PLYMOUTH ROCK
I
The “jitney bus” from Boston came speeding down the highway, and when
it got into North Plymouth it stopped in front of the cordage company’s
plant. There climbed out a little old lady, carrying a straw suitcase,
and dressed in humble working-woman’s clothing, with a worn gray shawl
over her head. From beneath the shawl peered a pair of twinkling brown
eyes, and these remained, taking in the landscape, after the bus had
rolled on its way.
There was a two-story brick building, seeming to extend forever along
the bay-front; built in the fashion of a fortress, with a steel fence
in front, and a pond which had been turned into a moat in medieval
style. High up in the blue sky floated an American flag, to let you
know that this was not a Rhine castle of the middle ages, but a center
of industry in the land of the Pilgrim’s pride. The old lady stood
wondering what to do next. Finally she approached the steel gates and
inquired of the keeper, “Please, Mister, where I go for job?”
The man pointed to a building on the other side of the highway.
“There’s the employment office,” he said. “But you’re too late; we’re
closing in five minutes. Come to-morrow.”
The old lady looked at the red brick walls and the blue sky and the
white clouds and the starry flag, all made to go upon a picture
postcard. The windows of the long factory were open, and she heard
the roar of spinning-machinery, and saw the figures of men and women
moving about. Suddenly a siren boomed; and as if by magic, the various
buildings began to belch human figures. Apparently they had been lined
up just inside the doors, like runners at the start of a race; they
behaved as if the building were on fire, or full of poison gas. More
and more dense grew the throngs of escapers, until the roadway was
gray and blue with the shirts of men and the multi-colored dresses of
girls. For the most part they were foreigners, Italians, Portuguese,
and other dark peoples. They were small and stunted, the older ones
bent with toil, walking mechanically, looking neither to right nor
to left. The younger ones chatted in twos and threes, and some had a
friendly smile for the little old lady with the brown eyes peering from
under the shawl.
Two thousand or more came through the gates, and then gradually the
procession thinned out, and the old lady turned back to the highway
and along the tree-shaded street. Smaller streets went off it, lined
with the homes of workers, four-family wooden tenements, square and
plain, with dingy worn paint or none at all. The old lady found
herself walking beside an Italian boy, seven or eight years old, a
slender child with bright black eyes; he whistled cheerfully, and was
reasonably clean. So the old lady said, “Hello, little boy; what is
your name?”
“My name is Beltrando.” He spoke in good English.
“Do you know anybody who would like to take a boarder?”
The boy thought, and then said, “Come see my mamma.” He led her down
a street labeled “Suosso’s Lane” to a two-story house of unpainted
shingles. They went in by the rear door, and Cornelia Thornwell found
herself in the kitchen of Mrs. Vincenzo Brini.
“I come from Boston,” she said. “I look for job in cordage plant. You
know anybody got room for boarder?”
Alfonsina Brini was a young woman, small but strongly made, with kind
motherly face and quick intelligent eyes. She examined her visitor with
some curiosity, and said, “You Yankee lady?”
“Why, yes,” said Cornelia Thornwell--her pitiful effort at concealment
collapsing at once.
“Why you talka lika foreign?”
“Well, I thought maybe you understand better.” Her smile was friendly
and disarming, and won the other’s heart.
“Me no onderstanda good,” said Mrs. Brini. “Trando, here, he talka like
Merican boy, he tella me.” Mrs. Brini was in working clothes, and had
not yet taken off her hat. “Me joosta get home,” she said. “Me worka by
woolen mill. You gotta job by cordage?”
“I want to ask for one,” said Cornelia. “Do you think I can get it?”
“Shoore, plenty jobba now. Plenty shippa get--how you say, Trando,
afondato--shippa sunk, maka new rope, plenty cordage job. But harda
work, you very olda lady for cordage job.”
“Oh, I won’t mind hard work,” said Cornelia, with the serenity of
complete ignorance. “What will I get?”
“You no skilla work, you getta six dollar week. Some day you learn
skilla work, you getta maybe eight, nine dollar week. My osband he work
by cordage, getta twelve dollar half.”
“And what will I pay for board?”
“You boarda maybe two dollar half, maybe t’ree dollar. You boarda by
me, you go in room wit’ my big girl, I make it two dollar quarter. You
take little rooma for self, I maka two dollar half.”
“I think I’d like to have room to myself,” said Cornelia, timidly.
Mrs. Brini escorted her into the parlor. It was perhaps twelve feet
square, with one of those plush-upholstered sets of furniture which are
advertised at special bargains--$38.50, and you sign a blank on the
dotted line, and once a month the agent collects three dollars, with
interest on the unpaid portion. Also there was a phonograph, bought
in the same way; and before Cornelia had been in the house half an
hour, Beltrando had produced the big red record which had cost a week
of Cornelia’s board, and took the place of an icon or shrine in this
family. “You listen to Caroos’,” said the little boy; and Mrs. Brini
stopped washing the vegetables for the salad and stood with hands wet
and rapture in her eyes, while a mighty voice spread its wings and bore
her soul to Italy.
II
The room assigned to Cornelia was five feet by eight, and held a wire
cot and a chest of drawers. Her straw suitcase would go under the
bed, and her clothing would hang on hooks behind the door. There was
a window with home-made curtains in front of it, and on the chest of
drawers a hand-woven lace cover, held in place by two figures in tinted
glass, one a shepherd, the other his sweetheart, in Italian costumes.
“This is lovely,” the boarder said, gallantly; “it will seem like home.”
And now, with the door shut, Cornelia Thornwell stood in the midst of
her empire, trying to grasp what her new life would be like. She wanted
to bathe her hands and face, and realized with dismay that she would
have to use a bathroom in common with half a dozen other persons. No
doubt she could replace the Italian shepherd and his love with a tin
washbasin and pitcher. But would she be able to afford such luxuries on
six dollars a week? And especially when she had not yet earned the six
dollars, nor even the chance to earn them!
She put the contents of her straw suitcase away in the drawers and
started to shove the suitcase under the bed, but discovered that the
way was blocked by a couple of boxes containing books. This surprised
her, and she sat on the bed and examined them. “Manzoni,” was the
first name, and she had heard it somewhere; but the title “I Promessi
Sposi,” told her nothing. The next was “A. O. Olivetti: Azione Diretta
e Mediazione”; and that told her nothing either. The next was “Le
Scuole Clericali,” and she judged that must be a religious book; the
next, “G. Most: La Peste Religiosa,” must be the same. These people
would probably be devout, and would they expect a “Yankee lady” to go
to church with them? The next was “Ernesto Renan: La Vita di Gesu.” She
had heard of that, but had the impression that it was an agnostic book;
surely her rector had spoken of it as taking Jesus for a man pure and
simple. However, these people would not expect her to know about their
authors.
She went outside to enjoy the evening. There was a vegetable garden in
back of the house, all green and shiny after recent rains. A man was
working here, with his coat off; a big fellow, with long arms flying
vigorously as he threw the dirt. Cornelia was pleased by his diligence,
because it promised fresh food for the table. She walked down the path
and said, “Good evening,” and he stopped his labors. She had given her
name as “Mrs. Cornell,” and now he greeted her as “Miz’ Cornella.” Just
as the London working-classes drop the “h” where it belongs and put it
where it does not belong, so these Italians did with vowels; they would
say, “You lika da spagett’?”
“I am Mist’ Brini,” said the gardener; and Cornelia said, “I am glad to
know you”--which was true enough, for she had been timid on the subject
of foreign men, and this one, her future landlord, was reassuring.
He was of middle age, and sometimes his face would be puzzled, and
sometimes it would be amused, but always it was honest. His arms were
hairy, and his large head set on a long neck. “Plenty gooda vegetable,”
said he. “You lika da minestrone?” He waved his arm with a gesture
which seemed to sweep the whole garden into a pot, and offer it for her
evening meal. Cornelia was to observe, as time passed, that Vincenzo
Brini would never lose a chance to make a gesture; he would invent a
whole pantomime to convey the meaning of a single word, and there was
no trouble too great to be taken in these demonstrations.
“You lika da cipolla?” he inquired, pointing to another row.
“Onions?” inquired the other.
“You teacha da Eengleesh, I teach Italian.” Brini grinned like a boy,
and pointed to another row. “Ravanelli.”
“Radishes,” said Cornelia.
“Bietola,” said Brini.
“Beets,” said Cornelia.
This educational game went on until it was interrupted by the
appearance of another man; a laborer arriving from his day’s toil, with
his coat over his sweat-stained arms, and a dinner-pail in his hand.
Brini forgot his rows of vegetables and called, “Hello, Bart!” He added
a torrent of words in Italian, evidently explaining the strange lady.
“You meeta my frienda, Bart, he boarda by us, long time board.”
The newcomer was a tall and somewhat stooped man; Cornelia was puzzled,
because he seemed to be young, yet his face had many lines of care. He
wore a brown mustache, which was left to nature, and drooped to a long
point on each side of his mouth, giving him the appearance of a grave
and amiable walrus. He was a dignified person, and did not indulge
in the Brini fervors. “I pleased to meet you, lady,” he said. “My
Eengleesh ver’ bad, I shame for heem.”
“She teacha da Eengleesh!” put in Brini. “You teacha heem plenty, Miz’
Cornella, he learna queeck, a bigga studént, got plenty book, read all
time.”
“Oh! Those must be your books under my bed!” said Cornelia.
“I taka heem out, lady,” said the newcomer, at once, and started
towards the house. Cornelia, with her woman’s intuition, noted that
this young laborer thought about others before he thought about himself.
“Fermati!” exclaimed Brini. “You no go in lady’s room, you waita!” He
grinned, and explained to Cornelia, “He no onderstand politess, he
reada da book, molto studioso, all day. Getta da job, maka da little
mon’, give up job, reada book. He greata man, my frienda Bart--” and
Brini’s hairy arm went around the other’s shoulders in a hug--“he gooda
man--besta man--you ask all Italian in Plye-moot’--dey tella you--never
soocha gooda man in all state Massachusett like my frienda Bartolomeo
Vanzett’.”
III
The family sat down to supper. It was not a big kitchen and they were
crowded, with elbows touching: Papa Brini at the head of the table,
Mamma at the foot, the three children on one side and Cornelia and her
fellow-boarder on the other. She had been wondering what she would
eat among these foreign people; she found a big bowl of salad with
plenty of oil and vinegar, a chunk of parmigiano cheese, a loaf of
bread in Italian fashion, shaped like a letter H, and finally a bottle
of red wine, of which the children had a little and the women had one
glass; the men were supposed to finish the rest. But she learned that
Vanzetti would take no wine; out of the books he had got ideas about
health and was a vegetarian most of the time. He explained to the new
guest in his struggling English: “Poor people molto fortunato--how you
say, lucky--no can buy richa food. You eata simple t’ing, you keepa da
healt’ all lifa long.” After which ensued an argument with Papa Brini,
who made it clear both by words and action that he looked upon the
wine when it was any color whatever. He laughed gayly and explained to
Cornelia the most elementary of Italian puns, “divino da vino.”
It is customary in Italian gatherings for the women, and especially old
women, to keep in the background; but these humble people were showing
especial honor to their guest, including her in the conversation and
making her feel at home. They had to struggle with strange words and
call upon the children; and Cornelia was interested to observe these
latter and their behavior. The oldest was about ten, small, dark-eyed,
quiet and pretty; her name Lafevre, which they shortened to “Fay.” She
was going to public school, as was her brother Beltrando, and it was
curious how completely Americanized they were, with the quiet reserve
of the New Englander and even the broad “a” and the murdered “r.”
Boston was having its way with them!
“Fay” served as the dictionary for their conversation; an abridged one,
needless to say. She was teaching Vanzetti English, he explained, and
he was teaching her Italian--that is the Tuscan dialect, the Italian of
literature. The Brinis came from the neighborhood of Bologna and spoke
the dialect of that region; Vanzetti spoke as a Piedmontese, but since
he had begun to educate himself he had learned the classical language
and wanted Fay to know it too. It would be a poor exchange for a child
to acquire American newspapers and magazines and give up Dante.
Cornelia had come among these foreign people with no little
trepidation. It was the common phrase among her social set that the
Italians, or “wops,” as they were called, “lived like pigs.” She had
been prepared for dirt, degeneracy, brutality, even crime. Would she
be able to stand it? Would she be physically safe in the midst of it?
And now she sat, nibbling a clean salad and good bread and butter and
cheese, and sipping an acceptable claret, listening to an Italian
ditch-digger, who had washed at least his hands and face and put on
a clean dry shirt in her honor, and now was holding forth upon the
subject of the “Divina Commedia”!
Cornelia stated that she had read the poem--in Longfellow’s
translation; and from that moment he and she were friends. “Oh, da
greata poet, da greata man! You reada heem, you know Italia, you lova
da people! He was frienda da people, Miz’ Cornella, he was--what you
say it--ribello.” He turned to little Fay, but she did not know long
words, and he had to explain a “ribello” by frowning and shaking his
fist. “De reecha men drive heem out, he live long time esilio, he
suffer, he speaka da trut’. I no read heem till I come America. I
younga man, worka by cloobba New York--great reecha cloobba, I washa
da deesh. And such filt’ I see, it maka you seek; you no eata da
suppa if I tell it you what I see in soocha place. Beeg dining room,
granda--marmoreo, how you say it? All reecha, much light, bigga men
all dressa beeg shirt”--the speaker made signs to indicate an open
shirt-front, and puffed himself out so that Cornelia decided her
son-in-law, Rupert Alvin, must have been to dinner in that “cloobba”!
“Evening dress,” said she, helping him along.
“Joosta so--aristocratico, eccelso! And in pantry, in place for washa
da deesh, soocha filt’! I gotta little room, alto, high up, povero.
Come home, I moocha tired, go sleepa queeck. But I come by Italian
book-store, I see Dante, ver’ cheap for poor man. I say, greata poet,
for shame I be sooch--what you say it--ignoranza. So I take heem home,
I read, forgetta da sleep, forgetta da greata reecha cloob, da padrone
maledirante--I live wit’ da greata soul in olda time, I fighta da
priest, clericali, I see heem in da hella--scusa me, lady--we say it in
Italia more polito, l’inferno.”
The speaker paused long enough to gulp a mouthful of bread and cheese;
then he began again: “I say Fay, I say Trando, not forgetta greata poet
of old country. You reada heem, you have greata soul, you be strong,
never ’fraid, you bear it--what you say it--infortunio, calamita. I go
by Italian book-store, I say, You give me ever’ting Dante, I read heem
all. I reada book--not poem, how you say?”
“Prose?”
“‘Il Convito.’ That is, you sitta down for suppa, lika dis, but gooda
suppa--plenty friend come--maka feast.”
“The Banquet?” said Cornelia.
“So,” said Vanzetti, and he recited a passage, and then, with many
gestures, and mixing of Italian words with English, he conveyed to the
Yankee lady what his great teacher had to say on the subject of riches.
The widow of Josiah Quincy Thornwell, mother of three millionaires’
wives, now learned upon authority of one of the world’s great seers
that it is the amassing of wealth which imperils and slays cities and
nations; that riches do not come to the good man, because his mind
is upon weightier matters; that the man of right appetite and true
knowledge never loves them.
“You learn little bit,” said Vanzetti, “I maka you onderstand heem
Italian. No can make Eengleesh, spoil beautifool sound. You hear
heem--listen, Miz’ Cornella.” He began to recite, lingering over every
syllable, sounding all the vowels broad and long, as the Italians do:
_Per me si va nella città dolente;
Per me si va nell’ eterno dolore;
Per me si va tra la perduta gente.
Giustizia mosse il mio alto fattore._
“He sadda man,” said Vanzetti; “never soocha sorrowful man live on
eart’. He call it l’inferno--lika you say American, ‘hella,’ but not
for curse-word, Miz’ Cornella, you know what da priesta teach, da place
for punish badda men.”
“I understand.”
“But you no believa da priest, it is all same hella here, what badda
men maka for poor man, killa da people in war. You reada Dante, you no
t’ink l’inferno, you t’ink Italia, you t’ink America, here, now. So he
say”--and the speaker repeated the verses, and painfully worked out
their English equivalent:
_By me you go into da sadda city;
By me you go into da endless sorrow;
By me you go among da losta people.
Joostice it mov-èd him, my greata maker._
It is a fact that much great poetry has been written in the dialects of
the poor and humble; it is a fact that Dante’s own dialect was that,
until he made it a world-language. But Cornelia did not know this, and
did not realize that the Italian ditch-digger was making good poetry
of his own. She only knew that she was managing to understand what his
teacher meant to him: “Perduta gente, Miz’ Cornella--it is not people
what have deny da priest and go hella, it is people what is poor and no
got friend, go for be shot, and kill-èd in bigga war. Dat is perduta
gente, losta people; for soocha people it maka me tears in da heart.”
IV
The family was stirring early. Brini did an hour’s work in the garden
before he went to his job, and his friend Bart insisted upon helping.
Mrs. Brini made the coffee and “frittata” for breakfast and would not
let Cornelia help, but instead made her listen to good advice. “You no
try be foreign woman, dey glad for have Yankee lady worka by cordage.
You tella heem osband die, you harda luck, musta get job. But you no
be ’fraid, plenty coraggio, plenty odder job. You say got to have day
work, no letta heem give nighta job. Wartime maka plenty job, you no be
’fraid.”
Vanzetti was working for the cordage company, “--worka picka shov,”
was the way he phrased it; digging a ditch for a pipe-line they
were laying. So he walked with Cornelia, and gave her more advice.
“You have harda time, Miz’ Cornella, olda lady, no giovane, molta
affaticata--harda work. You go easy, no be scare of boss, he no die
hungry if you no killa self for heem. You worka slow, taka time. You
losa job, we help, no let gooda lady hungry.”
So Cornelia went boldly into the employment office and looked the clerk
in the eye and said, “I would like employment.”
It was the first time she had offered herself for sale, and it was a
new sensation to be looked over from the market point of view. “Ever
worked at cordage?”
“No, sir.”
“What have you done?”
“I taught school. Then I married. Now I am a widow, and must support
myself.”
“This work is pretty hard for an old lady.”
“I’m not afraid of hard work. I’ll take care of that. But I want a
daytime job.”
“You might do wrapping,” said the clerk. He consulted a chart. “We have
no vacancy, but we might move somebody on.”
“Thank you,” said Cornelia. “Arrange that, if you please.” She was
trying a little “psychology” on him, and it appeared to work. He asked
her questions and entered her replies on a card; and presently she
found herself in charge of a messenger, passing through the high steel
gates.
It was a long walk to her destination; this greatest cordage plant in
the world extended three-quarters of a mile along the bay-front, with a
covered dock to which the ships came to unload their cargoes of sisal,
and railroad tracks and switch-yards for the cars which carried away
rope and binder twine. The roar of machinery was everywhere, and men
hurrying about like busy ants. Cornelia stayed close to her guide, who
knew his way through the labyrinth of labor, and would deliver her
safely to her little niche.
The ceiling of the wrapping-room was low--no space was wasted. The
coils of rope came through upon an endless platform and a row of
women sat sewing burlap covers with long needles and hempen thread.
Cornelia’s escort spoke to the foreman, who took another woman off the
job, gave her seat to Cornelia and showed her the work. She had to turn
the coil of rope a certain distance, take up a threaded needle, turn in
the edges of the burlap cover and sew a certain number of stitches; all
this within a calculated time, before the motion of the platform took
the coil of rope out of her reach and brought a new one to her.
It took an intelligent person above five minutes to learn all there was
to the job; after that it was just the same motions over and over. At
first it was agreeable; Cornelia’s problem was solved, and she could
take glimpses at the other women in the line and at the room and the
machinery. But after an hour or two the unaccustomed muscles and nerves
began to make protest; she was tired and her hands were trembling.
The hempen thread was long and so was the motion of her arm; if you
think it is not tiresome to wave your arm for several hours--try it!
She began to feel dizzy, and the coil of rope which had at first moved
normally, now seemed to be glued to the platform and refused to turn.
She had no way to tell the time; she was at the mercy of this enormous
machine which had run wild and forgotten the clock, and would go on
until the row of arm-waving women were paralyzed!
But at last the siren sounded; and then Cornelia understood, without
any sociological discussion, why it was that the workers leaped up in
a flash and hurried outdoors. For herself, she did not move; all she
wanted was to lie back against the wall and close her trembling eyelids
and let her tired hands drop. She had brought lunch in a little box,
but she did not want it; she only wanted to be still. She answered
faintly the other women who sat near and expressed their sympathy. They
knew how it was at first and sought to reassure her; it would be easier
by and by, her fingers and back would get used to it. But she was an
old lady, to be tackling a job like this.
Yes, Cornelia was old; she had never felt so old in her life before.
She had been foolish to attempt such a thing; she might have known
she couldn’t see it through. But then she shut her tired fists and
clenched her teeth. She had made up her mind to get a job and stick to
that job, whatever it turned out to be. Now this was it, and it was do
or die. People in New England did things like that--strange, eccentric,
and terrible things, because their consciences drove them to it, or
just because they had said they would, and were too stubborn to change.
V
The siren sounded again and the great machine started to rumble.
Cornelia picked up the threaded needle with her shaking fingers, and
began making the motions against which her being rebelled. She saw
her future stretching out to infinity; every morning from seven until
twelve she would sit and make these motions; then she would rest an
hour and make them again from one until six. And those ten hours would
be ten hours, and no nonsense about them, no fine sentiment. Cornelia
recalled her reason for selecting the Plymouth Cordage Company as her
first employer. Old Mr. Perry--J. Lawrence Perry, a director of the
company--was such a kindly old gentleman; she had heard him talk so
much about the “welfare work” they were doing and what a beautiful
plant it was and how happy and contented the workers were. It had
sounded quite idyllic and Cornelia had swallowed it whole. Mr. Perry
gave money to various charities, and also gave time to running them,
and everybody admired him so. But now it came to Cornelia in a flash
that she didn’t care in the least what he did with the money he got by
selling these coils of rope; what she wanted was for his machinery to
stop for a few minutes! All the love and fine sentiment in the world
didn’t matter a particle, so long as you had to sit here ten hours out
of twenty-four making the same motions over and over!
Nor did it matter that rope was clean and even romantic, having to
do with ships! Cornelia had pleased herself by that vain imagining;
but now she realized that she wasn’t going to see any ships, nor
have anything to do with the rope, except to take eighteen or twenty
stitches around the edges. She wasn’t going to know what became of
the product after it left her fingers; she wasn’t even going to know,
except by hearsay, how it came to be what it was. The dear, gentle,
white-haired old Mr. Perry hadn’t provided any system for escorting
his employees through the plant and showing them the process. Each one
went to his own appointed spot and was standing there when the siren
blew and stayed there until it blew again five hours later. One job was
the same as the next--except for one difference, the amount of money
in the pay envelope when it was torn open. Some day Cornelia would
point that out to dear old Mr. Perry and see the shocked look on his
placid face. The idea gave her satisfaction, helping to drive from her
consciousness the clamor of aching muscles and nerves.
When at last the siren blew again, one of the other women had to help
Cornelia from her seat. She was the last to escape from the building,
and the last to reach the gates. Brini and Vanzetti were waiting for
her and they ran quickly and put their strong arms under her feeble,
trembling ones--and what dear, good, honest, kind Italian laborers they
seemed! They could read in her face how exhausted she was and they half
carried her along the street. All the way, Vanzetti was murmuring,
“Poor Miz’ Cornella! Too harda job for olda lady! You no keep so harda
job!”
And when they had got home and she said that she did not want any
supper, but just to lie down on the bed, it was the disciple of Dante
who brought her a glass of milk and forced her to drink it, whether
or no. While he watched her, he said, “Miz’ Cornella, you no go back
for cordage jobba. You do little housework, you helpa da seeck little
bit, no try mill work, you too olda lady, no usèd so harda work! I got
little money in bank, I helpa you little bit, we all help, you get
little job wit’ Yankee family--”
But Cornelia said “I’ll be all right in the morning. I’m not going to
give up my place.”
VI
Cornelia had hoped to find it easier the next day, but was
disappointed. She slept badly and woke up with every muscle in her back
and arms and fingers sore. It was a continual effort of the will to
make these aching muscles do their work, and each hour of labor was a
new ordeal. It was many days before these pains began to diminish and
she paid for the effort by a sensitiveness in the shoulders and back
for the rest of her life. The doctors called it “articular rheumatism”
and were satisfied when they had given it such an impressive name. The
patient was expected to be equally satisfied with the achievement.
Cornelia ought to have been flattered by her social success in Suosso’s
Lane. Each morning she had two able-bodied men to escort her to work,
and the same two and a small boy to bring her home in the evening.
The whole family would baby her, putting her to bed, insisting upon
bringing her supper, and refusing to let her do any sort of work. She
could eat lying back on a pillow, and they could talk to her from the
kitchen where they ate. They made a regular function of it, with no end
of fun and laughter.
Why did they do it? Was it the innate kindness of the poor? Would any
Italian family have done the same for an elderly woman who was in
trouble? Cornelia hoped it was true; but she began to suspect that
there were special factors in her case. She was a “Yankee lady” and
these people knew themselves for “wops” to the rulers of a strange rich
land. It must have been evident to them that this mysterious elderly
person with the slight frame and soft muscles, the gentle voice and
sensitive feelings had been used to a different kind of life. She had
come out into the cold world at the age of sixty, alone and friendless,
to fight her own way. And why? She told them she had been left a widow,
and their imaginations had done the rest. She had been thrown into
destitution; cruel relatives had deprived her of her inheritance! Some
such simple and naïve story they had made up for her and so she stood
for romance to them.
Vanzetti insisted upon heating a glass of milk hot for Cornelia because
it was nice and soothing that way and easy for a tired lady to digest.
Later, when he went outdoors, Mrs. Brini remarked, “He so kinda heart,
no can let anybody hurt. One time we got baby cat--how you say,
kitten--poor little kitten getta seeck. He molto seeck, my osband he
say, no good for suffer, he sure die, I keela heem. So he taka kitten
by neck, for go outside and hitta heem on head. And Bart, he near go
crazy. ‘No, by Godda, you no keela kitten?’ ‘Buttalo giu!’ say my man.
‘What you t’ink, I gotta time for seecka kitten all time?’ ‘You giva
heem me, I got plenty time,’ say Bart, and he taka da kitten, he maka
little box, he put heem in wit’ grass for soft, he maka heem bed, and
joosta soon he come homa night, he feeda da kitten wit’ warm milk.”
Cornelia laughed. “So that is where he learned it! I am his sick
kitten!” And when Vanzetti came back, she called herself that and it
gave great glee to Fay and Trando, who told her the Italian word,
“gattina,” and it would have become her nickname, only their mother
made them stop because it was not dignified.
To help them out, Cornelia told them that at home she had gone by the
name of “Grannie,” and they told her the Italian equivalent, which
was “Nonna,” and began to call her that. Everybody had nicknames in
this family and wanted Cornelia to call them by these, so that she
would really belong. Alfonsina Brini was “Cicadet,” the meaning of
which was not clear. The youngest child was called “Dolly,” because of
the rag-doll she was never without. Vanzetti had a special name for
Beltrando, a high-strung little fellow, who frequently did not get
along with the boys outside; he would come in crying, and Vanzetti, to
tease him out of it, would call him “Magoon,” the Bolognese word for
“sorry.”
Papa Brini did not understand his sensitive child very well, so the
boarder had taken over the task of his moral guidance; Vanzetti would
sometimes romp with him and sometimes scold him, and sometimes explain
life to him in serious discourses. The boy adored him and would follow
him about, watching his every move. Vanzetti liked to go for long walks
after his supper, to lose himself in thought; when it was stormy,
he would walk back and forth in the kitchen, four steps of his long
legs one way, and then four steps the other, completely oblivious
to everything in the house. Perhaps because of the shortness of the
space he would now and then take little steps, as if he were dancing;
and Trando would follow behind him, back and forth, doing his best
to reproduce each motion. The others would smile, but Vanzetti never
seemed to know about it. What was he thinking at these times? What were
the guiding ideas of this unusual Italian ditch-digger?
VII
One evening Cornelia sat on the steps of the porch, drinking in the
soft breeze, watching the fire-flies and listening to the crickets. In
the garden of the next house a woman was working and she came to the
fence and said, with a substantial Irish brogue, “Good evenin’, mum.”
“Good evening,” said Cornelia, politely; then to her surprise the
woman said, “Would ye come over here, mum? I have somethin’ to say.”
So Cornelia moved her stiff joints and limped over to the fence. “My
name is Mrs. O’Dowd,” said the neighbor, and Cornelia said, “I am Mrs.
Cornell.”
“Pleased to meet ye, Mrs. Cornell.” She lowered her voice as she went
on: “I have been watchin’, and ’tis evident to me yez are an American
lady, and perhaps ye do not know these Eyetalians. So, no offense, but
I thought it might be good to give a bit of warnin’.”
“Of what, Mrs. O’Dowd?”
“Likely ye did not know these Brinis before ye come to board with
them--is that so?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Sure, and I knowed it; says I to me man, ‘She’s picked them up on the
street or somethin’’.”
“I met the little boy on the street.”
“Sure I was of it. ’Tis a good lad he is, I’ve nothin’ agin him,
barrin’ that now and then his ball will bounce into me garden.
Well, Mrs. Cornell, ye’d ought to know that ye have fell into a
bunch of dangerous people--the worst there is in this town or many
another--arnychists, the lot of them.”
“Arnychists?” said Cornelia, puzzled.
“The very bad kind, mum, the Eyetalian kind, the murderin’ and
bomb-throwin’ arnychists.”
“Oh, Mrs. O’Dowd! You really think they do that?”
“I’ve never saw them do it, mum, but ’tis what the neighbors say, and
the priest he is forever preachin’ agin them, warnin’ us that we shall
not speak to them for any reason. For, ye see, ’tis not only the bombs,
but ’tis atheists they are; they do not go to any church at all, mum,
and their childer have never been baptized, they are lost souls the lot
of them.”
“Lost souls,” said Cornelia, “how terrible!” And in the back of her
consciousness was an echo of a melodious phrase--“Per me si va tra la
perduta gente!”
“Mrs. O’Dowd,” she said, “you surprise me. They have been so kind to
me!”
“Yes, mum, but a lot of us would be that if we had a chance. ’Tis easy
to know a lady when ye see one, and when she’s in trouble, and tryin’
to make her own way, ’twould be no great thing to give her a helpin’
hand. But we would do it in the Blessed Name, mum, so it would count
for somethin’.”
“Well, I thank you very much,” said Cornelia. “I am glad to know, of
course.”
“I hope ye will not say that ’twas me that told about it, because I
have childer of me own, and I’d not like to find meself blown out of
bed by no bombs.”
“I’ll surely not mention it,” said Cornelia. “I’ll need time to think
what to do. It may be the kindest thing would be for me to stay with
them and help convert them from their bad ways.”
“’Twould be a blessin’ for fair,” said Mrs. O’Dowd, “for ’tis a sore
disgrace to Suosso’s Lane to be havin’ such a family in it. But be
careful, mum, while ye argue, for ye might be the one to be converted
yeself.”
“Are they as dangerous as all that?”
“Well, Mrs. Cornell, ’tis somethin’ I do not know of meself, because I
don’t know a word of their lingo and never hope to. But Father O’Brien
says they have the divil in their hearts, and that makes them hard to
deal with, so ye had best take warnin’ and be careful.”
“I will, Mrs. O’Dowd, and you may pray for me if you don’t mind.” So
Cornelia went back to her seat on the porch.
After a while she went inside, and there was Brini, with a twinkle in
his eyes and a wide grin on his good-natured face. “You talka wit’
Miz’ O’Dowda--what she tella you? She say, no live wit’ anarchista,
badda people, maka di bombe, t’rowa heem in da church”--and Brini made
a violent upward motion with his hands--“blow uppa da Sancta Trinita
and Benedetta Vergine!” Then he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Molto
secreto--no tella heem--he putta di bombe nella mia casa, he blow
bambini alla hella!”
Seeing from the expression of Cornelia’s face that his guess was
correct, Brini burst into uproarious laughter. “Ho, ho, ho! You tella
Miz’ O’Dowda, Vanzett’ he moocha badda man--diavolo--furfante--maka
di bombe, molte bombe, sicuramente! Bombe di zucchero”--and Brini
made motions of sucking his fingers and finding delight in the
sweet taste--“bombe di pistachio--di crema--bombi di gelati--What
you say it?--ice crema--di pasticceria--in Italia he what you call
pastry-cook--granda gooda pastry-cook!”
VIII
The end of the week came; and very surely Cornelia did not fail to
remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy. It was a day of rest--and for
remembering the old hymn about every day being Sunday by-and-by.
But then came Vanzetti. “Very gooda day, beautifool sunshine, Miz’
Cornella. You come wit’ me, see somet’ing molta bella.”
“I’m too tired to walk, I’m afraid.”
“No walka far--little way, I help. Show bella campagna, maka happy,
gooda sentimento. You come, I carry.”
At the foot of Suosso’s Lane was a round knoll, blocking the view;
Castle Hill, it was called, and beyond it, Cornelia realized, must lie
the bay. They stooped under a fence and there was a little path and
Vanzetti put his strong arm under her weak one and half lifted her up
the slope. Bushes and a few pine trees grew upon it, but not enough to
interfere with the view when you got over the rise. “Oh, lovely!” she
exclaimed, and Vanzetti was delighted. “Shoore, moocha pretty!”
The bay was sparkling blue in bright sunshine; bounded by a long
sand-spit, and a couple of rocky islands. In the distance ran the low
misty line of Cape Cod and close at hand on both sides was the town,
white-painted houses in a setting of green. One shore-line was occupied
by the long brick buildings of the cordage plant, with tall chimneys
out-towering the hill. Cornelia did not care for that, so they seated
themselves on the other side, facing the monuments of Plymouth.
“Somewhere on that shore is Plymouth Rock,” said she.
“I show you!” said Vanzetti, and pointed out the landmarks. “I worka
one time by heem, bringa feesh from boat. Plenty people come for see
all time. He looka same like any rock.”
“You know what happened there?”
“Shoore, I read in schoola-book, Fay got heem. People come in ship for
liva here, maka state Massachusett.”
“That was nearly three hundred years ago; not so long ago as your
Dante, but it seems long to us.”
“Plenty long for make istoria,” said Vanzetti. “Sometime I t’ink
it mistake for teach istoria. People study tempo passato, make
conservativo, timido--you onderstand?”
“Yes; but it depends on how you study it. The Pilgrim fathers were
really quite wonderful. They came in little boats--so little you could
hardly believe it. Perhaps you’ve seen the bones of that old boat in
Pilgrim Hall.”
“Shoore, I see ever’t’ing.”
“There was nothing here but a wilderness, full of wild Indians,
savages. A stern and rock-bound coast, the poet described it; and
winter coming, they had to hurry and build huts for shelter. They had
poor food--only what little grain they had brought and the game they
could kill, and the fish. That first winter was frightful, half of
them died; yet they stayed on--when the next ship came, the following
summer, not one of the survivors would go back to England. That showed
the kind of people they were.”
“Shoore,” said Vanzetti, “greata people--ribelli--fighta priest, fighta
king--come for joostice, come for liberty. But get liberty for self, no
give for odder. I say liberty for all.”
“Of course,” replied Cornelia; “but that is not so easy. How can
everybody have liberty, when maybe there are some who won’t play fair?”
“Is no soocha people, signora.”
“You don’t think there are bad people?”
“Some badda, sure, seecka people, must helpa soocha people, teach, put
in--what you say--ospedale, ’ospital for seecka men. But mosta people
be good, wanta joostice, you give heem chance. No, no, Miz’ Cornella--”
the speaker became eager, the Italian in him came to life, he began
to make gestures and raise his voice--“what is trouble wit’ people is
not badda heart, it is badda teach’, badda sistema--it is power, it
is go-vernment”--he accented this word on the second syllable. “It is
priesta, king, capitalista, padrone--taka men, maka fight, maka war for
profit.”
“You think that explains the war in Europe?”
“No t’ink--I know, signora. I live Europe, I see come dissa war, I come
America for evitare--how you say--get away. It is war for padrone, for
master--for bigga capitalista!”
“You don’t think the people’s hearts are in it?”
“Shoore, some--but why? Is it not teach in school? Who maka da school?
Who maka giornale, da newspaper? Always padrone, he teacha da war, he
wanta da profit, he maka da people for slave, for machine--what he care
for worker life? What he care for poor lady here by cordage? You liva
wit’ worker, you see heem! You t’inka for self, you reada book I geeva
you!”
And suddenly Cornelia remembered Mrs. O’Dowd and her warning! “Be
careful, mum, while ye argue, for ye might be the one to be converted
yeself.”
IX
White sail-boats dotted the bay in front of them, and majestic
clouds sailed overhead, making slow sweeping shadows on the water.
Church-bells sounded and little birds sang in the trees about them and
wild flowers bloomed; so much peace and beauty--yet Cornelia had to
remember that men were slaughtering one another by the thousands, using
hideous machines they had spent years in building and generations in
learning to build. She closed her eyes and whispered, “Let’s be happy
for a few minutes!”
The controversy died out of the other’s voice. “I know, signora! I
say, be happy, I no t’ink war no more, no t’ink rivoluzione, politica
laida! I go picka flower. Soocha sweet flower grow here--you know heem?
Mayflower--it is not only ship, it is flower. I learn time of year, I
looka for heem. I taka Fay, Trando, odder piccoli, go looka flower,
getta moocha bigga--what you say--gobba--bunch. I taka heem home, give
Alfonsina, she happy, make home so nice, pretty. I say, get gooda
book--roman--what you say, lova story--reada nice, be happy. I come
here, Sunday morning, quiet, church-bell--gooda place for read, nobody
here. I come holiday, all day; somatime I got no job--no needa so
moocha work, so moocha money, no got family--I what you say lonely man.
Alla right, I reada book, look outa for self. I healt’y man, stronga
man, plenty time, gooda life--I laugha, say, war no get America--I no
care Italian, let heem look outa for self. You onderstand?”
“I understand. Most men take it that way.”
“I say, No be crazy, Vanzett’, you no maka da world, no can changa
heem. I say, You no maka da war, Vanzett’, you no stoppa heem. But Miz’
Cornella, no can t’ink, no can forget. T’ink alla time fossi--what you
say it--digga place in ground for fight war.”
“Trenches?”
“Joosta so, I see alla time trench, see men killa brodder, see men die
orribile, wounda, scream, agonia. I say, Vanzett’, you no do somet’ing,
you traditore, you--how you say, betray somet’ing?”
“Traitor.”
“Trait’! I say, Vanzett’, you no be trait’, you speaka da trut’, you
maka da protest, da propagand’, you getta da meeting, you calla da men,
getta da speaker. No can speak self, Miz’ Cornella, joosta lavorante,
workman, molta ignoranza, povero. But we got speaker for denounca da
war, Italian speaker, he come--Galleani--you know heem?”
“I never heard of him.”
“All Italian man know heem--olda man, granda man, he speaka for
poor man, maka da propagand’. One time I helpa heem for speech in
Plye-moot’. He come, bigga meeting, molto popolo. My boss--I worka for
contractor--he no like, he say ‘Abbastanza for anarchista propaganda,
no more jobba for you, getta da hella!’ So I looka for new job, but I
feela moocha good, I helpa da cause.”
“What is it you expect to do?”
“Teacha da people! Maka heem no fighta da war, no fighta for padrone,
for capitalista! Say people, fight real nemico, fighta capitalista! He
maka war for heemself, for hees money, bigga money--alla right, let
heem fighta hees war, workman no fighta hees war, giammai, never! When
capitalista no can maka fight workmen, so queeck you see stoppa da war,
signora, is it not so?”
“I don’t know,” said Cornelia, sadly. “Sometimes I think men like to
hate, they get a thrill out of it. The capitalists send their own sons
to the war and they get killed, a lot of them.”
“And de women--you t’ink dey lika war?”
“Some of them do--they cheer for it, and hate--even worse than the
fighting men. There are women in Boston who want to get America in this
war the worst kind of way.”
“It is propagand’, Miz’ Cornella--capitalista propagand’. Why for
could we not live happy in dis bigga countree--why for moosta we go
fight odder countree? You go Italia, you hear say, countree too moocha
people, moosta have rooma, more land, taka from odder people. You
t’ink, too moocha people, too moocha bambini--alla righta, no hava so
many bambini--what you say it, baby. Scusa me, signora, you olda lady,
I talka plain for you--you know what I mean, no have so moocha baby?”
“We call it birth control,” said Cornelia, smiling.
“Shoore, birt’ control, alla right. Now, you say birt’ control Italian
woman, no have so moocha baby. Butta come priesta, he say, diavolo,
inferno, moosta have baby, you no have baby you go to hella! He
no letta you teacha da people, he driva you out, putta jail, maka
propagand’, calla name, scare people, no listen. For why? Priesta say
he talka for God. God, he say moosta have baby, maka beega popolazione!
Den God he say, no got rooma for popolazione, moosta taka land, moosta
maka war! You onderstand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Sooch imbecillità! Follia! Moosta have war for maka room, moosta have
baby for filla room! More war for maka more room for more baby! E la
donna, woman, what for is woman? Animal for maka more baby for war-man,
militarista, kill. Keepa da woman for slave, for ignoranza, for
priesta, for superstizione--for maka da plenty baby for soldier! Soocha
countree is Europe, signora, and soocha like America if capitalista
have way. But anarchista say, No have way! Anarchista say, No die for
soldier, fighta for worker, for self! Anarchista say to woman, Stand
up, no be fraid da priesta, he no can hurt! Is no soocha god lika
priesta preach, is gooda God, lova da people, lova da baby, no wanta
heem kill-èd in war! Is it not trut’, signora? Is it not joostice?”
And Cornelia realized how wise had been the warning of Mrs. O’Dowd,
concerning the subtlety of the devil, and the perils of entering
into contest with him! For here the devil was managing to present
what appeared to Cornelia a quite reasonable argument; nor did his
propagandist appear at all devilish, but rather a dreamer of dreams, so
simple of mind as to have no conception of the odds against him, the
forces of colossal cruelty that would sweep him away as a leaf before
a hurricane.
X
Time passed, and Cornelia became a completely established member of the
Brini family; also a completely disciplined worker for the Plymouth
Cordage Company. Now and then she lifted her eyes from the task of
needle and thread and got to know the people about her--their faces,
their names, their nationalities and modes of speech. She would chat
with them during the noon hour and hear the gossip of their lives, the
hopes which moved them and the fears which held them back.
Also she became aware of the plant, the gigantic complex of labor which
surrounded her. She learned the names of different buildings and picked
up an idea of what went on inside them; the “hackling,” the “cleaning,”
the making of the “sliver,” the spinning of the yarn, the “forming”
and “laying” of rope. Technical terms began to take on the shadow of a
meaning; she got glimpses through door ways of “spinning-rooms” with
hundreds of “flyers,” as far as the eye could see down a vista, and
of powerful “laying-machines” which took a hundred threads of yarn
and wrought them into a heavy four-strand rope at a single process.
Little by little there soaked into her mind a realization of the
technical complexity of an industry whereby trainloads of hemp from the
Philippines and shiploads of sisal from Yucatan evolved into cordage
of every size from wrapping and binder-twine to towing-lines and
sixteen-inch cables for battleships.
The human cogs who made up this machine were--at least in the lower
ranks with Cornelia--very slow of wit; they labored under a load of
handicaps--poverty, ignorance, a foreign language, new and bewildering
customs. There were agencies supposed to lift them up, such as
public schools and night schools, but it seemed to Cornelia these
were countered by forces far stronger, interested to hold them down.
Landlords and loan-sharks, peddlers of shoddy goods, fake patent
medicines and adulterated foods, smooth-tongued agents inducing them
to put their savings into non-existent gold-mines and oil-wells--there
were few among these workers who managed to escape such plunderers.
And chief among the agencies of exploitation was, of course, the great
rich concern under the administration of the benevolent Mr. J. Lawrence
Perry. The company owned most of the houses in which the workers had
to live; it owned most of the land about, and was, of course, not
entirely without influence upon the government of the town. It paid
six dollars a week to its unskilled women workers and nine to the men,
and manifestly a family could not be supported on such a wage; the
tacit assumption was that the women of the family would work, and the
children as soon as they could pretend to be old enough. The home would
be kept by the old people and the young children and the invalids and
cripples. It would not be a well-kept home, nor very attractive; and
the ladies and gentlemen whose incomes came from cordage stocks and
bonds would remark, some with pity, some with contempt, “Dagos, wops,
hunkies--they live like pigs!”
XI
Now something more than ordinarily maleficent was befalling these
humble wage-workers. It was happening all over the world, but they
did not know that--they only knew Plymouth. The cost of everything
they bought was going up day by day. Because of the war in Europe,
the allied nations were borrowing money in America, and spending it
for American goods. Exactly as Josiah Quincy Thornwell had foretold
on the night of his death, it was making enormous and incredible
prosperity for American manufacturers and stock-speculators; but also
it was making higher and higher prices for the poor. And there was
no corresponding increase in the wage, so close to the border-line
of want; there was no authority charged with the task of calculating
living costs, and adjusting earnings to them. The great industries
which owned and rented tenements to their workers would raise the rents
a dollar or two a month and tell the tenants that this was necessary;
but they would overlook what might be necessary to the tenants.
The cordage-workers were slow of wit, yet they did know whether they
had any money in their pocket-books at the end of the week. Pay-day
was Thursday and when the money ran out on Tuesday night instead
of Wednesday night they grumbled to one another and speculated
about it; and gradually an understanding spread, a kind of crude
mass-consciousness, a thing as it were separate from the individual
minds, with a life of its own. These workers were entirely unorganized;
cordage was one of the “open shop” industries, having the sacred
“American plan” in its full and ideal perfection. The fact that
the workers had no way to voice a grievance was a matter without
significance, because in a land so great and prosperous it was
impossible for a grievance to arise. Any one who went to the foreman
and complained was obviously a “sorehead,” and the foreman would tell
him to take his troubles somewhere else. That would be the end of him
for the cordage industry; whatever skill he might have acquired he
could throw into Plymouth Bay.
Cornelia knew little about labor matters, but the elementary thought
came to her that these ill-paid workers ought to have a union. She said
it to the Brini family and greatly to her surprise discovered that her
words gave distress to Vanzetti. “No say sooch a t’ing!” he cried.
“Organizazione is trappa for worker, make heem slave! Union is joosta
same as go-vernment! Bigga, reech offeesh’, putta feet on desk, smoka
bigga cigar, tella worker go hella!”
Now Cornelia knew that Vanzetti had helped to unload fish and in her
efforts to understand his torrent of words she had a vision of a
“feesh” which had feet and put them on desks and smoked cigars. She
asked an explanation, and the family burst into laughter and with Fay’s
help it was made clear that Bart was talking about not “a feesh,” but
“offeesh,” the officials of labor unions. There were hordes of them
in New England and they paid themselves good salaries and did nothing
for the workers, so Vanzetti declared; therefore the workers not yet
organized must be saved from their snares.
“But then what are you going to do?” asked Cornelia, greatly perplexed.
“Moosta teacha worker--t’ink for self--no need offeesh’ t’ink for heem.
Can all stand togedder, all lika one, but no offeesh’, no salary, no
graft.”
Cornelia had thought that a labor union was an elementary idea,
upon which every kind of radical would agree. She asked and it was
explained to her, with the translation of long words, that Vanzetti’s
kind of anarchistas did not permit organization. There were other
kinds, who called themselves “comunisti anarchici,” and would support
revolutionary unions like the I. W. W., and even back the old-line
unions in time of strikes. But Vanzetti called himself “anarchico
individualista,” and would have no kind of organization, except a
purely temporary kind to manage a strike--a “comity,” as he pronounced
it, to represent the strikers, and not be paid any salary, and be
changed at any time the strikers saw fit.
Moreover, it was apparent that he was distressed because his friend,
whose education he had taken so earnestly in hand, was dallying with
the evil thought of a union. “Who talka soocha t’ing wit’ you?” he
demanded; and when she assured him that the notion had come of itself,
he was not comforted. Cornelia laughed--it seemed to her deliciously
funny; she told him he was just like “Mrs. O’Dowda,” afraid she might
imperil her soul by taking up with dangerous new ideas!
Censorship of course exercised upon Cornelia’s mind its customary
effect of awakening curiosity. She pressed her teacher for more facts,
and so learned of the existence of obnoxious characters known as
“riformistas”; persons who believed it possible to improve the present
social system, or to change it little by little. This kind of thinking
was a trap for the wage-slaves, because it led them into politics.
“Politica ĕ un perditempo!” declared Vanzetti, and the way he said the
word and the expression on his face made clear that it was something
very bad. “Riformista is traditore,” he went on, and repeated the
English word which Cornelia had taught him, “Riformista is trait’!”
“Traitor,” corrected Cornelia, and Vanzetti said, “Shoore, trait.’ He
is trait’, because he get elect’ butta no do notting, he is offeesh’,
he got salary, he liva by graft, he maka da promessi, he tella da bigga
lie, he keepa da capitalismo. No, no, mia frienda, have notting do wit’
riformista, wit’ socialista, he is giallo--how you say it, color of
flower--not red, not blue, what you call heem, golden-rod--yes, yellow!
Socialista is yellow, he is badda frienda for worker.”
XII
Soon afterwards Cornelia made actual contact with one of these
dangerous characters. On Saturday evening there came a caller: a
short, solidly-built young Italian, marble-cutter by trade, introduced
as “Compagno” Culla. He had come to see the two men upon a matter of
business and they discussed it in their own language, while Cornelia
and Alfonsina sat placidly sewing. Cornelia caught several times the
word “picanic,” but did not realize that this was an English word,
until Mrs. Brini whispered that this Culla was one of the socialistas
of Plyemoot’, and that they were getting up a picanic. Cornelia saw
that the talk was becoming more and more animated; the three men were
gesticulating and raising their voices, and presently she heard a
familiar word, that wicked word “riformista.” Vanzetti pronounced it
in a tone of scorn and lest Compagno Culla should fail to understand
to whom it was applied, the speaker pointed at him, and exclaimed,
“Riformista e giallo e traditore--”
Now Compagno Culla had a newspaper in his hand, partly opened; he
lifted it and with sudden vehemence hurled it to the floor. In the
course of the journey it came all the way open and made a great racket.
“Eh via, puh!” he exclaimed. “Parlate sfacciatamente!”
Whereupon Vanzetti started to his feet, with a sweep of his arms
embracing the surrounding atmosphere. “Riformista e traditore!” he
shouted.
“Diffamazione!” protested Compagno Culla.
“Traditore di lavoratori!” persisted Vanzetti. They began pouring out
two torrents of vehement Italian, which met in the middle and formed a
whirlpool of words, with four waving arms in the vortex thereof. The
arms were coming nearer and nearer and must inevitably have met, had
not Brini stepped between, shouting louder than both the orators put
together. At the same time Mrs. Brini sprang up and caught Vanzetti by
the sleeve, saying something which contained the word “Nonna!” Cornelia
had got out of her chair with a frightened look on her face--not being
used to Mediterranean methods of conducting political discussion.
Vanzetti glanced at her and then turned sharply on his heel and walked
into the kitchen; while Brini and Culla exchanged a few laughing words
and the latter went away.
Vanzetti came back and sat down, looking not a little embarrassed. “I
shame-èd for bad temper, Nonna,” said he--he was calling her now by
the children’s pet name, and she was calling him Bart. “I try for not
getta so angree, but riformista is soocha badda fellow.”
He explained what it was that Compagno Culla had wanted--the list of
names of the anarchistas of the vicinity, so that they could be invited
to the socialista picanic. Some time ago the anarchistas had given a
picanic with an anarchista speaker and all the socialistas had been
invited and many of them had come; now they thought the favor ought to
be reciprocated--quite overlooking the difference in the situation. For
the socialistas, being riformistas and gialli, were let alone by the
polizia; but the anarchistas, being real and true rivoluzionarii, were
always fearing trouble with the polizia and naturally could not give
the names of their friends and supporters to any gialli riformisti. So
now Compagno Culla was angry and thought his party was not getting a
square deal.
The discussion that followed brought out a further point--that the
socialistas of Plymouth had a great advantage over the anarchistas,
because they believed in organizations and had a good and lively one,
with perhaps fifty members; whereas the anarchistas, not believing
in organizations, had a weak one, in fact little more than a list of
names. Therefore the socialistas could do things which the anarchistas
could not do, they were distributing their literature regularly every
week and seducing members away from the anarchistas. Vanzetti said this
without seeing anything humorous in it and was perplexed when Cornelia
began to tease him, suggesting that it sounded like an admission that
organization was sometimes useful. Her teacher would laugh and joke
about all other matters except his doctrine; that was sacred, that was
a way of escape from slavery, war and horror for the workers, and about
it he was fanatical, implacable--he who was so gentle and soft-hearted
in all other relations of life!
That was a Saturday evening; and next morning Cornelia and her teacher
went for a walk in the woods and coming out met a group of four
children who had been gathering flowers. Each had a bunch which they
offered for sale--two cents apiece. Vanzetti bought all four and the
children went off happy. Then he said, “Too many flower, I giva you one
bunch, taka one for Cicadet, no wanta more.” He threw two bunches into
the bushes. “Why did you buy them all?” asked Cornelia, interested in
his reaction; and he was a little shocked by her lack of perception.
“No could buy joosta two, make odder children onhappy, dey worka so
hard, da money is like so moocha more for dem.”
XIII
The bright days of summer passed quickly, and the bracing days of
autumn, and then came the first threats of winter. It is nothing to
joke about on this stern and rock-bound coast, where icy gales blow
in from the ocean and snow piles up and blocks the streets, and the
temperature goes to considerably below zero. Cornelia found that she
had to take every cent of her savings to buy herself a warm coat, and
then it was not so warm; she learned to live in it all day while she
worked in the factory, a good part of the time in the home, and at
night she made it into a bed-cover.
There came days when the trip to her work and back again were infernal
experiences, recalling those regions of Dante where the lost souls are
frozen solid in ice. But in the great poet’s story it is possible to
see the damned, while here they stumbled through pitch darkness, at
half past six in the morning and the same hour in the evening. Cornelia
would get her coat buttoned tight over a sweater and the family would
pin her shawl fast over her head and ears, leaving just a peep-hole for
the eyes and nose. Then with her hands in mittens, and these tucked
under the shawl, she would start the long journey, with Brini’s big
hand grasping her under the arm. They would go staggering through
snow-drifts, sliding on the ice and packed sleet; her hands would be
half frozen, yet she would have to jerk them out to catch Brini and
keep from breaking her bones. The pitiless winds would howl and buffet
her and stab through her flimsy garments: the whirling snow would blind
her--yet there was not much danger of getting lost, there being a
stream of bundled figures plodding to the same goal. It was January of
1916, and out across the storm-lashed ocean the ships were being sunk,
so there must be more cordage to keep the world at war. Any woman who
failed to complete the journey twelve times per week would not have
her pay-envelope with the six dollars on Thursday night; and how then
would she pay for food and bed and shawls and coats and mittens and
rubber shoes and cough medicines and dentistry and surgical operations
and opera-tickets?
Cornelia was changing not merely her ideas but her appearance and
personal habits. She no longer took a bath every morning before she
dressed. Getting up at a quarter before six, by the light of an
oil-lamp and in rooms where she could see her breath, she found that
her one thought was to get into the warmest clothes she had, and as
many of them as possible; her second thought was to get two cups of the
hot boiled chicory which serves for coffee in the homes of the poor.
Thereafter she had no impulse to take off her clothes until she got
into bed--and not all of them then, because her bed-covers were made of
cotton, and even with all her clothing piled on top there were nights
when she could not sleep for the cold. And now and then she would
remember the formula she had heard the prosperous ladies repeat--that
at least the poor might keep clean!
Another principle of hygiene which had been taught to her was plenty of
fresh air at night. It was easy for the doctors to say it, sleeping in
rooms with heat, and layers of woolen blankets and eider-down quilts.
But now Cornelia adopted the custom of the poor, to seal up windows at
the beginning of winter and breathe such air as happened to get into
the house. If this, combined with a poor diet, brought tuberculosis,
it would be called the will of God. In Cornelia’s case it would be the
stubbornness of a woman who had made up her mind and would not admit
defeat. She had signed a declaration of independence--and here was her
Valley Forge!
The cordage workers lived in their dark holes, forgotten by the world
except on rent day. They grumbled and complained, because the cost of
living kept on going up and in winter it was so much worse--there were
no gardens with fresh vegetables, nor trees with apples and pears on
them, nor berries which the children could gather in the woods. Now
everything had to be bought in stores and the housewives picked over
the meager supplies; and when they could no longer make ends meet, what
were they to do?
Some voiced their complaints to their bosses and were told to go
elsewhere; and every time that happened the pot of anger boiled
faster. Brini and Vanzetti came home at night, voluble and
gesticulating; sometimes they would hurry off after supper--“meeting by
Giuseppi,” they would say, or whatever name it might be. Several times
Cornelia went to such meetings, and a mass of people packed themselves
into a little parlor, with overflow into the kitchen, and complained
and argued and gestured for an hour or two. Such was Vanzetti’s
solution of the labor problem, the workers to gather in little
groups--“gruppi autonomi,” was his phrase; each of these gruppi would
decide what it wanted and appoint a representative to meet with others
from the Portuguese, the French-Canadians, the Germans, the Irish.
The believers in politics and organization, the socialistas, held a
meeting in a hall, with more than a thousand workers, and a speaker
in English, one in Italian and one in Portuguese; those who did not
understand any of these languages understood the excitement of the
rest. Also came the I. W. W. with their speakers, and their program
of “direct action,” the taking over of the industries by the “one big
union.” They were strong among these New England mill-workers, having
the prestige of a great victory in the woollen mills of Lawrence three
or four years ago.
And of course that stirred Vanzetti and his anarchistas. They too
must have a meeting and summon their leader, Galleani, to point out
to the workers the dangers of organization, and how it was possible
to win freedom from both capitalistas and labor union “offeesh’.”
There was a gathering of the “gruppo autonomo di Plyemoot’,” and
money was subscribed to pay for the hall and for what Vanzetti called
the “expensit.” He contributed ten dollars himself, and explained
to Cornelia that his share was greater for the reason that he was a
“lonely man.”
XIV
That was a Tuesday night; and next day, preceding pay-day, there
appeared mysteriously at the cordage plant a force of two hundred and
fifty “private police” to guard the property. Where did they come from,
this hired army of capitalism, and where were they kept when they were
not working? Did they travel about the country, putting down labor
troubles? Had the masters got trouble so systematized that they could
count upon a regular supply of it to keep this army at work? Nobody
knew; but here they were, big husky fellows, bundled in overcoats and
arctics and fur-topped gloves, with clubs in their hands and revolvers
in holsters at their belts--in plain sight, where nobody could miss
their meaning. They paced before the gates and the doors of buildings,
and to make them comfortable when they were off duty the town’s most
fashionable summer hotel sprang into activity.
The various “gruppi” had agreed upon their demands, eight dollars a
week for unskilled women and twelve for the men. They appointed a
committee to present the demands to the company, and the meeting took
place, and the company explained that such an increase, twenty-five
percent, would bankrupt it, and then no one would have any job. The
company offered a raise of five percent, and the committee rejected
this; there were more meetings, and crowds of people standing about
stamping their feet in the snow, and the guards commanding them to move
on, and getting surly answers. There were workers who said that if the
company would pay the cost of these guards in wages it would help quite
a little; they were even ungrateful enough to suggest that old Mr.
Perry’s “welfare work” be stopped, so that the people could have the
money for food.
As usual, this big magazine was fired by a little spark. On Thursday
morning, pay-day, one of the men in number three spinning-room got into
a dispute with his foreman; the foreman told him to take his coat and
hat and get out, and instead of obeying, the man turned and started
yelling to his comrades. The foreman took him by the shoulder to put
him out, and others came rushing to his help, and there was a tumult,
and above it rose the word, “Strike!” It spread like wildfire down the
long spinning-room; what had been at one moment an industry became in
the next a mob. “Sciopero!” yelled the Italians. “Folga!” echoed the
Portuguese. “Grève!” shrieked the French-Canadians. “Streik!” bellowed
the Germans. And “Strike! Strike! Strike!” roared Americans and English
and Irish and Welsh, and all others who had learned the word. A hundred
Paul Reveres set out in every direction, spreading the wildfire from
room to room. The openers of the bales threw down their knives, and the
feeders turned from the “breakers,” and the spinners deserted their
“flyers,” and the engineers shut off the power, and the wheels stopped
turning, and two thousand workers grabbed their clothing and tumbled
outside, pouring into a few minutes’ clamor the pent-up anger and
misery of many silent years.
The storm reached Cornelia’s wrapping-room, and the women had to quit
whether they wanted to or not, because the platform stopped moving.
She got her things and streamed out with the rest. The crowds were
milling about, the frightened guards shouting, “Move along, keep
moving there!” In various places impromptu meetings started, and the
stream would be blocked. Cornelia saw a man leap upon the corner of
a loading platform--a man in a worn blue “reefer,” with a storm hat
pulled over his ears, and a pair of brown walrus mustaches hiding half
his face. “Compagni! Lavoratori! L’ora della riscossa è scoccata! Essa
darà la libertá agli oppressi”--whereupon another man climbed upon the
platform and gave the orator a shove which sent him flying. “Get out,
you blankety-blank, and don’t show your face in here again!” And the
company detective sought out one of the foremen, inquiring, “Who is
that wop they call Bart--the one with long mustaches like a walrus?
We’ll have to keep our eye on him, he’s one of the trouble-makers.”