Boston a novel
is one more go-vèrnment for rule worker. Maybe you do not read what
soviet have done for anarchista in Russia? They stop propaganda,
shoot heem, put heem in jail--is joost like capitalista--is what you
say--tirannia--make worker obey, make work, make fight in army--”
“But, Comrade Vanzetti, aren’t the soviets to defend themselves?” It
was Betty breaking in.
“Must defend, Comradda Betty, but defend like free men. If man not want
fight, nobody got right for make heem fight. Nobody got right for make
heem slave, for stop hees mind, hees right for speak.”
“Wouldn’t it be hard to keep an army going on that basis?”
“If you got joostice, will find plenty men for fight, plenty free men.
You wait, Comradda Betty, you see Italy, you see somet’ing happen!
Is poor countree, Italy, if war stop, will be much bad time, much
trooble--will come rivoluzion, I t’ink shoore. Italian is not so easy
man for control, like Russian peasant, he is man will fight for right,
will be free man. You see different kind revoluzion, different sistema
for manage countree. It is our job now, make money in America, make all
money we can, send home Italy for anarchista propaganda.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have trouble,” said Cornelia. “They have spies, they
know what everybody is doing, and they get rougher every day. I fear
you’ll be arrested.”
“Is no matter, Nonna, no worry for me. Is business of anarchista make
propaganda, musta make, wherever go. You get putted in army, all right,
make propaganda wit’ soldier. You get putted in jail, make propaganda
wit’ jailer, wit’ prisoner--is all same, is men, like me, like you.
Sometime he come out, is always some way for new idea spread--is no way
for stop, not jail, not bullet! In whole world is notting can stop--is
biggest, most strong dinnameet.”
He sat in his chair, half out of it, with the eagerness of his emotion.
His face wore a strained look, and his eyes had that light of stubborn
fanaticism which Cornelia had come to know. He turned to Betty, the
younger one, guardian of the future. “Wit’ anarchista is lika dis,
Comradda. He say: Capitalismo is injoostice, I will not stand heem!
Say, I will break heem, will fight heem, will never stop--never what
you say, surrender. I will speak--will say strong word--shock person,
make heem t’ink. Will speak all time, everywhere--make men hear--even
when he not want hear!”
Suddenly Vanzetti stopped, a little embarrassed. Even an anarchist must
be a gentleman! And perhaps so much vehemence was not in order in a
lady’s drawing-room. “It maybe seem like crazy talk?” he asked.
Cornelia said, “Wait.” She went to the bookcase, to a shelf which
contained a few old books, not yet stowed under the bed. She took one
out. “I will read you something, Bart. We had a young New Englander,
of old Puritan stock, who took up the notion that chattel slavery
was wrong, and set out to preach it, and very nearly got lynched in
Boston. His name was William Lloyd Garrison--learn it, Bart, a good
name to quote in this part of the world. He started a paper called the
‘Liberator’--that was in 1831, eighty-seven years ago. In the first
issue he stated his program. Listen.” And she read:
“I will be as harsh as truth, and as uncompromising as justice.
On this subject I do not wish to think, or speak, or write with
moderation. No! No! Tell a man whose house is on fire to give a
moderate alarm; tell him to moderately rescue his wife from the
hands of a ravisher; tell the mother to gradually extricate her
babe from the fire into which it has fallen--but urge me not to
use moderation in a cause like the present. I am in earnest--I
will not equivocate--I will not excuse--I will not retreat a
single inch--and I will be heard. The apathy of the people is
enough to make every statue leap from its pedestal and hasten the
resurrection of the dead.”
Said Vanzetti: “What is name?” He said it over, so as to remember
it--William Lloyd Garrisoon. “I never hear heem before, but I feel heem
brudder; am joosta sooch man like heem!”
CHAPTER VI
WHITE TERROR
I
The day of glory, sung in the “Marseillaise,” had arrived; the
American troops stopped the first German onslaught, and began their
counter-advance which was to end the war. The whole country thrilled
with it--all but a few perverse persons, so constructed that they could
not think of glory, but only of boys crawling about in burning forests,
dragging shattered limbs and protruded entrails. “Ah, but the broken
bodies, that drip like honeycomb!”
Cornelia and her grand-daughter went to Plymouth to rest for a week,
Betty staying with her friend, Lucile Walker, and Cornelia with the
Brinis. The little room which had been Cornelia’s for a year and a
half now belonged to Fay, but she was glad to vacate it. Vanzetti had
a room with a neighbor, but came in for his meals, and stayed to do
his studying in the evening. He was digging more ditches, and reading
diligently the few radical papers he could get. There had been a revolt
in the Italian armies; it had been suppressed, but more was coming, and
he watched for every scrap of news.
Also he told Cornelia of his experiences in Mexico: what a fine fellow
that Nick Sacc’ had proved to be, and how they had settled down with a
colony of Italians, all draft-evaders, living upon a rough communistic
system. Bart had helped to feed them, baking bread, and also he had
fed them “anarchista propaganda”--bread for the spirit. There had been
several in the group whom Cornelia knew: Boda, the little macaroni
salesman who had driven them to see the drama; and Coacci and Orciani,
two others whom she had met on that same occasion.
Nonna, like Christmas, came but once a year, so it was a holiday for
everybody. Papa Brini showed his garden, and Cornelia recited the
Italian names, and he tried to say the English names, and the children
laughed at his blunders. They had their walk in the woods on Sunday,
and gathered bunches of flowers, and Fay and Trando remembered things
about nature which Bart had taught them, and were proud of it. Bart had
resumed charge of the boy’s development, and would give him advice and
help. One day Trando had a cold, and Bart said the way to cure it was
to sweat; so he got down on his knees, which made him about a match for
a nine-and-a-half-year-old boy, and the two of them had a wrestling
match, in which the big man was floored several times, and the small
boy whooped with delight. Pretty soon he was perspiring profusely, and
Bart put him to bed with no supper but a drink of hot lemonade. In the
morning he would be all right, said the amateur doctor.
Trando wanted a violin, and had worked all last summer to earn the
money; but then he had had to spend it, because the family went down
with “flu.” Cornelia wanted to give him a violin, but Bart said no,
that would spoil it all; let the little fellow earn it, and then he
would really value it; the achievement would give him courage, a sense
of power. This was the time for berries, and there was nothing better
for youngsters than to wander in the fields all day.
Trando’s relations with the boys of the neighborhood made a problem.
They would not play with him, because the priest had warned them to
have nothing to do with a bad boy who did not go to church: there was
a place in hell for such as he. The other boys called him “socialist,”
and when he went off and read a story-book, or played with his sister,
they called him “sissy.” It was hard to please them. Bart told him to
make of his persecution a source of strength. Many a great man had done
that, and those who had spurned him in boyhood would see him leap above
their heads when they were grown.
Vanzetti told him what was true about religion. There was a great and
good God, the God of nature, whose laws we must understand if we would
be happy. This God loved all human beings alike, and it was not His
will that some should be slaves to others. We might pray to Him for
courage and strength; but we did not need any priest to intervene for
us. The priest was nothing but a man like other men; he might be good,
or he might be bad, like Father O’Brien--but in any case he represented
a system which helped to keep the poor in subjection to the rich, and
so was a trap for their minds.
Then Trando wanted to know about how we got born, and how we got
married. It is the custom of Italian parents to say they buy the
babies; but Bart explained those things seriously to Trando; and he
talked to Cornelia about it, and asked her to talk to Fay, because
children ought to know the truth, and parents had a foolish shyness
about talking to their own little ones. All the questions of children
ought to be answered; they should connect the idea of shame only with
actions that were harmful to themselves or to others. A wise man
speaking, always; a man gentle, full of spiritual insight--yet turning
into a lion at a moment’s notice when confronted with “injoostice.”
Some of the bigger boys found that out when they undertook to torment
the “sissy.”
II
Betty Alvin’s relations with the Walker family were peculiar. They were
all extremely patriotic, and shocked beyond utterance by the opinions
and behavior of Betty and her grandmother. But they were fond of Betty,
and if she had come to Plymouth and not stayed with them, it would
have been emphasizing an estrangement. Of course Betty’s mother put
the worst construction on their invitation, saying that the Walkers
would rather know a “red” blue-blood than none at all. But Betty would
not believe that, and kept up the friendship with Lucile at Radcliffe
and at home, carefully avoiding any utterance that would displease her
hosts.
Mr. Walker appeared only once during the visit. He was in greater
trouble than ever, and showed it in every line of his features--a
really terrible example of what the fierce pace of business can do
to its victims. Mrs. Walker was silent and preoccupied, and Lucile
hesitated to say anything; but Betty got it out of her finally--Mr.
Walker was convinced that there was a determination on the part of a
Boston banking-group to put him out of business, and the man who was at
the head of the campaign was Betty’s uncle, Henry Cabot Winters. This
information was coming to Mr. Walker from many different sources: in
all the troubles of the felt industry, it was Mr. Winters who stood
behind the scenes and pulled the strings.
Just think of it, exclaimed Lucile--here were enterprises that had
made a million and a quarter dollars in net profits last year, and
were going even higher this year; yet the owner could not get half a
million dollars’ credit from any bank in Boston or New York! They all
stood together; if the banks where you had your accounts, your banks of
deposit, as they were called, refused to “check your paper,” why, then
no other bank would accept it. The felt-industry was peculiar, in that
the sales were made early in the year, but payments were not made until
the fall, which meant that the business was helpless without credit;
the bankers knew that perfectly well, and Mr. Walker had always had the
credit, year after year, as a matter of course. This year he had to
have more, because of his war contracts, and the increased production;
the wicked thing the bankers had done was to make promises, and lure
him along from month to month, giving him no hint there was anything
wrong until the last moment, when one or two hundred thousand dollars’
worth of notes came due, and suddenly he was told that he must “take
them up.” There must be some reason for such things, said Lucile; and
Mr. Walker was convinced that it was Henry Cabot Winters plotting to
ruin him.
The bankers had put accountants on Mr. Walker’s books, and insisted