Boston a novel
“And what is the difference?”
“Moocha differenza, Meess Betty. Anarchista is fighting man. He will
not fight in war for capitalista, for padrone, what you call master,
but he will fight for worker, for joostice, for make freedom of slave.”
“Oh! So then you and Nonna don’t agree!”
“I t’ink it is maybe good for Nonna be pachifeesta, she is olda lady,
no--cannot fight. She has got sooch kind heart--”
“But then you have a kind heart, too, Mr. Vanzetti. She told me how you
would not let the sick kitten be killed.”
“Seeck kitten not do harm, I not like for kill helpless t’ing. But
capitalista is not helpless, Meess Betty, he is fighting man, is most
fighting man in whole world. If you study, you onderstand what is
cause of great war. What for must million men go fight, be kill-èd,
miseramente, cruel? It is for get market for rich capitalista; it is
for get coal, iron--what you call it for burn in lamp?”
“Oil?”
“It is for sooch t’ing worker must die. It come go-vérnment, take
you per forza, like slave, put in uniform, say go kill. If you say
no--cannot kill, you go prigione--prison, you get torture, maybe shot.
I say, what for talka pachifeesmo for soocha men? No, worker must
fight, is never men get free wit’ out fight for freedom. Is it not
trut’, Nonna?”
“I wonder,” said Cornelia. “The Negro slaves were freed without having
to do much fighting--”
“Oh, but Grannie!” It was Betty who broke in. “Other people had to
fight for them; and if they aren’t really free yet, maybe that is the
reason, because they haven’t done their own fighting.”
So Cornelia confronted the problem of the younger generation. She
sat back and listened, while small talk and efforts at charm were
forgotten, and the idealist-dreamer set forth his vision of the better
world to be. She realized that Betty had come there, with her mind
made up to probe to the bottom this phenomenon of a “secular saint”;
to know exactly what he thought, and judge it, not according to what
Miss Wilson’s school was teaching, nor according to what the Back Bay
would approve, but according to the facts. “You can understand, Mr.
Vanzetti,” said she, “I don’t hear very much about these ideas, and
they are strange to me. But I’d like to know all I can. Maybe you would
let me come Saturday afternoon, and you and I and Nonna would take a
long walk in the woods, and you could explain to me.”
Never in the year that Cornelia had known Bart had she seen him so
happy as then! “Meess Betty,” said he, “is notting in whole world I
like so much as for explain.”
VI
It was a warm, still afternoon, and a hundred pleasure-boats made
holiday upon Plymouth Bay. Motor launches chugged here and there, and
fishermen drew their nets and set their lobster-pots; while on the top
of Castle Hill Bartolomeo Vanzetti sat under a wind-beaten tree and
with many gestures told the story of his life to Cornelia Thornwell and
her grand-daughter.
He had been born in a peasant home in the village of Villafalletto,
on the banks of the river Magra, in northern Italy. He had yearned
for an education, but as fate would have it, his father read in a
newspaper how forty-two lawyers had applied for a position in Turin
which paid only seven dollars a month; and that ended the hope of
culture for little Bart! At the age of thirteen he was put to work as
a pastry cook’s apprentice, and slaved for fifteen hours a day, from
seven in the morning till ten at night, seven days in the week, with
the exception of three hours on Sunday. Thus passed six years of his
pitiful youth, until at last his health broke under the strain, and he
was brought back to his village home. Through those years he had been
a devout Catholic, and had solaced himself with the faith that his
sufferings were God’s will. “I make fist-fight for church,” said he,
with a laugh. “Fellow he say somet’ing very bad, I make heem sorry.”
Then the will of God inflicted a still more dreadful sorrow upon him.
His mother fell ill. He had loved her more than he could find words to
tell, in either English or Italian. “It is why I so glad for have Nonna
come here. Always it make me memory my modder. It is story I not tell
her, sooch terrible story. She is so sick, sooch agonia, she screama,
long time no--cannot sleep; I must go ask men on street for not sing,
make noise. It is so bad, nobody in family can stand for see her, not
osband, not daughter. It is me must help her--must hold her in arm,
must--what you say, nurse--for two mont’ I not undress for sleep. One
day she die in my arm, she suffer so, not know me, not my tears. It is
me must put her in coffin, must walk to grave, must shovel dirt onto
my modder. Sooch miseria! You know what is Dante say, Nonna--‘nessun
maggior dolore’--it is no sooch greater grief in world as to remember
happy time in miseria. But for me it is no sooch grief as to remember
what my modder musta suffer. Always I see it, and each old lady in
world is my modder.”
There was a pause, while the ditch-digger blinked a tear out of his
eyes; then he went on. “Could no more be happy in home. No can ever
laugh. My fadder, he get gray, very old. I no can--cannot work, must go
walk in wood, stand by river on little bridge and look down in water,
t’ink maybe I fall in, not have so mooch sufferance. So I t’ink maybe
come America; is new country, great country, I start more life; is
what you say in song, ‘sweet land of liberty’--Fay she sing in school.
It is what you say, full dinner-pail. So I say, I come America, not
for get rich, get little money, no work so hard, have time for read
book. I joosta readed De Amicis, great writer, what you say ‘Cuore,’
it is story of his heart. I t’ink maybe I be socialist now, little bit
socialist, sentimentale, genteel, good, ever’body be kind, make new
world, ever’body be happy, maybe by vote. I come America for sooch
pretty--what you say, dream.”
Vanzetti paused, and closed his eyes in pain. “Next to lose modder,
next most badda t’ing in whole life is lose America. You ’Merican
lady cannot onderstand, no never, not if talk all day. Hear about
Statue Liberty--beautifool, wonderfool--paradiso. Come Ellis Island,
all sudden knock on head, like badda dream, inferno--brutale, treat
people lika beast--little ones cry, hide in modder’s dress. What for
is reason for treat poor people sooch way? Why make sooch fear, sooch
hate? I go on street, stand look, strange city, mooch automobile, big
train upstair--bang, bang, make fright. I go look for home; no got one
friend, ever’body try cheat, rob poor straniere--what you say, foreign.
Must go sleep in room, twenty people, is filt’ ever’where; must hunt
job, washa da deesh, must sleep wit’--you scusa me, Meess Betty, is not
gooda story for tell sweet young lady--”
“Go on,” said Betty. “If it’s not too bad to happen, it’s not too bad
to hear.”
“It is t’ing what bite in bed--it make you onhappy--cannot sleep. I
live in room upstair, top of house, mooch people, very hot. I go for
work restaurant--it is mooch famous place, you read about in book; all
time go artist, writer, take lady for supper. I not know what is now,
but eight year back I washa da deesh, mosta bad dirt, steam all time,
grease on roof drop on food, on clean deesh; all slop on floor, drain
get stop, you stand t’ree inch water all day washa deesh, like work in
sewer. I talk many men, it is same plenty big restaurant, all for show,
not care be clean. But worker he cannot tell story--who would hear
heem?
“I work fourteen hour one day, twelve hour next day. I get five, six
dollar week. Get food very bad, dirty, like dog. I no can stand, t’ink
maybe get seeck, I stop, go country, look for work outdoor. But is very
bad time--you know, Nonna, is what you call panic joost come, make
very bad for job. Must go hungry, beg job, get food out of garbage-can
maybe, someday starve, so weak cannot work more. It was farmer give
little job--two week--he not need me, but he sorry for poor wop--it is
first time I get kind word from any one American, I never forget that
farmer.
“It is long story, Meess Betty, you no want hear heem all. I get
work by brick furnace, shovel coal, it is job for kill man, sooch
heat. But I near die hungry, so I stay, ten mont’ I shovel coal. I go
Conecticut, get job by stone quarry, work a year. Is better so, meet
plenty Italian, got home, see people dance, play violin evening. I no
dance, but like see friend be happy. I read mooch book, I read paper,
t’ink about worker, hees life, I see is not land of liberty, is all
same, whole world is slavery for worker. It is few people own land,
own factory, is capitalista, sooch people maka da profitt, it is for
profitt musta be all industree. Worker is--I cannot say Eengleesh, is
what you buy and sell, comodità--is not human, is joost somet’ing for
be sold for profitt. You onderstand, Meess Betty.”
“Certainly.”
“It shock you, maybe--”
“Not at all. I’ve thought about it a lot. What do we do for all this
money we have? We young people, especially--we can work if we want to,
and that’s very kind of us; but if we prefer we can lie back and loaf
the rest of our lives. No, Mr. Vanzetti, don’t be afraid to talk to me!”
“You must onderstand, I not have sooch idea when I come America, no
what you call foreign red. I learn heem here, I see wit’ eye, I talk
wit’ worker, I t’ink what is way for freedom. I am anarchista long time
before to see anarchista paper, hear anarchista speaker. When I hear
heem, I t’ink, it is olda story, it is my word from mout’ of odder man!”
And Betty, sitting with her eyes riveted upon him, remarked, “That is a
little the way I find it, listening to you!”
VII
There was more to this talk; a discussion of Vanzetti’s ideas, and his
answers to many questions. When it was over, Cornelia walked part of
the way home with her grand-daughter, taking one of the back streets.
“Oh, Grannie, what a wonderful man! Grannie, I never dreamed of such
a thing--why don’t they tell us there are men like that among the
working-people? Do you suppose there are many?”
“He says there are; but maybe he is being modest.”
“So polite and so kind--he really is a gentleman, Grannie, and without
any family, or any one to teach him.”
“He is a gentleman if the word is worth using, dear.”
“And think what that man has read, stealing all the time from his
sleep! Grannie, I was never so ashamed in my life! I’m going to get
that book by Kropotkin--I’m going to read and understand for myself.
I’ve known it was all wrong, I’ve been saying it to myself for a year
or two. What am I doing--except to show how to wear clothes?”
“You’re supposed to be studying, dear. I thought you had to work hard
at Miss Wilson’s.”
“Oh, yes, we’re Spartan enough, but it’s all so remote from reality,
so academic and so tiresome. We listen to Miss Wilson talk a lot, and
it’s not good form to ask questions, because she is deaf, and we don’t
want to reveal the fact. I’m bored with it, Grannie--and I’m bored with
society before I get in! Does that sound like a prig?”
“No, dear, of course not.”
“Well, you can’t imagine such idle boys! I suppose when I’m a deb,
and meet older men, it won’t be so bad; but I was invited to one of
the Brattle Hall dances--and you talk about the Dickie and who made
it and who didn’t, and about football, and last year’s scores and
this year’s prospects; and after that it’s time to stroll out into
the moonlight and get sentimental. Down here you go sailing and you
go to garden parties, and you never hear anything worthwhile. The
one serious thing in Plymouth is the pulling and hauling between the
descendants of the Pilgrims and the descendants of the Puritans. One
claims social precedence, and the other won’t grant it, and they gossip