one of the things that has always interested me about the several italian sections of new york city is their love feuds. every day and every hour, in all these sections, is being enacted those peculiarly temperamental and emotional things which we attribute more to dispositions that sensate rather than think. how often have i myself been an eye-witness to some climacteric conclusion, to some dreadful blood feud or opposition or contention—a swarthy italian stabbing a lone woman in a dark street at night, a seemingly placid diner in some purely italian restaurant rising to an amazing state of rage because of a look, a fancied insult, some old forgotten grudge, maybe, renewed by the sight of another. at one time, when i had personal charge of the butterick publications, i was an immediate and personal witness to stabbings and shootings that took place under my very eye, some bleeding and fleeing adversary brushing me as he ran, to fall exhausted a little farther on. and mobs of americans, not understanding these peculiarly deep-seated and emotional feuds, and resenting always the use of the knife or the stiletto, seeking to wreak summary vengeance upon those who, beyond peradventure, are in nowise governed by our theories or our conventions, but hark by other and more devious paths back into the italy of the middle ages, and even beyond that.
268 the warmth of passion and tenderness that lies wrapped up in these wonderful southern quarters of our colder northern clime. the peculiarly romantic and marvelously involved series of dramatic episodes, feuds or fancies, loves or hates, politics or passion, such as would do honor to a medi?val love tale—the kind of episodes that have made the history of italy as intricate as any in the world!
the section that has always interested me most is the one that lies between ninety-sixth street and one hundred and sixteenth on the east side of manhattan island, and incloses all the territory that lies between second avenue and the east river. it is a wonderful section. here, regardless of the presence of the modern tenement building and the new york policeman, you may see such a picture of italian life and manners as only a visit to naples and the vine-clad hills of southern italy would otherwise afford.
vigorous and often attractive maidens in orange and green skirts, with a wealth of black hair fluffed back from their foreheads, and yellow shawls and coral necklaces fastened about their necks; dark, somber-faced italian men, a world of moods and passions sleeping in their shadowy eyes, decked out in bright garibaldian shirts and soft slouch hats, their tight-fitting corduroy trousers drawn closely about their waists with a leather belt; quaint, cameo-like old men with earrings in their ears and hands like claws and faces seamed with the strongest and most sinister lines, and yet with eyes that flash with feeling or beam with tenderness; and old women, in all forms of color and clothing, who chatter and gesticulate269 and make the pavements resound with the excitement of their everyday bargaining.
this, truly, in so far as new york is concerned, is the region of the love feud and the balcony. if you will stand at any of the cross-streets that lead east from second avenue you will obtain a splendid panorama of the latter feature, window after window ornamented with a red or green or orange iron balcony and hung, in the summertime, with an array of green vines and bright flower-pots that invariably suggests the love scene of shakespeare’s famous play and the romantic love feeling of the south. dark, poetic-looking italians lean against doorjambs and open gateways and survey the surrounding neighborhood with an indolent and romantic eye. plump italian mothers gaze comfortably out of open windows, before which they sit and sew and watch their chubby little children romp and play in the streets. fat, soft-voiced merchants, and active, graceful, song-singing italian street venders ply their various vocations, the latter turning a wistful eye to every window, the former lolling contentedly in wooden chairs, the blessings of warmth and a little trade now and again being all that they require.
and from out these windows and within these doors hang or lounge those same maidens, over whom many a bloody feud has been waged and for whom (for a glance of the eyes or the shrug of the shoulder) many of these moody-faced, somber-eyed, love-brooding romeos have whipped out their glistening steel and buried it in the heart of a hated rival. girls have been stabbed here, been followed and shot (i have seen it myself); petty love-conversations270 upon a street corner or in the adjacent park between two ardent lovers have been interrupted by the sudden appearance of a love frenzied othello, who could see nothing for it but to end the misery of his unrequited affection by plunging his knife into the heart of his rival and into that of his fair but unresponsive sweetheart. they love and hate; and death is the solution of their difficulties—death and the silence of the grave.
“she will not love me! then she must die!”
the wonder of the colony is the frankness and freedom with which its members take to this solution. actually, it would seem as if this to them were the only or normal way out of a love tangle. and if you can ever contrive an intelligent conversation with any of them you will find it so. lounge in their theaters, the teatro marionette, their cafés, about the open doorways and the street corners, and hear the frankness with which they discuss the latest difficulty. then you will see for yourself how simple it all seems to them.
vincenzo is enamored of his elvina. so is nicola. they give each other black looks, and when elvina is seen by vincenzo to walk openly with nicola he broods in silence, meditating his revenge.
one night, when the moon is high and the noisy thoroughfare is pulsating with that suppressed enthusiasm which is a part of youth and passion and all the fervid freshness of a warm july night, vincenzo meets them at the street corner. he is despondent, desperate. out comes his knife—click!—and the thing is done. on the pavement lies nicola bleeding. elvina may be seen running and screaming. she too is wounded, mayhap271 to the death. vincenzo runs and throws his hands dramatically over his head as he falls, mayhap shot or stabbed—by himself or another. or elvina kneels in the open street beside her lover and cries. or vincenzo, white-faced and calm, surrenders himself into the hands of the rough, loud swearing american policeman—and there you have it.
a love affair in little italy
but ask of the natives, and see what it is they think. they will not have it that vincenzo should not have done so, nor elvina, nor nicola. love is love! youth is youth! what would you? may not a man settle the affairs of his heart in his own way? perdi!
and these crimes (as the law considers them), so common are they that it would be quite impossible to give more than a brief mention to any of a hundred or more that have occurred within as many as ten or fifteen years. sometimes, as in the case of tomasso ceralli and vincenzo matti, it is a question of a married woman and an illegal passion. sometimes, as in the case of biegio refino and alessandro scia, it is some poor cigarette-factory girl who, being used as a tool by one or more, has fallen into others’ hands and so incensed all and brought into being a feud. sometimes, as in the case of mollinero and pagnani, it is a bold, bad carmen who is not sorry to see her lovers fight.
but these stories are truly legion and in some instances the police would never have been the wiser save for a man or a woman whom the neighbors could not get out of the way in time. once caught, however, they come bustling into the nearest station house, these strange groups of wild, fantastic, disheveled men and272 women, and behind them, or before, the brawny officers of our colder clime, with their clubs and oaths and hoarse comments on the folly and the murderous indecency of it all—and all in an effort to inspire awe and a preventive fear that, somehow, can never be inspired. “these damned dagos, with their stilettos! these crazy wops!” but the melancholy italian does not care for these commands or our laws. they are not for him. let the cold, chilly american threaten; he will carry his stiletto anyhow. it is reserved as a last resource in the face of injustice or cruelty or the too great indifference of this world and of fate.
one of the most interesting of these love affairs that ever came to my personal attention was that of vincenzo cordi, street musician and, in a way, a ne’er-do-well, who became unduly enraged because antonio fellicitti, vegetable merchant, paid too marked attention to his sweetheart. these men, typical italians of the quarter, knew each other, but there was no feeling until the affections of both were aroused by the charms of maria maresco, the pretty daughter of one of the laborers of the street.
according to the best information that could be obtained at the time, cordi had been first in the affections of the girl, but fellicitti arrived on the scene and won her away from him. idling about the vicinity of her house in one hundred and fourteenth street he had seen her and had fallen desperately in love.
then there was trouble, for cordi soon became aware of the defection which fellicitti had caused, and told him so. “you keep away,” was his threat. “go, and come near her no more. if you do, i will kill you.”
273 you can imagine the feeling which this conversation engendered. you can see the gallant antonio, eyeing his jealous rival through the long, thin slits of his shadowy, southern eyes. he keep away? ha! ha! vincenzo keep him away? ha! ha! if maria but loved him, let vincenzo rage. when the time came he would answer.
and of course the time came. it was of a sunday evening in march, the first day on which the long cold winter broke and the sun came out and made the city summer-like. thousands in this section filled the little park, with its array of green benches, to overflowing. thousands more lounged in the streets and sunned themselves, or swarmed the cafés where was music and red wine and lights and conversation. still other thousands sat by open windows or on the steps in front of open doors and gossiped with their neighbors—a true forerunner of the glorious summer to follow.
then came the night, that glorious time of affection and good humor, when every italian of this neighborhood is at his best. the moon was on high, a new moon, shining with all the thin delicacy of a pearl. soft airs were blowing, clear voices singing; from every window streamed lamplight and laughter. it seemed as if all the beauty of spring had been crowded into a single hour.
on this occasion the fair maria was lounging in front of her own doorstep when the lovesick antonio came along. he was dressed in his best. a new red handkerchief was fastened about his neck, a soft crush hat set jauntily upon his forehead. upon his hand was a274 ring, in the handkerchief a bright pin, and he was in his most cavalier mood. together they talked, and as they observed the beauty of the night they decided to stroll to the little park a block away.
somewhere in this thoroughfare, however, stood the jealous vincenzo brooding. it was evident that he must have been concealed somewhere, watching, for when the two strolled toward the corner he was seen to appear and follow. at the corner, where the evening crowd was the thickest and the merriest—summer pleasure at its height, as it were—he suddenly confronted antonio and drew his revolver.
“ha!”
the astonished antonio had no time to defend himself. he drew his knife, of course, but before he could act vincenzo had fired a bullet into his breast and sent him reeling on his last journey.
maria screamed. the crowd gathered. friends of antonio and vincenzo drew knives and revolvers, and for a few moments it looked as if a feud were on. then came the police, and with them the prosaic ambulance and patrol wagon—and another tragedy was recorded. antonio was dead and vincenzo severely cut and bruised.
and so it goes. they love desperately. they quarrel dramatically, and in the end they often fight and die, as we have seen. the brief, practical accounts of the newspapers give no least suggestion of the color, the emotion, the sorrow, the rage—in a way, the dramatic beauty—that attends them, nearly all.
