Boston a novel
a clean dry shirt in her honor, and now was holding forth upon the
subject of the “Divina Commedia”!
Cornelia stated that she had read the poem--in Longfellow’s
translation; and from that moment he and she were friends. “Oh, da
greata poet, da greata man! You reada heem, you know Italia, you lova
da people! He was frienda da people, Miz’ Cornella, he was--what you
say it--ribello.” He turned to little Fay, but she did not know long
words, and he had to explain a “ribello” by frowning and shaking his
fist. “De reecha men drive heem out, he live long time esilio, he
suffer, he speaka da trut’. I no read heem till I come America. I
younga man, worka by cloobba New York--great reecha cloobba, I washa
da deesh. And such filt’ I see, it maka you seek; you no eata da
suppa if I tell it you what I see in soocha place. Beeg dining room,
granda--marmoreo, how you say it? All reecha, much light, bigga men
all dressa beeg shirt”--the speaker made signs to indicate an open
shirt-front, and puffed himself out so that Cornelia decided her
son-in-law, Rupert Alvin, must have been to dinner in that “cloobba”!
“Evening dress,” said she, helping him along.
“Joosta so--aristocratico, eccelso! And in pantry, in place for washa
da deesh, soocha filt’! I gotta little room, alto, high up, povero.
Come home, I moocha tired, go sleepa queeck. But I come by Italian
book-store, I see Dante, ver’ cheap for poor man. I say, greata poet,
for shame I be sooch--what you say it--ignoranza. So I take heem home,
I read, forgetta da sleep, forgetta da greata reecha cloob, da padrone
maledirante--I live wit’ da greata soul in olda time, I fighta da
priest, clericali, I see heem in da hella--scusa me, lady--we say it in
Italia more polito, l’inferno.”
The speaker paused long enough to gulp a mouthful of bread and cheese;
then he began again: “I say Fay, I say Trando, not forgetta greata poet
of old country. You reada heem, you have greata soul, you be strong,
never ’fraid, you bear it--what you say it--infortunio, calamita. I go
by Italian book-store, I say, You give me ever’ting Dante, I read heem
all. I reada book--not poem, how you say?”
“Prose?”
“‘Il Convito.’ That is, you sitta down for suppa, lika dis, but gooda
suppa--plenty friend come--maka feast.”
“The Banquet?” said Cornelia.
“So,” said Vanzetti, and he recited a passage, and then, with many
gestures, and mixing of Italian words with English, he conveyed to the
Yankee lady what his great teacher had to say on the subject of riches.
The widow of Josiah Quincy Thornwell, mother of three millionaires’
wives, now learned upon authority of one of the world’s great seers
that it is the amassing of wealth which imperils and slays cities and
nations; that riches do not come to the good man, because his mind
is upon weightier matters; that the man of right appetite and true
knowledge never loves them.
“You learn little bit,” said Vanzetti, “I maka you onderstand heem
Italian. No can make Eengleesh, spoil beautifool sound. You hear
heem--listen, Miz’ Cornella.” He began to recite, lingering over every
syllable, sounding all the vowels broad and long, as the Italians do:
_Per me si va nella città dolente;
Per me si va nell’ eterno dolore;
Per me si va tra la perduta gente.
Giustizia mosse il mio alto fattore._
“He sadda man,” said Vanzetti; “never soocha sorrowful man live on
eart’. He call it l’inferno--lika you say American, ‘hella,’ but not
for curse-word, Miz’ Cornella, you know what da priesta teach, da place
for punish badda men.”
“I understand.”
“But you no believa da priest, it is all same hella here, what badda
men maka for poor man, killa da people in war. You reada Dante, you no
t’ink l’inferno, you t’ink Italia, you t’ink America, here, now. So he
say”--and the speaker repeated the verses, and painfully worked out
their English equivalent:
_By me you go into da sadda city;
By me you go into da endless sorrow;
By me you go among da losta people.
Joostice it mov-èd him, my greata maker._
It is a fact that much great poetry has been written in the dialects of
the poor and humble; it is a fact that Dante’s own dialect was that,
until he made it a world-language. But Cornelia did not know this, and
did not realize that the Italian ditch-digger was making good poetry
of his own. She only knew that she was managing to understand what his
teacher meant to him: “Perduta gente, Miz’ Cornella--it is not people
what have deny da priest and go hella, it is people what is poor and no
got friend, go for be shot, and kill-èd in bigga war. Dat is perduta
gente, losta people; for soocha people it maka me tears in da heart.”
IV
The family was stirring early. Brini did an hour’s work in the garden
before he went to his job, and his friend Bart insisted upon helping.
Mrs. Brini made the coffee and “frittata” for breakfast and would not
let Cornelia help, but instead made her listen to good advice. “You no
try be foreign woman, dey glad for have Yankee lady worka by cordage.
You tella heem osband die, you harda luck, musta get job. But you no
be ’fraid, plenty coraggio, plenty odder job. You say got to have day
work, no letta heem give nighta job. Wartime maka plenty job, you no be
’fraid.”
Vanzetti was working for the cordage company, “--worka picka shov,”
was the way he phrased it; digging a ditch for a pipe-line they
were laying. So he walked with Cornelia, and gave her more advice.
“You have harda time, Miz’ Cornella, olda lady, no giovane, molta
affaticata--harda work. You go easy, no be scare of boss, he no die
hungry if you no killa self for heem. You worka slow, taka time. You
losa job, we help, no let gooda lady hungry.”
So Cornelia went boldly into the employment office and looked the clerk
in the eye and said, “I would like employment.”
It was the first time she had offered herself for sale, and it was a
new sensation to be looked over from the market point of view. “Ever
worked at cordage?”
“No, sir.”
“What have you done?”
“I taught school. Then I married. Now I am a widow, and must support
myself.”
“This work is pretty hard for an old lady.”
“I’m not afraid of hard work. I’ll take care of that. But I want a
daytime job.”
“You might do wrapping,” said the clerk. He consulted a chart. “We have
no vacancy, but we might move somebody on.”
“Thank you,” said Cornelia. “Arrange that, if you please.” She was
trying a little “psychology” on him, and it appeared to work. He asked
her questions and entered her replies on a card; and presently she
found herself in charge of a messenger, passing through the high steel
gates.
It was a long walk to her destination; this greatest cordage plant in
the world extended three-quarters of a mile along the bay-front, with a
covered dock to which the ships came to unload their cargoes of sisal,
and railroad tracks and switch-yards for the cars which carried away
rope and binder twine. The roar of machinery was everywhere, and men
hurrying about like busy ants. Cornelia stayed close to her guide, who
knew his way through the labyrinth of labor, and would deliver her
safely to her little niche.
The ceiling of the wrapping-room was low--no space was wasted. The
coils of rope came through upon an endless platform and a row of
women sat sewing burlap covers with long needles and hempen thread.
Cornelia’s escort spoke to the foreman, who took another woman off the
job, gave her seat to Cornelia and showed her the work. She had to turn
the coil of rope a certain distance, take up a threaded needle, turn in
the edges of the burlap cover and sew a certain number of stitches; all
this within a calculated time, before the motion of the platform took
the coil of rope out of her reach and brought a new one to her.
It took an intelligent person above five minutes to learn all there was
to the job; after that it was just the same motions over and over. At
first it was agreeable; Cornelia’s problem was solved, and she could
take glimpses at the other women in the line and at the room and the
machinery. But after an hour or two the unaccustomed muscles and nerves
began to make protest; she was tired and her hands were trembling.
The hempen thread was long and so was the motion of her arm; if you
think it is not tiresome to wave your arm for several hours--try it!
She began to feel dizzy, and the coil of rope which had at first moved
normally, now seemed to be glued to the platform and refused to turn.
She had no way to tell the time; she was at the mercy of this enormous
machine which had run wild and forgotten the clock, and would go on
until the row of arm-waving women were paralyzed!
But at last the siren sounded; and then Cornelia understood, without
any sociological discussion, why it was that the workers leaped up in
a flash and hurried outdoors. For herself, she did not move; all she
wanted was to lie back against the wall and close her trembling eyelids
and let her tired hands drop. She had brought lunch in a little box,
but she did not want it; she only wanted to be still. She answered
faintly the other women who sat near and expressed their sympathy. They
knew how it was at first and sought to reassure her; it would be easier
by and by, her fingers and back would get used to it. But she was an
old lady, to be tackling a job like this.
Yes, Cornelia was old; she had never felt so old in her life before.
She had been foolish to attempt such a thing; she might have known
she couldn’t see it through. But then she shut her tired fists and
clenched her teeth. She had made up her mind to get a job and stick to
that job, whatever it turned out to be. Now this was it, and it was do
or die. People in New England did things like that--strange, eccentric,
and terrible things, because their consciences drove them to it, or
just because they had said they would, and were too stubborn to change.
V
The siren sounded again and the great machine started to rumble.
Cornelia picked up the threaded needle with her shaking fingers, and
began making the motions against which her being rebelled. She saw
her future stretching out to infinity; every morning from seven until
twelve she would sit and make these motions; then she would rest an
hour and make them again from one until six. And those ten hours would
be ten hours, and no nonsense about them, no fine sentiment. Cornelia
recalled her reason for selecting the Plymouth Cordage Company as her
first employer. Old Mr. Perry--J. Lawrence Perry, a director of the
company--was such a kindly old gentleman; she had heard him talk so
much about the “welfare work” they were doing and what a beautiful
plant it was and how happy and contented the workers were. It had
sounded quite idyllic and Cornelia had swallowed it whole. Mr. Perry
gave money to various charities, and also gave time to running them,
and everybody admired him so. But now it came to Cornelia in a flash
that she didn’t care in the least what he did with the money he got by
selling these coils of rope; what she wanted was for his machinery to
stop for a few minutes! All the love and fine sentiment in the world
didn’t matter a particle, so long as you had to sit here ten hours out
of twenty-four making the same motions over and over!
Nor did it matter that rope was clean and even romantic, having to
do with ships! Cornelia had pleased herself by that vain imagining;
but now she realized that she wasn’t going to see any ships, nor
have anything to do with the rope, except to take eighteen or twenty
stitches around the edges. She wasn’t going to know what became of
the product after it left her fingers; she wasn’t even going to know,
except by hearsay, how it came to be what it was. The dear, gentle,