Boston a novel
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.