, just as if the
voyagers were going to a new, wild land to begin life as best they
could. Despite the protestations of Antonio, my wife and myself, Camela,
crammed into huge boxes two sets of heavy mattresses with all the
accompanying bedding; large cans of _pomidoro_; olive oil; sticks on
which dried figs were impaled; flasks of wine; forms of cheese; old
clothes; and cooking-utensils, many of which were new; and Concetta
Fomica’s mother repeated the performance. Enough excess baggage, freight
and customs duty were paid, before we were through, on these big
encumbrances to replace the whole lot twice over in America.
The last days were at hand. We were to leave on Tuesday before dawn. On
Saturday afternoon a request came from an old woman up the valley that
we see her—she being unable to come to us—before we departed. As we
followed the stony _torrente_ path to her home, her story was told to
us. Twenty-three years ago, when she was a bride of little more than a
year and a mother but a month, her husband had gone to America, the
first man to emigrate from all that region, nearly eighteen years before
Antonio Squadrito and the others had started the flood. She had received
one letter in which he said he had changed his name to Frank Smith, as
nobody had any patience with his Italian name. She never heard from him
after that, and after her one boy died she continued to live alone in
the little house Francesco had built for her and waited for Francesco’s
return. For a living she worked in the fields in summer, and in the
early autumn in the vineyards and the lemon, olive, and orange orchards.
We found her spinning with the old distaff in the sunshine before her
door. She set before us such humble hospitality as her hut afforded, and
then told us she wanted us to begin a search in America for a Frank
Smith, and she desired to turn over her savings, thirty-two lire ($6),
to defray the expenses. She could not understand why we would not take
it. It may be that these lines will fall beneath the eye of a man who
long since left all his Italianism behind him and is now a thoroughgoing
American and no longer Francesco. If so, I bid him remember that there
is a faithful woman waiting for him in the Sicilian hills.