Chapter II: Plymouth Rock (1)

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.