Boston a novel
and along the tree-shaded street. Smaller streets went off it, lined
with the homes of workers, four-family wooden tenements, square and
plain, with dingy worn paint or none at all. The old lady found
herself walking beside an Italian boy, seven or eight years old, a
slender child with bright black eyes; he whistled cheerfully, and was
reasonably clean. So the old lady said, “Hello, little boy; what is
your name?”
“My name is Beltrando.” He spoke in good English.
“Do you know anybody who would like to take a boarder?”
The boy thought, and then said, “Come see my mamma.” He led her down
a street labeled “Suosso’s Lane” to a two-story house of unpainted
shingles. They went in by the rear door, and Cornelia Thornwell found
herself in the kitchen of Mrs. Vincenzo Brini.
“I come from Boston,” she said. “I look for job in cordage plant. You
know anybody got room for boarder?”
Alfonsina Brini was a young woman, small but strongly made, with kind
motherly face and quick intelligent eyes. She examined her visitor with
some curiosity, and said, “You Yankee lady?”
“Why, yes,” said Cornelia Thornwell--her pitiful effort at concealment
collapsing at once.
“Why you talka lika foreign?”
“Well, I thought maybe you understand better.” Her smile was friendly
and disarming, and won the other’s heart.
“Me no onderstanda good,” said Mrs. Brini. “Trando, here, he talka like
Merican boy, he tella me.” Mrs. Brini was in working clothes, and had
not yet taken off her hat. “Me joosta get home,” she said. “Me worka by
woolen mill. You gotta job by cordage?”
“I want to ask for one,” said Cornelia. “Do you think I can get it?”
“Shoore, plenty jobba now. Plenty shippa get--how you say, Trando,
afondato--shippa sunk, maka new rope, plenty cordage job. But harda
work, you very olda lady for cordage job.”
“Oh, I won’t mind hard work,” said Cornelia, with the serenity of
complete ignorance. “What will I get?”
“You no skilla work, you getta six dollar week. Some day you learn
skilla work, you getta maybe eight, nine dollar week. My osband he work
by cordage, getta twelve dollar half.”
“And what will I pay for board?”
“You boarda maybe two dollar half, maybe t’ree dollar. You boarda by
me, you go in room wit’ my big girl, I make it two dollar quarter. You
take little rooma for self, I maka two dollar half.”
“I think I’d like to have room to myself,” said Cornelia, timidly.
Mrs. Brini escorted her into the parlor. It was perhaps twelve feet
square, with one of those plush-upholstered sets of furniture which are
advertised at special bargains--$38.50, and you sign a blank on the
dotted line, and once a month the agent collects three dollars, with
interest on the unpaid portion. Also there was a phonograph, bought
in the same way; and before Cornelia had been in the house half an
hour, Beltrando had produced the big red record which had cost a week
of Cornelia’s board, and took the place of an icon or shrine in this
family. “You listen to Caroos’,” said the little boy; and Mrs. Brini
stopped washing the vegetables for the salad and stood with hands wet
and rapture in her eyes, while a mighty voice spread its wings and bore
her soul to Italy.
II
The room assigned to Cornelia was five feet by eight, and held a wire
cot and a chest of drawers. Her straw suitcase would go under the
bed, and her clothing would hang on hooks behind the door. There was
a window with home-made curtains in front of it, and on the chest of
drawers a hand-woven lace cover, held in place by two figures in tinted
glass, one a shepherd, the other his sweetheart, in Italian costumes.
“This is lovely,” the boarder said, gallantly; “it will seem like home.”
And now, with the door shut, Cornelia Thornwell stood in the midst of
her empire, trying to grasp what her new life would be like. She wanted
to bathe her hands and face, and realized with dismay that she would
have to use a bathroom in common with half a dozen other persons. No
doubt she could replace the Italian shepherd and his love with a tin
washbasin and pitcher. But would she be able to afford such luxuries on
six dollars a week? And especially when she had not yet earned the six
dollars, nor even the chance to earn them!
She put the contents of her straw suitcase away in the drawers and
started to shove the suitcase under the bed, but discovered that the
way was blocked by a couple of boxes containing books. This surprised
her, and she sat on the bed and examined them. “Manzoni,” was the
first name, and she had heard it somewhere; but the title “I Promessi
Sposi,” told her nothing. The next was “A. O. Olivetti: Azione Diretta
e Mediazione”; and that told her nothing either. The next was “Le
Scuole Clericali,” and she judged that must be a religious book; the
next, “G. Most: La Peste Religiosa,” must be the same. These people
would probably be devout, and would they expect a “Yankee lady” to go
to church with them? The next was “Ernesto Renan: La Vita di Gesu.” She
had heard of that, but had the impression that it was an agnostic book;
surely her rector had spoken of it as taking Jesus for a man pure and
simple. However, these people would not expect her to know about their
authors.
She went outside to enjoy the evening. There was a vegetable garden in
back of the house, all green and shiny after recent rains. A man was
working here, with his coat off; a big fellow, with long arms flying
vigorously as he threw the dirt. Cornelia was pleased by his diligence,
because it promised fresh food for the table. She walked down the path
and said, “Good evening,” and he stopped his labors. She had given her
name as “Mrs. Cornell,” and now he greeted her as “Miz’ Cornella.” Just
as the London working-classes drop the “h” where it belongs and put it
where it does not belong, so these Italians did with vowels; they would
say, “You lika da spagett’?”
“I am Mist’ Brini,” said the gardener; and Cornelia said, “I am glad to
know you”--which was true enough, for she had been timid on the subject
of foreign men, and this one, her future landlord, was reassuring.
He was of middle age, and sometimes his face would be puzzled, and
sometimes it would be amused, but always it was honest. His arms were
hairy, and his large head set on a long neck. “Plenty gooda vegetable,”
said he. “You lika da minestrone?” He waved his arm with a gesture
which seemed to sweep the whole garden into a pot, and offer it for her
evening meal. Cornelia was to observe, as time passed, that Vincenzo
Brini would never lose a chance to make a gesture; he would invent a
whole pantomime to convey the meaning of a single word, and there was
no trouble too great to be taken in these demonstrations.
“You lika da cipolla?” he inquired, pointing to another row.
“Onions?” inquired the other.
“You teacha da Eengleesh, I teach Italian.” Brini grinned like a boy,
and pointed to another row. “Ravanelli.”
“Radishes,” said Cornelia.
“Bietola,” said Brini.
“Beets,” said Cornelia.
This educational game went on until it was interrupted by the
appearance of another man; a laborer arriving from his day’s toil, with
his coat over his sweat-stained arms, and a dinner-pail in his hand.
Brini forgot his rows of vegetables and called, “Hello, Bart!” He added
a torrent of words in Italian, evidently explaining the strange lady.
“You meeta my frienda, Bart, he boarda by us, long time board.”
The newcomer was a tall and somewhat stooped man; Cornelia was puzzled,
because he seemed to be young, yet his face had many lines of care. He
wore a brown mustache, which was left to nature, and drooped to a long
point on each side of his mouth, giving him the appearance of a grave
and amiable walrus. He was a dignified person, and did not indulge
in the Brini fervors. “I pleased to meet you, lady,” he said. “My
Eengleesh ver’ bad, I shame for heem.”
“She teacha da Eengleesh!” put in Brini. “You teacha heem plenty, Miz’
Cornella, he learna queeck, a bigga studént, got plenty book, read all
time.”
“Oh! Those must be your books under my bed!” said Cornelia.
“I taka heem out, lady,” said the newcomer, at once, and started
towards the house. Cornelia, with her woman’s intuition, noted that
this young laborer thought about others before he thought about himself.
“Fermati!” exclaimed Brini. “You no go in lady’s room, you waita!” He
grinned, and explained to Cornelia, “He no onderstand politess, he
reada da book, molto studioso, all day. Getta da job, maka da little
mon’, give up job, reada book. He greata man, my frienda Bart--” and
Brini’s hairy arm went around the other’s shoulders in a hug--“he gooda
man--besta man--you ask all Italian in Plye-moot’--dey tella you--never
soocha gooda man in all state Massachusett like my frienda Bartolomeo
Vanzett’.”
III
The family sat down to supper. It was not a big kitchen and they were
crowded, with elbows touching: Papa Brini at the head of the table,
Mamma at the foot, the three children on one side and Cornelia and her
fellow-boarder on the other. She had been wondering what she would
eat among these foreign people; she found a big bowl of salad with
plenty of oil and vinegar, a chunk of parmigiano cheese, a loaf of
bread in Italian fashion, shaped like a letter H, and finally a bottle
of red wine, of which the children had a little and the women had one
glass; the men were supposed to finish the rest. But she learned that
Vanzetti would take no wine; out of the books he had got ideas about
health and was a vegetarian most of the time. He explained to the new
guest in his struggling English: “Poor people molto fortunato--how you
say, lucky--no can buy richa food. You eata simple t’ing, you keepa da
healt’ all lifa long.” After which ensued an argument with Papa Brini,
who made it clear both by words and action that he looked upon the
wine when it was any color whatever. He laughed gayly and explained to
Cornelia the most elementary of Italian puns, “divino da vino.”
It is customary in Italian gatherings for the women, and especially old
women, to keep in the background; but these humble people were showing
especial honor to their guest, including her in the conversation and
making her feel at home. They had to struggle with strange words and
call upon the children; and Cornelia was interested to observe these
latter and their behavior. The oldest was about ten, small, dark-eyed,
quiet and pretty; her name Lafevre, which they shortened to “Fay.” She
was going to public school, as was her brother Beltrando, and it was
curious how completely Americanized they were, with the quiet reserve
of the New Englander and even the broad “a” and the murdered “r.”
Boston was having its way with them!
“Fay” served as the dictionary for their conversation; an abridged one,
needless to say. She was teaching Vanzetti English, he explained, and
he was teaching her Italian--that is the Tuscan dialect, the Italian of
literature. The Brinis came from the neighborhood of Bologna and spoke
the dialect of that region; Vanzetti spoke as a Piedmontese, but since
he had begun to educate himself he had learned the classical language
and wanted Fay to know it too. It would be a poor exchange for a child
to acquire American newspapers and magazines and give up Dante.
Cornelia had come among these foreign people with no little
trepidation. It was the common phrase among her social set that the
Italians, or “wops,” as they were called, “lived like pigs.” She had
been prepared for dirt, degeneracy, brutality, even crime. Would she
be able to stand it? Would she be physically safe in the midst of it?
And now she sat, nibbling a clean salad and good bread and butter and
cheese, and sipping an acceptable claret, listening to an Italian
ditch-digger, who had washed at least his hands and face and put on