Boston a novel
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;