Shamed by Moisheh’s generosity, and embittered by the inadequacy of the sum, Berel’s mood of passionate pleading gave way to sullenness.
“Keep it!” he flung over his shoulder, and left the room.
§ 2
Berel’s thoughts surged wildly as he raced through the streets.
“Why am I damned and despised by them all? What is my crime? That I can’t compromise? That I fight with the last breath to do my work—the work for which I was born?”
Instinctively his feet led him to the public library, his one sanctuary of escape from the sordidness of the world. But now there seemed no peace for him even here.
“Money—money!” kept pounding and hammering in his ears. “Get money or be blotted out!”
A tap on his shoulder. Berel turned and looked into a genial face, sleeked and barbered into the latest mould of fashion.
“Jake Shapiro!” cried the poet.
Five years ago these two had met on the ship bound for America. What dreams they had dreamed together on that voyage—Berel Pinsky, the poet, and Shapiro, the musician!