Boston a novel
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.