# Carmella Commands/Chapter 1

ome elusive something was holding back the sewing class from the mark which Mrs. Barrington had set for it.
That mark, as all who knew Mrs. Bar­­­rington could easily guess, was preëminence among the many activities of the settlement house. Preëmi­nence absolute and acknowledged. She had accepted the post of chairman only because Mrs. Whitman Rus­­­­sell had asked her. Mrs. Russell was one of those whose invitations are not refused.
But the class almost maliciously refused to prosper. Some perversity haunted it. Some spirit of ingratitude among these foreign women whom she was trying to help.
Sitting alone in the white­-walled room, from which her slender gathering had just been dismissed, Mrs. Barrington reviewed the problem. Being anxious, she was half-­angry. Being half­-angry, she thought swiftly.
Like a trained tactician in social matters, she knew that for every eﬀect there was a cause, and that in most cases the cause was some form of personal preju­­dice. ​Always, moreover, there was some one who knew—if only that some one could be induced to tell.
“Miss Sargle!” she called as the new superintendent of Hope House passed the door.
“Yes, Mrs. Barrington!”
Miss Sargle entered briskly, conﬁdent and smiling, as any graduate of any social service institute should do.
“What,” demanded the sponsor of the sewing class, “is the matter?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” answered Miss Sargle calmly.
To her, as it happened, the sewing class for Italian mothers was one of the least of the Hope House inter­ests. For years it had been the institution’s ugly duckling, kept alive only because Mrs. Russell, the president, insisted.
Although she was a recent comer to the house, Miss Sargle had quickly imbibed all the managerial preju­dices against the sewing class, which undoubtedly a graduate of a social service school should not do.
She could not be expected to know, moreover, its importance to Mrs. Barrington, sponsoring it at Mrs. Whitman Russell’s request.
“Why don’t the women come?” insisted Mrs. Bar­rington.
“I wish I could tell,” said the superintendent. “It’s hard to understand these foreigners, you know. And remember that the Italians in this district are not the ​newest comers—they’re complicated, somehow, by having lived here, and by their children who—who—well, you know, Mrs. Barrington, by the complexity of it all.”
“Complicated by its complexity is an excellent ex­planation, Miss Sargle, if we don’t want to do any­thing about it,” said Mrs. Barrington icily.
Miss Sargle ﬂushed. The institute had taught her more about classes than it had about sponsors.
She was beginning to feel cheated by her education, when she had a happy inspiration.
“Couldn’t Mrs. Scalzo tell you?” she asked.
Mrs. Scalzo was the skilled lace-­maker who actually taught the class under Mrs. Barrington’s direction.
“She might, if she would. But for some reason she won’t. I’ve asked her. So that is that.”
“Then,” said Miss Sargle, “I’m afraid⸺”
Mrs. Barrington cut through:
“Who is there around here who would know, and would tell, and talks English?”
“That’s a hard question,” said Miss Sargle, clasping her hands. “Probably it’s some indeﬁnite feeling—something hard to explain, even if they were good at explaining, which they aren’t. One would need long intimacy⸺”
“Aren’t you intimate with them yet?” demanded Mrs. Barrington.
“Remember, please, that I’ve been here only a few months. And there are a good many branches to the ​work. I haven’t had time yet to do much except with the children. And they’re the most important, after all, don’t you think ?”
“Miss Sargle!” Mrs. Barrington had a sudden in­spiration, not to be credited to any knowledge of, or any particular sympathy with, the women and children of Little Italy. Social leadership grows out of that instinct and stimulates it.
“Miss Sargle, who is the brightest Italian girl around here—not over ﬁfteen years old ?”’
“Why, there are a great many bright ones. That’s their characteristic, you know, to be bright. There’s—let me see—of course, I’ve not learned all their names—there’s Domenica—she’s sixteen, I think—but she’s bright⸺”
“Too old!” said Mrs. Barrington, decisively.
“Well, then there’s —let me think—there’s—oh, yes—there’s Carmella Kid Kate. At least, that’s what they call her. I don’t know her last name. I call her Carmella, but the children seem to call her Kid Kate. She’s the kind you mean.”
“How old is she?”
“Twelve, for a guess—or thirteen. She’s that size, though she’s so self-­conﬁdent that she seems older.”
“How near here does she live?”
“Over on Doty Street, I think. Not far, anyway.”
“Get her and send her here. I’ll wait.”
Mrs. Barrington settled down to further reﬂection, the interview over and its details forgotten. Miss ​Sargle was a means to an end. One does not remember such things.
“But⸺” began Miss Sargle.
“I’ll wait,” repeated Mrs. Barrington.
Miss Sargle went out, debating in her mind. She was alone in the house, so far as management went, and could not well leave it. Yet Mrs. Barrington was not the sort of woman one denied. She began to have new respect for the sponsor of the sewing class.
On random chance, she climbed the two ﬂights of stairs to the canopied roof playground. There was no class at that hour, but two small dark-­haired girls sat in a corner, reading books from the settlement library.
“Hello, Elena! Hello, Giulia! Does either of you know where Carmella lives?”
“You mean Kid Kate?”
“Yes,” said Miss Sargle.
The two girls stood, bright and well­-mannered. They were members of the Girl Scout troop that Hope House fostered. Giulia spoke:
“Sure, I know, Miss Sargle. Just over on Doty Street. In the yellow cottage there—just all to them­selves one house. Her dad’s rich, I bet.”
“What’s her father’s last name, Giulia?”’
Both girls shook their heads.
“I never heard it, Miss Sargle,” said Giulia.
“But—I mean—what is Carmella’s—Kid Kate’s—whole name ?”
“Oh! Carmella Coletta. But she’ll slap you if you ​call her anything but Kid or Kate. And she slaps hard, Miss Sargle, you bet.”
Giulia put her hand to her cheek, unconsciously. Elena giggled uneasily.
“Well, Giulia,” said Miss Sargle. “I’ll give you a dime if you’ll run over to Carmella’s house and see if she’s there. If she is, tell her I’d like to see her. Right away, quick! There’s a lady downstairs who wants to talk with her. But you just tell her Miss Sargle wants her right away.”
“May I leave my library book here, Miss Sargle?”
“Yes, yes, yes! But please run! And ask Carmella to run back with you.”
“By gollies, said der captain, if it ain’t it a emer­gencies wot it is,” hummed Giulia to herself as she tossed her book into a willow chair and dashed down the stairs.
Miss Sargle descended more slowly. And thought. Here was another eccentricity to be charged to Car­mella. Slapping other children unless they called her Kate. Yet the girl had never objected when Miss Sargle and other workers had used her Italian name. Strange child! Strange child!
“I’ve sent for Carmella,” she announced, looking into the room where Mrs. Barrington sat, still tense in meditation.
“Thank you!” said the lady absently.
Miss Sargle started for her oﬀice across the corridor, but turned to say:
​“By the way, Mrs. Barrington, her name is Car­mella—Carmella Coletta. But if she doesn’t seem to want to talk, try calling her Kate. For some strange reason she likes that name.”
“Thank you!” said Mrs. Barrington, gazing through the window.
And, as if uninterrupted, the sponsor of the sewing class resumed her mental analysis of the situation.
This settlement house work was out of her routine world—but were worlds so diﬀerent, after all? Per­haps old rules governed new problems. She had learned much of the philosophy of social stress through long seasons of charity balls and Grace Church fêtes and country club tournaments and carefully exchanged teas and dinners. Even Junior League politics was no unknown quantity, although she herself had been a quarter­-generation early for this manifestation.
But she had served a term as president of the Ash­ croft Circle, which ruled in days of old, until it grew too conservative and domineering for onrushing débu­tantes. The sewing class—she wondered if here again was something of the same problem. It was not attracting the younger women of Little Italy. She tried to picture Carmella in advance. Her own Margaret was hardly older than this unknown Italian girl, whom she was waiting to consult⸺
“Carmella”—a musically alluring name, yet one with strength in it. Curious for a girl with such a name to prefer “Kate.” Yet people chose queer things ​for queer reasons. Especially young people in these quick days.
Queer reasons! There must be a reason why the sewing class was failing. There always was a reason. Probably queer. But worth knowing. Where in the world was that girl? Mrs. Barrington looked at her watch, and frowned.
Down the street came Giulia, racing. Into the door­way of the stucco building, up the half-­dozen steps to the main ﬂoor, and to the left into Miss Sargle’s oﬀice.
“She—she—she’s—c­-c-­coming.”
“Thank you ever so much,” said Miss Sargle, smil­ing and reaching for her purse to ﬁnd the promised dime. “You’re all out of breath, Giulia. Is she com­ing right away?”
“Y­-y-­yes, Miss Sa-­sar­-gle. S­-soon as she c-­can walk. She w’wouldn’t run, like you said. I told her y­-you said.”
“Oh, very well, Giulia. I t isn’t far. Here’s your dime, and thank you.”
“Y-­yes’m. Thank you! I’ll use the money for ﬁre­works. St. Theresa’s Day comes next week, you know.”
“So it does, Giulia. Thank you for ﬁnding Car­mella.”
“Yes’m.”
Giulia started for the stairway to resume her book, but turned and peered into the oﬀice again.
“She Wouldn’t Run, Like You Said”
​“Sh-­she said, Miss Sargle, she’d be dannato if she’d run.”
And then Giulia panted up the stairs, clutching her dime. Miss Sargle rested her chin on her hand. Strange child! Strange children!
Presently Carmella calmly arrived.
Deliberately she turned from the corridor into the superintendent’s oﬀice.
“Good evening, Miss Sargle!” she said.
“How do you do, Carmella? You didn’t run with Giulia, the way I asked you to.”
“What’s the use? It’s hot. And you didn’t send word the cops were pinching the place or anything. I asked Julia very special. She ran back, but she’s an ignitz. You can talk English yourself, you know.”
“Yes, of course. But⸺”
“Well, then, you don’t need any help in a hurry, if it isn’t the cops. If it’s anybody else, they’ll wait for you. Get me?”
“I see,” said Miss Sargle. Although, in her heart, she didn’t. This was postgraduate work, and she had merely graduated from the social service institution. But she hastened to recapture the leadership.
“I want you to come in and talk with Mrs. Barring­ton, Carmella. She wants to talk with you. Come with me.”
“Who’s Mrs. Barrington?” demanded Carmella, spreading her feet and standing still.
“She’s sponsor of the sewing class.”
​“Oh, I heard of that dame. M’ mother knows her.Kind of high hat, ain’t she?”
“I don’t think so. She’s very pleasant. She wants to talk with you.”
Miss Sargle moved on, expecting Carmella to fol­low. Thus she had been trained. But Carmella stood ﬁrm.
“What’s she want to talk to me about?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. Perhaps about the sewing class.”
“I don’t know a blame thing about it, except that she’s high hat. Why don’t she ask Mrs. Scalzo?”
Miss Sargle started in surprise. The girl’s uncanny wisdom of things was—Miss Sargle searched her mind for the word—well, it was uncanny.
“I don’t know, Carmella. Come this way, please.”
“Oh, all right!”
And so Carmella Coletta met Mrs. Rodney Bar­rington.
Carmella Calmly Arrived