"Little Father, your pulse is wonderful to-day."
Father Fevdoroff thereafter dropped the Vasilenko affair. Ivanoff shrewdly refused payment for his cure. Mother Fevdoroff spread the news of the wonderful cure so well that the healer actually overworked himself every day feeling the pulses of his patients.
Hard work and heavy eating began to tell on Stephan. After a particularly heavy meal on a Christmas Eve he had an attack of indigestion in the house of a friend.
"Should we call a doctor, Stephan Ivanoff?"
He refused at first. Had he not denounced all the doctors as fakers! But when the cramps almost killed him he made no answer as the suggestion to call a doctor was made again.
The old practitioner of the district was brought to the well known quack's bedside. The doctor hoped that the news "the quack called a doctor when ill" might loosen the healer's hold on the people.
Ivanoff was breathing heavily. The doctor took the sick man's hand to feel the pulse. Suddenly the healer snatched his hand away, and with all the energy at his command exclaimed:
"Stop! You know who I am? Don't we know that there isn't such a thing as a pulse?" and he refused to be treated.
That indigestion killed Stephan Ivanoff.
The neighborhood says: Because there was not another man in New York who had met that holy man from Omsk.
HIRSH ROTH'S THEORY
The Bronx, between Claremont Parkway and Bronx Park, has known Hirsh Roth of the firm of Hirsh Roth & Co., wholesale and retail liquor dealers, for the last twenty years. He was there, a believer in the Bronx, when it was yet all rocks and farms, with a few scattered wooden shacks. He was there when the downtown people moved to the Bronx because the doctor said they needed country air and higher ground.
Roth saved up a few dollars sewing pants the whole day and eating herring with bread at night. His wife died of tuberculosis on such a diet after she gave birth to a man child, to Joseph, who is now the anonymous "& Co." of the father's business. Hirsh Roth moved to the "country" to save his own and the child's life. But, as he is a man with proselyting tendencies, he came downtown to the local of his union every Saturday night to persuade people to move to the Bronx.
He was at that time affiliated with a real estate firm, and sold lots and parcels to his former friends and co-workers. Many a fashionable house is now raised on ground he sold. Former pants operators own them. Half of Bathgate Avenue and Brook Avenue was populated by Hirsh Roth's efforts—ere he formulated a new theory: "The Bronx was becoming too populated." He then changed his business from selling real estate to selling liquor.
Many a man changes his business for material interest only. Not so Hirsh Roth. He always requires a theory. He went into the family liquor business to prevent drunkenness. "When a man has a little something at home he does not go to a saloon, that's the idea."
And all those years he boarded with his child in the house of a friend, a house builder. Hirsh Roth did not remarry; he had a theory for that also. "Marriage is a foolish thing a man should commit only once."
The builder, Feldman, had a daughter the same age as Joseph, Roth's son. Before either of the tots could utter an intelligible word, the parents had already affianced them. Dowry and everything else was settled between the two men, and a special glass of wine drunk to the health and happiness of the future couple. Then each went about his business with the feeling of a man who has cleared his mind of earthly cares.
The Bronx grew up in his arms, so to say. Early mornings he went to see how his "baby" developed. Every house was built under his eye. It mattered not whether it was his building or not. If he thought the style or the material was not what it ought to be he gave no peace to the owner or the builder. Many an architect's blue print had to be changed at his insistence. The depth of a foundation or a brick not properly fired had caused him many a sleepless night.
"Mazel Tow, Feldman; Josephson's house is finished"; or "They broke ground to-day on Berger's lot near Washington Avenue," were frequent greetings when he came home.
Fanny Feldman and Joseph Roth grew up together like brother and sister. They fought and quarrelled, and Mrs. Feldman made no distinction between her own and the stranger when she administered a deserved spanking. Then came the period when the high school boy hated even to speak to a girl. Joseph Roth refused to be seen with Fanny on the street, "because I am not a sissy," and thereupon received a beating from his father.
On some such an occasion he learned that Fanny was to be his wife.
"We are not in Russia!" he cried. "I am an American. We are in a free country. What do you mean by choosing for me a girl?"
He got another beating for his defiance. As he lay on his cot one night he made plans how to run away to the West and become a cowboy or something.
Fanny was a beautiful and clever girl. Though Joseph's behavior was very insulting to her, she agreed with the spirit of his revolt.
Of course Joseph was not to be compared with some of the young fellows she knew. There was young Reisin, who played the violin so beautifully; and that long-haired, almond-eyed Berger boy, who had several poems printed in newspapers—all the girls were after him. Joseph had no such qualities. He was not artistic. But she admired his spirit—in an abstract sense. It was so manly of him not to submit to the will of his father. He was an American, lord and master of his own actions, and not a slave or hireling.
Then one day Joseph disappeared from the house. The whole night the police of the Bronx and Manhattan were kept busy trying to find the sixteen-year-old boy. The next day his picture was in all the papers. On the third day he was brought back from Philadelphia, still an unrepentant sinner.
Did he get a beating? No, but on the next day his father took him to the store.
"No more school. You will help serve the customers."
Joseph was strong and willing, and was soon managing the business. But there was no day in which his name was not in some way linked up with Fanny's. For so many years Hirsh Roth had considered the matter of his son's marriage settled, that the unsettling of this plan was a calamity—as if a sure deal for a corner lot had fizzled out, or as if the very Bronx had failed in some way. The more he insisted the more the boy was steeled in his decision. He wouldn't even sit near the girl at table. He never even smiled to her; he snarled.
One day they were alone.
"Fanny," he told her, "they want to force me to marry you, and I don't want to—you hear, I don't want to, Fanny. I was never asked at all whether I want to marry you or not!"
"You are perfectly right, Joseph. They have no right to do that. We are in America. We are not in Russia. I like you, we will stick to our guns." And Fanny put out a warm little hand.
This short interview made Joseph happy. He had at least one ally; he could stand his father's importunities much more easily, though the parent presented the same stubborn opposition to his plans.
Then suddenly, Hirsh Roth told his son, "We are moving out from the Feldmans'. To do what he did to me, after all I did for him in all these years! I never again want to see a Feldman in my life," moaned the old man disconsolately.
That very night father and son moved in to Mrs. Josephson's.
For the first time Joseph did not feel at home. The Josephsons were very friendly people; Josephson never forgot he owed his fortune to Hirsh Roth's advice. But they were strangers. They called Joseph "Mr." Roth. Even the hot soup lacked warmth after that.
Hirsh Roth went to a meeting of his lodge. Joseph went out for a walk. He saw Fanny on the opposite side of the street. She was strolling leisurely with the young poet Berger.
He saluted her, but as he did so he remembered his father's moanings about the Feldmans. It made him feel very sinful.
The next few days Joseph surprised himself frequently thinking of Fanny; how she had shaken hands with him and become his ally on a certain proposition. The following evenings his father kept him busy in the store till late in the night. For a full month Hirsh managed to keep his son under his eye. He even took him to a lodge meeting. Joseph began to suspect he did it purposely to keep him away from Fanny.
He met her on the Elevated one afternoon as he had to go downtown on business.
"Hello, Miss Feldman."
"Oh! Mr. Roth, glad to see you again," she responded cheerily.
And they shook hands like old friends that have not met in a long time. They traveled together. He even went with her to a department store where she bought some notions. They talked about many things, and she managed to sell him a ticket for the next musicale of the synagogue.
"Will you be there, Miss Feldman?"
"Of course."
All through the winter they met here and there, and every time they learned to know each other better. It was enough that she should look friendly-like at another young man for his heart to beat faster and the blood to rise and rush.
Hirsh Roth never relaxed his vigilance over his son. Many an appointment with Fanny could not be kept on account of the older man. He wanted to know where his son went and from whence he came. From time to time he spoke about Feldman as of one who had betrayed him in the most rascally way.
Every meeting with Fanny now necessitated diplomacy, and was frequently espaced by weeks. The elder Roth grew thin and irritable as the spring approached. Joseph Roth planned many a time to ask details about Feldman's betrayal, hoping to patch up the quarrel. But he was afraid to complicate matters, to arouse suspicion.
One evening, late, as Joseph entered his room at the Josephson's he found his father waiting for him. The old man abused the boy in the most vehement way. It had been brought to his ears that Joseph had danced with Fanny Feldman at the last musicale.
"My son, my own son, danced with Feldman's daughter!"
It was more than Joseph could stand. How long was he to be bossed like that? His father had once chosen who was to be his wife, and now he was abusing him for dancing with whom he pleased. To his mind Miss Feldman was not at all the Fanny of a few months ago. Miss Feldman was the woman he loved, admired—the one he had chosen himself. Why should his father's dislike of her father interfere with his plans?
And it did not. He eloped with her a week later—eloped to Philadelphia on a paltry twenty-dollar bill, a week before the Easter holiday season began.
"We are married, Fanny and Joseph," he wired to his father two days later.
"Come home immediately, Mazel Tow," was the answer returned as fast as the wires could take it.
At the Josephsons' the young couple were told Hirsh Roth had again gone to live with the Feldmans. There Joseph found his father in the highest possible spirits.
"But why didn't you do it sooner, you silly boy? I almost ruined my stomach eating at the Josephsons. The thought of missing the good things Mrs. Feldman cooks during the Holy days almost drove me mad."
And turning to the beaming Feldman:
"Well, did I win a hat? Free choice, old friend, we have to give free choice to the world. But I almost died of a sick stomach waiting for the theory to work."
THE TRAGEDY OF AFGHIAN'S LIVING RUG
Somewhere between Madison and Fifth Avenues, close to the hubbub of Forty-second Street—the thoroughfare which is like a river flowing in many directions at the same time—you will find the store of Afghian, Mestre Afghian, the rug dealer and Oriental art collector.
Afghian would surely take offense at having his place called a "store," the chief objection to this word being his aversion to Occidental business methods—the system by which things are appraised in their dollar-and-cents value.
Afghian also is a business man. But to him rugs and topazes are rugs and topazes first, and do not represent so many gold pieces. He thinks and feels in terms of rugs, as did his ancestors hundreds of years ago on the plains of Afghanistan and Turkestan when they exchanged the product of their labor and love for the pearls brought to them by the poachers of Bahrein.
In the dimly lit square room hang beautiful examples of the work of the Tadjiks and Chiites, some in riotous colors suggestive and voluptuous, and others as though woven by hands of saints who had banished all earthly joy from their hearts.
And for every rug Afghian has a story, a story which he reads out of the web and colors, deducing the strangest possible details from the feel of the wool in a certain spot, and embroidering upon it till one thinks of the fabric as a living thing, freighted with a thousand passions and burdened with hatreds and prejudices as we all are—each one of us a stitch in the web of the universe woven by the great master on the loom of eternity.
On an afternoon I found Afghian seated in a corner and fingering some topazes. He was not alone. A portly man and a young lady were looking at the rugs displayed on the four walls.
I heard the two Americans speak about room measurements and color harmony with the furniture they possessed. They looked like sure buyers, and their appearance left no doubt of their ability to pay for what they wanted. As I looked at them I remembered the powerful car waiting outside—the liveried chauffeur and the footman in their gold bespangled coats fairly shouting the riches of their master.
Yet why was Afghian so cold? Why was he not at the elbows of his rich customers, persuading them, telling them stories, explaining values, demonstrating, cajoling?
He sat in a corner polishing some green-blue stones on the sleeves of his coat—his small eyes ablaze, the thin dry lips drawn inside, coiling himself like a serpent before the spring.
A few minutes after I had come in, the gentleman pointed with his cane to a large rug on the wall and said:
"What's the price of this one?"
"It's sold," answered Afghian, without lifting his eyes. And he continued to polish the topazes on his sleeve.
"And what's the price of this one?" the lady asked, pointing her white-gloved hand to a rug that I hoped to possess some day.
"Sold, also—belongs to this gentleman," he answered, pointing at me.
The two looked me over for an instant and left the store without the usual murmured apology from the dealer.
"Why did you say that the rug they wanted was sold? and why did you tell them that the other one belonged to me?"
"Because I don't want to sell them any rugs," he answered sharply.
"Why, have they not the money to pay?"
"Oh, yes, they have. They have gold enough to pave all the Avenue. I know how rich he is. But I would not sell him any of my rugs, for the same reason that you would not sell your work to serve as reading matter for a herring advertisement. As to the Turkestan rug, I was not lying. Some day, some day we will talk more about it."
I knew Afghian too well to press for further information. But it turned out he was willing himself to go on and talk without my having to urge him.
"Several years ago this young lady came to buy a rug. She was so beautiful that I could not think of anything good enough to lay under her feet.
"I have loved once; Yousouf Afghian has loved once, many, many years ago when I still bathed in the River Atrek in summer and climbed the mountains in winter. I loved a Circassian girl, and for her I had woven myself, of the best silk and young wool, a little carpet. The Afghians have woven carpets ere the rest of the world knew that there was such an art as carpet weaving; and of all the Afghians, I, it was said, could weave the finest.
"And in the carpet for my maiden I embroidered stories from Hafiz and Omar, the like of which have never reached the rest of the world. I hoped to see my work sanctified by the touch of Kizil's bare feet. But it was not to be so.
"God had willed that I should shed the blood of my own brother for her. God had willed that the curse of my mother should rest on my head. God had willed that I should flee my parental home and fields.
"When Kizil begged that she should follow me, I refused. My sins were too great. Should God choose to visit upon me His punishment, I meant to be alone to suffer.
"Every day I feed another man beside myself. And from this man I exact no labor and no thanks. And because I have deprived the Just One of his due I say the prayers for my brother twice a day. And to my mother I send compensation for my dead brother's labor. If I love you, a stranger, not of my own faith, it is because you remind me of my brother Kenghus—my dead brother.
"One day this young American lady came to buy a rug. And she seemed to carry with her the odor of Kizil, and her face was as soft-looking as Kizil's, and her eyes as warm and her feet as small. And all the modern clothes she wore could not cover the Orient that was in her. And there was that tang in her speech which comes only to the Levantine.
"It was the first time in all those years that God permitted me to forget Kenghus was dead.
"I went to the trunk and took out the carpet I had woven for Kizil. I feared she might refuse to buy it, so I offered her another rug and gave her Kizil's rug as a present.
"We shook hands, and at her touch I was young again, living again. As though the Eternal had in His greatness forgiven me my great sin.
"The following nights I lay awake thinking that her bare feet were pressing the young wool on the carpet I had given her; that she arose in the morning and read the stories I had woven for her, my own story between the wonders of Hafiz and Omar. It was as if I myself had lain under her feet.
"I hoped to see her again, hoped that she might want to see again the stranger who gave her such a carpet. And every time the door opened my heart sank. What would I not have given her to see her again! She had only to ask, or I only to guess. If I love topazes to-day, it is because of her eyes. And if you sensed an odor of violets and narcissus, it is because of her who reminded me so much of Kizil."
Afghian became very nervous. His hands trembled and his thin nostrils quivered like the wings of a wounded bird. He paced the room for a while, then putting his hands on my shoulders he cried out:
"Why should a man trade in the things he likes best? For generations the Afghians have woven rugs. At Pasargrades, in the tomb of Cyrus, lives the handiwork of one of the Afghians. Rugs and carpets run in our blood. You don't know what they mean to us when you buy them. We love rugs. We make them because we love them. Who can't make a rug should not have one. It takes five and ten years to make one. I remember how my father worked twenty years for what was to be the crown of his life. He offered daily prayers to the Eternal to allow him to live long enough to finish the work. Twenty years from a man's short life! Twenty years continual thought woven into one long unbroken thread. The limbs grow weaker, the hair turns gray, kings are unseated, and a man sits and spins and spins. Can such a thing afterwards be bought by another man?
"And therefore, I, who love rugs, I should trade in shoes and combs, in grains and sackcloth. How wise that learned man of your faith who made a living polishing glasses!
"Years passed, and I did not see the young lady again. Then, when I was least expecting it, her father came to me about a big rug that needed some repairs. It is long since I have woven myself, but I wanted to see her who reminded me of Kizil. I wanted to see my carpet. So I said it was necessary that I should go and see for myself what the damage was.
"Trembling I stood before her. I asked her about my gift to her. She looked even more like Kizil than when I first saw her. She stared at me for a few moments—she had forgotten all about it. Then she remembered something—yes, yes, she remembered that it did not harmonize well with the colors on the walls of the vestibule——
"I found Kizil's rug used as a doormat at the servants' quarters. A thousand heavy boots left their rub and dirt on it. On the beard of Omar, grease spots, and one eye of Hafiz burned out by the fire from a cigarette, as if done in jest. All my dreams a miserable looking rag—a few tatters.
"It was a lie! she never resembled Kizil in the least. It was the beginning of my punishment. Take, friend, those topazes from me, or I shall throw them into the street."
Youssuf Afghian kneeled down before an icon in the corner of the room and prayed fervently. Once for himself, and once for the brother he killed many, many years ago on the shores of the River Atrek.
BABETA'S DOG
She was only a little puppy when she was brought to Babeta's restaurant. And because Babeta has a literary turn of mind, he renamed her Ophelia when Sonori, the tenor, who knew more about dogs than about literature, said she was a Dane.
It was due to Ophelia that Babeta, the anarchist-communist philosopher, became very much interested in dogdom and learned to distinguish an Airdale from a Bulldog and a Spaniel from a Dane. They ceased talking about music and philosophy at Babeta's, and, though the Goyescas almost created a stir in the musical world and Bergson had delivered a lecture in Rumfold Hall, Babeta and his artist guests neglected such transcendental interests because of the change brought about in the direction of their thoughts by a dog, because of a little puppy they had named Ophelia.
Sonori discovered that Shakespeare, and not Verdi, was the author of "The Moor of Venice," and when the talk turned about the Scandinavians, many another musical celebrity heard for the first time the name of Ibsen or of Bjornson. And there was even a lonely man in the crowd who had read a story by Knut Hamsun, that greatest of all Scandinavian writers, whose tales have no equal in the world's literature.
In what strange surroundings Ophelia was destined to live!
Near Eighth Avenue, before Fortieth Street. The smell of garlic and tomato sauce warns the passer-by that the inhabitants are from Piedmonte, but on the street one hears the Irish brogue. The bales of cotton in front of the warehouses and the smoke from the chimneys reek after Liverpool, but the smell of rope, tar and fried smelts that comes from the wharves near by remind one of Fiume and Marseille, as the swaying masts and the spread-out sails outline themselves against the glowing sky.
And in such surroundings, back of one of the numerous saloons in which stale beer is served to drunken sailors and dust-covered longshoremen, is the celebrated restaurant of Babeta.
I have said already that Babeta is a philosopher, and were I to write about him and not about his dog, I could tell you some good stories about the interminable scientific discussions at a certain table in a corner, and the marvelous feasts at the tables reserved there for the two thousand dollar a night tenors and three thousand dollar a week sopranos. A book could be written about the decorations and friezes of the place, and only ignorance of culinary art would put a stop to what I could say about the food served at Babeta's. As to the wine—well, it's Chianti or Lacrima Christi, if that means anything to you.
But I have promised Prosper to tell the story of Ophelia. Prosper knows a lot about science and still more about art, but, because he is neither scientist nor artist, he is interested in human beings and dogs.
We all admired Ophelia. She was gliding graciously between the tables, and as she grew bigger she was frequently a medium of friendship between old and new guests. Hands met hands stroking her beautiful fur, and after an "excuse me," or a "pardon, signorina," the new guest asked the old one the name of the dog—followed an introduction, an invitation to the other table, after which Ophelia was slightly forgotten and Dante or Puccini was discussed for a little while. But Ophelia's steady place was near Babeta's table at the door.
In less than a year Ophelia was the personality of the place. She was big and stately. Her short morning walk was taken on the leash, one end of which was in her master's hand. Any casual courtesy paid to her by another dog during those walks was firmly and instantly checked by Babeta. She was a Dane, a pure blue Dane, and Babeta, the anarchist, the enemy of aristocracy, did not allow his dog to meet the common people, the free, common people of dogdom. Ophelia pulled at the leash once or twice, but, after severe reprimands, she made a virtue of necessity and passed haughtily by unobservant of any amorous advances.
It was Prosper who brought the great news. Ophelia was to be mated to a pure Dane owned by a captain, who promised to bring "Prince" on his next trip from Europe. And the news spread. People that had neglected the spaghetti and Chianti for weeks suddenly got a hankering after Babeta's place. Ere the week was over the unborn puppies were promised to two hundred people. Babeta had been shown the pedigree of Prince and was satisfied on this score.
I have already said that Ophelia was the personality of the place, but after Babeta told the story of her future mate, and promised pups to all that would listen to him, she became the most venerated personality. Sopranos with two hemispheres at their feet fed Ophelia the best sweets of the continent, and a justly celebrated baritone brought her a collar of pure silver, lined with costly fur. Nothing was too good for Ophelia, nothing too expensive for her.
From the river, a few hundred feet away, came the fog blasts of transport ships carrying thousands of men to a vortex of blood in which millions of men had already been crushed, pulverized and liquified to check the rule of aristocracy, but back of that saloon near Eighth Avenue, Babeta, the anarchist-communist philosopher, was expounding the virtues of pure blood as exemplified in Ophelia and Prince, the Dane to which she was to be mated.
Many were the bottles of wine drunk to her health and the health of her offspring. Babeta actually experienced the joys of fatherhood when he made arrangements with a veterinarian, the best in town, for the great day. In the most comfortable corner of the kitchen a place was reserved for Ophelia's litter. A new soft mattress and warm woolen covers were prepared and only the privileged ones were shown all those preparations.
"I want a male puppy," said Sonori, "because I want to call it Hamlet."
"And I want a female one and I will call it Flora," said Mlle. Marienta, the great lyric soprano.
Babeta was happy. Thanks to his dog, he had obtained higgedly-piggedly more flattery than he ever craved for his famous food or for his philosophical discourses.
"Ophelia, you good girl, come for a walk," and master and dog went early every morning to breathe fresh air.
But spring was near. As the days went by it seemed to Babeta that Ophelia was gradually losing her haughtiness towards the common people, ordinarily along the wharves.
The hundred and one mongrel dogs roving there followed Ophelia and her master and she pulled at the leash with more insistence from day to day. Once she allowed one of the dogs to come so near that Babeta felt the fangs of the mongrel as he drove him away with a kick. And Ophelia stood meekly by. Homewards she bent her head in shame as the master censored her.
"Shame, Ophelia."
Ophelia was ashamed. She nestled close to Babeta as he sat down to bandage his leg and looked up to him and whined. Only when the whining threatened to turn into a howl did Babeta give a forgiving sign. The following days the morning walks were taken along the avenue; the leash was brought up shorter, as a precaution, and all was peaceful again. But during the day Ophelia showed signs of uneasiness, and Babeta watched the door because she tried twice to slink out.
"What's the matter with Ophelia? She has refused chocolate!" asked one of the guests.
"She has probably had enough sweets," answered Babeta offhandedly, but his heart sunk.
A few days later, a street dog slunk in through the door of the restaurant. Ophelia got up from her corner to meet the stranger. Her master sprung up and kicked the intruder so violently the dog's howl could be heard from the street.
"You treat the common people pretty roughly, Babeta!" observed Prosper.
Babeta was angry with Ophelia.
"Shame," he cried, "shame," and drove her to the kitchen. "Away from me, away."
In vain Ophelia tried to make up to him. Her eyes begged forgiveness. But when it was not given she turned about and barked and howled in righteous indignation as it just occurred to her that she was unjustly treated.
"Wherein have I sinned?" she seemed to question.
Sonori and others wanted to pat her, but she gave fair warning by snarling and snapping in the air.
"What's the trouble with Ophelia?" Sonori asked.
"To the kitchen, go, go," and Babeta pushed her away.
That night, after the guests were all gone, the master spoke to the dog.
"I am ashamed of you, Ophelia. You behaved miserably. You a pure Dane to permit and accept the courtship of a low down street dog!—I am ashamed of you! Prince will soon come from Europe, and you want to associate with nondescripts that feed from garbage cans!"
Ophelia cried and whined and begged forgiveness, and was happy again only when Babeta allowed her to take the nightly piece of sugar from between his lips.
Yet Ophelia felt the misery of aristocratic loneliness. That streak of the dark blue sky she saw between the shutters at night and the snarling, howling and fighting of the dogs at the wharves caused her sleepless nights. It was early spring; the time when life asserts itself; when dog and man howls to the moon and snaps at each falling star.
That dog Babeta had kicked out so violently from the restaurant came nightly under the window of his belle and called, begged, serenaded and pleaded in even more heartrending tones than the tenor in Bizet's "Pecheur des Perles." And it was Prosper again who brought the astonishing news "Ophelia was stolen!"
It was Babeta's version of what had happened. The lattices of the shutters were smashed, the window broken and the dog gone. Babeta was the most disconsolate of men.
"Put in an ad and offer a reward. Announce to the police. Go to the depot of S. P. C. A."
Such were the advices. But he cared not. He remembered the pulling at the leash, the meeting on the wharf, the dog he kicked out, and he despaired. He had promised pure blue puppies. He had been so good to Ophelia. He had given her the best there was to be had. But she left him, ran away like a thief in the dead of night.
Babeta could not touch any food the whole day. That night, when the tenors and sopranos came to eat, they cried and mourned the great loss.
"Dio, mio, oh. Dio, mio!" they all groaned.
Babeta found Ophelia the following morning. He recognized her from a distance. His attention was drawn to a pack of dogs fighting over something or other. There were two different groups, and Ophelia, not definitely attached to either of them, was keeping on the outskirts of the skirmish, snapping and snarling at individuals of both parties. Oh, what a glorious free time she had! Her wriggling tail expressed the joy of life and its mastery. They were all afraid of her. She was stronger than any of them, and she was so happy—so happy and free!
"Ophelia!" rang Babeta's voice. The dog turned about and, seeing the master, she started in the opposite direction, tail between hind legs and head down.
"Ophelia!" he called again. She took a few steps toward him, and as he approached nearer she laid down in the mud, closed her eyes and turned her head aside. Babeta had not taken the leash along, but he held on to the silver collar to bring her home.
Babeta hoped against hope that he would still be able to give pure Dane pups to his friends, but in a few weeks the shame could no longer be hidden. He opened his heart to every one and told where he had found her and in what company. The guests who had patted her and fed her the best sweets no longer looked at her. She was pushed away from near the table. With bowed head she nestled close to her master, her sole protector and friend, but he repulsed her. He did not understand. He did not sympathize.
"Fui, fui, get away, shameless creature, to the kitchen."
The ones that were promised pups became harsh to her and everybody scolded. And one of them remarked:
"Look, she is eating from the floor."
It was the most evident sign of her downfall. Before her escapade she had never eaten but what was given to her in a plate; and never the rests from the tables, but food especially prepared for her by Babeta himself.
"Shame," they all yelled, "shame, shame."
When she lifted her pleading head to her master, Babeta, in a fit of anger, spat at it. "Fui, fui!"
In vain she waited for forgiveness. She longed for the nightly piece of sugar from the lips of her master. She stretched her neck when he passed her by in his inspection of the kitchen. But he did not even look at her. What terrible thing had she done! If he were willing to forgive her she would feel as guilty as he wanted, but since he was so harsh and insulting she felt only his cruelty and not her shame.
Outside her friend was serenading again. The door was not even closed. The master no longer cared with whom she associated. Among humans no friend was left—she understood that—the door was wide open. She could do as she pleased. She had lost her master. He will only scold and never pat again. She understood that, too.
"Where is Ophelia?" Sonori asked the next evening.
"She has run away and committed suicide!" Babeta announced. "Actually committed suicide. She understood she was disgraced. I called and called, but she ran away—she surely committed suicide!" and he was flattered that Ophelia cared enough for him to commit suicide because she had lost his friendship. Only Prosper knows.
"She has gone to the dogs," he said. "The day of aristocracy is over. It's the people now. You are either with them; howling, fighting, getting ruffled and bitten, or you have to isolate yourself on an island at the mercy of much worse—like that other great aristocrat—and Ophelia understood and made her choice."
At Babeta's table they talk again about molecular physics, phonolites, christalloids, music and art.
Dogs and Scandinavian literature are taboo. And every time Prosper enters the place Babeta feels uneasy, as though he owes him an explanation.
THE PROFESSOR
Orchard Street beams on Houston Street and ends on Canal Street, near the Manhattan Bridge. But this street is better known to our foreign population than any other thoroughfare, not excluding Fifth Avenue or even Broadway.
The reason for such renown is to be found in the reputation of Orchard Street as a market for everything under the sun. From before sunrise to late in the night both sides of the street are lined with double rows of pushcarts from which all sorts of wares are sold to the passer-by. From Houston to Rivington Street the space is exclusively reserved for edibles; meat, fish, vegetables, bread and fruit is sold in the open air by howling venders to bargaining customers, each one yelling his offer on the top of his voice; quarreling, disputing, cursing, using what is most spicy in the gutters of the street lingo.
There are also stores on Orchard Street, but they are used only as storage houses and for rainy days. Otherwise the owner of the store displays his merchandise on the width of the sidewalk, just leaving a goatpath for the customers, as they do in Calcutta, in Constantinople, or in Nijni Novigorod since all times. But the market of edibles ends on the corner of Rivington Street. From there to Canal Street, Orchard pushcarts carry merchandise of a different character. On one pushcart are four hundred dollar fur coats, water-bottles and furniture polish, and on the next one is a medley of all kinds of ten-cent jewelry sold for "only a penny a piece." And you never can tell what may be on the next pushcart. One day, silk shirts and the next day rubber boots or marble statues. At some other time "genuine" cut glass and a day later Syrian rugs, old coats, pants, socks, watches, soap, a phonograph, or, for a diversion, a player-piano is brought on the sidewalk and tried in the open. It is the good old Bazaar so dear to Eastern people the world over; the Bazaar which gives an opportunity to outwit, outbargain, and outcheat one another. The vender always swears by the heads of his wife and children that the merchandise costs him more than he asks for, and there is play and sport to let the customer go away and watch and recognize in his gait and the way he holds his head whether he expects to be called back. It is sport to watch him stop and turn his head to offer a few cents more. Then, the merchant makes believe he does not hear him. Sure that he had reached the bottom, the customer returns to the pushcart, fingers over the thing he wants to buy, pays, and is happy. One cannot purchase such happiness in a one-price store.
On Orchard Street lived Solomon Berman and his wife. They had no children. He was a Hebrew teacher. This does not mean that he knew Hebrew more than to read the prayers. But he knew enough to teach the children of the neighborhood the holy characters; enough to enable them to enter the common of men at the age of thirteen and become Jews among Jews; enough to keep them in the clan and retard the crumbling of the great rock of Israel.
In the neighborhood, Berman had a reputation as a very conscientious teacher and as a loving husband. It was said that he fasted two days a week, not because he was so religious, but because he wanted his wife to have more food those two days. She was very thin and ailing!
Early every morning Berman, in his long coat and slipper shoes, went into the street to do the marketing for the day. There was no pleasure in it for him; he never bargained. But surely no merchant ever made a penny profit on what Reb Berman bought—it was known how poor they were. The poverty of a Hebrew teacher is proverbial. Still, has that not always been so? Was it not even forbidden to take money for teaching? A teacher was only entitled to compensation for the time he spent with the pupil, but not for the knowledge he imparted.
Things went on nicely enough until Mrs. Berman took to her bed, meaning, that one morning she could not leave the bed. Her husband was the only one to attend her. They had no friends. The women of the neighborhood are helping their men till late at night and have no time for friendship, even on Saturday. The whole of the Sabbath is given to make up for lost sleep.
Reb Solomon Berman called the physician of the neighborhood. The young medicus advised the sick woman should be taken to a hospital, but Mrs. Berman would not hear of it. "What? Separate from my husband after thirty years' life under one roof!"
"But, dear, dear," pleaded halfheartedly Solomon Berman. "Leah, dear, maybe, maybe——"
Mrs. Berman used woman's most convincing argument: tears, and the hospital was no longer spoken of. The doctor returned a few days later. The condition of the woman had become worse. The house was untidy and there was no fire in the stove.
"Only in a hospital could she be saved," he told the distracted husband. But the sick woman would not hear of it.
"If I have to die, I want to die in my house, Solomon."
Meanwhile the pupils had a happy time. The teacher dismissed them as soon as they came in in the afternoons, after their school hours.
Reb Berman discovered that there were more than two fasting days in a week for a truly religious man. The druggist charged full prices.
The visiting physician was touched by the devotion of the old couple. He visited them twice a day and when he had a little more time he took off his coat and helped tidy up the house, and built a fire in the kitchen stove. He had no idea how poor they were, because as far as Mrs. Berman was concerned she always had what he prescribed for her. The young man did not know of the Sabbath clothes that were pawned and of the new fast days Reb Berman had discovered. He had refused to take fee for every time he came, but once or twice he had accepted a dollar bill Solomon Berman pressed in his hand.
He thought Reb Berman's heightened pallor was due only to worry and the physician exercised everything he knew, and even more, to get the sick woman on her feet. It took a long time; it took the whole winter to get the woman out of bed and danger. But the young physician was happy to have saved the woman's life.
Meanwhile Reb Berman's earning capacity had fallen to zero.
At first the parents of the pupils knew nothing of the daily dismissal by Reb Berman. When they finally noticed that the children were not forging ahead, they decided that the teacher had become slack in his methods. Thus the offspring of Orchard Street was sent to some other tutor, and Orchard Street always acts as a unit.
When the news had finally gone out about the teacher's wife's sickness, Mrs. Goldman was very sorry and Mrs. Schwartz sighed deeply, but Jewish children had to be taught Hebrew under all circumstances. It was the sacred duty of parents——
True, his wife was getting better, but Solomon Berman began to question himself whether he was doing all in his power for her!
That doctor who came daily, fee or no fee, to visit the sick one, was he really a good doctor? Was he not a little like Reb Solomon Berman himself? was it not possible that the physician knew as much about medicine as he, Reb Berman, knew Hebrew? just enough for the children of the poor? If he were a good physician would he not be in great demand, charge a big fee and have no time to come daily and help tidy up the room and build the fire? The old man's imagination was sharpened by hunger and worry. When his wife was finally permitted to leave the bed he drew a deep breath.
The doctor, who had meanwhile scented the terrible poverty, dared not offend the Rabbi by offering help. But when Mrs. Berman was convalescing, he called the husband aside and said to him: "She is all right now. All she needs is proper care, strengthening food. I know you can't give it to her. Here is twenty dollars. I want you to spend the money only for her, and may God help you." The doctor was so afraid of a refusal he hurried out of the room ere the old man had had time to think or speak.
About a week later the physician went to see his patient again. He found her in a terrible condition of weakness due especially to lack of proper nourishment.
"Man, what did you do with the money?"
"With that money, doctor, I called a bigger doctor, a Professor, a gentile, from uptown."
THE PURE MOTIVE
Down the East Side when one says "meet me at Grienberg's," he does not have to give street and number. To a certain class of people the place is as well known as the Waldorf or the St. Regis is to the rest of the population. Grienberg's food and wine needs no praise. Should one dare doubt the quality of the victuals the proprietor points out a few old men sitting at a corner table and remarks: "These men have eaten the same kind of food here for the last thirty years; and they are still alive."
But good food and good wine is not the only attraction of the place. Its main feature is that the brains and the heart of the East Side has formed a year-long habit to congregate there. The philosophies and the religions of the world are dissected nightly at a dozen tables. Between two sips of tea the literature of a century is ruled out of existence, or some tenth-rate poet is crowned as the world's unequalled singer. Editors of dailies discuss yesterday's editorial with their political antagonists and give their verbal verdicts to story writers about a manuscript read between the soup and the dessert. The very latest in the world's politics is pressed through the finest of sieves at every table. In such discussion the office boy of the newspaper, Joe, the waiter, and the owner of the place have equal rights with the editors and philosophers.
Meanwhile the musicians play Roumanian melodies, the latest vaudeville successes, snatches from operas, or some composer tries on the piano his latest melody while the poet, to whose words the music was set, leans on his elbow and listens attentively. The verdict is given on the spot and if it is liked, Katz, the music publisher, sends the manuscript to the printer the following day.
In such an atmosphere lived for the last ten years Joseph Horn. Up to five years ago he was the editor of a Yiddish radical weekly. His word was feared by every one. He smashed to pieces the pretentions of many a young writer. Many a play was taken off the boards of the East Side theaters because Horn happened not to like it. He attacked the strongest reputations and became strong himself by taking sides with the weak. But suddenly something terrible happened. He became blind. Superstitious people said it was God's punishment. His fiancée, a beautiful young Russian girl, took care of him during the first days. For a while he dictated to her his articles. But the fighting editorials of yore grew milder from week to week. He began to compromise. Began to see "honest differences of opinions," where he formerly saw only corruption and crookedness. He no longer attacked the strong. He ridiculed the weak. So he lost his job. The radical group owning the paper had no scruples about Horn's future; they had principles to defend and maintain which stood higher than the mere well-being of a lonely blind man. Horn, too, rose to the occasion and broke off the engagement with the girl. He was not going to keep her to share his misfortune. For a while he tried to write, to contribute to radical papers. But having lost the fighting quality, his articles were of no value at all.
He took a room not far from the café and came there early every day and left when the last guest had left. A brother of his, a street car conductor, who now supported him, usually brought him there and took him home. The psychological change in favor of the strong was so complete that one was almost sure which side Horn would take in a controversy. He was always with the strong. All the fighting ability he had once possessed became transmuted into a faculty for intrigues. Like a bee flying from one flower to another, Horn hopped from one table to the other, cross polinating what one man told and the other answered. He became a nuisance and was disliked by everybody. Yet no one dared say anything or lift his voice in anger. Since he had lost his sight his hearing had sharpened considerably. He could keep track of three or four conversations going on at the opposite end of the room from where he sat, seemingly engaged in conversation with the cat under the table. To the guests he criticized the quality of the food, to the editors the news writers. Five minutes later he urged the same writers to ask an increase in salary because the editor said they were indispensable. From his brains like from the body of a spider emanated daily a web of intrigues which enveloped every one the moment he entered the place. And everybody cursed fate that the man was blind.
Then one day a rich uncle of Feldman, the vers libre poet, died and left to the nephew a considerable fortune: five thousand dollars. A hundred friends counseled Feldman how to spend his money usefully. Some urged a new paper, others a new café. Old friends urged him to become their publisher and some public men wanted him to donate at least part of it to charity. Horn arrogated to himself the right to counsel the poet because Feldman had married his former fiancée. Horn was continually at Feldman's elbows. Whatever proposition was brought to the poet Horn ridiculed or explained away.
One day Feldman gave a banquet to all his friends. Among them were a few physicians, and one of them was an eye specialist. This man had once expressed an opinion that Horn's eyesight could be restored through an operation. When the gathering was at its merriest Feldman got up and pledged two thousand dollars to the physician who would restore to Horn his eyesight. The eye specialist accepted and named a great surgeon who would operate for the price. Every one congratulated the blind man and wished him good luck.
I knew how much Feldman had always hated Horn. Horn also had a strong aversion for the formerly poor poet. After the banquet I called the host to a corner of the room and inquired what had prompted him to such a charitable act; to spend half of his fortune on that scoundrel!
"Why, haven't you guessed? Man alive, it's now five years that I am burning with desire to punch Horn's face for a turn he has done me. But he was blind and therefore immune. I shall not be able to sleep until the operation is over. And if God is good to me I will wait for Horn at the door the first day he comes out from the hospital and punch him black and blue. You understand? I want to have the first privilege."