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 +-----------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original | | document have been preserved. | | | | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected in this | | text. For a complete list, please see the end of this | | document. | | | +-----------------------------------------------------------+

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THE PROMISED LAND

 [Illustration: MASHKE AND FETCHKE]

 THE PROMISED LAND

 BY MARY ANTIN

 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS

 [Illustration]

 BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY The Riverside Press Cambridge 1912

 COPYRIGHT, 1911 AND 1912, BY THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

 _Published April 1912_

 To the Memory of JOSEPHINE LAZARUS Who lives in the fulfilment of her prophecies

CONTENTS

 INTRODUCTION xi

 I. WITHIN THE PALE 1

 II. CHILDREN OF THE LAW 29

 III. BOTH THEIR HOUSES 42

 IV. DAILY BREAD 60

 V. I REMEMBER 79

 VI. THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE 111

 VII. THE BOUNDARIES STRETCH 137

 VIII. THE EXODUS 163

 IX. THE PROMISED LAND 180

 X. INITIATION 206

 XI. "MY COUNTRY" 222

 XII. MIRACLES 241

 XIII. A CHILD'S PARADISE 252

 XIV. MANNA 264

 XV. TARNISHED LAURELS 276

 XVI. DOVER STREET 286

 XVII. THE LANDLADY 301

XVIII. THE BURNING BUSH 321

 XIX. A KINGDOM IN THE SLUMS 337

 XX. THE HERITAGE 359

 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 365

 GLOSSARY 367

ILLUSTRATIONS

MASHKE AND FETCHKE _Frontispiece_

THE GRAVE-DIGGER OF POLOTZK 24

HEDER (HEBREW SCHOOL) FOR BOYS IN POLOTZK 34

THE WOOD MARKET, POLOTZK 52

MY FATHER'S PORTRAIT 70

MY GRANDFATHER'S HOUSE, WHERE I WAS BORN 80

THE MEAT MARKET, POLOTZK 98

SABBATH LOAVES FOR SALE (BREAD MARKET, POLOTZK) 124

WINTER SCENE ON THE DVINA 144

UNION PLACE (BOSTON) WHERE MY NEW HOME WAITED FOR ME 184

TWOSCORE OF MY FELLOW-CITIZENS--PUBLIC SCHOOL, CHELSEA 230

WHEELER STREET, IN THE LOWER SOUTH END OF BOSTON 264

HARRISON AVENUE IS THE HEART OF THE SOUTH END GHETTO 288

I LIKED TO STAND AND LOOK DOWN ON THE DIM TANGLE OF RAILROAD TRACKS BELOW 298

THE NATURAL HISTORY CLUB HAD FREQUENT FIELD EXCURSIONS 328

BATES HALL, WHERE I SPENT MY LONGEST HOURS IN THE LIBRARY 342

THE FAMOUS STUDY, THAT WAS FIT TO HAVE BEEN PRESERVED AS A SHRINE 346

THE TIDE HAD RUSHED IN, STEALING AWAY OUR SEAWEED CUSHIONS 362

INTRODUCTION

I was born, I have lived, and I have been made over. Is it not time towrite my life's story? I am just as much out of the way as if I weredead, for I am absolutely other than the person whose story I have totell. Physical continuity with my earlier self is no disadvantage. Icould speak in the third person and not feel that I was masquerading. I can analyze my subject, I can reveal everything; for _she_, and not_I_, is my real heroine. My life I have still to live; her life endedwhen mine began. 

A generation is sometimes a more satisfactory unit for the study ofhumanity than a lifetime; and spiritual generations are as easy todemark as physical ones. Now I am the spiritual offspring of themarriage within my conscious experience of the Past and the Present. My second birth was no less a birth because there was no distinctincarnation. Surely it has happened before that one body served morethan one spiritual organization. Nor am I disowning my father andmother of the flesh, for they were also partners in the generation ofmy second self; copartners with my entire line of ancestors. They gaveme body, so that I have eyes like my father's and hair like mymother's. The spirit also they gave me, so that I reason like myfather and endure like my mother. But did they set me down in asheltered garden, where the sun should warm me, and no winter shouldhurt, while they fed me from their hands? No; they early let me run inthe fields--perhaps because I would not be held--and eat of the wildfruits and drink of the dew. Did they teach me from books, and tell mewhat to believe? I soon chose my own books, and built me a world of myown. 

In these discriminations _I_ emerged, a new being, something that hadnot been before. And when I discovered my own friends, and ran homewith them to convert my parents to a belief in their excellence, did Inot begin to make my father and mother, as truly as they had ever mademe? Did I not become the parent and they the children, in thoserelations of teacher and learner? And so I can say that there has beenmore than one birth of myself, and I can regard my earlier self as aseparate being, and make it a subject of study. 

A proper autobiography is a death-bed confession. A true man finds somuch work to do that he has no time to contemplate his yesterdays; forto-day and to-morrow are here, with their impatient tasks. The worldis so busy, too, that it cannot afford to study any man's unfinishedwork; for the end may prove it a failure, and the world needsmasterpieces. Still there are circumstances by which a man isjustified in pausing in the middle of his life to contemplate theyears already passed. One who has completed early in life a distincttask may stop to give an account of it. One who has encounteredunusual adventures under vanishing conditions may pause to describethem before passing into the stable world. And perhaps he also mightbe given an early hearing, who, without having ventured out of thefamiliar paths, without having achieved any signal triumph, has livedhis simple life so intensely, so thoughtfully, as to have discoveredin his own experience an interpretation of the universal life. 

I am not yet thirty, counting in years, and I am writing my lifehistory. Under which of the above categories do I find myjustification? I have not accomplished anything, I have not discoveredanything, not even by accident, as Columbus discovered America. Mylife has been unusual, but by no means unique. And this is the verycore of the matter. It is because I understand my history, in itslarger outlines, to be typical of many, that I consider it worthrecording. My life is a concrete illustration of a multitude ofstatistical facts. Although I have written a genuine personal memoir, I believe that its chief interest lies in the fact that it isillustrative of scores of unwritten lives. I am only one of many whosefate it has been to live a page of modern history. We are the strandsof the cable that binds the Old World to the New. As the ships thatbrought us link the shores of Europe and America, so our lives spanthe bitter sea of racial differences and misunderstandings. Before wecame, the New World knew not the Old; but since we have begun to come, the Young World has taken the Old by the hand, and the two arelearning to march side by side, seeking a common destiny. 

Perhaps I have taken needless trouble to furnish an excuse for myautobiography. My age alone, my true age, would be reason enough formy writing. I began life in the Middle Ages, as I shall prove, andhere am I still, your contemporary in the twentieth century, thrillingwith your latest thought. 

Had I no better excuse for writing, I still might be driven to it bymy private needs. It is in one sense a matter of my personalsalvation. I was at a most impressionable age when I was transplantedto the new soil. I was in that period when even normal children, undisturbed in their customary environment, begin to explore their ownhearts, and endeavor to account for themselves and their world. And myzest for self-exploration seems not to have been distracted by thenecessity of exploring a new outer universe. I embarked on a doublevoyage of discovery, and an exciting life it was! I took note ofeverything. I could no more keep my mind from the shifting, changinglandscape than an infant can keep his eyes from the shining candlemoved across his field of vision. Thus everything impressed itself onmy memory, and with double associations; for I was constantlyreferring my new world to the old for comparison, and the old to thenew for elucidation. I became a student and philosopher by force ofcircumstances. 

Had I been brought to America a few years earlier, I might havewritten that in such and such a year my father emigrated, just as Iwould state what he did for a living, as a matter of family history. Happening when it did, the emigration became of the most vitalimportance to me personally. All the processes of uprooting, transportation, replanting, acclimatization, and development tookplace in my own soul. I felt the pang, the fear, the wonder, and thejoy of it. I can never forget, for I bear the scars. But I want toforget--sometimes I long to forget. I think I have thoroughlyassimilated my past--I have done its bidding--I want now to be ofto-day. It is painful to be consciously of two worlds. The WanderingJew in me seeks forgetfulness. I am not afraid to live on and on, ifonly I do not have to remember too much. A long past vividlyremembered is like a heavy garment that clings to your limbs when youwould run. And I have thought of a charm that should release me fromthe folds of my clinging past. I take the hint from the AncientMariner, who told his tale in order to be rid of it. I, too, will tellmy tale, for once, and never hark back any more. I will write a bold"Finis" at the end, and shut the book with a bang!

THE PROMISED LAND

CHAPTER I

WITHIN THE PALE

When I was a little girl, the world was divided into two parts;namely, Polotzk, the place where I lived, and a strange land calledRussia. All the little girls I knew lived in Polotzk, with theirfathers and mothers and friends. Russia was the place where one'sfather went on business. It was so far off, and so many bad thingshappened there, that one's mother and grandmother and grown-up auntscried at the railroad station, and one was expected to be sad andquiet for the rest of the day, when the father departed for Russia. 

After a while there came to my knowledge the existence of anotherdivision, a region intermediate between Polotzk and Russia. It seemedthere was a place called Vitebsk, and one called Vilna, and Riga, andsome others. From those places came photographs of uncles and cousinsone had never seen, and letters, and sometimes the uncles themselves. These uncles were just like people in Polotzk; the people in Russia, one understood, were very different. In answer to one's questions, thevisiting uncles said all sorts of silly things, to make everybodylaugh; and so one never found out why Vitebsk and Vilna, since theywere not Polotzk, were not as sad as Russia. Mother hardly cried atall when the uncles went away. 

One time, when I was about eight years old, one of my grown-upcousins went to Vitebsk. Everybody went to see her off, but I didn't. I went with her. I was put on the train, with my best dress tied up ina bandana, and I stayed on the train for hours and hours, and came toVitebsk. I could not tell, as we rushed along, where the end ofPolotzk was. There were a great many places on the way, with strangenames, but it was very plain when we got to Vitebsk. 

The railroad station was a big place, much bigger than the one inPolotzk. Several trains came in at once, instead of only one. Therewas an immense buffet, with fruits and confections, and a place wherebooks were sold. My cousin never let go my hand, on account of thecrowd. Then we rode in a cab for ever so long, and I saw the mostbeautiful streets and shops and houses, much bigger and finer than anyin Polotzk. 

We remained in Vitebsk several days, and I saw many wonderful things, but what gave me my one great surprise was something that wasn't newat all. It was the river--the river Dvina. Now the Dvina is inPolotzk. All my life I had seen the Dvina. How, then, could the Dvinabe in Vitebsk? My cousin and I had come on the train, but everybodyknew that a train could go everywhere, even to Russia. It became clearto me that the Dvina went on and on, like a railroad track, whereas Ihad always supposed that it stopped where Polotzk stopped. I had neverseen the end of Polotzk; I meant to, when I was bigger. But how couldthere be an end to Polotzk now? Polotzk was everything on both sidesof the Dvina, as all my life I had known; and the Dvina, it now turnedout, never broke off at all. It was very curious that the Dvina shouldremain the same, while Polotzk changed into Vitebsk!

The mystery of this transmutation led to much fruitful thinking. Theboundary between Polotzk and the rest of the world was not, as I hadsupposed, a physical barrier, like the fence which divided our gardenfrom the street. The world went like this now: Polotzk--morePolotzk--more Polotzk--Vitebsk! And Vitebsk was not so different, onlybigger and brighter and more crowded. And Vitebsk was not the end. TheDvina, and the railroad, went on beyond Vitebsk, --went on to Russia. Then was Russia more Polotzk? Was here also no dividing fence? How Iwanted to see Russia! But very few people went there. When people wentto Russia it was a sign of trouble; either they could not make aliving at home, or they were drafted for the army, or they had alawsuit. No, nobody went to Russia for pleasure. Why, in Russia livedthe Czar, and a great many cruel people; and in Russia were thedreadful prisons from which people never came back. 

Polotzk and Vitebsk were now bound together by the continuity of theearth, but between them and Russia a formidable barrier stillinterposed. I learned, as I grew older, that much as Polotzk dislikedto go to Russia, even more did Russia object to letting Polotzk come. People from Polotzk were sometimes turned back before they hadfinished their business, and often they were cruelly treated on theway. It seemed there were certain places in Russia--St. Petersburg, and Moscow, and Kiev--where my father or my uncle or my neighbor mustnever come at all, no matter what important things invited them. Thepolice would seize them and send them back to Polotzk, like wickedcriminals, although they had never done any wrong. 

It was strange enough that my relatives should be treated like this, but at least there was this excuse for sending them back to Polotzk, that they belonged there. For what reason were people driven out ofSt. Petersburg and Moscow who had their homes in those cities, and hadno other place to go to? Ever so many people, men and women and evenchildren, came to Polotzk, where they had no friends, with stories ofcruel treatment in Russia; and although they were nobody's relatives, they were taken in, and helped, and set up in business, likeunfortunates after a fire. 

It was very strange that the Czar and the police should want allRussia for themselves. It was a very big country; it took many daysfor a letter to reach one's father in Russia. Why might not everybodybe there who wanted to?

I do not know when I became old enough to understand. The truth wasborne in on me a dozen times a day, from the time I began todistinguish words from empty noises. My grandmother told me about it, when she put me to bed at night. My parents told me about it, whenthey gave me presents on holidays. My playmates told me, when theydrew me back into a corner of the gateway, to let a policeman pass. Vanka, the little white-haired boy, told me all about it, when he ranout of his mother's laundry on purpose to throw mud after me when Ihappened to pass. I heard about it during prayers, and when womenquarrelled in the market place; and sometimes, waking in the night, Iheard my parents whisper it in the dark. There was no time in my lifewhen I did not hear and see and feel the truth--the reason why Polotzkwas cut off from the rest of Russia. It was the first lesson a littlegirl in Polotzk had to learn. But for a long while I did notunderstand. Then there came a time when I knew that Polotzk andVitebsk and Vilna and some other places were grouped together as the"Pale of Settlement, " and within this area the Czar commanded me tostay, with my father and mother and friends, and all other people likeus. We must not be found outside the Pale, because we were Jews. 

So there was a fence around Polotzk, after all. The world was dividedinto Jews and Gentiles. This knowledge came so gradually that it couldnot shock me. It trickled into my consciousness drop by drop. By thetime I fully understood that I was a prisoner, the shackles had grownfamiliar to my flesh. 

The first time Vanka threw mud at me, I ran home and complained to mymother, who brushed off my dress and said, quite resignedly, "How canI help you, my poor child? Vanka is a Gentile. The Gentiles do as theylike with us Jews. " The next time Vanka abused me, I did not cry, butran for shelter, saying to myself, "Vanka is a Gentile. " The thirdtime, when Vanka spat on me, I wiped my face and thought nothing atall. I accepted ill-usage from the Gentiles as one accepts theweather. The world was made in a certain way, and I had to live in it. 

Not quite all the Gentiles were like Vanka. Next door to us lived aGentile family which was very friendly. There was a girl as big as I, who never called me names, and gave me flowers from her father'sgarden. And there were the Parphens, of whom my grandfather rented hisstore. They treated us as if we were not Jews at all. On our festivaldays they visited our house and brought us presents, carefullychoosing such things as Jewish children might accept; and they likedto have everything explained to them, about the wine and the fruit andthe candles, and they even tried to say the appropriate greetings andblessings in Hebrew. My father used to say that if all the Russianswere like the Parphens, there would be no trouble between Gentiles andJews; and Fedora Pavlovna, the landlady, would reply that the Russian_people_ were not to blame. It was the priests, she said, who taughtthe people to hate the Jews. Of course she knew best, as she was avery pious Christian. She never passed a church without crossingherself. 

The Gentiles were always crossing themselves; when they went into achurch, and when they came out, when they met a priest, or passed animage in the street. The dirty beggars on the church steps neverstopped crossing themselves; and even when they stood on the corner ofa Jewish street, and received alms from Jewish people, they crossedthemselves and mumbled Christian prayers. In every Gentile house therewas what they called an "icon, " which was an image or picture of theChristian god, hung up in a corner, with a light always burning beforeit. In front of the icon the Gentiles said their prayers, on theirknees, crossing themselves all the time. 

I tried not to look in the corner where the icon was, when I came intoa Gentile house. I was afraid of the cross. Everybody was, inPolotzk--all the Jews, I mean. For it was the cross that made thepriests, and the priests made our troubles, as even some Christiansadmitted. The Gentiles said that we had killed their God, which wasabsurd, as they never had a God--nothing but images. Besides, whatthey accused us of had happened so long ago; the Gentiles themselvessaid it was long ago. Everybody had been dead for ages who could havehad anything to do with it. Yet they put up crosses everywhere, andwore them on their necks, on purpose to remind themselves of thesefalse things; and they considered it pious to hate and abuse us, insisting that we had killed their God. To worship the cross and totorment a Jew was the same thing to them. That is why we feared thecross. 

Another thing the Gentiles said about us was that we used the blood ofmurdered Christian children at the Passover festival. Of course thatwas a wicked lie. It made me sick to think of such a thing. I kneweverything that was done for Passover, from the time I was a verylittle girl. The house was made clean and shining and holy, even inthe corners where nobody ever looked. Vessels and dishes that wereused all the year round were put away in the garret, and specialvessels were brought out for the Passover week. I used to help unpackthe new dishes, and find my own blue mug. When the fresh curtains wereput up, and the white floors were uncovered, and everybody in thehouse put on new clothes, and I sat down to the feast in my new dress, I felt clean inside and out. And when I asked the Four Questions, about the unleavened bread and the bitter herbs and the other things, and the family, reading from their books, answered me, did I not knowall about Passover, and what was on the table, and why? It was wickedof the Gentiles to tell lies about us. The youngest child in the houseknew how Passover was kept. 

The Passover season, when we celebrated our deliverance from the landof Egypt, and felt so glad and thankful, as if it had only justhappened, was the time our Gentile neighbors chose to remind us thatRussia was another Egypt. That is what I heard people say, and it wastrue. It was not so bad in Polotzk, within the Pale; but in Russiancities, and even more in the country districts, where Jewish familieslived scattered, by special permission of the police, who were alwayschanging their minds about letting them stay, the Gentiles made thePassover a time of horror for the Jews. Somebody would start up thatlie about murdering Christian children, and the stupid peasants wouldget mad about it, and fill themselves with vodka, and set out to killthe Jews. They attacked them with knives and clubs and scythes andaxes, killed them or tortured them, and burned their houses. This wascalled a "pogrom. " Jews who escaped the pogroms came to Polotzk withwounds on them, and horrible, horrible stories, of little babies tornlimb from limb before their mothers' eyes. Only to hear these thingsmade one sob and sob and choke with pain. People who saw such thingsnever smiled any more, no matter how long they lived; and sometimestheir hair turned white in a day, and some people became insane on thespot. 

Often we heard that the pogrom was led by a priest carrying a crossbefore the mob. Our enemies always held up the cross as the excuse oftheir cruelty to us. I never was in an actual pogrom, but there weretimes when it threatened us, even in Polotzk; and in all my fearfulimaginings, as I hid in dark corners, thinking of the horrible thingsthe Gentiles were going to do to me, I saw the cross, the cruel cross. 

I remember a time when I thought a pogrom had broken out in ourstreet, and I wonder that I did not die of fear. It was some Christianholiday, and we had been warned by the police to keep indoors. Gateswere locked; shutters were barred. If a child cried, the nursethreatened to give it to the priest, who would soon be passing by. Fearful and yet curious, we looked through the cracks in theshutters. We saw a procession of peasants and townspeople, led by anumber of priests, carrying crosses and banners and images. In theplace of honor was carried a casket, containing a relic from themonastery in the outskirts of Polotzk. Once a year the Gentilesparaded with this relic, and on that occasion the streets wereconsidered too holy for Jews to be about; and we lived in fear tillthe end of the day, knowing that the least disturbance might start ariot, and a riot lead to a pogrom. 

On the day when I saw the procession through a crack in the shutter, there were soldiers and police in the street. This was as usual, but Idid not know it. I asked the nurse, who was pressing to the crack overmy head, what the soldiers were for. Thoughtlessly she answered me, "In case of a pogrom. " Yes, there were the crosses and the priests andthe mob. The church bells were pealing their loudest. Everything wasready. The Gentiles were going to tear me in pieces, with axes andknives and ropes. They were going to burn me alive. The cross--thecross! What would they do to me first?

There was one thing the Gentiles might do to me worse than burning orrending. It was what was done to unprotected Jewish children who fellinto the hands of priests or nuns. They might baptize me. That wouldbe worse than death by torture. Rather would I drown in the Dvina thana drop of the baptismal water should touch my forehead. To be forcedto kneel before the hideous images, to kiss the cross, --sooner would Irush out to the mob that was passing, and let them tear my vitals out. To forswear the One God, to bow before idols, --rather would I beseized with the plague, and be eaten up by vermin. I was only a littlegirl, and not very brave; little pains made me ill, and I cried. Butthere was no pain that I would not bear--no, none--rather than submitto baptism. 

Every Jewish child had that feeling. There were stories by the dozenof Jewish boys who were kidnapped by the Czar's agents and brought upin Gentile families, till they were old enough to enter the army, where they served till forty years of age; and all those years thepriests tried, by bribes and daily tortures, to force them to acceptbaptism, but in vain. This was in the time of Nicholas I, but men whohad been through this service were no older than my grandfather, whenI was a little girl; and they told their experiences with their ownlips, and one knew it was true, and it broke one's heart with pain andpride. 

Some of these soldiers of Nicholas, as they were called, were taken aslittle boys of seven or eight--snatched from their mothers' laps. Theywere carried to distant villages, where their friends could nevertrace them, and turned over to some dirty, brutal peasant, who usedthem like slaves and kept them with the pigs. No two were ever lefttogether; and they were given false names, so that they were entirelycut off from their own world. And then the lonely child was turnedover to the priests, and he was flogged and starved and terrified--alittle helpless boy who cried for his mother; but still he refused tobe baptized. The priests promised him good things to eat, and fineclothes, and freedom from labor; but the boy turned away, and said hisprayers secretly--the Hebrew prayers. 

As he grew older, severer tortures were invented for him; still herefused baptism. By this time he had forgotten his mother's face, andof his prayers perhaps only the "Shema" remained in his memory; buthe was a Jew, and nothing would make him change. After he entered thearmy, he was bribed with promises of promotions and honors. Heremained a private, and endured the cruellest discipline. When he wasdischarged, at the age of forty, he was a broken man, without a home, without a clue to his origin, and he spent the rest of his lifewandering among Jewish settlements, searching for his family; hidingthe scars of torture under his rags, begging his way from door todoor. If he were one who had broken down under the cruel torments, andallowed himself to be baptized, for the sake of a respite, the Churchnever let him go again, no matter how loudly he protested that he wasstill a Jew. If he was caught practicing Jewish rites, he wassubjected to the severest punishment. 

My father knew of one who was taken as a small boy, who never yieldedto the priests under the most hideous tortures. As he was a verybright boy, the priests were particularly eager to convert him. Theytried him with bribes that would appeal to his ambition. They promisedto make a great man of him--a general, a noble. The boy turned awayand said his prayers. Then they tortured him, and threw him into acell; and when he lay asleep from exhaustion, the priest came andbaptized him. When he awoke, they told him he was a Christian, andbrought him the crucifix to kiss. He protested, threw the crucifixfrom him, but they held him to it that he was a baptized Jew, andbelonged to the Church; and the rest of his life he spent between theprison and the hospital, always clinging to his faith, saying theHebrew prayers in defiance of his tormentors, and paying for it withhis flesh. 

There were men in Polotzk whose faces made you old in a minute. Theyhad served Nicholas I, and come back unbaptized. The white church inthe square--how did it look to them? I knew. I cursed the church in myheart every time I had to pass it; and I was afraid--afraid. 

On market days, when the peasants came to church, and the bells keptringing by the hour, my heart was heavy in me, and I could find norest. Even in my father's house I did not feel safe. The church bellboomed over the roofs of the houses, calling, calling, calling. Iclosed my eyes, and saw the people passing into the church: peasantwomen with bright embroidered aprons and glass beads; barefoot littlegirls with colored kerchiefs on their heads; boys with caps pulled toofar down over their flaxen hair; rough men with plaited bast sandals, and a rope around the waist, --crowds of them, moving slowly up thesteps, crossing themselves again and again, till they were swallowedby the black doorway, and only the beggars were left squatting on thesteps. _Boom, boom!_ What are the people doing in the dark, with thewaxen images and the horrid crucifixes? _Boom, boom, boom!_ They areringing the bell for me. Is it in the church they will torture me, when I refuse to kiss the cross?

They ought not to have told me those dreadful stories. They were longpast; we were living under the blessed "New Régime. " Alexander III wasno friend of the Jews; still he did not order little boys to be takenfrom their mothers, to be made into soldiers and Christians. Every manhad to serve in the army for four years, and a Jewish recruit waslikely to be treated with severity, no matter if his behavior wereperfect; but that was little compared to the dreadful conditions ofthe old régime. 

The thing that really mattered was the necessity of breaking theJewish laws of daily life while in the service. A soldier often had toeat trefah and work on Sabbath. He had to shave his beard and doreverence to Christian things. He could not attend daily services atthe synagogue; his private devotions were disturbed by the jeers andinsults of his coarse Gentile comrades. He might resort to all sortsof tricks and shams, still he was obliged to violate Jewish law. Whenhe returned home, at the end of his term of service, he could not ridhimself of the stigma of those enforced sins. For four years he hadled the life of a Gentile. 

Piety alone was enough to make the Jews dread military service, butthere were other things that made it a serious burden. Most men oftwenty-one--the age of conscription--were already married and hadchildren. During their absence their families suffered, their businessoften was ruined. At the end of their term they were beggars. Asbeggars, too, they were sent home from their military post. If theyhappened to have a good uniform at the time of their dismissal, it wasstripped from them, and replaced by a shabby one. They received a freeticket for the return journey, and a few kopecks a day for expenses. In this fashion they were hurried back into the Pale, like escapedprisoners. The Czar was done with them. If within a limited time theywere found outside the Pale, they would be seized and sent home inchains. 

There were certain exceptions to the rule of compulsory service. Theonly son of a family was exempt, and certain others. In the physicalexamination preceding conscription, many were rejected on account ofvarious faults. This gave the people the idea of inflicting injurieson themselves, so as to produce temporary deformities on account ofwhich they might be rejected at the examination. Men would submit tooperations on their eyes, ears, or limbs, which caused them horriblesufferings, in the hope of escaping the service. If the operation wassuccessful, the patient was rejected by the examining officers, and ina short time he was well, and a free man. Often, however, thedeformity intended to be temporary proved incurable, so that therewere many men in Polotzk blind of one eye, or hard of hearing, orlame, as a result of these secret practices; but these things wereeasier to bear than the memory of four years in the Czar's service. 

Sons of rich fathers could escape service without leaving any marks ontheir persons. It was always possible to bribe conscription officers. This was a dangerous practice, --it was not the officers who sufferedmost in case the negotiations leaked out, --but no respectable familywould let a son be taken as a recruit till it had made every effort tosave him. My grandfather nearly ruined himself to buy his sons out ofservice; and my mother tells thrilling anecdotes of her youngerbrother's life, who for years lived in hiding, under assumed names andin various disguises, till he had passed the age of liability forservice. 

If it were cowardice that made the Jews shrink from military servicethey would not inflict on themselves physical tortures greater thanany that threatened them in the army, and which often left them maimedfor life. If it were avarice--the fear of losing the gains from theirbusiness for four years--they would not empty their pockets and selltheir houses and sink into debt, on the chance of successfully bribingthe Czar's agents. The Jewish recruit dreaded, indeed, brutality andinjustice at the hands of officers and comrades; he feared for hisfamily, which he left, often enough, as dependents on the charity ofrelatives; but the fear of an unholy life was greater than all otherfears. I know, for I remember my cousin who was taken as a soldier. Everything had been done to save him. Money had been spent freely--myuncle did not stop at his unmarried daughter's portion, wheneverything else was gone. My cousin had also submitted to some secrettreatment, --some devastating drug administered for months before theexamination, --but the effects were not pronounced enough, and he waspassed. For the first few weeks his company was stationed in Polotzk. I saw my cousin drill on the square, carrying a gun, _on a Sabbath_. Ifelt unholy, as if I had sinned the sin in my own person. It was easyto understand why mothers of conscript sons fasted and wept and prayedand worried themselves to their graves. 

There was a man in our town called David the Substitute, because hehad gone as a soldier in another's stead, he himself being exempt. Hedid it for a sum of money. I suppose his family was starving, and hesaw a chance to provide for them for a few years. But it was a sinfulthing to do, to go as a soldier and be obliged to live like a Gentile, of his own free will. And David knew how wicked it was, for he was apious man at heart. When he returned from service, he was aged andbroken, bowed down with the sense of his sins. And he set himself apenance, which was to go through the streets every Sabbath morning, calling the people to prayer. Now this was a hard thing to do, because David labored bitterly all the week, exposed to the weather, summer or winter; and on Sabbath morning there was nobody so tired andlame and sore as David. Yet he forced himself to leave his bed beforeit was yet daylight, and go from street to street, all over Polotzk, calling on the people to wake and go to prayer. Many a Sabbath morningI awoke when David called, and lay listening to his voice as it passedand died out; and it was so sad that it hurt, as beautiful musichurts. I was glad to feel my sister lying beside me, for it was lonelyin the gray dawn, with only David and me awake, and God waiting forthe people's prayers. 

The Gentiles used to wonder at us because we cared so much aboutreligious things, --about food, and Sabbath, and teaching the childrenHebrew. They were angry with us for our obstinacy, as they called it, and mocked us and ridiculed the most sacred things. There were wiseGentiles who understood. These were educated people, like FedoraPavlovna, who made friends with their Jewish neighbors. They werealways respectful, and openly admired some of our ways. But most ofthe Gentiles were ignorant and distrustful and spiteful. They wouldnot believe that there was any good in our religion, and of course wedared not teach them, because we should be accused of trying toconvert them, and that would be the end of us. 

Oh, if they could only understand! Vanka caught me on the street oneday, and pulled my hair, and called me names; and all of a sudden Iasked myself _why_--_why?_--a thing I had stopped asking years before. I was so angry that I could have punished him; for one moment I wasnot afraid to hit back. But this _why_--_why?_ broke out in my heart, and I forgot to revenge myself. It was so wonderful--Well, there wereno words in my head to say it, but it meant that Vanka abused me onlybecause _he did not understand_. If he could feel with my heart, if hecould be a little Jewish boy for one day, I thought, he would know--hewould know. If he could understand about David the Substitute, now, without being told, as I understood. If he could wake in my place onSabbath morning, and feel his heart break in him with a strange pain, because a Jew had dishonored the law of Moses, and God was bendingdown to pardon him. Oh, why could I not make Vanka understand? I wasso sorry that my heart hurt me, worse than Vanka's blows. My anger andmy courage were gone. Vanka was throwing stones at me now from hismother's doorway, and I continued on my errand, but I did not hurry. The thing that hurt me most I could not run away from. 

There was one thing the Gentiles always understood, and that wasmoney. They would take any kind of bribe at any time. Peace cost somuch a year in Polotzk. If you did not keep on good terms with yourGentile neighbors, they had a hundred ways of molesting you. If youchased their pigs when they came rooting up your garden, or objectedto their children maltreating your children, they might complainagainst you to the police, stuffing their case with false accusationsand false witnesses. If you had not made friends with the police, thecase might go to court; and there you lost before the trial wascalled, unless the judge had reason to befriend you. The cheapest wayto live in Polotzk was to pay as you went along. Even a little girlunderstood that, in Polotzk. 

Perhaps your parents were in business, --usually they were, as almosteverybody kept store, --and you heard a great deal about the chief ofpolice, and excise officers, and other agents of the Czar. Between theCzar whom you had never seen, and the policeman whom you knew toowell, you pictured to yourself a long row of officials of all sorts, all with their palms stretched out to receive your father's money. Youknew your father hated them all, but you saw him smile and bend as hefilled those greedy palms. You did the same, in your petty way, whenyou saw Vanka coming toward you on a lonely street, and you held outto him the core of the apple you had been chewing, and forced yourunwilling lips into a smile. It hurt, that false smile; it made youfeel black inside. 

In your father's parlor hung a large colored portrait of AlexanderIII. The Czar was a cruel tyrant, --oh, it was whispered when doorswere locked and shutters tightly barred, at night, --he was a Titus, aHaman, a sworn foe of all Jews, --and yet his portrait was seen in aplace of honor in your father's house. You knew why. It looked wellwhen police or government officers came on business. 

You went out to play one morning, and saw a little knot of peoplegathered around a lamp-post. There was a notice on it--a new orderfrom the chief of police. You pushed into the crowd, and stared at theplacard, but you could not read. A woman with a ragged shawl lookeddown upon you, and said, with a bitter kind of smile, "Rejoice, rejoice, little girl! The chief of police bids you rejoice. Thereshall be a pretty flag flying from every housetop to-day, because itis the Czar's birthday, and we must celebrate. Come and watch the poorpeople pawn their samovars and candlesticks, to raise money for apretty flag. It is a holiday, little girl. Rejoice!"

You know the woman is mocking, --you are familiar with the quality ofthat smile, --but you accept the hint and go and watch the people buytheir flags. Your cousin keeps a dry-goods store, where you have afine view of the proceedings. There is a crowd around the counter, andyour cousin and the assistant are busily measuring off lengths ofcloth, red, and blue, and white. 

"How much does it take?" somebody asks. "May I know no more of sinthan I know of flags, " another replies. "How is it put together?" "Doyou have to have all three colors?" One customer puts down a fewkopecks on the counter, saying, "Give me a piece of flag. This is allthe money I have. Give me the red and the blue; I'll tear up my shirtfor the white. "

You know it is no joke. The flag must show from every house, or theowner will be dragged to the police station, to pay a fine oftwenty-five rubles. What happened to the old woman who lives in thattumble-down shanty over the way? It was that other time when flagswere ordered up, because the Grand Duke was to visit Polotzk. The oldwoman had no flag, and no money. She hoped the policeman would notnotice her miserable hut. But he did, the vigilant one, and he went upand kicked the door open with his great boot, and he took the lastpillow from the bed, and sold it, and hoisted a flag above the rottenroof. I knew the old woman well, with her one watery eye and hercrumpled hands. I often took a plate of soup to her from our kitchen. There was nothing but rags left on her bed, when the policeman hadtaken the pillow. 

The Czar always got his dues, no matter if it ruined a family. Therewas a poor locksmith who owed the Czar three hundred rubles, becausehis brother had escaped from Russia before serving his term in thearmy. There was no such fine for Gentiles, only for Jews; and thewhole family was liable. Now, the locksmith never could have so muchmoney, and he had no valuables to pawn. The police came and attachedhis household goods, everything he had, including his young bride'strousseau; and the sale of the goods brought thirty-five rubles. Aftera year's time the police came again, looking for the balance of theCzar's dues. They put their seal on everything they found. The bridewas in bed with her first baby, a boy. The circumcision was to be nextday. The police did not leave a sheet to wrap the child in when he ishanded up for the operation. 

Many bitter sayings came to your ears if you were a Jewish little girlin Polotzk. "It is a false world, " you heard, and you knew it was so, looking at the Czar's portrait, and at the flags. "Never tell a policeofficer the truth, " was another saying, and you knew it was goodadvice. That fine of three hundred rubles was a sentence of lifelongslavery for the poor locksmith, unless he freed himself by some trick. As fast as he could collect a few rags and sticks, the police would beafter them. He might hide under a false name, if he could get awayfrom Polotzk on a false passport; or he might bribe the properofficials to issue a false certificate of the missing brother's death. Only by false means could he secure peace for himself and his family, as long as the Czar was after his dues. 

It was bewildering to hear how many kinds of duties and taxes we owedthe Czar. We paid taxes on our houses, and taxes on the rents from thehouses, taxes on our business, taxes on our profits. I am not surewhether there were taxes on our losses. The town collected taxes, andthe county, and the central government; and the chief of police we hadalways with us. There were taxes for public works, but rottenpavements went on rotting year after year; and when a bridge was to bebuilt, special taxes were levied. A bridge, by the way, was not alwaysa public highway. A railroad bridge across the Dvina, while open tothe military, could be used by the people only by individualpermission. 

My uncle explained to me all about the excise duties on tobacco. Tobacco being a source of government revenue, there was a heavy tax onit. Cigarettes were taxed at every step of their process. The tobaccowas taxed separately, and the paper, and the mouthpiece, and on thefinished product an additional tax was put. There was no tax on thesmoke. The Czar must have overlooked it. 

Business really did not pay when the price of goods was so swollen bytaxes that the people could not buy. The only way to make business paywas to cheat--cheat the Government of part of the duties. But playingtricks on the Czar was dangerous, with so many spies watching hisinterests. People who sold cigarettes without the government seal gotmore gray hairs than bank notes out of their business. The constantrisk, the worry, the dread of a police raid in the night, and theruinous fines, in case of detection, left very little margin of profitor comfort to the dealer in contraband goods. "But what can one do?"the people said, with the shrug of the shoulders that expresses thehelplessness of the Pale. "What can one do? One must live. "

It was not easy to live, with such bitter competition as thecongestion of population made inevitable. There were ten times as manystores as there should have been, ten times as many tailors, cobblers, barbers, tinsmiths. A Gentile, if he failed in Polotzk, could goelsewhere, where there was less competition. A Jew could make thecircle of the Pale, only to find the same conditions as at home. Outside the Pale he could only go to certain designated localities, onpayment of prohibitive fees, augmented by a constant stream of bribes;and even then he lived at the mercy of the local chief of police. 

Artisans had the right to reside outside the Pale, on fulfilment ofcertain conditions. This sounded easy to me, when I was a little girl, till I realized how it worked. There was a capmaker who had dulyqualified, by passing an examination and paying for his trade papers, to live in a certain city. The chief of police suddenly took it intohis head to impeach the genuineness of his papers. The capmaker wasobliged to travel to St. Petersburg, where he had qualified in thefirst place, to repeat the examination. He spent the savings of yearsin petty bribes, trying to hasten the process, but was detained tenmonths by bureaucratic red tape. When at length he returned to hishome town, he found a new chief of police, installed during hisabsence, who discovered a new flaw in the papers he had just obtained, and expelled him from the city. If he came to Polotzk, there were theneleven capmakers where only one could make a living. 

Merchants fared like the artisans. They, too, could buy the right ofresidence outside the Pale, permanent or temporary, on conditions thatgave them no real security. I was proud to have an uncle who was amerchant of the First Guild, but it was very expensive for my uncle. He had to pay so much a year for the title, and a certain percentageon the profits from his business. This gave him the right to travel onbusiness outside the Pale, twice a year, for not more than six monthsin all. If he were found outside the Pale after his permit expired, hehad to pay a fine that exceeded all he had gained by his journey, perhaps. I used to picture my uncle on his Russian travels, hurrying, hurrying to finish his business in the limited time; while a policemanmarched behind him, ticking off the days and counting up the hours. That was a foolish fancy, but some of the things that were done inRussia really were very funny. 

There were things in Polotzk that made you laugh with one eye and weepwith the other, like a clown. During an epidemic of cholera, the cityofficials, suddenly becoming energetic, opened stations for thedistribution of disinfectants to the people. A quarter of thepopulation was dead when they began, and most of the dead were buried, while some lay decaying in deserted houses. The survivors, some ofthem crazy from horror, stole through the empty streets, avoiding oneanother, till they came to the appointed stations, where they pushedand crowded to get their little bottles of carbolic acid. Many diedfrom fear in those horrible days, but some must have died fromlaughter. For only the Gentiles were allowed to receive thedisinfectant. Poor Jews who had nothing but their new-made graves weredriven away from the stations. 

Perhaps it was wrong of us to think of our Gentile neighbors as adifferent species of beings from ourselves, but such madness as thatdid not help to make them more human in our eyes. It was easier to befriends with the beasts in the barn than with some of the Gentiles. The cow and the goat and the cat responded to kindness, andremembered which of the housemaids was generous and which was cross. The Gentiles made no distinctions. A Jew was a Jew, to be hated andspat upon and used spitefully. 

The only Gentiles, besides the few of the intelligent kind, who didnot habitually look upon us with hate and contempt, were the stupidpeasants from the country, who were hardly human themselves. Theylived in filthy huts together with their swine, and all they cared forwas how to get something to eat. It was not their fault. The land lawsmade them so poor that they had to sell themselves to fill theirbellies. What help was there for us in the good will of such wretchedslaves? For a cask of vodka you could buy up a whole village of them. They trembled before the meanest townsman, and at a sign from along-haired priest they would sharpen their axes against us. 

The Gentiles had their excuse for their malice. They said ourmerchants and money-lenders preyed upon them, and our shopkeepers gavefalse measure. People who want to defend the Jews ought never to denythis. Yes, I say, we cheated the Gentiles whenever we dared, becauseit was the only thing to do. Remember how the Czar was always sendingus commands, --you shall not do this and you shall not do that, untilthere was little left that we might honestly do, except pay tributeand die. There he had us cooped up, thousands of us where onlyhundreds could live, and every means of living taxed to the utmost. When there are too many wolves in the prairie, they begin to prey uponeach other. We starving captives of the Pale--we did as do the hungrybrutes. But our humanity showed in our discrimination between ourvictims. Whenever we could, we spared our own kind, directing againstour racial foes the cunning wiles which our bitter need invented. Isnot that the code of war? Encamped in the midst of the enemy, we couldpractice no other. A Jew could hardly exist in business unless hedeveloped a dual conscience, which allowed him to do to the Gentilewhat he would call a sin against a fellow Jew. Such spiritualdeformities are self-explained in the step-children of the Czar. Aglance over the statutes of the Pale leaves you wondering that theRussian Jews have not lost all semblance to humanity. 

 [Illustration: THE GRAVE DIGGER OF POLOTZK]

A favorite complaint against us was that we were greedy for gold. Whycould not the Gentiles see the whole truth where they saw half? Greedyfor profits we were, eager for bargains, for savings, intent onsqueezing the utmost out of every business transaction. But why? Didnot the Gentiles know the reason? Did they not know what price we hadto pay for the air we breathed? If a Jew and a Gentile kept store sideby side, the Gentile could content himself with smaller profits. Hedid not have to buy permission to travel in the interests of hisbusiness. He did not have to pay three hundred rubles fine if his sonevaded military service. He was saved the expense of hushing incitersof pogroms. Police favor was retailed at a lower price to him than tothe Jew. His nature did not compel him to support schools andcharities. It cost nothing to be a Christian; on the contrary, itbrought rewards and immunities. To be a Jew was a costly luxury, theprice of which was either money or blood. Is it any wonder that wehoarded our pennies? What his shield is to the soldier in battle, thatwas the ruble to the Jew in the Pale. 

The knowledge of such things as I am telling leaves marks upon theflesh and spirit. I remember little children in Polotzk with old, oldfaces and eyes glazed with secrets. I knew how to dodge and cringe anddissemble before I knew the names of the seasons. And I had plenty oftime to ponder on these things, because I was so idle. If they had letme go to school, now--But of course they didn't. 

There was no free school for girls, and even if your parents were richenough to send you to a private school, you could not go very far. Atthe high school, which was under government control, Jewish childrenwere admitted in limited numbers, --only ten to every hundred, --andeven if you were among the lucky ones, you had your troubles. Thetutor who prepared you talked all the time about the examinations youwould have to pass, till you were scared. You heard on all sides thatthe brightest Jewish children were turned down if the examiningofficers did not like the turn of their noses. You went up to beexamined with the other Jewish children, your heart heavy about thatmatter of your nose. There was a special examination for the Jewishcandidates, of course; a nine-year-old Jewish child had to answerquestions that a thirteen-year-old Gentile was hardly expected tounderstand. But that did not matter so much. You had been prepared forthe thirteen-year-old test; you found the questions quite easy. Youwrote your answers triumphantly--and you received a low rating, andthere was no appeal. 

I used to stand in the doorway of my father's store, munching an applethat did not taste good any more, and watch the pupils going home fromschool in twos and threes; the girls in neat brown dresses and blackaprons and little stiff hats, the boys in trim uniforms with manybuttons. They had ever so many books in the satchels on their backs. They would take them out at home, and read and write, and learn allsorts of interesting things. They looked to me like beings fromanother world than mine. But those whom I envied had their owntroubles, as I often heard. Their school life was one struggle againstinjustice from instructors, spiteful treatment from fellow students, and insults from everybody. Those who, by heroic efforts andtranscendent good luck, successfully finished the course, foundthemselves against a new wall, if they wished to go on. They wereturned down at the universities, which admitted them in the ratio ofthree Jews to a hundred Gentiles, under the same debarring entranceconditions as at the high school, --especially rigorous examinations, dishonest marking, or arbitrary rulings without disguise. No, the Czardid not want us in the schools. 

I heard from my mother of a different state of affairs, at the timewhen her brothers were little boys. The Czar of those days had abright idea. He said to his ministers: "Let us educate the people. Letus win over those Jews through the public schools, instead of allowingthem to persist in their narrow Hebrew learning, which teaches them nolove for their monarch. Force has failed with them; the unwillingconverts return to their old ways whenever they dare. Let us tryeducation. "

Perhaps peaceable conversion of the Jews was not the Czar's onlymotive when he opened public schools everywhere and compelled parentsto send their boys for instruction. Perhaps he just wanted to be good, and really hoped to benefit the country. But to the Jews the publicschools appeared as a trap door to the abyss of apostasy. Theinstructors were always Christians, the teaching was Christian, andthe regulations of the schoolroom, as to hours, costume, and manners, were often in opposition to Jewish practices. The public schoolinterrupted the boy's sacred studies in the Hebrew school. Where wouldyou look for pious Jews, after a few generations of boys brought up byChristian teachers? Plainly the Czar was after the souls of the Jewishchildren. The church door gaped for them at the end of the schoolcourse. And all good Jews rose up against the schools, and by everymeans, fair or foul, kept their boys away. The official appointed tokeep the register of boys for school purposes waxed rich on the bribespaid him by anxious parents who kept their sons in hiding. 

After a while the wise Czar changed his mind, or he died, --probably hedid both, --and the schools were closed, and the Jewish boys perusedtheir Hebrew books in peace, wearing the sacred fringes[1] in plainsight, and never polluting their mouths with a word of Russian. 

And then it was the Jews who changed their minds--some of them. Theywanted to send their children to school, to learn histories andsciences, because they had discovered that there was good in suchthings as well as in the Sacred Law. These people were calledprogressive, but they had no chance to progress. All the czars thatcame along persisted in the old idea, that for the Jew no door shouldbe opened, --no door out of the Pale, no door out of their mediævalism. 

FOOTNOTES:

[1] A four-cornered cloth with specially prepared fringes is worn bypious males under the outer garments, but with, the fringes showing. The latter play a part in the daily ritual. 

CHAPTER II

CHILDREN OF THE LAW

As I look back to-day I see, within the wall raised around mybirthplace by the vigilance of the police, another wall, higher, thicker, more impenetrable. This is the wall which the Czar with allhis minions could not shake, the priests with their instruments oftorture could not pierce, the mob with their firebrands could notdestroy. This wall within the wall is the religious integrity of theJews, a fortress erected by the prisoners of the Pale, in defiance oftheir jailers; a stronghold built of the ruins of their pillagedhomes, cemented with the blood of their murdered children. 

Harassed on every side, thwarted in every normal effort, pent upwithin narrow limits, all but dehumanized, the Russian Jew fell backupon the only thing that never failed him, --his hereditary faith inGod. In the study of the Torah he found the balm for all his wounds;the minute observance of traditional rites became the expression ofhis spiritual cravings; and in the dream of a restoration to Palestinehe forgot the world. 

What did it matter to us, on a Sabbath or festival, when our life wascentred in the synagogue, what czar sat on the throne, what evilcounsellors whispered in his ear? They were concerned with revenuesand policies and ephemeral trifles of all sorts, while we were intenton renewing our ancient covenant with God, to the end that His promiseto the world should be fulfilled, and His justice overwhelm thenations. 

On a Friday afternoon the stores and markets closed early. The clatterof business ceased, the dust of worry was laid, and the Sabbath peaceflooded the quiet streets. No hovel so mean but what its casement sentout its consecrated ray, so that a wayfarer passing in the twilightsaw the spirit of God brooding over the lowly roof. 

Care and fear and shrewishness dropped like a mask from every face. Eyes dimmed with weeping kindled with inmost joy. Wherever a head bentover a sacred page, there rested the halo of God's presence. 

Not on festivals alone, but also on the common days of the week, welived by the Law that had been given us through our teacher Moses. Howto eat, how to bathe, how to work--everything had been written downfor us, and we strove to fulfil the Law. The study of the Torah wasthe most honored of all occupations, and they who engaged in it themost revered of all men. 

My memory does not go back to a time when I was too young to know thatGod had made the world, and had appointed teachers to tell the peoplehow to live in it. First came Moses, and after him the great rabbis, and finally the Rav of Polotzk, who read all day in the sacred books, so that he could tell me and my parents and my friends what to dowhenever we were in doubt. If my mother cut up a chicken and foundsomething wrong in it, --some hurt or mark that should not be, --shesent the housemaid with it to the rav, and I ran along, and saw therav look in his big books; and whatever he decided was right. If hecalled the chicken "trefah" I must not eat of it; no, not if I had tostarve. And the rav knew about everything: about going on a journey, about business, about marrying, about purifying vessels for Passover. 

Another great teacher was the dayyan, who heard people's quarrels andsettled them according to the Law, so that they should not have to goto the Gentile courts. The Gentiles were false, judges and witnessesand all. They favored the rich man against the poor, the Christianagainst the Jew. The dayyan always gave true judgments. NohemRabinovitch, the richest man in Polotzk, could not win a case againsta servant maid, unless he were in the right. 

Besides the rav and the dayyan there were other men whose callingswere holy, --the shohat, who knew how cattle and fowls should bekilled; the hazzan and the other officers of the synagogue; theteachers of Hebrew, and their pupils. It did not matter how poor a manwas, he was to be respected and set above other men, if he werelearned in the Law. 

In the synagogue scores of men sat all day long over the Hebrew books, studying and disputing from early dawn till candles were brought in atnight, and then as long as the candles lasted. They could not taketime for anything else, if they meant to become great scholars. Mostof them were strangers in Polotzk, and had no home except thesynagogue. They slept on benches, on tables, on the floor; they pickedup their meals wherever they could. They had come from distant cities, so as to be under good teachers in Polotzk; and the townspeople wereproud to support them by giving them food and clothing and sometimesmoney to visit their homes on holidays. But the poor students came insuch numbers that there were not enough rich families to provide forall, so that some of them suffered privation. You could pick out apoor student in a crowd, by his pale face and shrunken form. 

There was almost always a poor student taking meals at our house. Hewas assigned a certain day, and on that day my grandmother took careto have something especially good for dinner. It was a very shabbyguest who sat down with us at table, but we children watched him withrespectful eyes. Grandmother had told us that he was a lamden(scholar), and we saw something holy in the way he ate his cabbage. 

Not every man could hope to be a rav, but no Jewish boy was allowed togrow up without at least a rudimentary knowledge of Hebrew. Thescantiest income had to be divided so as to provide for the boys'tuition. To leave a boy without a teacher was a disgrace upon thewhole family, to the remotest relative. For the children of thedestitute there was a free school, supported by the charity of thepious. And so every boy was sent to heder (Hebrew school) almost assoon as he could speak; and usually he continued to study until hisconfirmation, at thirteen years of age, or as much longer as histalent and ambition carried him. My brother was five years old when heentered on his studies. He was carried to the heder, on the first day, covered over with a praying-shawl, so that nothing unholy should lookon him; and he was presented with a bun, on which were traced, inhoney, these words: "The Torah left by Moses is the heritage of thechildren of Jacob. "

After a boy entered heder, he was the hero of the family. He wasserved before the other children at table, and nothing was too goodfor him. If the family were very poor, all the girls might gobarefoot, but the heder boy must have shoes; he must have a plate ofhot soup, though the others ate dry bread. When the rebbe (teacher)came on Sabbath afternoon, to examine the boy in the hearing of thefamily, everybody sat around the table and nodded with satisfaction, if he read his portion well; and he was given a great saucerful ofpreserves, and was praised, and blessed, and made much of. No wonderhe said, in his morning prayer, "I thank Thee, Lord, for not havingcreated me a female. " It was not much to be a girl, you see. Girlscould not be scholars and rabbonim. 

I went to my brother's heder, sometimes, to bring him his dinner, andsaw how the boys studied. They sat on benches around the table, withtheir hats on, of course, and the sacred fringes hanging beneath theirjackets. The rebbe sat at an end of the table, rehearsing two or threeof the boys who were studying the same part, pointing out the wordswith his wooden pointer, so as not to lose the place. Everybody readaloud, the smallest boys repeating the alphabet in a sing-song, whilethe advanced boys read their portions in a different sing-song; andeverybody raised his voice to its loudest so as to drown the othervoices. The good boys never took their eyes off their page, except toask the rebbe a question; but the naughty boys stared around the room, and kicked each other under the table, till the rebbe caught them atit. He had a ruler for striking the bad boys on the knuckles, and in acorner of the room leaned a long birch wand for pupils who would notlearn their lessons. 

The boys came to heder before nine in the morning, and remained untileight or nine in the evening. Stupid pupils, who could not rememberthe lesson, sometimes had to stay till ten. There was an hour fordinner and play at noon. Good little boys played quietly in theirplaces, but most of the boys ran out of the house and jumped andyelled and quarrelled. 

There was nothing in what the boys did in heder that I could not havedone--if I had not been a girl. For a girl it was enough if she couldread her prayers in Hebrew, and follow the meaning by the Yiddishtranslation at the bottom of the page. It did not take long to learnthis much, --a couple of terms with a rebbetzin (female teacher), --andafter that she was done with books. 

A girl's real schoolroom was her mother's kitchen. There she learnedto bake and cook and manage, to knit, sew, and embroider; also to spinand weave, in country places. And while her hands were busy, hermother instructed her in the laws regulating a pious Jewish householdand in the conduct proper for a Jewish wife; for, of course, everygirl hoped to be a wife. A girl was born for no other purpose. 

How soon it came, the pious burden of wifehood! One day the girl isplaying forfeits with her laughing friends, the next day she is missedfrom the circle. She has been summoned to a conference with theshadchan (marriage broker), who has been for months past advertisingher housewifely talents, her piety, her good looks, and her marriageportion, among families with marriageable sons. Her parents arepleased with the son-in-law proposed by the shadchan, and now, at thelast, the girl is brought in, to be examined and appraised by theprospective parents-in-law. If the negotiations go off smoothly, themarriage contract is written, presents are exchanged between theengaged couple, through their respective parents, and all that is leftthe girl of her maidenhood is a period of busy preparation for thewedding. 

 [Illustration: HEDER (HEBREW SCHOOL) FOR BOYS IN POLOTZK]

If the girl is well-to-do, it is a happy interval, spent in visits tothe drapers and tailors, in collecting linens and featherbeds andvessels of copper and brass. The former playmates come to inspect thetrousseau, enviously fingering the silks and velvets of thebride-elect. The happy heroine tries on frocks and mantles before herglass, blushing at references to the wedding day; and to the question, "How do you like the bridegroom?" she replies, "How should I know?There was such a crowd at the betrothal that I didn't see him. "

Marriage was a sacrament with us Jews in the Pale. To rear a family ofchildren was to serve God. Every Jewish man and woman had a part inthe fulfilment of the ancient promise given to Jacob that his seedshould be abundantly scattered over the earth. Parenthood, therefore, was the great career. But while men, in addition to begetting, mightbusy themselves with the study of the Law, woman's only work wasmotherhood. To be left an old maid became, accordingly, the greatestmisfortune that could threaten a girl; and to ward off that calamitythe girl and her family, to the most distant relatives, would strainevery nerve, whether by contributing to her dowry, or hiding herdefects from the marriage broker, or praying and fasting that Godmight send her a husband. 

Not only must all the children of a family be mated, but they mustmarry in the order of their ages. A younger daughter must on noaccount marry before an elder. A houseful of daughters might be heldup because the eldest failed to find favor in the eyes of prospectivemothers-in-law; not one of the others could marry till the eldest wasdisposed of. 

A cousin of mine was guilty of the disloyalty of wishing to marrybefore her elder sister, who was unfortunate enough to be rejected byone mother-in-law after another. My uncle feared that the youngerdaughter, who was of a firm and masterful nature, might carry out herplans, thereby disgracing her unhappy sister. Accordingly he hastenedto conclude an alliance with a family far beneath him, and the girlwas hastily married to a boy of whom little was known beyond the factthat he was inclined to consumption. 

The consumptive tendency was no such horror, in an age whensuperstition was more in vogue than science. For one patient that wentto a physician in Polotzk, there were ten who called in unlicensedpractitioners and miracle workers. If my mother had an obstinatetoothache that honored household remedies failed to relieve, she wentto Dvoshe, the pious woman, who cured by means of a flint and steel, and a secret prayer pronounced as the sparks flew up. During anepidemic of scarlet fever, we protected ourselves by wearing a pieceof red woolen tape around the neck. Pepper and salt tied in a cornerof the pocket was effective in warding off the evil eye. There werelucky signs, lucky dreams, spirits, and hobgoblins, a grislycollection, gathered by our wandering ancestors from the demonologiesof Asia and Europe. 

Antiquated as our popular follies was the organization of our smallsociety. It was a caste system with social levels sharply marked off, and families united by clannish ties. The rich looked down on thepoor, the merchants looked down on the artisans, and within the ranksof the artisans higher and lower grades were distinguished. Ashoemaker's daughter could not hope to marry the son of a shopkeeper, unless she brought an extra large dowry; and she had to make up hermind to be snubbed by the sisters-in-law and cousins-in-law all herlife. 

One qualification only could raise a man above his social level, andthat was scholarship. A boy born in the gutter need not despair ofentering the houses of the rich, if he had a good mind and a greatappetite for sacred learning. A poor scholar would be preferred in themarriage market to a rich ignoramus. In the phrase of ourgrandmothers, a boy stuffed with learning was worth more than a girlstuffed with bank notes. 

Simple piety unsupported by learning had a parallel value in the eyesof good families. This was especially true among the Hasidim, the sectof enthusiasts who set religious exaltation above rabbinical lore. Ecstasy in prayer and fantastic merriment on days of religiousrejoicing, raised a Hasid to a hero among his kind. My father'sgrandfather, who knew of Hebrew only enough to teach beginners, wasfamous through a good part of the Pale for his holy life. IsraelKimanyer he was called, from the village of Kimanye where he lived;and people were proud to establish even the most distant relationshipwith him. Israel was poor to the verge of beggary, but he prayed morethan other people, never failed in the slightest observance enjoinedon Jews, shared his last crust with every chance beggar, and sat upnights to commune with God. His family connections included countrypeddlers, starving artisans, and ne'er-do-wells; but Israel was azaddik--a man of piety--and the fame of his good life redeemed thewhole wretched clan. When his grandson, my father, came to marry, heboasted his direct descent from Israel Kimanyer, and picked his bridefrom the best families. 

The little house may still be standing which the pious Jews of Kimanyeand the neighboring villages built for my great-grandfather, close ona century ago. He was too poor to build his own house, so the goodpeople who loved him, and who were almost as poor as he, collected afew rubles among themselves, and bought a site, and built the house. Built, let it be known, with their own hands; for they were too poorto hire workmen. They carried the beams and boards on their shoulders, singing and dancing on the way, as they sang and danced at thepresentation of a scroll to the synagogue. They hauled and sawed andhammered, till the last nail was driven home; and when they conductedthe holy man to his new abode, the rejoicing was greater than at thecrowning of a czar. 

That little cabin was fit to be preserved as the monument to aspecies of idealism that has rarely been known outside the Pale. Whatwas the ultimate source of the pious enthusiasm that built mygreat-grandfather's house? What was the substance behind the show ofthe Judaism of the Pale? Stripped of its grotesque mask of forms, rites, and mediæval superstitions, the religion of these fanatics wassimply the belief that God was, had been, and ever would be, and thatthey, the children of Jacob, were His chosen messengers to carry HisLaw to all the nations. Beneath the mountainous volumes of theTalmudists and commentators, the Mosaic tablets remained intact. Outof the mazes of the Cabala the pure doctrine of ancient Judaism foundits way to the hearts of the faithful. Sects and schools might riseand fall, deafening the ears of the simple with the clamor of theirdisputes, still the Jew, retiring within his own soul, heard thevoice of the God of Abraham. Prophets, messiahs, miracle workersmight have their day, still the Jew was conscious that betweenhimself and God no go-between was needed; that he, as well as everyone of his million brothers, had his portion of God's work to do. Andthis close relation to God was the source of the strength thatsustained the Jew through all the trials of his life in the Pale. Consciously or unconsciously, the Jew identified himself with thecause of righteousness on earth; and hence the heroism with which hemet the battalions of tyrants. 

No empty forms could have impressed the unborn children of the Pale sodeeply that they were prepared for willing martyrdom almost as soon asthey were weaned from their mother's breast. The flame of the burningbush that had dazzled Moses still lighted the gloomy prison of thePale. Behind the mummeries, ceremonials, and symbolic accessories, theobject of the Jew's adoration was the face of God. 

This has been many times proved by those who escaped from the Pale, and, excited by sudden freedom, thought to rid themselves, by oneimpatient effort, of every strand of their ancient bonds. Eager to bemerged in the better world in which they found themselves, the escapedprisoners determined on a change of mind, a change of heart, a changeof manner. They rejoiced in their transformation, thinking that everymark of their former slavery was obliterated. And then, one day, caught in the vise of some crucial test, the Jew fixed his alarmedgaze on his inmost soul, and found there the image of his father'sGod. 

 * * * * *

Merrily played the fiddlers at the wedding of my father, who was thegrandson of Israel Kimanyer of sainted memory. The most pious men inPolotzk danced the night through, their earlocks dangling, the tailsof their long coats flying in a pious ecstasy. Beggars swarmed amongthe bidden guests, sure of an easy harvest where so many hearts weremelted by piety. The wedding jester excelled himself in apt allusionsto the friends and relatives who brought up their wedding presents athis merry invitation. The sixteen-year-old bride, suffocated beneathher heavy veil, blushed unseen at the numerous healths drunk to herfuture sons and daughters. The whole town was a-flutter with joy, because the pious scion of a godly race had found a pious wife, and ayoung branch of the tree of Judah was about to bear fruit. 

When I came to lie on my mother's breast, she sang me lullabies onlofty themes. I heard the names of Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah as earlyas the names of father, mother, and nurse. My baby soul was enthralledby sad and noble cadences, as my mother sang of my ancient home inPalestine, or mourned over the desolation of Zion. With the firstrattle that was placed in my hand a prayer was pronounced over me, apetition that a pious man might take me to wife, and a messiah beamong my sons. 

I was fed on dreams, instructed by means of prophecies, trained tohear and see mystical things that callous senses could not perceive. Iwas taught to call myself a princess, in memory of my forefathers whohad ruled a nation. Though I went in the disguise of an outcast, Ifelt a halo resting on my brow. Sat upon by brutal enemies, unjustlyhated, annihilated a hundred times, I yet arose and held my head high, sure that I should find my kingdom in the end, although I had lost myway in exile; for He who had brought my ancestors safe through athousand perils was guiding my feet as well. God needed me and Ineeded Him, for we two together had a work to do, according to anancient covenant between Him and my forefathers. 

This is the dream to which I was heir, in common with every sad-eyedchild of the Pale. This is the living seed which I found among myheirlooms, when I learned how to strip from them the prickly husk inwhich they were passed down to me. And what is the fruit of such seedas that, and whither lead such dreams? If it is mine to give theanswer, let my words be true and brave. 

CHAPTER III

BOTH THEIR HOUSES

Among the mediæval customs which were preserved in the Pale when therest of the world had long forgotten them was the use of popularsobriquets in place of surnames proper. Family names existed only inofficial documents, such as passports. For the most part people wereknown by nicknames, prosaic or picturesque, derived from theiroccupations, their physical peculiarities, or distinctiveachievements. Among my neighbors in Polotzk were Yankel the Wig-maker, Mulye the Blind, Moshe the Six-fingered; and members of theirrespective families were referred to by these nicknames: as, forexample, "Mirele, niece of Moshe the Six-fingered. "

Let me spread out my family tree, raise aloft my coat-of-arms, and seewhat heroes have left a mark by which I may be distinguished. Let mehunt for my name in the chronicles of the Pale. 

In the village of Yuchovitch, about sixty versts above Polotzk, theoldest inhabitant still remembered my father's great-grandfather whenmy father was a boy. Lebe the Innkeeper he was called, and no reproachwas coupled with the name. His son Hayyim succeeded to the business, but later he took up the glazier's trade, and developed a knack forall sorts of tinkering, whereby he was able to increase his too scantyearnings. 

Hayyim the Glazier is reputed to have been a man of fine countenance, wise in homely counsel, honest in all his dealings. Rachel Leah, hiswife, had a reputation for practical wisdom even greater than his. Shewas the advice giver of the village in every perplexity of life. Myfather remembers his grandmother as a tall, trim, handsome old woman, active and independent. Satin headbands and lace-trimmed bonnets nothaving been invented in her day, Rachel Leah wore the stately knupf orturban on her shaven head. On Sabbaths and holidays she went to thesynagogue with a long, straight mantle hanging from neck to ankle; andshe wore it with an air, on one sleeve only, the other dangling emptyfrom her shoulder. 

Hayyim begat Joseph, and Joseph begat Pinchus, my father. It behoovesme to consider the stuff I sprang from. 

Joseph inherited the trade, good name, and meagre portion of hisfather, and maintained the family tradition of honesty and povertyunbroken to the day of his death. For that matter, Yuchovitch neverheard of any connection of the family, not even a doubtful cousin, whowas not steeped to the earlocks in poverty. But that was nodistinction in Yuchovitch; the whole village was poor almost tobeggary. 

Joseph was an indifferent workman, an indifferent scholar, and anindifferent hasid. At one thing only he was strikingly good, and thatwas at grumbling. Although not unkind, he had a temper that boiledover at small provocation, and even in his most placid mood he tookvery little satisfaction in the world. He reversed the proverb, looking for the sable lining of every silver cloud. In the conditionsof his life he found plenty of food for his pessimism, and merryhearts were very rare among his neighbors. Still a certain amount ofgloom appears to have been inherent in the man. And as he distrustedthe whole world, so Joseph distrusted himself, which made him shy andawkward in company. My mother tells how, at the wedding of his onlyson, my father, Joseph sat the whole night through in a corner, neveras much as cracking a smile, while the wedding guests danced, laughed, and rejoiced. 

It may have been through distrust of the marital state that Josephremained single till the advanced age of twenty-five. Then he tookunto himself an orphan girl as poor as he, namely, Rachel, thedaughter of Israel Kimanyer of pious memory. 

My grandmother was such a gentle, cheerful soul, when I knew her, thatI imagine she must have been a merry bride. I should think mygrandfather would have taken great satisfaction in her society, as herattempts to show him the world through rose-hued spectacles would havegiven him frequent opportunity to parade his grievances and recite hiswrongs. But from all reports it appears that he was never satisfied, and if he did not make his wife unhappy it was because he was awayfrom home so much. He was absent the greater part of the time; for aglazier, even if he were a better workman than my grandfather, couldnot make a living in Yuchovitch. He became a country peddler, tradingbetween Polotzk and Yuchovitch, and taking in all the desolate littlehamlets scattered along that route. Fifteen rubles' worth of goods wasa big bill to carry out of Polotzk. The stock consisted of cheappottery, tobacco, matches, boot grease, and axle grease. These hebartered for country produce, including grains in small quantity, bristles, rags, and bones. Money was seldom handled in thesetransactions. 

A rough enough life my grandfather led, on the road at all seasons, inall weathers, knocking about at smoky little inns, glad sometimes ofthe hospitality of some peasant's hut, where the pigs slept with thefamily. He was doing well if he got home for the holidays with alittle white flour for a cake, and money enough to take his best coatout of pawn. The best coat, and the candlesticks, too, would berepawned promptly on the first workday; for it was not for the like ofJoseph of Yuchovitch to live with idle riches around him. 

For the credit of Yuchovitch it must be recorded that my grandfathernever had to stay away from the synagogue for want of his one decentcoat to wear. His neighbor Isaac, the village money lender, neverrefused to give up the pledged articles on a Sabbath eve, even if themoney due was not forthcoming. Many Sabbath coats besides mygrandfather's, and many candlesticks besides my grandmother's, passedmost of their existence under Isaac's roof, waiting to be redeemed. But on the eve of Sabbath or holiday Isaac delivered them to theirrespective owners, came they empty-handed or otherwise; and at theexpiration of the festival the grateful owners brought them promptlyback, for another season of retirement. 

While my grandfather was on the road, my grandmother conducted herhumble household in a capable, housewifely way. Of her six children, three died young, leaving two daughters and an only son, my father. Mygrandmother fed and dressed her children the best she could, andtaught them to thank God for what they had not as well as for whatthey had. Piety was about the only positive doctrine she attempted todrill them in, leaving the rest of their education to life and therebbe. 

Promptly when custom prescribed, Pinchus, the petted only son, wassent to heder. My grandfather being on the road at the time, mygrandmother herself carried the boy in her arms, as was usual on thefirst day. My father distinctly remembers that she wept on the way tothe heder; partly, I suppose, from joy at starting her son on a holylife, and partly from sadness at being too poor to set forth the wineand honey-cake proper to the occasion. For Grandma Rachel, schooledthough she was to pious contentment, probably had her moments of humanpettiness like the rest of us. 

My father distinguished himself for scholarship from the first. Fiveyears old when he entered heder, at eleven he was already a _yeshibahbahur_--a student in the seminary. The rebbe never had occasion to usethe birch on him. On the contrary, he held him up as an example to thedull or lazy pupils, praised him in the village, and carried his fameto Polotzk. 

My grandmother's cup of pious joy was overfilled. Everything her boydid was pleasant in her sight, for Pinchus was going to be a scholar, a godly man, a credit to the memory of his renowned grandfather, Israel Kimanyer. She let nothing interfere with his schooling. Whentimes were bad, and her husband came home with his goods unsold, sheborrowed and begged, till the rebbe's fee was produced. If bad luckcontinued, she pleaded with the rebbe for time. She pawned not onlythe candlesticks, but her shawl and Sabbath cap as well, to secure thescant rations that gave the young scholar strength to study. More thanonce in the bitter winter, as my father remembers, she carried him toheder on her back, because he had no shoes; she herself walkingalmost barefoot in the cruel snow. No sacrifice was too great for herin the pious cause of her boy's education. And when there was no rebbein Yuchovitch learned enough to guide him in the advanced studies, myfather was sent to Polotzk, where he lived with his poor relations, who were not too poor to help support a future rebbe or rav. InPolotzk he continued to distinguish himself for scholarship, tillpeople began to prophesy that he would live to be famous; andeverybody who remembered Israel Kimanyer regarded the promisinggrandson with double respect. 

At the age of fifteen my father was qualified to teach beginners inHebrew, and he was engaged as instructor in two families living sixversts apart in the country. The boy tutor had to make himself useful, after lesson hours, by caring for the horse, hauling water from thefrozen pond, and lending a hand at everything. When the little sisterof one of his pupils died, in the middle of the winter, it fell to myfather's lot to take the body to the nearest Jewish cemetery, throughmiles of desolate country, no living soul accompanying him. 

After one term of this, he tried to go on with his own studies, sometimes in Yuchovitch, sometimes in Polotzk, as opportunitydictated. He made the journey to Polotzk beside his father, joggingalong in the springless wagon on the rutty roads. He took a boy'spleasure in the gypsy life, the green wood, and the summer storm;while his father sat moody beside him, seeing nothing but the spavinson the horse's hocks, and the mud in the road ahead. 

There is little else to tell of my father's boyhood, as most of histime was spent in the schoolroom. Outside the schoolroom he wasconspicuous for high spirits in play, daring in mischief, andindependence in everything. But a boy's playtime was so short inYuchovitch, and his resources so limited, that even a lad of spiritcame to the edge of his premature manhood without a regret for hisnipped youth. So my father, at the age of sixteen and a half, lent awilling ear to the cooing voice of the marriage broker. 

Indeed, it was high time for him to marry. His parents had kept him sofar, but they had two daughters to marry off, and not a groschen laidby for their dowries. The cost of my father's schooling, as headvanced, had mounted to seventeen rubles a term, and the poor rebbewas seldom paid in full. Of course my father's scholarship was hisfortune--in time it would be his support; but in the meanwhile theburden of feeding and clothing him lay heavy on his parents'shoulders. The time had come to find him a well-to-do father-in-law, who should support him and his wife and children, while he continuedto study in the seminary. 

After the usual conferences between parents and marriage brokers, myfather was betrothed to an undertaker's daughter in Polotzk. The girlwas too old, --every day of twenty years, --but three hundred rubles indowry, with board after marriage, not to mention handsome presents tothe bridegroom, easily offset the bride's age. My father's family, tothe humblest cousin, felt themselves set up by the match he had made;and the boy was happy enough, displaying a watch and chain for thefirst time in his life, and a good coat on week days. As for hisfiancée, he could have no objection to her, as he had seen her only ata distance, and had never spoken to her. 

When it was time for the wedding preparations to begin, news came toYuchovitch of the death of the bride-elect, and my father's prospectsseemed fallen to the ground. But the undertaker had another daughter, girl of thirteen, and he pressed my father to take her in her sister'splace. At the same time the marriage broker proposed another match;and my father's poor cousins bristled with importance once more. 

Somehow or other my father succeeded in getting in a word at thefamily councils that ensued; he even had the temerity to express astrong preference. He did not want any more of the undertaker'sdaughters; he wanted to consider the rival match. There were noserious objections from the cousins, and my father became engaged tomy mother. 

This second choice was Hannah Hayye, only daughter of Raphael, calledthe Russian. She had had a very different bringing-up from Pinchus, the grandson of Israel Kimanyer. She had never known a day of want;had never gone barefoot from necessity. The family had a solidposition in Polotzk, her father being the owner of a comfortable homeand a good business. 

Prosperity is prosaic, so I shall skip briefly over the history of mymother's house. 

My grandfather Raphael, early left an orphan, was brought up by anelder brother, in a village at no great distance from Polotzk. Thebrother dutifully sent him to heder, and at an early age betrothed himto Deborah, daughter of one Solomon, a dealer in grain and cattle. Deborah was not yet in her teens at the time of the betrothal, and sofoolish was she that she was afraid of her affianced husband. One day, when she was coming from the store with a bottle of liquid yeast, shesuddenly came face to face with her betrothed, which gave her such afright that she dropped the bottle, spilling the yeast on her prettydress; and she ran home crying all the way. At thirteen she wasmarried, which had a good effect on her deportment. I hear no more ofher running away from her husband. 

Among the interesting things belonging to my grandmother, besides herdowry, at the time of the marriage, was her family. Her father was sooriginal that he kept a tutor for his daughters--sons he had none--andallowed them to be instructed in the rudiments of three or fourlanguages and the elements of arithmetic. Even more unconventional washer sister Hode. She had married a fiddler, who travelled constantly, playing at hotels and inns, all through "far Russia. " Having nochildren, she ought to have spent her days in fasting and praying andlamenting. Instead of this, she accompanied her husband on histravels, and even had a heart to enjoy the excitement and variety oftheir restless life. I should be the last to blame my great-aunt, forthe irregularity of her conduct afforded my grandfather the openingfor his career, the fruits of which made my childhood so pleasant. Forseveral years my grandfather travelled in Hode's train, in thecapacity of shohat providing kosher meat for the little troup in theunholy wilds of "far Russia"; and the grateful couple rewarded him sogenerously that he soon had a fortune of eighty rubles laid by. 

My grandfather thought the time had now come to settle down, but hedid not know how to invest his wealth. To resolve his perplexity, hemade a pilgrimage to the Rebbe of Kopistch, who advised him to open astore in Polotzk, and gave him a blessed groschen to keep in the moneydrawer for good luck. 

The blessing of the "good Jew" proved fruitful. My grandfather'sbusiness prospered, and my grandmother bore him children, several sonsand one daughter. The sons were sent to heder, like all respectableboys; and they were taught, in addition, writing and arithmetic, enough for conducting a business. With this my grandfather wascontent; more than this he considered incompatible with piety. He wasone of those who strenuously opposed the influence of the publicschool, and bribed the government officials to keep their children'snames off the register of schoolboys, as we have already seen. When hesent his sons to a private tutor, where they could study Russian withtheir hats on, he felt, no doubt, that he was giving them all theeducation necessary to a successful business career, without violatingpiety too grossly. 

If reading and writing were enough for the sons, even less wouldsuffice the daughter. A female teacher was engaged for my mother, atthree kopecks a week, to teach her the Hebrew prayers; and mygrandmother, herself a better scholar than the teacher, taught herwriting in addition. My mother was quick to learn, and expressed anambition to study Russian. She teased and coaxed, and her motherpleaded for her, till my grandfather was persuaded to send her to atutor. But the fates were opposed to my mother's education. On thefirst day at school, a sudden inflammation of the eyes blinded mymother temporarily, and although the distemper vanished as suddenly asit had appeared, it was taken as an omen, and my mother was notallowed to return to her lessons. 

Still she did not give up. She saved up every groschen that was givenher to buy sweets, and bribed her brother Solomon, who was proud ofhis scholarship, to give her lessons in secret. The two stroveearnestly with book and quill, in their hiding-place under therafters, till my mother could read and write Russian, and translate asimple passage of Hebrew. 

My grandmother, although herself a good housewife, took no pains toteach her only daughter the domestic arts. She only petted and coddledher and sent her out to play. But my mother was as ambitious abouthousework as about books. She coaxed the housemaid to let her mix thebread. She learned knitting from watching her playmates. She washealthy and active, quick at everything, and restless with unspentenergy. Therefore she was quite willing, at the age of ten, to go intoher father's business as his chief assistant. 

As the years went by she developed a decided talent for business, sothat her father could safely leave all his affairs in her hands if hehad to go out of town. Her devotion, ability, and tireless energy madeher, in time, indispensable. My grandfather was obliged to admit thatthe little learning she had stolen was turned to good account, when hesaw how well she could keep his books, and how smoothly she got alongwith Russian and Polish customers. Perhaps that was the argument thatinduced him, after obstinate years, to remove his veto from mymother's petitions and let her take up lessons again. For while pietywas my grandfather's chief concern on the godly side, on the worldlyside he set success in business above everything. 

My mother was fifteen years old when she entered on a career of highereducation. For two hours daily she was released from the store, and inthat interval she strove with might and main to conquer the worldof knowledge. Katrina Petrovna, her teacher, praised and encouragedher; and there was no reason why the promising pupil should not havedeveloped into a young lady of culture, with Madame teaching Russian, German, crocheting, and singing--yes, out of a book, to theaccompaniment of a clavier--all for a fee of seventy-five kopecks aweek. 

 [Illustration: THE WOOD MARKET, POLOTZK]

Did I say there was no reason? And what about the marriage broker?Hannah Hayye, the only daughter of Raphael the Russian, going onsixteen, buxom, bright, capable, and well educated, could not escapethe eye of the shadchan. A fine thing it would be to let such a likelygirl grow old over a book! To the canopy with her, while she couldfetch the highest price in the marriage market!

My mother was very unwilling to think of marriage at this time. Shehad nothing to gain by marriage, for already she had everything thatshe desired, especially since she was permitted to study. While herfather was rather stern, her mother spoiled and petted her; and shewas the idol of her aunt Hode, the fiddler's wife. 

Hode had bought a fine estate in Polotzk, after my grandfather settledthere, and made it her home whenever she became tired of travelling. She lived in state, with many servants and dependents, wearing silkdresses on week days, and setting silver plate before the meanestguest. The women of Polotzk were breathless over her wardrobe, counting up how many pairs of embroidered boots she had, at fifteenrubles a pair. And Hode's manners were as much a subject of gossip asher clothes, for she had picked up strange ways in her travelsAlthough she was so pious that she was never tempted to eat trefah, nomatter if she had to go hungry, her conduct in other respects was notstrictly orthodox. For one thing, she was in the habit of shakinghands with men, looking them straight in the face. She spoke Russianlike a Gentile, she kept a poodle, and she had no children. 

Nobody meant to blame the rich woman for being childless, because itwas well known in Polotzk that Hode the Russian, as she was called, would have given all her wealth for one scrawny baby. But she was toblame for voluntarily exiling herself from Jewish society for years ata time, to live among pork-eaters, and copy the bold ways of Gentilewomen. And so while they pitied her childlessness, the women ofPolotzk regarded her misfortune as perhaps no more than a duepunishment. 

Hode, poor woman, felt a hungry heart beneath her satin robes. Shewanted to adopt one of my grandmother's children, but my grandmotherwould not hear of it. Hode was particularly taken with my mother, andmy grandmother, in compassion, loaned her the child for days at atime; and those were happy days for both aunt and niece. Hode wouldtreat my mother to every delicacy in her sumptuous pantry, tell herwonderful tales of life in distant parts, show her all her beautifuldresses and jewels, and load her with presents. 

As my mother developed into girlhood, her aunt grew more and morecovetous of her. Following a secret plan, she adopted a boy from thepoorhouse, and brought him up with every advantage that money couldbuy. My mother, on her visits, was thrown a great deal into this boy'ssociety, but she liked him less than the poodle. This grieved heraunt, who cherished in her heart the hope that my mother would marryher adopted son, and so become her daughter after all. And in orderto accustom her to think well of the match, Hode dinned the boy's namein my mother's ears day and night, praising him and showing him off. She would open her jewel boxes and take out the flashing diamonds, heavy chains, and tinkling bracelets, dress my mother in them in frontof the mirror, telling her that they would all be hers--all herown--when she became the bride of Mulke. 

My mother still describes the necklace of pearls and diamonds whichher aunt used to clasp around her plump throat, with a light in hereyes that is reminiscent of girlish pleasure. But to all her aunt'steasing references to the future, my mother answered with a giggle anda shake of her black curls, and went on enjoying herself, thinkingthat the day of judgment was very, very far away. But it swooped downon her sooner than she expected--the momentous hour when she mustchoose between the pearl necklace with Mulke and a penniless strangerfrom Yuchovitch who was reputed to be a fine scholar. 

Mulke she would not have even if all the pearls in the ocean came withhim. The boy was stupid and unteachable, and of unspeakable origin. Picked up from the dirty floor of the poorhouse, his father wasidentified as the lazy porter who sometimes chopped a cord of wood formy grandmother; and his sisters were slovenly housemaids scatteredthrough Polotzk. No, Mulke was not to be considered. But why consideranybody? Why think of a _hossen_ at all, when she was so content? Mymother ran away every time the shadchan came, and she begged to beleft as she was, and cried, and invoked her mother's support. But hermother, for the first time in her history, refused to take thedaughter's part. She joined the enemy--the family and theshadchan--and my mother saw that she was doomed. 

Of course she submitted. What else could a dutiful daughter do, inPolotzk? She submitted to being weighed, measured, and appraisedbefore her face, and resigned herself to what was to come. 

When that which was to come did come, she did not recognize it. Shewas all alone in the store one day, when a beardless young man, in topboots that wanted grease, and a coat too thin for the weather, came infor a package of cigarettes. My mother climbed up on the counter, withone foot on a shelf, to reach down the cigarettes. The customer gaveher the right change, and went out. And my mother never suspected thatthat was the proposed hossen, who came to look her over and see if shewas likely to last. For my father considered himself a man ofexperience now, this being his second match, and he was determined tohave a hand in this affair himself. 

No sooner was the hossen out of the store than his mother, alsounknown to the innocent storekeeper, came in for a pound of tallowcandles. She offered a torn bill in payment, and my mother accepted itand gave change; showing that she was wise enough in money matters toknow that a torn bill was good currency. 

After the woman there shuffled in a poor man evidently from thecountry, who, in a shy and yet challenging manner, asked for a packageof cheap tobacco. My mother produced the goods with her usualdispatch, gave the correct change, and stood at attention for moretrade. 

Parents and son held a council around the corner, the object of theirespionage never dreaming that she had been put to a triple test andnot found wanting. But in the evening of the same day she wasenlightened. She was summoned to her elder brother's house, for aconference on the subject of the proposed match, and there she foundthe young man who had bought the cigarettes. For my mother's family, if they forced her to marry, were willing to make her path easier byletting her meet the hossen, convinced that she must be won over byhis good looks and learned conversation. 

It does not really matter how my mother felt, as she sat, with aprotecting niece in her lap, at one end of a long table, with thehossen fidgeting at the other end. The marriage contract would bewritten anyway, no matter what she thought of the hossen. And thecontract was duly written, in the presence of the assembled familiesof both parties, after plenty of open discussion, in which everybodyexcept the prospective bride and groom had a voice. 

One voice in particular broke repeatedly into the consultations of theparents and the shadchan, and that was the voice of Henne Rösel, oneof my father's numerous poor cousins. Henne Rösel was not unknown tomy mother. She often came to the store, to beg, under pretence ofborrowing, a little flour or sugar or a stick of cinnamon. On theoccasion of the betrothal she had arrived late, dressed inindescribable odds and ends, with an artificial red flower stuck intoher frowzy wig. She pushed and elbowed her way to the middle of thetable, where the shadchan sat ready with paper and ink to take downthe articles of the contract. On every point she had some comment tomake, till a dispute arose over a note which my grandfather offered aspart of the dowry, the hossen's people insisting on cash. No oneinsisted so loudly as the cousin with the red flower in her wig; andwhen the other cousins seemed about to weaken and accept the note, Red-Flower stood up and exhorted them to be firm, lest their flesh andblood be cheated under their noses. The meddlesome cousin was silencedat last, the contract was signed, the happiness of the engaged couplewas pledged in wine, the guests dispersed. And all this while mymother had not opened her mouth, and my father had scarcely beenheard. 

That is the way my fate was sealed. It gives me a shudder of wonder tothink what a narrow escape I had; I came so near not being born atall. If the beggarly cousin with the frowzy wig had prevailed upon herfamily and broken off the match, then my mother would not have marriedmy father, and I should at this moment be an unborn possibility in aphilosopher's brain. It is right that I should pick my words mostcarefully, and meditate over every comma, because I am describingmiracles too great for careless utterance. If I had died after myfirst breath, my history would still be worth recording. For before Icould lie on my mother's breast, the earth had to be prepared, and thestars had to take their places; a million races had to die, testingthe laws of life; and a boy and girl had to be bound for life to watchtogether for my coming. I was millions of years on the way, and I camethrough the seas of chance, over the fiery mountain of law, by thezigzag path of human possibility. Multitudes were pushed back into theabyss of non-existence, that I should have way to creep into being. And at the last, when I stood at the gate of life, a weazen-facedfishwife, who had not wit enough to support herself, came nearshutting me out. 

Such creatures of accident are we, liable to a thousand deaths beforewe are born. But once we are here, we may create our own world, if wechoose. Since I have stood on my own feet, I have never met my master. For every time I choose a friend I determine my fate anew. I can thinkof no cataclysm that could have the force to move me from my path. Fire or flood or the envy of men may tear the roof off my house, butmy soul would still be at home under the lofty mountain pines that diptheir heads in star dust. Even life, that was so difficult to attain, may serve me merely as a wayside inn, if I choose to go on eternally. However I came here, it is mine to be. 

CHAPTER IV

DAILY BREAD

My mother ought to have been happy in her engagement. Everybodycongratulated her on securing such a scholar, her parents loaded herwith presents, and her friends envied her. It is true that thehossen's family consisted entirely of poor relations; there was notone solid householder among them. From the worldly point of view mymother made a mésalliance. But as one of my aunts put it, when mymother objected to the association with the undesirable cousins, shecould take out the cow and set fire to the barn; meaning that shecould rejoice in the hossen and disregard his family. 

The hossen, on his part, had reason to rejoice, without anyreservations. He was going into a highly respectable family, with aname supported by property and business standing. The promised dowrywas considerable, the presents were generous, the trousseau would beliberal, and the bride was fair and capable. The bridegroom would haveyears before him in which he need do nothing but eat free board, wearhis new clothes, and study Torah; and his poor relations could hold uptheir heads at the market stalls, and in the rear pews in thesynagogue. 

My mother's trousseau was all that a mother-in-law could wish. Thebest tailor in Polotzk was engaged to make the cloaks and gowns, andhis shop was filled to bursting with ample lengths of velvet and satinand silk. The wedding gown alone cost every kopeck of fifty rubles, as the tailor's wife reported all over Polotzk. The lingerie was ofthe best, and the seamstress was engaged on it for many weeks. Featherbeds, linen, household goods of every sort--everything wasprovided in abundance. My mother crocheted many yards of lace to trimthe best sheets, and fine silk coverlets adorned the plump beds. Manya marriageable maiden who came to view the trousseau went home toprink and blush and watch for the shadchan. 

The wedding was memorable for gayety and splendor. The guests includedsome of the finest people in Polotzk; for while my grandfather was notquite at the top of the social scale, he had business connections withthose that were, and they all turned out for the wedding of his onlydaughter, the men in silk frock coats, the women in all their jewelry. 

The bridegroom's aunts and cousins came in full force. Weddingmessengers had been sent to every person who could possibly claimrelationship with the hossen. My mother's parents were too generous toslight the lowliest. Instead of burning the barn, they did all theycould to garnish it. One or two of the more important of the poorrelations came to the wedding in gowns paid for by my richgrandfather. The rest came decked out in borrowed finery, or inundisguised shabbiness. But nobody thought of staying away--except theobstructive cousin who had nearly prevented the match. 

When it was time to conduct the bride to the wedding canopy, thebridegroom's mother missed Henne Rösel. The house was searched forher, but in vain. Nobody had seen her. But my grandmother could notbear to have the marriage solemnized in the absence of a firstcousin. Such a wedding as this was not likely to be repeated in herfamily; it would be a great pity if any of the relatives missed it. Soshe petitioned the principals to delay the ceremony, while she herselfwent in search of the missing cousin. 

Clear over to the farthest end of the town she walked, lifting hergala dress well above her ankles. She found Henne Rösel in her untidykitchen, sound in every limb but sulky in spirit. My grandmotherexclaimed at her conduct, and bade her hurry with her toilet, andaccompany her; the wedding guests were waiting; the bride was faintfrom prolonging her fast. But Henne Rösel flatly refused to go; thebride might remain an old maid, for all she, Henne Rösel, cared aboutthe wedding. My troubled grandmother expostulated, questioned her, till she drew out the root of the cousin's sulkiness. Henne Röselcomplained that she had not been properly invited. The weddingmessenger had come, --oh, yes!--but she had not addressed her asflatteringly, as respectfully as she had been heard to address thewife of Yohem, the money-lender. And Henne Rösel wasn't going to anyweddings where she was not wanted. My grandmother had a struggle ofit, but she succeeded in soothing the sensitive cousin, who consentedat length to don her best dress and go to the wedding. 

While my grandmother labored with Henne Rösel, the bride sat in statein her father's house under the hill, the maidens danced, and thematrons fanned themselves, while the fiddlers and _zimblers_ scrapedand tinkled. But as the hours went by, the matrons became restless andthe dancers wearied. The poor relations grew impatient for the feast, and the babies in their laps began to fidget and cry; while the bridegrew faint, and the bridegroom's party began to send frequentmessengers from the house next door, demanding to know the cause ofthe delay. Some of the guests at last lost all patience, and beggedleave to go home. But before they went they deposited the weddingpresents in the bride's satin lap, till she resembled a heathen imagehung about with offerings. 

My mother, after thirty years of bustling life, retains a livelymemory of the embarrassment she suffered while waiting for the arrivalof the troublesome cousin. When that important dame at last appeared, with her chin in the air, the artificial flower still stuckbelligerently into her dusty wig, and my grandmother beaming behindher, the bride's heart fairly jumped with anger, and the red blood ofindignation set her cheeks afire. No wonder that she speaks the nameof the Red-Flower with an unloving accent to this day, although shehas forgiven the enemies who did her greater wrong. The bride is aprincess on her wedding day. To put upon her an indignity is anunpardonable offense. 

After the feasting and dancing, which lasted a whole week, the weddingpresents were locked up, the bride, with her hair discreetly covered, returned to her father's store, and the groom, with his newpraying-shawl, repaired to the synagogue. This was all according tothe marriage bargain, which implied that my father was to study andpray and fill the house with the spirit of piety, in return for boardand lodging and the devotion of his wife and her entire family. 

All the parties concerned had entered into this bargain in good faith, so far as they knew their own minds. But the eighteen-year-oldbridegroom, before many months had passed, began to realize that hefelt no such hunger for the word of the Law as he was supposed tofeel. He felt, rather, a hunger for life that all his studying did notsatisfy. He was not trained enough to analyze his own thoughts to anypurpose; he was not experienced enough to understand where histhoughts were leading him. He only knew that he felt no call to prayand fast that the Torah did not inspire him, and his days were blank. The life he was expected to lead grew distasteful to him, and yet heknew no other way to live. He became lax in his attendance at thesynagogue, incurring the reproach of the family. It began to berumored among the studious that the son-in-law of Raphael the Russianwas not devoting himself to the sacred books with any degree ofenthusiasm. It was well known that he had a good mind, but evidentlythe spirit was lacking. My grandparents went from surprise toindignation, from exhortation they passed to recrimination. Before myparents had been married half a year, my grandfather's house wasdivided against itself and my mother was torn between the twofactions. For while she sympathized with her parents, and feltpersonally cheated by my father's lack of piety, she thought it washer duty to take her husband's part, even against her parents, intheir own house. My mother was one of those women who always obey thehighest law they know, even though it leads them to their doom. 

How did it happen that my father, who from his early boyhood had beenpointed out as a scholar in embryo, failed to live up to theexpectations of his world? It happened as it happened that his haircurled over his high forehead: he was made that way. If people weredisappointed, it was because they had based their expectations on amisconception of his character, for my father had never had anyaspirations for extreme piety. Piety was imputed to him by his mother, by his rebbe, by his neighbors, when they saw that he rendered thesacred word more intelligently than his fellow students. It was nothis fault that his people confused scholarship with religious ardor. Having a good mind, he was glad to exercise it; and being given onlyone subject to study he was bound to make rapid progress in that. Ifhe had ever been offered a choice between a religious and a seculareducation, his friends would have found out early that he was not bornto be a rav. But as he had no mental opening except through thehedder, he went on from year to year winning new distinction in Hebrewscholarship; with the result that witnesses with preconceived ideasbegan to see the halo of piety playing around his head, and awell-to-do family was misled into making a match with him for the sakeof the glory that he was to attain. 

When it became evident that the son-in-law was not going to developinto a rav, my grandfather notified him that he would have to assumethe support of his own family without delay. My father thereforeentered on a series of experiments with paying occupations, for noneof which he was qualified, and in none of which he succeededpermanently. 

My mother was with my father, as equal partner and laborer, ineverything he attempted in Polotzk. They tried keeping a wayside inn, but had to give it up because the life was too rough for my mother, who was expecting her first baby. Returning to Polotzk they went tostorekeeping on their own account, but failed in this also, because myfather was inexperienced, and my mother, now with the baby to nurse, was not able to give her best attention to business. Over two yearspassed in this experiment, and in the interval the second child wasborn, increasing my parents' need of a home and a reliable income. 

It was then decided that my father should seek his fortune elsewhere. He travelled as far east as Tchistopol, on the Volga, and south as faras Odessa, on the Black Sea, trying his luck at various occupationswithin the usual Jewish restrictions. Finally he reached the positionof assistant superintendent in a distillery, with a salary of thirtyrubles a month. That was a fair income for those days, and he wasplanning to have his family join him when my Grandfather Raphael died, leaving my mother heir to a good business. My father thereuponreturned to Polotzk, after nearly three years' absence from home. 

As my mother had been trained to her business from childhood, while myfather had had only a little irregular experience, she naturallyremained the leader. She was as successful as her father before her. The people continued to call her Raphael's Hannah Hayye, and underthat name she was greatly respected in the business world. Her eldestbrother was now a merchant of importance, and my mother'sestablishment was gradually enlarged; so that, altogether, our familyhad a solid position in Polotzk, and there were plenty to envy us. 

We were almost rich, as Polotzk counted riches in those days;certainly we were considered well-to-do. We moved into a larger house, where there was room for out-of-town customers to stay overnight, withstabling for their horses. We lived as well as any people of ourclass, and perhaps better, because my father had brought home withhim from his travels a taste for a more genial life than Polotzkusually asked for. My mother kept a cook and a nursemaid, and advornik, or outdoor man, to take care of the horses, the cow, and thewoodpile. All the year round we kept open house, as I remember. Cousins and aunts were always about, and on holidays friends of alldegrees gathered in numbers. And coming and going in the wing setapart for business guests were merchants, traders, country peddlers, peasants, soldiers, and minor government officials. It was a fullhouse at all times, and especially so during fairs, and at the seasonof the military draft. 

In the family wing there was also enough going on. There were four ofus children, besides father and mother and grandmother, and theparasitic cousins. Fetchke was the eldest; I was the second; the thirdwas my only brother, named Joseph, for my father's father; and thefourth was Deborah, named for my mother's mother. 

I suppose I ought to explain my own name also, especially because I amgoing to emerge as the heroine by and by. Be it therefore known that Iwas named Maryashe, for a bygone aunt. I was never called by my fullname, however. "Maryashe" was too dignified for me. I was always"Mashinke, " or else "Mashke, " by way of diminutive. A variety ofnicknames, mostly suggested by my physical peculiarities, werebestowed on me from time to time by my fond or foolish relatives. Myuncle Berl, for example, gave me the name of "Zukrochene Flum, " whichI am not going to translate, because it is uncomplimentary. 

My sister Fetchke was always the good little girl, and when ourtroubles began she was an important member of the family. What sort oflittle girl I was will be written by and by. Joseph was the bestJewish boy that ever was born, but he hated to go to heder, so he hadto be whipped, of course. Deborah was just a baby, and her principalcharacteristic was single-mindedness. If she had teething to attendto, she thought of nothing else day or night, and communicated withthe family on no other subject. If it was whooping-cough, she whoopedmost heartily; if it was measles, she had them thick. 

It was the normal thing in Polotzk, where the mothers worked as wellas the fathers, for the children to be left in the hands ofgrandmothers and nursemaids. I suffer reminiscent terrors when Irecall Deborah's nurse, who never opened her lips except to frightenus children--or else to lie. That girl never told the truth if shecould help it. I know it is so because I heard her tell eleven ortwelve unnecessary lies every day. In the beginning of her residencewith us, I exposed her indignantly every time I caught her lying; butthe tenor of her private conversations with me was conducive to acessation of my activity along the line of volunteer testimony. Inshorter words, the nurse terrified me with horrid threats until I didnot dare to contradict her even if she lied her head off. The thingsshe promised me in this life and in the life to come could not beexecuted by a person without imagination. The nurse gave almost herentire attention to us older children, disposing easily of the baby'sclaims. Deborah, unless she was teething or whoop-coughing, was aquiet baby, and would lie for hours on the nurse's lap, sucking at a"pacifier" made of bread and sugar tied up in a muslin rag, andpreviously chewed to a pulp by the nurse. And while the baby suckedthe nurse told us things--things that we must remember when we went tobed at night. 

A favorite subject of her discourse was the Evil One, who lived, soshe told us, in our attic, with his wife and brood. A pet amusement ofour invisible tenant was the translating of human babies into hislair, leaving one of his own brats in the cradle; the moral of whichwas that if nurse wanted to loaf in the yard and watch who went outand who came in, we children must mind the baby. The girl was so slythat she carried on all this tyranny without being detected, and welived in terror till she was discharged for stealing. 

In our grandmothers we were very fortunate: They spoiled us to ourhearts' content. Grandma Deborah's methods I know only from hearsay, for I was very little when she died. Grandma Rachel I rememberdistinctly, spare and trim and always busy. I recall her coming inmidwinter from the frozen village where she lived. I remember, as ifit were but last winter, the immense shawls and wraps which we unwoundfrom about her person, her voluminous brown sack coat in which therewas room for three of us at a time, and at last the tight clasp of herlong arms, and her fresh, cold cheeks on ours. And when the huggingand kissing were over, Grandma had a treat for us. It was _talakno_, or oat flour, which we mixed with cold water and ate raw, using woodenspoons, just like the peasants, and smacking our lips over it inimaginary enjoyment. 

But Grandma Rachel did not come to play. She applied herselfenergetically to the housekeeping. She kept her bright eye oneverything, as if she were in her own trifling establishment inYuchovitch. Watchful was she as any cat--and harmless as a tamerabbit. If she caught the maids at fault, she found an excuse forthem at the same time. If she was quite exasperated with the stupidityof Yakub, the dvornik, she pretended to curse him in a phrase of herown invention, a mixture of Hebrew and Russian, which, translated, said, "Mayst thou have gold and silver in thy bosom"; but to thechoreman, who was not a linguist, the mongrel phrase conveyed a senseof his delinquency. 

Grandma Rachel meant to be very strict with us children, andaccordingly was prompt to discipline us; but we discovered early inour acquaintance with her that the child who got a spanking was sureto get a hot cookie or the jam pot to lick, so we did not stand ingreat awe of her punishments. Even if it came to a spanking it wasonly a farce. Grandma generally interposed a pillow between the palmof her hand and the area of moral stimulation. 

The real disciplinarian in our family was my father. Present orabsent, it was fear of his displeasure that kept us in the straightand narrow path. In the minds of us children he was as muchrepresented, when away from home, by the strap hanging on the wall asby his portrait which stood on a parlor table, in a gorgeous frameadorned with little shells. Almost everybody's father had a strap, butour father's strap was more formidable than the ordinary. For onething, it was more painful to encounter personally, because it was nota simple strap, but a bunch of fine long strips, clinging as rubber. My father called it noodles; and while his facetiousness was lost onus children, the superior sting of his instrument was entirelyeffective. 

In his leisure, my father found means of instructing us other than bythe strap. He took us walking and driving, answered our questions, andtaught us many little things that our playmates were not taught. From distant parts of the country he had imported little tricks ofspeech and conduct, which we learned readily enough; for we werealways a teachable lot. Our pretty manners were very much admired, sothat we became used to being held up as models to children lesspolite. Guests at our table praised our deportment, when, at the endof a meal, we kissed the hands of father and mother and thanked themfor food. Envious mothers of rowdy children used to sneer, "Thosegrandchildren of Raphael the Russian are quite the aristocrats. "

 [Illustration: MY FATHER'S PORTRAIT]

And yet, off the stage, we had our little quarrels and tempests, especially I. I really and truly cannot remember a time when Fetchkewas naughty, but I was oftener in trouble than out of it. I need notgo into details. I only need to recall how often, on going to bed, Iused to lie silently rehearsing the day's misdeeds, my sisterrefraining from talk out of sympathy. As I always came to theconclusion that I wanted to reform, I emerged from my reflections withthis solemn formula: "Fetchke, let us be good. " And my generosity inincluding my sister in my plans for salvation was equalled by hermagnanimity in assuming part of my degradation. She always replied, inaspiration as eager as mine, "Yes, Mashke, let us be good. "

My mother had less to do than any one with our early training, becauseshe was confined to the store. When she came home at night, with herpockets full of goodies for us, she was too hungry for our love tolisten to tales against us, too tired from work to discipline us. Itwas only on Sabbaths and holidays that she had a chance to getacquainted with us, and we all looked forward to these days ofenjoined rest. 

On Friday afternoons my parents came home early, to wash and dress andremove from their persons every sign of labor. The great keys of thestore were put away out of sight; the money bag was hidden in thefeatherbeds. My father put on his best coat and silk skull-cap; mymother replaced the cotton kerchief by the well-brushed wig. Wechildren bustled around our parents, asking favors in the name of theSabbath--"Mama, let Fetchke and me wear our new shoes, in honor ofSabbath"; or "Papa, will you take us to-morrow across the bridge? Yousaid you would, on Sabbath. " And while we adorned ourselves in ourbest, my grandmother superintended the sealing of the oven, the maidswashed the sweat from their faces, and the dvornik scraped his feet atthe door. 

My father and brother went to the synagogue, while we women and girlsassembled in the living-room for candle prayer. The table gleamed withspotless linen and china. At my father's place lay the Sabbath loaf, covered over with a crocheted doily; and beside it stood the wineflask and _kiddush_ cup of gold or silver. At the opposite end of thetable was a long row of brass candlesticks, polished to perfection, with the heavy silver candlesticks in a shorter row in front; for mymother and grandmother were very pious, and each used a number ofcandles; while Fetchke and I and the maids had one apiece. 

After the candle prayer the women generally read in some book ofdevotion, while we children amused ourselves in the quietest manner, till the men returned from synagogue. "Good Sabbath!" my fathercalled, as he entered; and "Good Sabbath! Good Sabbath!" we wished himin return. If he brought with him a Sabbath guest from the synagogue, some poor man without a home, the stranger was welcomed and invitedin, and placed in the seat of honor, next to my father. 

We all stood around the table while _kiddush_, or the blessing overthe wine, was said, and if a child whispered or nudged another myfather reproved him with a stern look, and began again from thebeginning. But as soon as he had cut the consecrated loaf, anddistributed the slices, we were at liberty to talk and ask questions, unless a guest was present, when we maintained a polite silence. 

Of one Sabbath guest we were always sure, even if no destitute Jewaccompanied my father from the synagogue. Yakub the choreman partookof the festival with us. He slept on a bunk built over the entrancedoor, and reached by means of a rude flight of steps. There he likedto roll on his straw and rags, whenever he was not busy, or feltespecially lazy. On Friday evenings he climbed to his roost veryearly, before the family assembled for supper, and waited for his cue, which was the breaking-out of table talk after the blessing of thebread. Then Yakub began to clear his throat and kept on working at ituntil my father called to him to come down and have a glass of vodka. Sometimes my father pretended not to hear him, and we smiled at oneanother around the table, while Yakub's throat grew worse and worse, and he began to cough and mutter and rustle in his straw. Then myfather let him come down, and he shuffled in, and stood clutching hiscap with both hands, while my father poured him a brimming glass ofwhiskey. This Yakub dedicated to all our healths, and tossed off tohis own comfort. If he got a slice of boiled fish after his glassful, he gulped it down as a chicken gulps worms, smacked his lipsexplosively, and wiped his fingers on his unkempt locks. Then, thanking his master and mistress, and scraping and bowing, he backedout of the room and ascended to his roost once more; and in less timethan it takes to write his name, the simple fellow was asleep, andsnoring the snore of the just. 

On Sabbath morning almost everybody went to synagogue, and those whodid not, read their prayers and devotions at home. Dinner, at midday, was a pleasant and leisurely meal in our house. Between courses myfather led us in singing our favorite songs, sometimes Hebrew, sometimes Yiddish, sometimes Russian, or some of the songs withoutwords for which the Hasidim were famous. In the afternoon we wentvisiting, or else we took long walks out of town, where the fieldssprouted and the orchards waited to bloom. If we stayed at home, wewere not without company. Neighbors dropped in for a glass of tea. Uncles and cousins came, and perhaps my brother's rebbe, to examinehis pupil in the hearing of the family. And wherever we spent the day, the talk was pleasant, the faces were cheerful, and the joy of Sabbathpervaded everything. 

The festivals were observed with all due pomp and circumstance in ourhouse. Passover was beautiful with shining new things all through thehouse; _Purim_ was gay with feasting and presents and the jollymummers; _Succoth_ was a poem lived in a green arbor; New-Yearthrilled our hearts with its symbols and promises; and the Day ofAtonement moved even the laughing children to a longing forconsecration. The year, in our pious house, was an endless song inmany cantos of joy, lamentation, aspiration, and rhapsody. 

We children, while we regretted the passing of a festival, foundplenty to content us in the common days of the week. We hadeverything we needed, and almost everything we wanted. We werewelcomed everywhere, petted and praised, abroad as well as at home. Isuppose no little girls with whom we played had a more comfortablesense of being well-off than Fetchke and I. "Raphael the Russian'sgrandchildren" people called us, as if referring to the quarterings inour shield. It was very pleasant to wear fine clothes, to have kopecksto spend at the fruit stalls, and to be pointed at admiringly. Some ofthe little girls we went with were richer than we, but after all one'smother can wear only one pair of earrings at a time, and our motherhad beautiful gold ones that hung down on her neck. 

As we grew older, my parents gave us more than physical comfort andsocial standing to rejoice in. They gave us, or set out to give us, education, which was less common than gold earrings in Polotzk. Forthe ideal of a modern education was the priceless ware that my fatherbrought back with him from his travels in distant parts. His travels, indeed, had been the making of my father. He had gone away fromPolotzk, in the first place, as a man unfit for the life he led, outof harmony with his surroundings, at odds with his neighbors. Neverheartily devoted to the religious ideals of the Hebrew scholar, he wasmore and more a dissenter as he matured, but he hardly knew what hewanted to embrace in place of the ideals he rejected. The rigid schemeof orthodox Jewish life in the Pale offered no opening to any othermode of life. But in the large cities in the east and south hediscovered a new world, and found himself at home in it. The Jewsamong whom he lived in those parts were faithful to the essence of thereligion, but they allowed themselves more latitude in practice andobservance than the people in Polotzk. Instead of bribing governmentofficials to relax the law of compulsory education for boys, thesepeople pushed in numbers at every open door of culture andenlightenment. Even the girls were given books in Odessa and Kherson, as the rock to build their lives on, and not as an ornament foridleness. My father's mind was ready for the reception of such ideas, and he was inspired by the new view of the world which they affordedhim. 

When he returned to Polotzk he knew what had been wrong with his lifebefore, and he proceeded to remedy it. He resolved to live, as far asthe conditions of existence in Polotzk permitted, the life of a modernman. And he saw no better place to begin than with the education ofthe children. Outwardly he must conform to the ways of his neighbors, just as he must pay tribute to the policeman on the beat; for standingroom is necessary to all operations, and social ostracism could ruinhim as easily as police persecution. His children, if he started themright, would not have to bow to the yoke as low as he; his children'schildren might even be free men. And education was the one means toredemption. 

Fetchke and I were started with a rebbe, in the orthodox way, but wewere taught to translate as well as read Hebrew, and we had a secularteacher besides. My sister and I were very diligent pupils, and myfather took great satisfaction in our progress and built great plansfor our higher education. 

My brother, who was five years old when he entered heder, hated to beshut up all day over a printed page that meant nothing to him. Hecried and protested, but my father was determined that he should notgrow up ignorant, so he used the strap freely to hasten the truant'ssteps to school. The heder was the only beginning allowable for a boyin Polotzk, and to heder Joseph must go. So the poor boy's life wasmade a nightmare, and the horror was not lifted until he was ten yearsold, when he went to a modern school where intelligible things weretaught, and it proved that it was not the book he hated, but theblindness of the heder. 

For a number of peaceful years after my father's return from "farRussia, " we led a wholesome life of comfort, contentment, and faith into-morrow. Everything prospered, and we children grew in the sun. Mymother was one with my father in all his plans for us. Although shehad spent her young years in the pursuit of the ruble, it was more toher that our teacher praised us than that she had made a good bargainwith a tea merchant. Fetchke and Joseph and I, and Deborah, when shegrew up, had some prospects even in Polotzk, with our parents' heartsset on the highest things; but we were destined to seek our fortunesin a world which even my father did not dream of when he settled downto business in Polotzk. 

Just when he felt himself safe and strong, a long series of troublesset in to harass us, and in a few years' time we were reduced to astate of helpless poverty, in which there was no room to think ofanything but bread. My father became seriously ill, and spent largesums on cures that did not cure him. While he was still an invalid, mymother also became ill and kept her bed for the better part of twoyears. When she got up, it was only to lapse again. Some of uschildren also fell ill, so that at one period the house was ahospital. And while my parents were incapacitated, the business wasruined through bad management, until a day came when there was notenough money in the cash drawer to pay the doctor's bills. 

For some years after they got upon their feet again, my parentsstruggled to regain their place in the business world, but failed todo so. My father had another period of experimenting with this or thatbusiness, like his earlier experience. But everything went wrong, tillat last he made a great resolve to begin life all over again. And theway to do that was to start on a new soil. My father determined toemigrate to America. 

I have now told who I am, what my people were, how I began life, andwhy I was brought to a new home. Up to this point I have borrowed therecollections of my parents, to piece out my own fragmentaryreminiscences. But from now on I propose to be my own pilot across theseas of memory; and if I lose myself in the mists of uncertainty, orrun aground on the reefs of speculation, I still hope to make port atlast, and I shall look for welcoming faces on the shore. For the shipI sail in is history, and facts will kindle my beacon fires. 

CHAPTER V

I REMEMBER

My father and mother could tell me much more that I have forgotten, orthat I never was aware of; but I want to reconstruct my childhood fromthose broken recollections only which, recurring to me in after years, filled me with the pain and wonder of remembrance. I want to stringtogether those glimpses of my earliest days that dangle in my mind, like little lanterns in the crooked alleys of the past, and show me anelusive little figure that is myself, and yet so much a stranger tome, that I often ask, Can this be I?

I have not much faith in the reality of my first recollection, but asI can never go back over the past without bringing up at last at thissombre little scene, as at a door beyond which I cannot pass, I mustput it down for what it is worth in the scheme of my memories. I see, then, an empty, darkened room. In the middle, on the floor, lies along Shape, covered with some black stuff. There are candles at thehead of the Shape. Dim figures are seated low, against the walls, swaying to and fro. No sound is in the room, except a moan or a sighfrom the shadowy figures; but a child is walking softly around andaround the Shape on the floor, in quiet curiosity. 

The Shape is the body of my grandfather laid out for burial. The childis myself--myself asking questions of Death. 

I was four years old when my mother's father died. Do I reallyremember the little scene? Perhaps I heard it described by some fondrelative, as I heard other anecdotes of my infancy, and unconsciouslyincorporated it with my genuine recollections. It is so suitable ascene for a beginning: the darkness, the mystery, the impenetrability. My share in it, too, is characteristic enough, if I really studiedthat Shape by the lighted candles, as I have always pretended tomyself. So often afterwards I find myself forgetting the conventionalmeanings of things, in some search for a meaning of my own. It is morelikely, however, that I took no intellectual interest in mygrandfather's remains at the time, but later on, when I sought for aFirst Recollection, perhaps, elaborated the scene, and my part in it, to something that satisfied my sense of dramatic fitness. If I reallycommitted such a fraud, I am now well punished, by being obliged, atthe very start, to discredit the authenticity of my memoirs. 

The abode of our childhood, if not revisited in later years, is apt toloom in our imagination as a vast edifice with immense chambers inwhich our little self seems lost. Somehow I have failed of thisillusion. My grandfather's house, where I was born, stands, in mymemory, a small, one-story wooden building, whose chimneys touch thesky at the same level as its neighbors' chimneys. Such as it was, thehouse stood even with the sidewalk, but the yard was screened from thestreet by a board fence, outside which I am sure there was a bench. The gate into the yard swung so high from the ground that four-footedvisitors did not have to wait till it was opened. Pigs found their wayin, and were shown the way out, under the gate; grunting on theirarrival, but squealing on their departure. 

 [Illustration: MY GRANDFATHER'S HOUSE, WHERE I WAS BORN]

Of the interior of the house I remember only one room, and not so muchthe room as the window, which had a blue sash curtain, and beyond thecurtain a view of a narrow, walled garden, where deep-red dahliasgrew. The garden belonged to the house adjoining my grandfather's, where lived the Gentile girl who was kind to me. 

Concerning my dahlias I have been told that they were not dahlias atall, but poppies. As a conscientious historian I am bound to recordevery rumor, but I retain the right to cling to my own impression. Indeed, I must insist on my dahlias, if I am to preserve the garden atall. I have so long believed in them, that if I try to see _poppies_in those red masses over the wall, the whole garden crumbles away, andleaves me a gray blank. I have nothing against poppies. It is onlythat my illusion is more real to me than reality. And so do we oftenbuild our world on an error, and cry out that the universe is fallingto pieces, if any one but lift a finger to replace the error by truth. 

Ours was a quiet neighborhood. Across the narrow street was theorderly front of the Korpus, or military academy, with straight rowsof unshuttered windows. It was an imposing edifice in the eyes of usall, because it was built of brick, and was several stories high. Atone of the windows I pretend I remember seeing a tailor mending theuniforms of the cadets. I knew the uniforms, and I knew, in lateryears, the man who had been the tailor; but I am not sure that he didnot emigrate to America, there to seek his fortune in a candy shop, and his happiness in a family of triplets, twins, and even odds, longbefore I was old enough to toddle as far as the gate. 

Behind my grandfather's house was a low hill, which I do _not_remember as a mountain. Perhaps it was only a hump in the ground. Thiseminence, of whatever stature, was a part of the Vall, a longer andhigher ridge on the top of which was a promenade, and which was saidto be the burying-ground of Napoleonic soldiers. This historic rumormeant very little to me, for I never knew what Napoleon was. 

It was not my way to accept unchallenged every superstition that cameto my ears. Among the wild flowers that grew on the grassy slopes ofthe Vall, there was a small daisy, popularly called "blind flower, "because it was supposed to cause blindness in rash children who pickedit. I was rash, if I was awake; and I picked "blind flowers" behindthe house, handfuls of them, and enjoyed my eyesight unimpaired. If myfaith in nursery lore was shaken by this experience, I kept mydiscovery to myself, and did not undertake to enlighten my playmates. I find other instances, later on, of the curious fact that I wascontent with _finding out_ for myself. It is curious to me because Iam not so reticent now. When I discover anything, if only a new tintin the red sunset, I must publish the fact to all my friends. Is itpossible that in my childish reflections I recognized the fact thatours was a secretive atmosphere, where knowledge was for the few, andwisdom was sometimes a capital offence?

In the summer-time I lived outdoors considerably. I found manyoccasions to visit my mother in the store, which gave me a long walk. If my errand was not pressing--or perhaps even if it was--I made along stop on the Platz, especially if I had a companion with me. ThePlatz was a rectangular space in the centre of a roomy square, with ashady promenade around its level lawn. The Korpus faced on the Platz, which was its drill ground. Around the square were grouped the fineresidences of the officers of the Korpus, with a great white churchoccupying one side. These buildings had a fearful interest for me, especially the church, as the dwellings and sanctuary of the enemy;but on the Platz I was not afraid to play and seek adventures. I lovedto watch the cadets drill and play ball, or pass them close as theypromenaded, two and two, looking so perfect in white trousers andjackets and visored caps. I loved to run with my playmates and lay outall sorts of geometric figures on the four straight sides of thepromenade; patterns of infinite variety, traceable only by a pair oftireless feet. If one got so wild with play as to forget all fear, onecould swing, until chased away by the guard, on the heavy chainfestoons that encircled the monument at one side of the square. Thiswas the only monument in Polotzk, dedicated I never knew to whom orwhat. It was the monument, as the sky was the sky, and the earth, earth: the only phenomenon of its kind, mysterious, unquestionable. 

It was not far from the limits of Polotzk to the fields and woods. Myfather was fond of taking us children for a long walk on a Sabbathafternoon. I have little pictures in my mind of places where we went, though I doubt if they could be found from my descriptions. I try invain to conjure up a panoramic view of the neighborhood. Even when Istood on the apex of the Vall, and saw the level country spread in alldirections, my inexperienced eyes failed to give me the picture of thewhole. I saw the houses in the streets below, all going to market. Thehighroads wandered out into the country, and disappeared in the sunnydistance, where the edge of the earth and the edge of the sky fittedtogether, like a jewel box with the lid ajar. In these things I sawwhat a child always sees: the unrelated fragments of a vast, mysterious world. But although my geography may be vague, and thescenes I remember as the pieces of a paper puzzle, still my breathcatches as I replace this bit or that, and coax the edges to fittogether. I am obstinately positive of some points, and for the rest, you may amend the puzzle if you can. You may make a survey of Polotzkever so accurate, and show me where I was wrong; still I am the betterguide. You may show that my adventureful road led nowhere, but I canprove, by the quickening of my pulse and the throbbing of my rapidrecollections, that _things happened to me_ there or here; and I shallbe believed, not you. And so over the vague canvas of scenes halfremembered, half imagined, I draw the brush of recollection, and pickout here a landmark, there a figure, and set my own feet back in theold ways, and live over the old events. It is real enough, as by mybeating heart you might know. 

Sometimes my father took us out by the Long Road. There is no road inthe neighborhood of Polotzk by that name, but I know very well thatthe way was long to my little feet; and long are the backward thoughtsthat creep along it, like a sunbeam travelling with the day. 

The first landmark on the sunny, dusty road is the house of a peasantacquaintance where we stopped for rest and a drink. I remember a coolgray interior, a woman with her bosom uncovered pattering barefoot tohand us the hospitable dipper, and a baby smothered in a deep cradlewhich hung by ropes from the ceiling. Farther on, the empty road gaveus shadows of trees and rustlings of long grass. This, at least, iswhat I imagine over the spaces where no certain object is. Then, Iknow, we ran and played, and it was father himself who hid in thecorn, and we made havoc following after. Laughing, we ramble on, tillwe hear the long, far whistle of a locomotive. The railroad track isjust visible over the field on the _left_ of the road; the cornfield, I say, is on the _right_. We stand on tiptoe and wave our hands andshout as the long train rushes by at a terrific speed, leaving itspennon of smoke behind. 

The passing of the train thrilled me wonderfully. Where did it comefrom, and whither did it fly, and how did it feel to be one of thefaces at the windows? If ever I dreamed of a world beyond Polotzk, itmust have been at those times, though I do not honestly remember. 

Somewhere out on that same Long Road is the place where we onceattended a wedding. I do not know who were married, or whether theylived happily ever after; but I remember that when the dancers werewearied, and we were all sated with goodies, day was dawning, andseveral of the young people went out for a stroll in a grove near by. They took me with them--who were they?--and they lost me. At any rate, when they saw me again, I was a stranger. For I had sojourned, for animmeasurable moment, in a world apart from theirs. I had witnessed myfirst sunrise; I had watched the rosy morning tiptoe in among thesilver birches. And that grove stands on the _left_ side of the road. 

We had another stopping-place out in that direction. It was the placewhere my mother sent her hundred and more house plants to be cared forone season, because for some reason they could not fare well at home. We children went to visit them once; and the memory of that is red andwhite and purple. 

The Long Road went ever on and on; I remember no turns. But we turnedat last, when the sun was set and the breeze of evening blew; andsometimes the first star came in and the Sabbath went out before wereached home and supper. 

Another way out of town was by the bridge across the Polota. I recallmore than one excursion in that direction. Sometimes we made a largeparty, annexing a few cousins and aunts for the day. At this moment Ifeel a movement of affection for these relations who shared ourcountry adventures. I had forgotten what virtue there was in ourfamily; I do like people who can walk. In those days, it is likelyenough, I did not always walk on my own legs, for I was very little, and not strong. I do not remember being carried, but if any of my biguncles gave me a lift, I am sure I like them all the more for it. 

The Dvina River swallowed the Polota many times a day, yet the lesserstream flooded the universe on one occasion. On the hither bank ofthat stream, as you go from Polotzk, I should plant a flowering bush, a lilac or a rose, in memory of the life that bloomed in me one daythat I was there. 

Leisurely we had strolled out of the peaceful town. It was earlyspring, and the sky and the earth were two warm palms in which alllive things nestled. Little green leaves trembled on the trees, andthe green, green grass sparkled. We sat us down to rest a little abovethe bridge; and life flowed in and out of us fully, freely, as theriver flowed and parted about the bridge piles. 

A market garden lay on the opposite slope, yellow-green with firstgrowth. In the long black furrows yet unsown a peasant pushed hisplow. I watched him go up and down, leaving a new black line on thebank for every turn. Suddenly he began to sing, a rude plowman's song. Only the melody reached me, but the meaning sprang up in my heart tofit it--a song of the earth and the hopes of the earth. I sat a longtime listening, looking, tense with attention. I felt myselfdiscovering things. Something in me gasped for life, and lay still. Iwas but a little body, and Life Universal had suddenly burst upon me. For a moment I had my little hand on the Great Pulse, but my fingersslipped, empty. For the space of a wild heartbeat I _knew_, and then Iwas again a simple child, looking to my earthly senses for life. Butthe sky had stretched for me, the earth had expanded; a greater lifehad dawned in me. 

We are not born all at once, but by bits. The body first and thespirit later; and the birth and growth of the spirit, in those who areattentive to their own inner life, are slow and exceedingly painful. Our mothers are racked with the pains of our physical birth; weourselves suffer the longer pains of our spiritual growth. Our soulsare scarred with the struggles of successive births, and the processis recorded also by the wrinkles in our brains, by the lines in ourfaces. Look at me and you will see that I have been born many times. And my first self-birth happened, as I have told, that spring day ofmy early springs. Therefore would I plant a rose on the green bank ofthe Polota, there to bloom in token of eternal life. 

Eternal, divine life. This is a tale of immortal life. Should I besitting here, chattering of my infantile adventures, if I did not knowthat I was speaking for thousands? Should you be sitting there, attending to my chatter, while the world's work waits, if you did notknow that I spoke also for you? I might say "you" or "he" instead of"I. " Or I might be silent, while you spoke for me and the rest, butfor the accident that I was born with a pen in my hand, and youwithout. We love to read the lives of the great, yet what a brokenhistory of mankind they give, unless supplemented by the lives of thehumble. But while the great can speak for themselves, or by thetongues of their admirers, the humble are apt to live inarticulate anddie unheard. It is well that now and then one is born among the simplewith a taste for self-revelation. The man or woman thus endowed mustspeak, will speak, though there are only the grasses in the field tohear, and none but the wind to carry the tale. 

 * * * * *

It is fun to run over the bridge, with a clatter of stout little shoeson resounding timbers. We pass a walled orchard on the right, andremind each other of the fruit we enjoyed here last summer. Our nextstopping-place is farther on, beyond the wayside inn where lives theidiot boy who gave me such a scare last time. It is a poor enoughplace, where we stop, but there is an ice house, the only one I know. We are allowed to go in and see the greenish masses of ice gleaming inthe half-light, and bring out jars of sweet, black "lager beer, " whichwe drink in the sunny doorway. I shall always remember the flavor ofthe stuff, and the smell, and the wonder and chill of the ice house. 

I vaguely remember something about a convent out in that direction, but I was tired and sleepy after my long walk, and glad to bereturning home. I hope they carried me a bit of the way, for I wasvery tired. There were stars out before we reached home, and the menstopped in the middle of the street to bless the new moon. 

It is pleasant to recall how we went bathing in the Polota. On Fridayafternoons in summer, when the week's work was done, and the houses ofthe good housewives stood shining with cleanliness, ready for theSabbath, parties of women and girls went chattering and laughing downto the river bank. There was a particular spot which belonged to thewomen. I do not know where the men bathed, but our part of the riverwas just above Bonderoff's gristmill. I can see the green bank slopingto the water, and the still water sliding down to the sudden swirl andspray of the mill race. 

The woods on the bank screened the bathers. Bathing costumes weresimply absent, which caused the mermaids no embarrassment, for theywere accustomed to see each other naked in the public hot baths. Theyhad little fear of intrusion, for the spot was sacred to them. Theysplashed about and laughed and played tricks, with streaming hair andfree gestures. I do not know when I saw the girls play as they did inthe water. It was a pretty picture, but the bathers would have beenshocked beyond your understanding if you had suggested that nakedwomen might be put into a picture. If it ever happened, as it happenedat least once for me to remember, that their privacy was outraged, thebathers were thrown into a panic as if their very lives werethreatened. Screaming, they huddled together, low in the water, somehiding their eyes in their hands, with the instinct of the ostrich. Some ran for their clothes on the bank, and stood shrinking behindsome inadequate rag. The more spirited of the naiads threw pebbles atthe cowardly intruders, who, safe behind the leafy cover that wasmeant to shield modesty, threw jeers and mockery in return. But theGentile boys ran away soon, or ran away punished. A chemise and apetticoat turn a frightened woman into an Amazon in suchcircumstances; and woe to the impudent wretch who lingered after theavengers plunged into the thicket. Slaps and cuffs at close range werehis portion, and curses pursued him in retreat. 

Among the liveliest of my memories are those of eating and drinking;and I would sooner give up some of my delightful remembered walks, green trees, cool skies, and all, than to lose my images of supperseaten on Sabbath evenings at the end of those walks. I make no apologyto the spiritually minded, to whom this statement must be a revelationof grossness. I am content to tell the truth as well as I am able. Ido not even need to console myself with the reflection that what isdross to the dreamy ascetic may be gold to the psychologist. The factis that I ate, even as a delicate child, with considerable relish; andI remember eating with a relish still keener. Why, I can dream away ahalf-hour on the immortal flavor of those thick cheese cakes we usedto have on Saturday night. I am no cook, so I cannot tell you how tomake such cake. I might borrow the recipe from my mother, but I wouldrather you should take my word for the excellence of Polotzk cheesecakes. If you should attempt that pastry, I am certain, be you ever soclever a cook, you would be disappointed by the result; and hence youmight be led to mistrust my reflections and conclusions. You havenothing in your kitchen cupboard to give the pastry its notableflavor. It takes history to make such a cake. First, you must eat itas a ravenous child, in memorable twilights, before the lighting ofthe week-day lamp. Then you must have yourself removed from the houseof your simple feast, across the oceans, to a land where yourcherished pastry is unknown even by name; and where daylight andtwilight, work day and fête day, for years rush by you in the unbrokentide of a strange, new, overfull life. You must abstain from theinimitable morsel for a period of years, --I think fifteen is the magicnumber, --and then suddenly, one day, rub the Aladdin's lamp of memory, and have the renowned tidbit whisked upon your platter, garnished witha hundred sweet herbs of past association. 

Do you think all your imported spices, all your scientific blendingand manipulating, could produce so fragrant a morsel as that which Ihave on my tongue as I write? Glad am I that my mother, in herassiduous imitation of everything American, has forgotten the secretsof Polotzk cookery. At any rate, she does not practise it, and I amthe richer in memories for her omissions. Polotzk cheese cake, as Inow know it, has in it the flavor of daisies and clover picked on theVall; the sweetness of Dvina water; the richness of newly turned earthwhich I moulded with bare feet and hands; the ripeness of red cherriesbought by the dipperful in the market place; the fragrance of all mychildhood's summers. 

Abstinence, as I have mentioned, is one of the essential ingredientsin the phantom dish. I discovered this through a recent experience. Itwas cherry time in the country, and the sight of the scarlet fruitsuddenly reminded me of a cherry season in Polotzk, I could not sayhow many years ago. On that earlier occasion my Cousin Shimke, who, like everybody else, was a storekeeper, had set a boy to watch herstore, and me to watch the boy, while she went home to make cherrypreserves. She gave us a basket of cherries for our trouble, and theboy offered to eat them with the stones if I would give him my share. But I was equal to that feat myself, so we sat down to a cherry-stonecontest. Who ate the most stones I could not remember as I stood underthe laden trees not long ago, but the transcendent flavor of thehistorical cherries came back to me, and I needs must enjoy it oncemore. 

I climbed into the lowest boughs and hung there, eating cherries withthe stones, my whole mind concentrated on the sense of taste. Alas!the fruit had no such flavor to yield as I sought. Excellent Americancherries were these, but not so fragrantly sweet as my cousin'scherries. And if I should return to Polotzk, and buy me a measure ofcherries at a market stall, and pay for it with a Russian groschen, would the market woman be generous enough to throw in that hauntingflavor? I fear I should find that the old species of cherry is extinctin Polotzk. 

Sometimes, when I am not trying to remember at all, I am morefortunate in extracting the flavors of past feasts from my plainAmerican viands. I was eating strawberries the other day, ripe, redAmerican strawberries. Suddenly I experienced the very flavor andaroma of some strawberries I ate perhaps twenty years ago. I startedas from a shock, and then sat still for I do not know how long, breathless with amazement. In the brief interval of a gustatoryperception I became a child again, and I positively ached with thepain of being so suddenly compressed to that small being. I wanderedabout Polotzk once more, with large, questioning eyes; I rode theAtlantic in an emigrant ship; I took possession of the New World, myears growing accustomed to a new language; I sat at the feet ofrenowned professors, till my eyes contracted in dreaming over whatthey taught; and there I was again, an American among Americans, suddenly made aware of all that I had been, all that I hadbecome--suddenly illuminated, inspired by a complete vision of myself, a daughter of Israel and a child of the universe, that taught me moreof the history of my race than ever my learned teachers couldunderstand. 

All this came to me in that instant of tasting, all from the flavor ofripe strawberries on my tongue. Why, then, should I not treasure mymemories of childhood feasts? This experience gives me a great respectfor my bread and meat. I want to taste of as many viands as possible;for when I sit down to a dish of porridge I am certain of rising againa better animal, and I may rise a wiser man. I want to eat and drinkand be instructed. Some day I expect to extract from my pudding theflavor of manna which I ate in the desert, and then I shall write youa contemporaneous commentary on the Exodus. Nor do I despair ofremembering yet, over a dish of corn, the time when I fed on worms;and then I may be able to recall how it felt to be made at last into aman. Give me to eat and drink, for I crave wisdom. 

 * * * * *

My winters, while I was a very little girl, were passed in comparativeconfinement. On account of my delicate health, my grandmother andaunts deemed it wise to keep me indoors; or if I went out, I was soheavily coated and mittened and shawled that the frost scarcely got achance at the tip of my nose. I never skated or coasted or built snowhouses. If I had any experience of snowballs, it was with thosethrown at me by the Gentile boys. The way I dodge a snowball to thisday makes me certain that I learned the act in my fearful childhooddays, when I learned so many cowardly tricks of bending to a blow. Iknow that I was proud of myself when, not many years ago, I found Iwas not afraid to stand up and catch a flying baseball; but the fearof the snowball I have not conquered. When I turn a corner in snowballdays, the boys with bulging pockets see a head held high and a stepunquickened, but I know that I cringe inwardly; and this privatemortification I set down against old Polotzk, in my long score ofgrievances and shames. Fear is a devil hard to cast out. 

Let me make the most of the winter adventures that I recall. First, there was sleighing. We never kept horses of our own, but the horsesof our customer-guests were always at our disposal, and many a jollyride they gave us, with the dvornik at the reins, while their ownershaggled with my mother in the store about the price of soap. We had noluxurious sleigh, with cushions and fur robes, no silver bells on ourharness. Ours was a bare sledge used for hauling wood, with a paddingof straw and burlap, and the reins, as likely as not, were a knottedrope. But the horses did fly, over the river and up the opposite bankif we chose; and whether we had bells or not, the merry, foolish heartof Yakub would sing, and the whip would crack, and we children wouldlaugh; and the sport was as good as when, occasionally, we did ride ina more splendid sleigh, loaned us by one of our prouder guests. Wewere wholesome as apples to look at when we returned for bread and teain the dusk; at least I remember my sister, with cheeks as red as apainted doll's under her close-clipped curls; and my little brother, rosy, too, and aristocratic-looking enough, in his little greatcoattied with a red sash, and little fur cap with earlaps. For myself, Isuppose my nose was purple and my cheeks pinched, just as they are nowin the cold weather; but I had a good time. 

At certain--I mean uncertain--intervals we were bundled up and marchedto the public baths. This was so great an undertaking, consuming halfa day or so, and involving, in winter, such risk of catching cold, that it is no wonder the ceremony was not practised oftener. 

The public baths were situated on the river bank. I always stoppedawhile outside, to visit the poor patient horse in the treadmill, bymeans of which the water was pumped into the baths. I was notsentimental about animals then. I had not read of "Black Beauty" orany other personified monsters; I had not heard of any societies forthe prevention of cruelty to anything. But my pity stirred of its ownaccord at the sight of that miserable brute in the treadmill. I wasused to seeing horses hard-worked and abused. This horse had no loadto make him sweat, and I never saw him whipped. Yet I pitied thiscreature. Round and round his little circle he trod, with head hangingand eyes void of expectation; round and round all day, unthrilled byany touch of rein or bridle, interpreters of a living will; round andround, all solitary, never driven, never checked, never addressed;round and round and round, a walking machine, with eyes that did notflash, with teeth that did not threaten, with hoofs that did notstrike; round and round the dull day long. I knew what a horse's lifeshould be, entangled with the life of a master: adventurous, troubled, thrilled; petted and opposed, loved and abused; to-day the ringingcity pavement underfoot, and the buzz of beasts and men in the marketplace; to-morrow the yielding turf under tickled flanks, and the lonewhinny of scattered mates. How empty the existence of the treadmillhorse beside this! As empty and endless and dull as the life of almostany woman in Polotzk, had I had eyes to see the likeness. 

But to my ablutions!

We undress in a room leading directly from the entry, and furnishedonly with benches around the walls. There is no screen or otherprotection against the drafts rushing in every time the door isopened. When we enter the bathing-room we are confused by a babel ofsounds--shrill voices of women, hoarse voices of attendants, wailingand yelping of children, and rushing of water. At the same time we aresmitten by the heat of the room and nearly suffocated by clouds ofsteam. We find at last an empty bench, and surround ourselves with asemicircle of wooden pails, collected from all around the room. Sometimes two women in search of pails lay hold of the same pail atthe same moment, and a wrangle ensues, in the course of which eachdisputant reminds the other of all her failings, nicknames, andundesirable connections, living, dead, and unborn; until an attendantinterferes, with more muscle than argument, punctuating the sentenceof justice with newly coined expletives suggested by the occasion. Thecentre of the room, where the bathers fill their pails at the faucets, is a field of endless battle, especially on a crowded day. Thepeaceful women seated within earshot stop their violent scrubbing, tothe relief of unwilling children, while they attend to the liveliestof the quarrels. 

I like to watch the _poll_, that place of torture and heroicendurance. It is a series of steps rising to the ceiling, affording agradually mounting temperature. The bather who wants to enjoy aviolent sweating rests full length for a few minutes on each step, while an attendant administers several hearty strokes of a stingingbesom. Sometimes a woman climbs too far, and is brought down in afaint. On the poll, also, the cupping is done. The back of thepatient, with the cups in even rows, looks to me like a muffin pan. Ofcourse I never go on the poll: I am not robust enough. My spankings Itake at home. 

Another centre of interest is the _mikweh_, the name of which it isindelicate to mention in the hearing of men. It is a large pool ofstanding water, its depth graded by means of a flight of steps. Everymarried woman must perform here certain ceremonious ablutions atregular intervals. Cleanliness is as strictly enjoined as godliness, and the manner of attaining it is carefully prescribed. The women areprepared by the attendants for entering the pool, the curious childrenlooking on. In the pool they are ducked over their heads the correctnumber of times. The water in the pool has been standing for days; itdoes not look nor smell fresh. But we had no germs in Polotzk, so noharm came of it, any more than of the pails used promiscuously byfeminine Polotzk. If any were so dainty as to have second thoughtsabout the use of the common bath, they could enjoy, for a fee oftwenty-five kopecks, a private bathtub in another part of thebuilding. For the rich there were luxuries even in Polotzk. 

Cleansed, red-skinned, and steaming, we return at last to thedressing-room, to shiver, as we dress, in the cold drafts from theentry door; and then, muffled up to the eyes, we plunge into therefreshing outer air, and hurry home, looking like so many big bundlesrunning away with smaller bundles. If we meet acquaintances on the waywe are greeted with "_zu refueh_" ("to your good health"). If thefirst man we meet is a Gentile, the women who have been to the mikwehhave to return and repeat the ceremony of purification. To preventsuch a calamity, the kerchief is worn hooded over the eyes, so as toexclude unholy sights. At home we are indulged with extra pieces ofcake for tea, and otherwise treated like heroes returned from victory. We narrate anecdotes of our expedition, and my mother complains thatmy little brother is getting too old to be taken to the women's bath. He will go hereafter with the men. 

 [Illustration: THE MEAT MARKET, POLOTZK]

My winter confinement was not shared by my older sister, who otherwisewas my constant companion. She went out more than I, not being soafraid of the cold. She used to fret so when my mother was away in thestore that it became a custom for her to accompany my mother from thetime she was a mere baby. Muffled and rosy and frost-bitten, the tearsof cold rolling unnoticed down her plump cheeks, she ran after my busymother all day long, or tumbled about behind the counter, or nestledfor a nap among the bulging sacks of oats and barley. She warmed herlittle hands over my mother's pot of glowing charcoal--there was nostove in the store--and even learned to stand astride of it, forfurther comfort, without setting her clothes on fire. 

Fetchke was like a young colt inseparable from the mare. I make thiscomparison not in disrespectful jest, but in deepest pity. Fetchkekept close to my mother at first for love and protection, but thepetting she got became a blind for discipline. She learned early, frommy mother's example, that hands and feet and brains were made forlabor. She learned to bow to the yoke, to lift burdens, to do more forothers than she could ever hope to have done for her in turn. Shelearned to see sugar plums lie around without asking for her share. When she was only fit to nurse her dolls, she learned how to comfort aweary heart. 

And all this while I sat warm and watched over at home, untouched byany discipline save such as I directly incurred by my own sins. Idiffered from Fetchke a little in age, considerably in health, andenormously in luck. It was my good luck, in the first place, to beborn after her, instead of before; in the second place, to inherit, from the family stock, that particular assortment of gifts which wassure to mark me for special attentions, exemptions, and privileges;and as fortune always smiles on good fortune, it has ever been myluck, in the third place, to find something good in my idlehand--whether a sunbeam, or a loving heart, or a congenialtask--whenever, on turning a corner, I put out my hand to see what mynew world was like; while my sister, dear, devoted creature, had herhands so full of work that the sunbeam slipped, and the loving comradepassed out of hearing before she could straighten from her task, andall she had of the better world was a scented zephyr fanned in herface by the irresistible closing of a door. 

Perhaps Esau has been too severely blamed for selling his birthrightfor a mess of pottage. The lot of the firstborn is not necessarily tobe envied. The firstborn of a well-to-do patriarch, like Isaac, or ofa Rothschild of to-day, inherits, with his father's flocks and slavesand coffers, a troop of cares and responsibilities; unless he be aman without a sense of duty, in which case we are not supposed to envyhim. The firstborn of an indigent father inherits a double measure ofthe disadvantages of poverty, --a joyless childhood, a guideless youth, and perhaps a mateless manhood, his own life being drained to feed theyoung of his father's begetting. If we cannot do away with povertyentirely, we ought at least to abolish the institution ofprimogeniture. Nature invented the individual, and promised him, as areward for lusty being, comfort and immortality. Comes man with hispatented brains and copyrighted notions, and levies a tax on theindividual, in the form of enforced coöperation, for the maintenanceof his pet institution, the family. Our comfort, in the grip of thistyranny, must lie in the hope that man, who is no bastard child ofMother Nature, may be approaching a more perfect resemblance to hermajestic features; that his fitful development will culminate in aspiritual constitution capable of absolute justice. 

 * * * * *

I think I was telling how I stayed at home in the winter, while mysister helped or hindered my mother in her store-keeping. The daysdrew themselves out too long sometimes, so that I sat at the windowthinking what should happen next. No dolls, no books, no games, and attimes no companions. My grandmother taught me knitting, but I nevergot to the heel of my stocking, because if I discovered a droppedstitch I insisted on unravelling all my work till I picked it up; andgrandmother, instead of encouraging me in my love for perfection, lostpatience and took away my knitting needles. I still maintain that shewas in the wrong, but I have forgiven her, since I have worn manypairs of stockings with dropped stitches, and been grateful for them. And speaking of such everyday things reminds me of my friends, amongwhom also I find an impressive number with a stitch dropped somewherein the pattern of their souls. I love these friends so dearly that Ibegin to think I am at last shedding my intolerance; for I rememberthe day when I could not love less than perfection. I and my imperfectfriends together aspire to cast our blemishes, and I am happier so. 

There was not much to see from my window, yet adventures beckoned tome from the empty street. Sometimes the adventure was real, and I wentout to act in it, instead of dreaming on my stool. Once, I remember, it was early spring, and the winter's ice, just chopped up by thestreet cleaners, lay muddy and ragged and high in the streets fromcurb to curb. So it must lie till there was time to cart it to theDvina, which had all it could do at this season to carry tons, andheavy tons, of ice and snow and every sort of city rubbish, accumulated during the long closed months. Polotzk had no undergroundcommunication with the sea, save such as water naturally makes foritself. The poor old Dvina was hard-worked, serving both asdrinking-fountain and sewer, as a bridge in winter, a highway insummer, and a playground at all times. So it served us right if we hadto wait weeks and weeks in thawing time for our streets to be cleared;and we deserved all the sprains and bruises we suffered fromclambering over the broken ice in the streets while going about ourbusiness. 

Leah the Short, little and straight and neat, with a basket on one armand a bundle under the other, stood hesitating on the edge of the curbopposite my window. Her poor old face, framed in its calico kerchief, had a wrinkle of anxiety in it. The tumbled ice heap in the streetlooked to her like an impassable barrier. Tiny as she was, and loaded, she had reason to hesitate. Perhaps she had eggs in her basket, --Ithought of that as I looked at her across the street; and I thought ofmy old ambition to measure myself, shoulder to shoulder, with Leah, reputedly short. I was small myself, and was constantly reminded of itby a variety of nicknames, lovingly or vengefully invented by myfriends and enemies. I was called Mouse and Crumb and Poppy Seed. Should I live to be called, in my old age, Mashke the Short? I longedto measure my stature by Leah's, and here was my chance. 

I ran out into the street, my grandmother scolding me for goingwithout a shawl, and I calling back to her to be sure and watch me. Iskipped over the ice blocks like a goat, and offered my assistance toLeah the Short. With admirable skill and solicitude I guided her timidsteps across the street, at the same time winking to my grandmother atthe window, and pointing to my shoulder close to Leah's. Once on thesafe sidewalk, the tiny woman thanked me and blessed me and praised mefor a thoughtful child; and I watched her toddle away without theleast stir of shame at my hypocrisy. She had convinced me that I was agood little girl, and I had convinced myself that I was not so veryshort. My chin was almost on a level with Leah's shoulder, and I hadyears ahead in which to elevate it. Grandma at the window was witness, and I was entirely happy. If I caught cold from going bareheaded, somuch the better; mother would give me rock candy for my cough. 

For the long winter evenings there was plenty of quiet occupation. Iliked to sit with the women at the long bare table picking feathersfor new featherbeds. It was pleasant to poke my hand into thesoft-heaped mass and set it all in motion. I pretended that I couldpick out the feathers of particular hens, formerly my pets. Ireflected that they had fed me with eggs and broth, and now were goingto make my bed so soft; while I had done nothing for them but throwthem a handful of oats now and then, or chase them about, or spoiltheir nests. I was not ashamed of my part; I knew that if I were a henI should do as a hen does. I just liked to think about things in myidle way. 

Itke, the housemaid, was always the one to break in upon myreflections. She was sure to have a fit of sneezing just when the heapon the table was highest, sending clouds of feathers into the air, like a homemade snowstorm. After that the evening was finished by ourpicking the feathers from each other's hair. 

Sometimes we played cards or checkers, munching frost-bitten applesbetween moves. Sometimes the women sewed, and we children wound yarnor worsted for grandmother's knitting. If somebody had a story to tellwhile the rest worked, the evening passed with a pleasant sense ofsemi-idleness for all. 

On a Saturday night, the Sabbath being just departed, ghost storieswere particularly in favor. After two or three of the creepy legendswe began to move closer together under the lamp. At the end of an houror so we started and screamed if a spool fell, or a window rattled. Atbedtime nobody was willing to make the round of doors and windows, andwe were afraid to bring a candle into a dark room. 

I was just as much afraid as anybody. I am afraid now to be alone inthe house at night. I certainly was afraid that Saturday night whensomebody, in bravado, suggested fresh-baked buns, as a charm to dispelthe ghosts. The baker who lived next door always baked on Saturdaynight. Who would go and fetch the buns? Nobody dared to ventureoutdoors. It had snowed all evening; the frosted windows prevented apreliminary survey of the silent night. _Brr-rr!_ Nobody would takethe dare. 

Nobody but me. Oh, how the creeps ran up and down my back! and oh! howI loved to distinguish myself! I let them bundle me up till I wasnearly smothered. I paused with my mittened hand on the latch. Ishivered, though I could have sat the night out with a Polar bearwithout another shawl. I opened the door, and then turned back, tomake a speech. 

"I am not afraid, " I said, in the noble accents of courage. "I am notafraid to go. God goes with me. "

Pride goeth before a fall. On the step outside I slid down into adrift, just on the eve of triumph. They picked me up; they brought mein. They found all of me inside my wrappings. They gave me a piece ofsugar and sent me to bed. And I was very glad. I did hate to go allthe way next door and all the way back, through the white snow, underthe white stars, invisible company keeping step with me. 

 * * * * *

And I remember my playmates. 

There was always a crowd of us girls. We were a mixed set, --richlittle girls, well-to-do little girls, and poor little girls, --but notbecause we were so democratic. Rather it came about, if my sister andI are considered the centre of the ring, because we had suffered theseveral grades of fortune. In our best days no little girls had tostoop to us; in our humbler days we were not so proud that we had tocondescend to our chance neighbors. The granddaughters of Raphael theRussian, in retaining their breeding and manners, retained a few oftheir more exalted friends, and became a link between them and thosewhom they later adopted through force of propinquity. 

We were human little girls, so our amusements mimicked the life aboutus. We played house, we played soldiers, we played Gentiles, wecelebrated weddings and funerals. We copied the life about usliterally. We had not been to a Froebel kindergarten, and learned toimpersonate butterflies and stones. Our elders would have laughed atus for such nonsense. I remember once standing on the river bank witha little boy, when a quantity of lumber was floating down on its wayto the distant sawmill. A log and a board crowded each other nearwhere we stood. The board slipped by first, but presently it swervedand swung partly around. Then it righted itself with the stream andkept straight on, the lazy log following behind. Said Zalmen to me, interpreting: "The board looks back and says, 'Log, log, you will notgo with me? Then I will go on by myself. '" That boy was called simple, on account of such speeches as this. I wonder in what language he iswriting poetry now. 

We had very few toys. Neither Fetchke nor I cared much for dolls. Arag baby apiece contented us, and if we had a set of jackstones wewere perfectly happy. Our jackstones, by the way, were not stones butbones. We used the knuckle bones of sheep, dried and scraped; everylittle girl cherished a set in her pocket. 

I did not care much for playing house. I liked soldiers better, but itwas not much fun without boys. Boys and girls always played apart. 

I was very fond of playing Gentiles. I am afraid I liked everythingthat was a little risky. I particularly enjoyed being the corpse in aGentile funeral. I was laid across two chairs, and my playmates, inborrowed shawls and long calicoes, with their hair loose and withcandlesticks in their hands, marched around me, singing unearthlysongs, and groaning till they scared themselves. As I lay there, covered over with a black cloth, I felt as dead as dead could be; andmy playmates were the unholy priests in gorgeous robes of velvet andsilk and gold. Their candlesticks were the crosiers that were carriedin Christian funeral processions, and their chantings were hideousincantations to the arch enemy, the Christian God of horrible images. As I imagined the bareheaded crowds making way for my funeral to pass, my flesh crept, not because I was about to be buried, but because thepeople _crossed themselves_. But our procession stopped outside thechurch, because we did not dare to carry even our make-believe acrossthat accursed threshold. Besides, none of us had ever beeninside, --God forbid!--so we did not know what did happen next. 

When I arose from my funeral I was indeed a ghost. I felt unreal andlost and hateful. I don't think we girls liked each other much afterplaying funeral. Anyway, we never played any more on the same day; orif we did, we soon quarrelled. Such was the hold which our hereditaryterrors and hatreds had upon our childish minds that if we only mockeda Christian procession in our play, we suffered a mutual revulsion offeeling, as if we had led each other into sin. 

We gathered oftener at our house than anywhere else. On Sabbath dayswe refrained, of course, from soldiering and the like, but we had justas good a time, going off to promenade, two and two, in our very bestdresses; whispering secrets and telling stories. We had a few storiesin the circle--I do not know how they came to us--and these were toldover and over. Gutke knew the best story of all. She told the story ofAladdin and the Wonderful Lamp, and she told it well. It was herstory, and nobody else ever attempted it, though I, for one, soon hadit by heart. Gutke's version of the famous tale was unlike any I havesince read, but it was essentially the story of Aladdin, so that I wasable to identify it later when I found it in a book. Names, incidents, and "local color" were slightly Hebraized, but the supernaturalwonders of treasure caves, jewelled gardens, genii, princesses, andall, were not in the least marred or diminished. Gutke would spin thestory out for a long afternoon, and we all listened entranced, even atthe hundredth rehearsal. We had a few other fairy stories, --I lateridentified them with stories of Grimm's or of Andersen's, --but for themost part the tales we told were sombre and unimaginative; tales ournurses used to tell to frighten us into good behavior. 

Sometimes we spent a whole afternoon in dancing. We made our ownmusic, singing as we danced, or somebody blew on a comb with a bit ofpaper over its teeth; and comb music is not to be despised when thereis no other sort. We knew the polka and the waltz, the mazurka, thequadrille, and the lancers, and several fancy dances. We did nothesitate to invent new steps or figures, and we never stopped till wewere out of breath. I was one of the most enthusiastic dancers. Idanced till I felt as if I could fly. 

Sometimes we sat in a ring and sang all the songs we knew. None of uswere trained, --we had never seen a sheet of music--but some of uscould sing any tune that was ever heard in Polotzk, and the othersfollowed half a bar behind. I enjoyed these singing-bees. We hadHebrew songs and Jewish and Russian; solemn songs, and jolly songs, and songs unfit for children, but harmless enough on our innocentlips. I enjoyed the play of moods in these songs--I liked to beharrowed one minute and tickled the next. I threw all my heart intothe singing, which was only fair, as I had very little voice to throwin. 

Although I always joined the crowd when any fun was on foot, I think Ihad the best times by myself. My sister was fond of housework, butI--I was fond of idleness. While Fetchke pottered in the kitchenbeside the maid or trotted all about the house after my grandmother, Iwasted time in some window corner, or studied the habits of the cowand the chickens in the yard. I always found something to do that wasof no use to anybody. I had no particular fondness for animals; Iliked to see what they did, merely because they were curious. The redcow would go to meet my grandmother as she came out of the kitchenwith a bucket of bran for her. She drank it up in no time, the greedycreature, in great loud gulps; and then she stood with drippingnostrils over the empty bucket, staring at me on the other side. Iteased grandmother to give the cow more, because I enjoyed herenjoyment of it. I wondered, if I ate from a bucket instead of aplate, should I take so much more pleasure in my dinner? That red cowliked everything. She liked going to pasture, and she liked comingback, and she stood still to be milked, as if she liked that too. 

The chickens were not all alike. Some of them would not let me catchthem, while others stood still till I took them up. There were twothat were particularly tame, a white hen and a speckled one. Inwinter, when they were kept in the house, my sister and I had thesetwo for our pets. They let us handle them by the hour, and stayed justwhere we put them. The white hen laid her eggs in a linen chest madeof bark. We would take the warm egg to grandmother, who rolled it onour eyes, repeating this charm: "As this egg is fresh, so may youreyes be fresh. As this egg is sound, so may your eyes be sound. " Istill like to touch my eyelids with a fresh-laid egg, whenever I am sohappy as to possess one. 

On the horses in the barn I bestowed the same calm attention as on thecow, speculative rather than affectionate. I was not a verytender-hearted infant. If I have been a true witness of my own growth, I was slower to love than I was to think. I do not know when thechange was wrought, but to-day, if you ask my friends, they will tellyou that I know how to love them better than to solve their problems. And if you will call one more witness, and ask me, I shall say that ifyou set me down before a noble landscape, I feel it long before Ibegin to see it. 

Idle child though I was, the day was not long enough sometimes for myidleness. More than once in the pleasant summer I stole out of bedwhen even the cow was still drowsing, and went barefoot through thedripping grass and stood at the gate, awaiting the morning. I found asense of adventure in being conscious when all other people wereasleep. There was not much of a prospect from the gateway, but inthat early hour everything looked new and large to me, even the littlehouses that yesterday had been so familiar. The houses, when creatureswent in and out of them, were merely conventional objects; in the softgray morning they were themselves creatures. Some stood up straight, and some leaned, and some looked as if they saw me. And then over thedewy gardens rose the sun, and the light spread and grew overeverything, till it shone on my bare feet. And in my heart grew agreat wonder, and I was ready to cry, my world was so strange andsweet about me. In those moments, I think, I could have loved somebodyas well as I loved later--somebody who cared to get up secretly, andstand and see the sun come up. 

Was there not somebody who got up before the sun? Was there not Mishkathe shepherd? Aye, that was an early riser; but I knew he was nosun-worshipper. Before the chickens stirred, before the lazy maid letthe cow out of the barn, I heard his rousing horn, its distant notesharmonious with the morning. Barn doors creaked in response toMishka's call, and soft-eyed cattle went willingly out to meet him, and stood in groups in the empty square, licking and nosing eachother; till Mishka's little drove was all assembled, and he trampedout of town behind them, in a cloud of dust. 

CHAPTER VI

THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE

History shows that in all countries where Jews have equal rights withthe rest of the people, they lose their fear of secular science, andlearn how to take their ancient religion with them from century toawakening century, dropping nothing by the way but what their growingspirit has outgrown. In countries where progress is to be bought onlyat the price of apostasy, they shut themselves up in their synagogues, and raise the wall of extreme separateness between themselves andtheir Gentile neighbors. There is never a Jewish community without itsscholars, but where Jews may not be both intellectuals and Jews, theyprefer to remain Jews. 

The survival in Russia of mediæval injustice to Jews was responsiblefor the narrowness of educational standards in the Polotzk of my time. Jewish scholarship, as we have seen, was confined to a knowledge ofthe Hebrew language and literature, and even these limited stores oflearning were not equally divided between men and women. In themediæval position of the women of Polotzk education really had noplace. A girl was "finished" when she could read her prayers inHebrew, following the meaning by the aid of the Yiddish translationespecially prepared for women. If she could sign her name in Russian, do a little figuring, and write a letter in Yiddish to the parents ofher betrothed, she was called _wohl gelehrent_--well educated. 

Fortunately for me, my parents' ideals soared beyond all this. Mymother, although she had not stirred out of Polotzk, readily adoptedthe notion of a liberal education imported by my father from citiesbeyond the Pale. She heartily supported him in all his plans for usgirls. Fetchke and I were to learn to translate as well as pronounceHebrew, the same as our brother. We were to study Russian and Germanand arithmetic. We were to go to the best _pension_ and receive athorough secular education. My father's ambition, after several years'sojourn in enlightened circles, reached even beyond the _pension_; butthat was flying farther than Polotzk could follow him with the nakedeye. 

I do not remember our first teacher. When our second teacher came wewere already able to read continuous passages. Reb' Lebe was no greatscholar. Great scholars would not waste their learning on mere girls. Reb' Lebe knew enough to teach girls Hebrew. Tall and lean was therebbe, with a lean, pointed face and a thin, pointed beard. The beardbecame pointed from much stroking and pulling downwards. The hands ofReb' Lebe were large, and his beard was not half a handful. Thefingers of the rebbe were long, and the nails, I am afraid, were notvery clean. The coat of Reb' Lebe was rusty, and so was his skull-cap. Remember, Reb' Lebe was only a girls' teacher, and nobody would paymuch for teaching girls. But lean and rusty as he was, the rebbe'spupils regarded him with entire respect, and followed his pointer withearnest eyes across the limp page of the alphabet, or the thumbed pageof the prayer-book. 

For a short time my sister and I went for our lessons to Reb' Lebe'sheder, in the bare room off the women's gallery, up one flight ofstairs, in a synagogue. The place was as noisy as a recklessexpenditure of lung power could make it. The pupils on the benchshouted their way from _aleph_ to _tav_, cheered and prompted by thegrowl of the rebbe; while the children in the corridor waiting theirturn played "puss in the corner" and other noisy games. 

Fetchke and I, however, soon began to have our lessons in private, atour own home. We sat one on each side of the rebbe, reading the Hebrewsentences turn and turn about. 

When we left off reading by rote and Reb' Lebe began to reveal themysteries to us, I was so eager to know all that was in my book thatthe lesson was always too short. I continued reading by the hour, after the rebbe was gone, though I understood about one word in ten. My favorite Hebrew reading was the Psalms. Verse after verse I chantedto the monotonous tune taught by Reb' Lebe, rocking to the rhythm ofthe chant, just like the rebbe. And so ran the song of David, and soran the hours by, while I sat by the low window, the world erased frommy consciousness. 

What I thought I do not remember; I only know that I loved the soundof the words, the full, dense, solid sound of them, to the meditativechant of Reb' Lebe. I pronounced Hebrew very well, and I caught somemechanical trick of accent and emphasis, which was sufficiently likeReb' Lebe's to make my reading sound intelligent. I had a clue to thegeneral mood of the subject from the few Psalms I had actuallytranslated, and drawing on my imagination for details, I was able toread with so much spirit that ignorant listeners were carried away bymy performance. My mother tells me, indeed, that people used to stopoutside my window to hear me read. Of this I have not the slightestrecollection, so I suppose I was an unconscious impostor. Certain I amthat I thought no ignoble thoughts as I chanted the sacred words; andwho can say that my visions were not as inspiring as David's? He was ashepherd before he became a king. I was an ignorant child in theGhetto, but I was admitted at last to the society of the best; I wasgiven the freedom of all America. Perhaps the "stuff that dreams aremade of" is the same for all dreamers. 

When we came to read Genesis I had the great advantage of a completetranslation in Yiddish. I faithfully studied the portion assigned inHebrew, but I need no longer wait for the next lesson to know how thestory ends. I could read while daylight lasted, if I chose, in theYiddish. Well I remember that Pentateuch, a middling thick octavovolume, in a crumbly sort of leather cover; and how the book opened ofitself at certain places, where there were pictures. My father tellsme that when I was just learning to translate single words, he foundme one evening poring over the _humesh_ and made fun of me forpretending to read; whereupon I gave him an eager account, he says, ofthe stories of Jacob, Benjamin, Moses, and others, which I had puzzledout from the pictures, by the help of a word here and there that I wasable to translate. 

It was inevitable, as we came to Genesis, that I should ask questions. 

Rebbe, translating: "In the beginning God created the earth. "

Pupil, repeating: "In the beginning--Rebbe, when was the beginning?"

Rebbe, losing the place in amazement: "'S _gehert a kasse_? (Everhear such a question?) The beginning was--the beginning--the beginningwas in the beginning, of course! _Nu! nu!_ Go on. "

Pupil, resuming: "In the beginning God made the earth. --Rebbe, whatdid He make it out of?"

Rebbe, dropping his pointer in astonishment: "What did--? What sort ofa girl is this, that asks questions? Go on, go on!"

The lesson continues to the end. The book is closed, the pointer putaway. The rebbe exchanges his skull-cap for his street cap, is aboutto go. 

Pupil, timidly, but determinedly, detaining him: "Reb' Lebe, _who madeGod_?"

The rebbe regards the pupil in amazement mixed with anxiety. Hisemotion is beyond speech. He turns and leaves the room. In hisperturbation he even forgets to kiss the _mezuzah_[2] on the doorpost. The pupil feels reproved and yet somehow in the right. Who _did_ makeGod? But if the rebbe will not tell--will not tell? Or, perhaps, hedoes not know? The rebbe--?

It was some time after this conflict between my curiosity and hisobtuseness that I saw my teacher act a ridiculous part in a triflingcomedy, and then I remember no more of him. 

Reb' Lebe lingered one day after the lesson. A guest who was about todepart, wishing to fortify himself for his journey, took a roll ofhard sausage from his satchel and laid it, with his clasp knife, onthe table. He cut himself a slice and ate it standing; and then, noticing the thin, lean rebbe, he invited him, by a gesture, to helphimself to the sausage. The rebbe put his hands behind his coat tails, declining the traveller's hospitality. The traveller forgot the other, and walked up and down, ready in his fur coat and cap, till hiscarriage should arrive. The sausage remained on the table, thick andspicy and brown. No such sausage was known in Polotzk. Reb' Lebelooked at it. Reb' Lebe continued to look. The stranger stopped to cutanother slice, and repeated his gesture of invitation. Reb' Lebe moveda step towards the table, but his hands stuck behind his coat tails. The traveller resumed his walk. Reb' Lebe moved another step. Thestranger was not looking. The rebbe's courage rose, he advancedtowards the table; he stretched out his hand for the knife. At thatinstant the door opened, the carriage was announced. The eagertraveller, without noticing Reb' Lebe, swept up sausage and knife, just at the moment when the timid rebbe was about to cut himself adelicious slice. I saw his discomfiture from my corner, and I amobliged to confess that I enjoyed it. His face always looked foolishto me after that; but, fortunately for us both, we did not studytogether much longer. 

 * * * * *

Two little girls dressed in their best, shining from their curls totheir shoes. One little girl has rosy cheeks, the other has staringeyes. Rosy-Cheeks carries a carpet bag; Big-Eyes carries a new slate. Hand in hand they go into the summer morning, so happy and pretty apair that it is no wonder people look after them, from window anddoor; and that other little girls, not dressed in their best andcarrying no carpet bags, stand in the street gaping after them. 

Let the folks stare; no harm can come to the little sisters. Did notgrandmother tie pepper and salt into the corners of their pockets, toward off the evil eye? The little maids see nothing but the roadahead, so eager are they upon their errand. Carpet bag and slateproclaim that errand: Rosy-Cheeks and Big-Eyes are going to school. 

I have no words to describe the pride with which my sister and Icrossed the threshold of Isaiah the Scribe. Hitherto we had been toheder, to a rebbe; now we were to study with a _lehrer_, a secularteacher. There was all the difference in the world between the two. The one taught you Hebrew only, which every girl learned; the othercould teach Yiddish and Russian and, some said, even German; and howto write a letter, and how to do sums without a counting-frame, juston a piece of paper; accomplishments which were extremely rare amonggirls in Polotzk. But nothing was too high for the grandchildren ofRaphael the Russian; they had "good heads, " everybody knew. So we weresent to Reb' Isaiah. 

My first school, where I was so proud to be received, was a hovel onthe edge of a swamp. The schoolroom was gray within and without. Thedoor was so low that Reb' Isaiah had to stoop in passing. The littlewindows were murky. The walls were bare, but the low ceiling wasdecorated with bundles of goose quills stuck in under the rafters. Arough table stood in the middle of the room, with a long bench oneither side. That was the schoolroom complete. In my eyes, on thatfirst morning, it shone with a wonderful light, a strange glory thatpenetrated every corner, and made the stained logs fair as tintedmarble; and the windows were not too small to afford me a view of alarge new world. 

Room was made for the new pupils on the bench, beside the teacher. Wefound our inkwells, which were simply hollows scooped out in the thicktable top. Reb' Isaiah made us very serviceable pens by tying the penpoints securely to little twigs; though some of the pupils usedquills. The teacher also ruled our paper for us, into little squares, like a surveyor's notebook. Then he set us a copy, and we copied, oneletter in each square, all the way down the page. All the little girlsand the middle-sized girls and the pretty big girls copied letters inlittle squares, just so. There were so few of us that Reb' Isaiahcould see everybody's page by just leaning over. And if some of ourcramped fingers were clumsy, and did not form the loops and curvesaccurately, all he had to do was to stretch out his hand and rap withhis ruler on our respective knuckles. It was all very cosey, with theinkwells that could not be upset, and the pens that grew in the woodsor strutted in the dooryard, and the teacher in the closest touch withhis pupils, as I have just told. And as he labored with us, and thehours drew themselves out, he was comforted by the smell of his dinnercooking in some little hole adjoining the schoolroom, and by the soundof his good Leah or Rachel or Deborah (I don't remember her name)keeping order among his little ones. She kept very good order, too, sothat most of the time you could hear the scratching of the laboriouspens accompanied by the croaking of the frogs in the swamp. 

Although my sister and I began our studies at the same time, andprogressed together, my parents did not want me to take up newsubjects as fast as Fetchke did. They thought my health too delicatefor much study. So when Fetchke had her Russian lesson I was told togo and play. I am sorry to say that I was disobedient on theseoccasions, as on many others. I did not go and play; I looked on, Ilistened, when Fetchke rehearsed her lesson at home. And one evening Istole the Russian primer and repaired to a secret place I knew of. Itwas a storeroom for broken chairs and rusty utensils and dried apples. Nobody would look for me in that dusty hole. Nobody did look there, but they looked everywhere else, in the house, and in the yard, and inthe barn, and down the street, and at our neighbors'; and whileeverybody was searching and calling for me, and telling each otherwhen I was last seen, and what I was then doing, I, Mashke, wasbending over the stolen book, rehearsing A, B, C, by the names mysister had given them; and before anybody hit upon my retreat, I couldspell B-O-G, _Bog_ (God) and K-A-Z-A, _Kaza_ (goat). I did not mind inthe least being caught, for I had my new accomplishment to show off. 

I remember the littered place, and the high chest that served as mytable, and the blue glass lamp that lighted my secret efforts. Iremember being brought from there into the firelit room where thefamily was assembled, and confusing them all by my recital of thesimple words, B-O-G, _Bog_, and K-A-Z-A, _Kaza_. I was not reproachedfor going into hiding at bedtime, and the next day I was allowed totake part in the Russian lesson. 

Alas! there were not many lessons more. Long before we had exhaustedReb' Isaiah's learning, my sister and I had to give up our teacher, because the family fortunes began to decline, and luxuries, such asschooling, had to be cut off. Isaiah the Scribe taught us, in all, perhaps two terms, in which time we learned Yiddish and Russian, and alittle arithmetic. But little good we had from our ability to read, for there were no books in our house except prayer-books and otherreligious writings, mostly in Hebrew. For our skill in writing we hadas little use, as letter-writing was not an everyday exercise, andidle writing was not thought of. Our good teacher, however, who hadtaken pride in our progress, would not let us lose all that we hadlearned from him. Books he could not lend us, because he had nonehimself; but he could, and he did, write us out a beautiful "copy"apiece, which we could repeat over and over, from time to time, and sokeep our hands in. 

I wonder that I have forgotten the graceful sentences of my "copy";for I wrote them out just about countless times. It was in the form ofa letter, written on lovely pink paper (my sister's was blue), thelines taking the shape of semicircles across the page; and thatwithout any guide lines showing. The script, of course, wasperfect--in the best manner of Isaiah the Scribe--and the sentimentstherein expressed were entirely noble. I was supposed to be ahigh-school pupil away on my vacation; and I was writing to my"Respected Parents, " to assure them of my welfare, and to tell themhow, in the midst of my pleasures, I still longed for my friends, andlooked forward with eagerness to the renewal of my studies. All this, in phrases half Yiddish, half German, and altogether foreign to theears of Polotzk. At least, I never heard such talk in the market, whenI went to buy a kopeck's worth of sunflower seeds. 

This was all the schooling I had in Russia. My father's plans fell tothe ground, on account of the protracted illness of both my parents. All his hopes of leading his children beyond the intellectual limitsof Polotzk were trampled down by the monster poverty who showed hisevil visage just as my sister and I were fairly started on a broaderpath. 

One chance we had, and that was quickly snatched away, of continuingour education in spite of family difficulties. Lozhe the Rav, hearingfrom various sources that Pinchus, son-in-law of Raphael the Russian, had two bright little girls, whose talents were going to waste forwant of training, became much interested, and sent for the children, to see for himself what the gossip was worth. By a strange trick ofmemory I recall nothing of this important interview, nor indeed of thewhole matter, although a thousand trifles of that period recur to meon the instant; so I report this anecdote on the authority of myparents. 

They tell me how the rav lifted me up on a table in front of him, andasked me many questions, and encouraged me to ask questions in myturn. Reb' Lozhe came to the conclusion, as a result of thisinterview, that I ought by all means to be put to school. There was nopublic school for girls, as we know, but a few pupils were maintainedin a certain private school by irregular contributions from cityfunds. Reb' Lozhe enlisted in my cause the influence of his son, who, by virtue of some municipal office which he held, had a vote in fixingthis appropriation. But although he pleaded eloquently for myadmission as a city pupil, the rav's son failed to win the consent ofhis colleagues, and my one little crack of opportunity was tightlystopped. 

My father does not remember on what technicality my application wasdismissed. My mother is under the impression that it was plainlyrefused on account of my religion, the authorities being unwilling toappropriate money for the tuition of a Jewish child. But little itmatters now what the reason was; the result is what affected me. I wasleft without teacher or book just when my mind was most active. I wasleft without food just when the hunger of growth was creeping up. Iwas left to think and think, without direction; without the means ofgrappling with the contents of my own thought. 

 * * * * *

In a community which was isolated from the mass of the people onaccount of its religion; which was governed by special civil laws inrecognition of that fact; in whose calendar there were twoscore daysof religious observance; whose going and coming, giving and taking, living and dying, to the minutest details of social conduct, to themost intimate particulars of private life, were regulated by sacredlaws, there could be no question of personal convictions in religion. One was a Jew, leading a righteous life; or one was a Gentile, existing to harass the Jews, while making a living off Jewishenterprise. In the vocabulary of the more intelligent part of Polotzk, it is true, there were such words as freethinker and apostate; butthese were the names of men who had forsaken the Law in distant timesor in distant parts, and whose evil fame had reached Polotzk by thecircuitous route of tradition. Nobody looked for such monsters in hisneighborhood. Polotzk was safely divided into Jews and Gentiles. 

If any one in Polotzk had been idle and curious enough to inquire intothe state of mind of a little child, I wonder if his findings wouldnot have disturbed this simple classification. 

There used to be a little girl in Polotzk who recited the long Hebrewprayers, morning and evening, before and after meals, and neverskipped a word; who kissed the _mezuzah_ when going or coming; whoabstained from food and drink on fast days when she was no bigger thana sacrificial hen; who spent Sabbath mornings over the lengthy ritualfor the day, and read the Psalms till daylight failed. 

This pious child could give as good an account of the Creation as anyboy of her age. She knew how God made the world. Undeterred by thefate of Eve, she wanted to know more. She asked her wise rebbe how Godcame to be in His place, and where He found the stuff to make theworld of, and what was doing in the universe before God undertook Histask. Finding from his unsatisfying replies that the rebbe was but abarren branch on the tree of knowledge, the good little girl neverbetrayed to the world, by look or word, her discovery of hislimitations, but continued to accord him, outwardly, all the courtesydue to his calling. 

Her teacher having failed her, the young student, with admirablepersistence, carried her questions from one to another of heracquaintances, putting their answers to the test whenever it waspossible. She established by this means two facts: first, that sheknew as much as any of those who undertook to instruct her; second, that her oracles sometimes gave false answers. Did the littleinquisitor charge her betrayers with the lie? Magnanimous creature, she kept their falseness a secret, and ceased to probe their shallowdepths. 

What you would know, find out for yourself: this became our student'smotto; and she passed from the question to the experiment. Hergrandmother told her that if she handled "blind flowers" she would bestricken blind. She found by test that the pretty flowers wereharmless. She tested everything that could be tested, till she hit atlast on an impious plan to put God Himself to the proof. 

The pious little girl arose one Sabbath afternoon from her religiousmeditations, when all the house was taking its after-dinner nap, andwent out in the yard, and stopped at the gate. She took out her pockethandkerchief. She looked at it. Yes, that would do for the experiment. She put it back into her pocket. She did not have to rehearse mentallythe sacred admonition not to carry anything beyond the house-limits onthe Sabbath day. She knew it as she knew that she was alive. And withher handkerchief in her pocket the audacious child stepped into thestreet!

She stood a moment, her heart beating so that it pained. Nothinghappened! She walked quite across the street. The Sabbath peace stilllay on everything. She felt again of the burden in her pocket. Yes, she certainly was committing a sin. With an access of impiousboldness, the sinner walked--she ran as far as the corner, and stoodstill, fearfully expectant. What form would the punishment take? Shestood breathing painfully for an eternity. How still everythingwas--how close and still the air! Would it be a storm? Would a suddenbolt strike her? She stood and waited. She could not bring her hand toher pocket again, but she felt that it bulged monstrously. She stoodwith no thought of moving again. Where were the thunders of Jehovah?No sacred word of all her long prayers came to her tongue--not even"Hear, O Israel. " She felt that she was in direct communication withGod--awful thought!--and He would read her mind and would send Hisanswer. 

 [Illustration: SABBATH LOAVES FOR SALE (BREAD MARKET, POLOTZK)]

An age passed in blank expectancy. Nothing happened! Where was thewrath of God? _Where was God?_

When she turned to go home, the little philosopher had herhandkerchief tied around her wrist in the proper way. The experimentwas over, though the result was not clear. God had not punished her, but nothing was proved by His indifference. Either the act was no sin, and her preceptors were all deceivers; or it was indeed a sin in theeyes of God, but He refrained from stern justice for high reasons ofHis own. It was not a searching experiment she had made. She wasbitterly disappointed, and perhaps that was meant as her punishment:God refused to give her a reply. She intended no sin for the sake ofsin; so, being still in doubt, she tied her handkerchief around herwrist. Her eyes stared more than ever, --this was the child with thestaring eyes, --but that was the only sign she gave of a consciousnesssuddenly expanded, of a self-consciousness intensified. 

When she went back into the house, she gazed with a new curiosity ather mother, at her grandmother, dozing in their chairs. They looked_different_. When they awoke and stretched themselves and adjusted wigand cap, they looked _very_ strange. As she went to get hergrandmother her Bible, and dropped it accidentally, she kissed it byway of atonement just as a proper child should. 

How, I wonder, would this Psalm-singing child have be enlabelled bythe investigator of her mind? Would he have called her a Jew? She wastoo young to be called an apostate. Perhaps she would have beendismissed as a little fraud; and I should be content with thatclassification, if slightly modified. I should say the child was apiteously puzzled little fraud. 

To return to the honest first person, I _was_ something of a fraud. The days when I believed everything I was told did not run much beyondmy teething time. I soon began to question if fire was really hot, ifthe cat would really scratch. Presently, as we have seen, I questionedGod. And in those days my religion depended on my mood. I couldbelieve anything I wanted to believe. I did believe, in all my moods, that there was a God who had made the world, in some fashionunexplained, and who knew about me and my doings; for there was theworld all about me, and somebody must have made it. And it wasconceivable that a being powerful enough to do such work could beaware of my actions at all times, and yet continue to me invisible. The question remained, what did He think of my conduct? Was He reallyangry when I broke the Sabbath, or pleased when I fasted on the Day ofAtonement? My belief as to these matters wavered. When I swung thesacrifice around my head on Atonement Eve, repeating, "Be thou mysacrifice, " etc. , I certainly believed that I was bargaining with theAlmighty for pardon, and that He was interested in the matter. Butnext day, when the fast was over, and I enjoyed all of my chicken thatI could eat, I believed as certainly that God could not be party tosuch a foolish transaction, in which He got nothing but words, while Igot both the feast and the pardon. The sacrifice of money, to be spentfor the poor, seemed to me a more reliable insurance againstdamnation. The well-to-do pious offered up both living sacrifice andmoney for the poor-box, but it was a sign of poverty to offer onlymoney. Even a lean rooster, to be killed, roasted, and garnished forthe devotee's own table at the breaking of the fast, seemed to beconsidered a more respectable sacrifice than a groschen to increasethe charity fund. All this was so illogical that it unsettled my faithin minor points of doctrine, and on these points I was quite happy tobelieve to-day one thing, to-morrow another. 

As unwaveringly as I believed that we Jews had a God who was powerfuland wise, I believed that the God of my Christian neighbors wasimpotent, cruel, and foolish. I understood that the god of theGentiles was no better than a toy, to be dressed up in gaudy stuffsand carried in processions. I saw it often enough, and turned away incontempt. While the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob--my God--enjoinedon me honesty and kindness, the god of Vanka bade him beat me and spiton me whenever he caught me alone. And what a foolish god was that whotaught the stupid Gentiles that we drank the blood of a murdered childat our Passover feast! Why, I, who was only a child, knew better. Andso I hated and feared and avoided the great white church in the Platz, and hated every sign and symbol of that monstrous god who was keptthere and hated my own person, when, in our play of a Christianfuneral, I imagined my body to be the corpse, over which was carriedthe hideous cross. 

Perhaps I have established that I was more Jew than Gentile, though Ican still prove that I was none the less a fraud. For instance, Iremember how once, on the eve of the Ninth of Ab--the anniversary ofthe fall of the Temple--I was looking on at the lamentations of thewomen. A large circle had gathered around my mother, who was the onlygood reader among them, to listen to the story of the crueldestruction. Sitting on humble stools, in stocking feet, shabbyclothes, and dishevelled hair, weeping in chorus, and wringing theirhands, as if it was but yesterday that the sacred edifice fell andthey were in the very dust and ashes of the ruin, the women looked tome enviously wretched and pious. I joined the circle in thecandlelight. I wrung my hands, I moaned; but I was always slow oftears--I could not weep. But I wanted to look like the others. So Istreaked my cheeks with the only moisture at hand. 

Alas for my pious ambition! alas for the noble lament of the women!Somebody looked up and caught me in the act of manufacturing tears. Igrinned, and she giggled. Another woman looked up. I grinned, and theygiggled. Demoralization swept around the circle. Honest laughtersnuffed out artificial grief. My mother at last looked up, with redand astonished eyes, and I was banished from the feast of tears. 

I returned promptly to my playmates in the street, who were amusingthemselves, according to the custom on that sad anniversary, bypelting each other with burrs. Here I was distinguished, more than Ihad been among my elders. My hair being curly, it caught a generousnumber of burrs, so that I fairly bristled with these emblems ofmortification and woe. 

Not long after that sinful experiment with the handkerchief Idiscovered by accident that I was not the only doubter in Polotzk. OneFriday night I lay wakeful in my little bed, staring from the darkinto the lighted room adjoining mine. I saw the Sabbath candlessputter and go out, one by one, --it was late, --but the lamp hangingfrom the ceiling still burned high. Everybody had gone to bed. Thelamp would go out before morning if there was little oil; or else itwould burn till Natasha, the Gentile chorewoman, came in the morningto put it out, and remove the candlesticks from the table, and unsealthe oven, and do the dozen little tasks which no Jew could perform onthe Sabbath. The simple prohibition to labor on the Sabbath day hadbeen construed by zealous commentators to mean much more. One must noteven touch any instrument of labor or commerce, as an axe or a coin. It was forbidden to light a fire, or to touch anything that containeda fire, or had contained fire, were it only a cold candlestick or aburned match. Therefore the lamp at which I was staring must burn tillthe Gentile woman came to put it out. 

The light did not annoy me in the least; I was not thinking about it. But apparently it troubled somebody else. I saw my father come fromhis room, which also adjoined the living-room. What was he going todo? What was this he was doing? Could I believe my eyes? My fathertouched the lighted lamp!--yes, he shook it, as if to see how much oilthere was left. 

I was petrified in my place. I could neither move nor make a sound. Itseemed to me he must feel my eyes bulging at him out of the dark. Buthe did not know that I was looking; he thought everybody was asleep. He turned down the light a very little, and waited. I did not take myeyes from him. He lowered the flame a little more, and waited again. Iwatched. By the slightest degrees he turned the light down. Iunderstood. In case any one were awake, it would appear as if the lampwas going out of itself. I was the only one who lay so as to be ableto see him, and I had gone to bed so early that he could not suppose Iwas awake. The light annoyed him, he wanted to put it out, but hewould not risk having it known. 

I heard my father find his bed in the dark before I dared to draw afull breath. The thing he had done was a monstrous sin. If his motherhad seen him do it, it would have broken her heart--his mother whofasted half the days of the year, when he was a boy, to save histeacher's fee; his mother who walked almost barefoot in the cruel snowto carry him on her shoulders to school when she had no shoes for him;his mother who made it her pious pride to raise up a learned son, thatmost precious offering in the eyes of the great God, from the hand ofa poor struggling woman. If my mother had seen it, it would havegrieved her no less--my mother who was given to him, with her youthand good name and her dowry, in exchange for his learning and piety;my mother who was taken from her play to bear him children and feedthem and keep them, while he sat on the benches of the scholars andrepaid her labors with the fame of his learning. I did not put it tomyself just so, but I understood that learning and piety were thethings most valued in our family, that my father was a scholar, andthat piety, of course, was the fruit of sacred learning. And yet myfather had deliberately violated the Sabbath. 

His act was not to be compared with my carrying the handkerchief. Thetwo sins were of the same kind, but the sinners and their motives weredifferent. I was a child, a girl at that, not yet of the age of moralresponsibility. He was a man full grown, passing for one of God'select, and accepting the reverence of the world as due tribute to hisscholarly merits. I had by no means satisfied myself, by my secretexperiment, that it was not sinful to carry a burden on the Sabbathday. If God did not punish me on the spot, perhaps it was because ofmy youth or perhaps it was because of my motive. 

According to my elders, my father, by turning out the lamp, committedthe sin of Sabbath-breaking. What did my father intend? I could notsuppose that his purpose was similar to mine. Surely he, who had livedso long and studied so deeply, had by this time resolved all hisdoubts. Surely God had instructed _him_. I could not believe that hedid wrong knowingly, so I came to the conclusion that he did not holdit a sin to touch a lighted lamp on Sabbath. Then why was he so secretin his action? That, too, became clear to me. I myself hadinstinctively adopted secret methods in all my little investigations, and had kept the results to myself. The way in which my questions werereceived had taught me much. I had a dim, inarticulate understandingof the horror and indignation which my father would excite if he, supposedly a man of piety, should publish the heretical opinion thatit was not wrong to handle fire on the Sabbath. To see what remorse mymother suffered, or my father's mother, if by some accident she failedin any point of religious observance, was to know that she could neverbe brought to doubt the sacred importance of the thousand minutiæ ofancient Jewish practice. That which had been taught them as the truthby their fathers and mothers was the whole truth to my good friendsand neighbors--that and nothing else. If there were any people inPolotzk who had strange private opinions, such as I concluded myfather must hold, it was possible that he had a secret acquaintancewith them. But it would never do, it was plain to me, to make publicconfession of his convictions. Such an act would not only break thehearts of his family, but it would also take the bread from the mouthsof his children, and ruin them forever. My sister and my brother andI would come to be called the children of Israel the Apostate, just asGutke, my playmate, was called the granddaughter of Yankel theInformer. The most innocent of us would be cursed and shunned for thesin of our father. 

All this I came to understand, not all at once, but by degrees, as Iput this and that together, and brought my childish thoughts to order. I was by no means absorbed in this problem. I played and danced withthe other children as heartily as ever, but I brooded in my windowcorner when there was nothing else to do. I had not the slightestimpulse to go to my father, charge him with his unorthodox conduct, and demand an explanation of him. I was quite satisfied that Iunderstood him, and I had not the habit of confidences. I was still inthe days when I was content to _find out_ things, and did not long tocommunicate my discoveries. Moreover, I was used to living in twoworlds, a real world and a make-believe one, without ever knowingwhich was which. In one world I had much company--father and motherand sister and friends--and did as others did, and took everything forgranted. In the other world I was all alone, and I had to discoverways for myself; and I was so uncertain that I did not attempt tobring a companion along. And did I find my own father treading in theunknown ways? Then perhaps some day he would come across me, and takeme farther than I had yet been; but I would not be the first towhisper that I was there. It seems strange enough to me now that Ishould have been so uncommunicative; but I remind myself that I havebeen thoroughly made over, at least once, since those early days. 

I recall with sorrow that I was sometimes as weak in morals as I wasin religion. I remember stealing a piece of sugar. It was longago--almost as long ago as anything that I remember. We were stillliving in my grandfather's house when this dreadful thing happened andI was only four or five years old when we moved from there. Before mymother figured this out for me I scarcely had the courage to confessmy sin. 

And it was thus: In a corner of a front room, by a window, stood ahigh chest of drawers. On top of the chest stood a tin box, decoratedwith figures of queer people with queer flat parasols; a Chinesetea-box, in a word. The box had a lid. The lid was shut tight. But Iknew what was in that gorgeous box and I coveted it. I was verylittle--I never could reach anything. There stood a chair suggestivelynear the chest. I pushed the chair a little and mounted it. Bystanding on tiptoe I could now reach the box. I opened it and took outan irregular lump of sparkling sugar. I stood on the chair admiringit. I stood too long. My grandmother came in--or was it Itke, thehousemaid?--and found me with the stolen morsel. 

I saw that I was fairly caught. How could I hope to escape my captor, when I was obliged to turn on my stomach in order to descend safely, thus presenting my jailer with the most tempting opportunity forimmediate chastisement? I took in the situation before my grandmotherhad found her voice for horror. Did I rub my eyes with my knuckles andwhimper? I wish I could report that I was thus instantly struck with asense of my guilt. I was impressed only with the absolute certainty ofmy impending doom, and I promptly seized on a measure of compensation. While my captor--I really think it was a grandmother--rehearsed herentire vocabulary of reproach, from a distance sufficient to enableher to hurl her voice at me with the best effect, I stuffed the lumpof sugar into my mouth and munched it as fast as I could. And I hadeaten it all, and had licked my sticky lips, before the avenging rodcame down. 

I remember no similar lapses from righteousness, but I sinned inlesser ways more times than there are years in my life. I sinned, andmore than once I escaped punishment by some trick or sly speech. I donot mean that I lied outright, though that also I did, sometimes; butI would twist my naughty speech, if forced to repeat it, in such anartful manner, or give such ludicrous explanation of my naughty act, that justice was overcome by laughter and threw me, as often as not, ahandful of raisins instead of a knotted strap. If by such successes Iwas encouraged to cultivate my natural slyness and duplicity, I throwthe blame on my unwise preceptors, and am glad to be rid of the burdenfor once. 

I have said that I used to lie. I recall no particular occasion when alie was the cause of my disgrace; but I know that it was always myhabit, when I had some trifling adventure to report, to garnish it upwith so much detail and circumstance that nobody who had witnessed mysmall affair could have recognized it as the same, had I not insistedon my version with such fervid conviction. The truth is thateverything that happened to me really loomed great and shone splendidin my eyes, and I could not, except by conscious effort, reduce myvisions to their actual shapes and colors. If I saw a pair of geeseleading about a lazy goose girl, they went through all sorts of anticsbefore my eyes that fat geese are not known to indulge in. If I metpoor Blind Munye with a frown on his face, I thought that a cloud ofwrath overspread his countenance; and I ran home to relate, panting, how narrowly I had escaped his fury. I will not pretend that I wasabsolutely unconscious of my exaggerations; but if you insist, I willsay that things as I reported them might have been so, and would havebeen much more interesting had they been so. 

The noble reader who never told a lie, or never confessed one, will beshocked at these revelations of my childish depravity. What proof hashe, he will cry, that I am not lying on every page of this chronicle, if, by my own confession, my childhood was spent in a maze of lies anddreams? I shall say to the saint, when I am challenged, that the proofof my conversion to veracity is engraven in his own soul. Do you notremember, you spotless one, how you used to steal and lie and cheatand rob? Oh, not with your own hand, of course! It was your remoteancestor who lived by plunder, and was honored for the blood upon hishairy hands. By and by he discovered that cunning was more effectivethan violence, and less troublesome. Still later he became convincedthat the greatest cunning was virtue, and made him a moral code, andsubdued the world. Then, when you came along, stumbling through thewilderness of cast-off errors, your wise ancestor gave you a thrustthat landed you in the clearing of modernity, at the same timebellowing in your ear, "Now be good! It pays!"

This is the whole history of your saintliness. But all people do nottake up life at the same point of human development. Some are backwardat birth, and have to make up, in the brief space of their individualhistory, the stages they missed on their way out of the black past. With me, for example, it actually comes to this: that I have torecapitulate in my own experience all the slow steps of the progressof the race. I seem to learn nothing except by the prick of life on myown skin. I am saved from living in ignorance and dying in darknessonly by the sensitiveness of my skin. Some men learn through borrowedexperience. Shut them up in a glass tower, with an unobstructed viewof the world, and they will go through every adventure of life byproxy, and be able to furnish you with a complete philosophy of life;and you may safely bring up your children by it. But I am not of thatgodlike organization. I am a thinking animal. Things are as importantto me as ideas. I imbibe wisdom through every pore of my body. Thereare times, indeed, when the doctor in his study is less intelligibleto me than a cricket far off in the field. The earth was my mother, the earth is my teacher. I am a dutiful pupil: I listen ever with myear close to her lips. It seems to me I do not know a single thingthat I did not learn, more or less directly, through the corporalsenses. As long as I have my body, I need not despair of salvation. 

FOOTNOTES:

[2] A piece of parchment inscribed with a passage of Scripture, rolledin a case and tacked to the doorpost. The pious touch or kiss thiswhen leaving or entering a house. 

CHAPTER VII

THE BOUNDARIES STRETCH

The long chapter of troubles which led to my father's emigration toAmerica began with his own illness. The doctors sent him to Courlandto consult expensive specialists, who prescribed tedious courses oftreatment. He was far from cured when my mother also fell ill, and myfather had to return to Polotzk to look after the business. 

Trouble begets trouble. After my mother took to her bed everythingcontinued to go wrong. The business gradually declined, as too muchmoney was withdrawn to pay the doctors' and apothecaries' bills; andmy father, himself in poor health, and worried about my mother, wasnot successful in coping with the growing difficulties. At home, theservants were dismissed, for the sake of economy, and all thehousework and the nursing fell on my grandmother and my sister. Fetchke, as a result, was overworked, and fell ill of a fever. Thebaby, suffering from unavoidable neglect, developed the fractioustemper of semi-illness. And by way of a climax, the old cow took itinto her head to kick my grandmother, who was laid up for a week witha bruised leg. 

Neighbors and cousins pulled us through till grandma got up, and afterher, Fetchke. But my mother remained on her bed. Weeks, months, a yearshe lay there, and half of another year. All the doctors in Polotzkattended her in turn, and one doctor came all the way from Vitebsk. Every country practitioner for miles around was consulted, everyquack, every old wife who knew a charm. The apothecaries ransackedtheir shops for drugs the names of which they had forgotten, and kindneighbors brought in their favorite remedies. There were midnightprayers in the synagogue for my mother, and petitions at the graves ofher parents; and one awful night when she was near death, three piousmothers who had never lost a child came to my mother's bedside andbought her, for a few kopecks, for their own, so that she might gainthe protection of their luck, and so be saved. 

Still my poor mother lay on her bed, suffering and wasting. The houseassumed a look of desolation. Everybody went on tiptoe; we talked inwhispers; for weeks at a time there was no laughter in our home. Theominous night lamp was never extinguished. We slept in our clothesnight after night, so as to wake the more easily in case of suddenneed. We watched, we waited, but we scarcely hoped. 

Once in a while I was allowed to take a short turn in the sick-room. It was awful to sit beside my mother's bed in the still night and seeher helplessness. She had been so strong, so active. She used to liftsacks and barrels that were heavy for a man, and now she could notraise a spoon to her mouth. Sometimes she did not know me when I gaveher the medicine, and when she knew me, she did not care. Would sheever care any more? She looked strange and small in the shadows of thebed. Her hair had been cut off after the first few months; her shortcurls were almost covered by the ice bag. Her cheeks were red, red, but her hands were so white as they had never been before. In thestill night I wondered if she cared to live. 

The night lamp burned on. My father grew old. He was always figuringon a piece of paper. We children knew the till was empty when thesilver candlesticks were taken away to be pawned. Next, superfluousfeatherbeds were sold for what they would bring, and then there came aday when grandma, with eyes blinded by tears, groped in the bigwardrobe for my mother's satin dress and velvet mantle; and after thatit did not matter any more what was taken out of the house. 

Then everything took a sudden turn. My mother began to improve, and atthe same time my father was offered a good position as superintendentof a gristmill. 

As soon as my mother could be moved, he took us all out to the mill, about three versts out of town, on the Polota. We had a pleasantcottage there, with the miller's red-headed, freckled family for ouronly neighbors. If our rooms were barer than they used to be, the sunshone in at all the windows; and as the leaves on the trees grewdenser and darker, my mother grew stronger on her feet, and laughterreturned to our house as the song bird to the grove. 

We children had a very happy summer. We had never lived in the countrybefore, and we liked the change. It was endless fun to explore themill; to squeeze into forbidden places, and be pulled out by the angrymiller; to tyrannize over the mill hands, and be worshipped by them inreturn; to go boating on the river, and discover unvisited nooks, andsearch the woods and fields for kitchen herbs, and get lost, and befound, a hundred times a week. And what an adventure it was to walkthe three versts into town, leaving a trail of perfume from thewild-flower posies we carried to our city friends!

But these things did not last. The mill changed hands, and the newowner put a protégé of his own in my father's place. So, after a shortbreathing spell, we were driven back into the swamp of growing povertyand trouble. 

The next year or so my father spent in a restless and fruitless searchfor a permanent position. My mother had another serious illness, andhis own health remained precarious. What he earned did not more thanhalf pay the bills in the end, though we were living very humbly now. Polotzk seemed to reject him, and no other place invited him. 

Just at this time occurred one of the periodic anti-Semitic movementswhereby government officials were wont to clear the forbidden citiesof Jews, whom, in the intervals of slack administration of the law, they allowed to maintain an illegal residence in places outside thePale, on payment of enormous bribes and at the cost of nameless risksand indignities. 

It was a little before Passover that the cry of the hunted thrilledthe Jewish world with the familiar fear. The wholesale expulsion ofJews from Moscow and its surrounding district at cruelly short noticewas the name of this latest disaster. Where would the doom strikenext? The Jews who lived illegally without the Pale turned theirpossessions into cash and slept in their clothes, ready for immediateflight. Those who lived in the comparative security of the Paletrembled for their brothers and sisters without, and opened wide theirdoors to afford the fugitives refuge. And hundreds of fugitives, preceded by a wail of distress, flocked into the open district, bringing their trouble where trouble was never absent, mingling theirtears with the tears that never dried. 

The open cities becoming thus suddenly crowded, every man's chance ofmaking a living was diminished in proportion to the number ofadditional competitors. Hardship, acute distress, ruin for many: thusspread the disaster, ring beyond ring, from the stone thrown by adespotic official into the ever-full river of Jewish persecution. 

Passover was celebrated in tears that year. In the story of the Exoduswe would have read a chapter of current history, only for us there wasno deliverer and no promised land. 

But what said some of us at the end of the long service? Not "May webe next year in Jerusalem, " but "Next year--in America!" So there wasour promised land, and many faces were turned towards the West. And ifthe waters of the Atlantic did not part for them, the wanderers rodeits bitter flood by a miracle as great as any the rod of Moses everwrought. 

My father was carried away by the westward movement, glad of his owndeliverance, but sore at heart for us whom he left behind. It was thelast chance for all of us. We were so far reduced in circumstancesthat he had to travel with borrowed money to a German port, whence hewas forwarded to Boston, with a host of others, at the expense of anemigrant aid society. 

I was about ten years old when my father emigrated. I was used to hisgoing away from home, and "America" did not mean much more to me than"Kherson, " or "Odessa, " or any other names of distant places. Iunderstood vaguely, from the gravity with which his plans werediscussed, and from references to ships, societies, and otherunfamiliar things, that this enterprise was different from previousones; but my excitement and emotion on the morning of my father'sdeparture were mainly vicarious. 

I know the day when "America" as a world entirely unlike Polotzklodged in my brain, to become the centre of all my dreams andspeculations. Well I know the day. I was in bed, sharing the measleswith some of the other children. Mother brought us a thick letter fromfather, written just before boarding the ship. The letter was full ofexcitement. There was something in it besides the description oftravel, something besides the pictures of crowds of people, of foreigncities, of a ship ready to put out to sea. My father was travelling atthe expense of a charitable organization, without means of his own, without plans, to a strange world where he had no friends; and yet hewrote with the confidence of a well-equipped soldier going intobattle. The rhetoric is mine. Father simply wrote that the emigrationcommittee was taking good care of everybody, that the weather wasfine, and the ship comfortable. But I heard something, as we read theletter together in the darkened room, that was more than the wordsseemed to say. There was an elation, a hint of triumph, such as hadnever been in my father's letters before. I cannot tell how I knew it. I felt a stirring, a straining in my father's letter. It was there, even though my mother stumbled over strange words, even though shecried, as women will when somebody is going away. My father wasinspired by a vision. He saw something--he promised us something. Itwas this "America. " And "America" became my dream. 

While it was nothing new for my father to go far from home in searchof his fortune, the circumstances in which he left us were unlikeanything we had experienced before. We had absolutely no reliablesource of income, no settled home, no immediate prospects. We hardlyknew where we belonged in the simple scheme of our society. My mother, as a bread-winner, had nothing like her former success. Her health waspermanently impaired, her place in the business world had long beenfilled by others, and there was no capital to start her anew. Herbrothers did what they could for her. They were well-to-do, but theyall had large families, with marriageable daughters and sons to bebought out of military service. The allowance they made her wasgenerous compared to their means, --affection and duty could do nomore, --but there were four of us growing children, and my mother wasobliged to make every effort within her power to piece out her income. 

How quickly we came down from a large establishment, with servants andretainers, and a place among the best in Polotzk, to a single roomhired by the week, and the humblest associations, and the avertedheads of former friends! But oftenest it was my mother who turned awayher head. She took to using the side streets to avoid the pitiful eyesof the kind, and the scornful eyes of the haughty. Both were turned onher as she trudged from store to store, and from house to house, peddling tea or other ware; and both were hard to bear. Many a wintermorning she arose in the dark, to tramp three or four miles in thegripping cold, through the dragging snow, with a pound of tea for adistant customer; and her profit was perhaps twenty kopecks. Many atime she fell on the ice, as she climbed the steep bank on the farside of the Dvina, a heavy basket on each arm. More than once shefainted at the doors of her customers, ashamed to knock as suppliantwhere she had used to be received as an honored guest. I hope theangels did not have to count the tears that fell on her frost-bitten, aching hands as she counted her bitter earnings at night. 

And who took care of us children while my mother tramped the streetswith her basket? Why, who but Fetchke? Who but the little housewife oftwelve? Sure of our safety was my mother with Fetchke to watch; sureof our comfort with Fetchke to cook the soup and divide the scrap ofmeat and remember the next meal. Joseph was in heder all day; the babywas a quiet little thing; Mashke was no worse than usual. But stillthere was plenty to do, with order to keep in a crowded room, and thewashing, and the mending. And Fetchke did it all. She went to theriver with the women to wash the clothes, and tucked up her dress andstood bare-legged in the water, like the rest of them, and beat andrubbed with all her might, till our miserable rags gleamed whiteagain. 

And I? I usually had a cold, or a cough, or something to disable me;and I never had any talent for housework. If I swept and sanded thefloor, polished the samovar, and ran errands, I was doing much. Iminded the baby, who did not need much minding. I was willing enough, I suppose, but the hard things were done without my help. 

Not that I mean to belittle the part that I played in our reduceddomestic economy. Indeed, I am very particular to get all the creditdue me. I always remind my sister Deborah, who was the baby of thosehumble days, that it was I who pierced her ears. Earrings were arequisite part of a girl's toilet. Even a beggar girl must haveearrings, were they only loops of thread with glass beads. I heard mymother bemoan the baby because she had not time to pierce her ears. Promptly I armed myself with a coarse needle and a spool of thread, and towed Deborah out into the woodshed. The operation was entirelysuccessful, though the baby was entirely ungrateful. And I am proud tothis day of the unflinching manner in which I did what I conceived tobe my duty. If Deborah chooses to go with ungarnished ears, it is heraffair; my conscience is free of all reproach. 

 [Illustration: WINTER SCENE ON THE DVINA]

I had a direct way in everything. I rushed right in--I spoke rightout. My mother sent me sometimes to deliver a package of tea, and Iwas proud to help in business. One day I went across the Dvina and farup "the other side. " It was a good-sized expedition for me to makealone, and I was not a little pleased with myself when I delivered mypackage, safe and intact, into the hands of my customer. But thestorekeeper was not pleased at all. She sniffed and sniffed, shepinched the tea, she shook it all out on the counter. 

"_Na_, take it back, " she said in disgust; "this is not the tea Ialways buy. It's a poorer quality. "

I knew the woman was mistaken. I was acquainted with my mother'sseveral grades of tea. So I spoke up manfully. 

"Oh, no, " I said; "this is the tea my mother always sends you. Thereis no worse tea. "

Nothing in my life ever hurt me more than that woman's answer to myargument. She laughed--she simply laughed. But I understood, evenbefore she controlled herself sufficiently to make verbal remarks, that I had spoken like a fool, had lost my mother a customer. I hadonly spoken the truth, but I had not expressed it diplomatically. That was no way to make business. 

I felt very sore to be returning home with the tea still in my hand, but I forgot my trouble in watching a summer storm gather up theriver. The few passengers who took the boat with me looked scared asthe sky darkened, and the boatman grasped his oars very soberly. Ittook my breath away to see the signs, but I liked it; and I was muchdisappointed to get home dry. 

When my mother heard of my misadventure she laughed, too; but that wasdifferent, and I was able to laugh with her. 

This is the way I helped in the housekeeping and in business. I hopeit does not appear as if I did not take our situation to heart, for Idid--in my own fashion. It was plain, even to an idle dreamer like me, that we were living on the charity of our friends, and barely livingat that. It was plain, from my father's letters, that he was scarcelyable to support himself in America, and that there was no immediateprospect of our joining him. I realized it all, but I considered ittemporary, and I found plenty of comfort in writing long letters to myfather--real, original letters this time, not copies of Reb' Isaiah'smodel--letters which my father treasured for years. 

As an instance of what I mean by my own fashion of taking trouble toheart, I recall the day when our household effects were attached for adebt. We had plenty of debts, but the stern creditor who set the lawon us this time was none of ours. The claim was against a family towhom my mother sublet two of our three rooms, furnished with her ownthings. The police officers, who swooped down upon us without warning, as was their habit, asked no questions and paid no heed toexplanations. They affixed a seal to every lame chair and crackedpitcher in the place; aye, to every faded petticoat found hanging inthe wardrobe. These goods, comprising all our possessions and all ourtenant's, would presently be removed, to be sold at auction, for thebenefit of the creditor. 

Lame chairs and faded petticoats, when they are the last one has, havea vital value in the owner's eyes. My mother moved about, weepingdistractedly, all the while the officers were in the house. Thefrightened children cried. Our neighbors gathered to bemoan ourmisfortune. And over everything was the peculiar dread which only Jewsin Russia feel when agents of the Government invade their homes. 

The fear of the moment was in my heart, as in every other heart there. It was a horrid, oppressive fear. I retired to a quiet corner tograpple with it. I was not given to weeping, but I must think thingsout in words. I repeated to myself that the trouble was all aboutmoney. Somebody wanted money from our tenant, who had none to give. Our furniture was going to be sold to make this money. It was amistake, but then the officers would not believe my mother. Still, itwas only about money. Nobody was dead, nobody was ill. It was allabout _money_. Why, there was plenty of money in Polotzk! My own unclehad many times as much as the creditor claimed. He could buy all ourthings back, or somebody else could. What did it matter? It was only_money_, and money was got by working, and we were all willing towork. There was nothing gone, nothing lost, as when somebody died. This furniture could be moved from place to place, and so could moneybe moved, and nothing was lost out of the world by the transfer. _That_ was all. If anybody--

Why, what do I see at the window? Breine Malke, our next-doorneighbor, is--yes, she is smuggling something out of the window! Ifshe is caught--! Oh, I must help! Breine Malke beckons. She wants meto do something. I see--I understand. I must stand in the doorway, toobstruct the view of the officers, who are all engaged in the nextroom just now. I move readily to my post, but I cannot resist mycuriosity. I must look over my shoulder a last time, to see what it isBreine Malke wants to smuggle out. 

I can scarcely stifle my laughter. Of all our earthly goods, ourneighbor has chosen for salvation a dented bandbox containing amoth-eaten bonnet from my mother's happier days! And I laugh not onlyfrom amusement but also from lightness of heart. For I have succeededin reducing our catastrophe to its simplest terms, and I find that itis only a trifle, and no matter of life and death. 

I could not help it. That was the way it looked to me. 

I am sure I made as serious efforts as anybody to prepare myself forlife in America on the lines indicated in my father's letters. InAmerica, he wrote, it was no disgrace to work at a trade. Workmen andcapitalists were equal. The employer addressed the employee as _you_, not, familiarly, as _thou_. The cobbler and the teacher had the sametitle, "Mister. " And all the children, boys and girls, Jews andGentiles, went to school! Education would be ours for the asking, andeconomic independence also, as soon as we were prepared. He wantedFetchke and me to be taught some trade; so my sister was apprenticedto a dressmaker and I to a milliner. 

Fetchke, of course, was successful, and I, of course, was not. Mysister managed to learn her trade, although most of the time at thedressmaker's she had to spend in sweeping, running errands, andminding the babies; the usual occupations of the apprentice in anytrade. 

But I--I had to be taken away from the milliner's after a couple ofmonths. I did try, honestly. With all my eyes I watched my mistressbuild up a chimney pot of straw and things. I ripped up old bonnetswith enthusiasm. I picked up everybody's spools and thimbles, andother far-rolling objects. I did just as I was told, for I wasdetermined to become a famous milliner, since America honored theworkman so. But most of the time I was sent away on errands--to themarket to buy soup greens, to the corner store to get change, and allover town with bandboxes half as round again as I. It was winter, andI was not very well dressed. I froze; I coughed; my mistress said Iwas not of much use to her. So my mother kept me at home, and mycareer as a milliner was blighted. 

This was during our last year in Russia, when I was between twelve andthirteen years of age. I was old enough to be ashamed of my failures, but I did not have much time to think about them, because my UncleSolomon took me with him to Vitebsk. 

It was not my first visit to that city. A few years before I had spentsome days there, in the care of my father's cousin Rachel, whojourneyed periodically to the capital of the province to replenish herstock of spools and combs and like small wares, by the sale of whichshe was slowly earning her dowry. 

On that first occasion, Cousin Rachel, who had developed in businessthat dual conscience, one for her Jewish neighbors and one for theGentiles, decided to carry me without a ticket. I was so small, thoughof an age to pay half-fare, that it was not difficult. I remember hersimple stratagem from beginning to end. When we approached the ticketoffice she whispered to me to stoop a little, and I stooped. Theticket agent passed me. In the car she bade me curl up in the seat, and I curled up. She threw a shawl over me and bade me pretend tosleep, and I pretended to sleep. I heard the conductor collect thetickets. I knew when he was looking at me. I heard him ask my age andI heard Cousin Rachel lie about it. I was allowed to sit up when theconductor was gone, and I sat up and looked out of the window and saweverything, and was perfectly, perfectly happy. I was fond of mycousin, and I smiled at her in perfect understanding and admiration ofher cleverness in beating the railroad company. 

I knew then, as I know now, beyond a doubt, that my Uncle David'sdaughter was an honorable woman. With the righteous she dealtsquarely; with the unjust, as best she could. She was in duty bound tomake all the money she could, for money was her only protection in themidst of the enemy. Every kopeck she earned or saved was a scale inher coat of armor. We learned this code early in life, in Polotzk; soI was pleased with the success of our ruse on this occasion, though Ishould have been horrified if I had seen Cousin Rachel cheat a Jew. 

We made our headquarters in that part of Vitebsk where my father'snumerous cousins and aunts lived, in more or less poverty, or at mostin the humblest comfort; but I was taken to my Uncle Solomon's tospend the Sabbath. I remember a long walk, through magnificentavenues and past splendid shops and houses and gardens. Vitebsk was ametropolis beside provincial Polotzk; and I was very small, evenwithout stooping. 

Uncle Solomon lived in the better part of the city, and I found hisplace very attractive. Still, after a night's sleep, I was ready forfurther travel and adventures, and I set out, without a word toanybody, to retrace my steps clear across the city. 

The way was twice as long as on the preceding day, perhaps becausesuch small feet set the pace, perhaps because I lingered as long as Ipleased at the shop windows. At some corners, too, I had to stop andstudy my route. I do not think I was frightened at all, though Iimagine my back was very straight and my head very high all the way;for I was well aware that I was out on an adventure. 

I did not speak to any one till I reached my Aunt Leah's; and then Ihardly had a chance to speak, I was so much hugged and laughed overand cried over, and questioned and cross-questioned, without anybodywaiting to hear my answers. I had meant to surprise Cousin Rachel, andI had frightened her. When she had come to Uncle Solomon's to take meback, she found the house in an uproar, everybody frightened at mydisappearance. The neighborhood was searched, and at last messengerswere sent to Aunt Leah's. The messengers in their haste quiteoverlooked me. It was their fault if they took a short cut unknown tome. I was all the time faithfully steering by the sign of the tobaccoshop, and the shop with the jumping-jack in the window, and the gardenwith the iron fence, and the sentry box opposite a drug store, and allthe rest of my landmarks, as carefully entered on my mental chart theday before. 

All this I told my scared relatives as soon as they let me, till theywere convinced that I was not lost, nor stolen by the gypsies, norotherwise done away with. Cousin Rachel was so glad that she would nothave to return to Polotzk empty-handed that she would not let anybodyscold me. She made me tell over and over what I had seen on the way, till they all laughed and praised my acuteness for seeing so much morethan they had supposed there was to see. Indeed, I was made a heroine, which was just what I intended to be when I set out on my adventure. And thus ended most of my unlawful escapades; I was more petted thanscolded for my insubordination. 

My second journey to Vitebsk, in the company of Uncle Solomon, Iremember as well as the first. I had been up all night, dancing at awedding, and had gone home only to pick up my small bundle and bepicked up, in turn, by my uncle. I was a little taller now, and had myown ticket, like a real traveller. 

It was still early in the morning when the train pulled out of thestation, or else it was a misty day. I know the fields looked soft andgray when we got out into the country, and the trees were blurred. Idid not want to sleep. A new day had begun--a new adventure. I wouldnot miss any of it. 

But the last day, so unnaturally prolonged, was entangled in theskirts of the new. When did yesterday end? Why was not this new daythe same day continued? I looked up at my uncle, but he was smiling atme in that amused way of his--he always seemed to be amused at me, andhe would make me talk and then laugh at me--so I did not ask myquestion. Indeed, I could not formulate it, so I kept staring out onthe dim country, and thinking, and thinking; and all the while theengine throbbed and lurched, and the wheels ground along, and I wasastonished to hear that they were keeping perfectly the time of thelast waltz I had danced at the wedding. I sang it through in my head. Yes, that was the rhythm. The engine knew it, the whole machinerepeated it, and sent vibrations through my body that were just likethe movements of the waltz. I was so much interested in this discoverythat I forgot the problem of the Continuity of Time; and from that dayto this, whenever I have heard that waltz, --one of the sweet Danubewaltzes, --I have lived through that entire experience; the festivenight, the misty morning, the abnormal consciousness of time, as if Ihad existed forever, without a break; the journey, the dim landscape, and the tune singing itself in my head. Never can I hear that waltzwithout the accompaniment of engine wheels grinding rhythmically alongspeeding tracks. 

I remained in Vitebsk about six months. I do not believe I was everhomesick during all that time. I was too happy to be homesick. Thelife suited me extremely well. My life in Polotzk had grown meaner andduller, as the family fortunes declined. For years there had been nolessons, no pleasant excursions, no jolly gatherings with uncles andaunts. Poverty, shadowed by pride, trampled down our simple ambitionsand simpler joys. I cannot honestly say that I was very sensitive toour losses. I do not remember suffering because there was no jam on mybread, and no new dress for the holidays. I do not know whether I washurt when some of our playmates abandoned us. I remember myselfoftener in the attitude of an onlooker, as on the occasion of theattachment of our furniture, when I went off into a corner to thinkabout it. Perhaps I was not able to cling to negations. The possessionof the bread was a more absorbing fact than the loss of the jam. If Iwere to read my character backwards, I ought to believe that I didmiss what I lacked in our days of privation; for I know, to my shame, that in more recent years I have cried for jam. But I am trying not toreason, only to remember; and from many scattered and shadowymemories, that glimmer and fade away so fast that I cannot fix them onthis page, I form an idea, almost a conviction, that it was with me asI say. 

However indifferent I may have been to what I had not, I was fullyalive to what I had. So when I came to Vitebsk I eagerly seized on themany new things that I found around me; and these new impressions andexperiences affected me so much that I count that visit as an epoch inmy Russian life. 

I was very much at home in my uncle's household. I was a little afraidof my aunt, who had a quick temper, but on the whole I liked her. Shewas fair and thin and had a pretty smile in the wake of her tempers. Uncle Solomon was an old friend. I was fond of him and he made much ofme. His fine brown eyes were full of smiles, and there always was apleasant smile for me, or a teasing one. 

Uncle Solomon was comparatively prosperous, so I soon forgot whateverI had known at home of sordid cares. I do not remember that I was everhaunted by the thought of my mother, who slaved to keep us in bread;or of my sister, so little older than myself, who bent her little backto a woman's work. I took up the life around me as if there were noother life. I did not play all the time, but I enjoyed whatever work Ifound because I was so happy. I helped my Cousin Dinke help hermother with the housework. I put it this way because I think my auntnever set me any tasks; but Dinke was glad to have me help wash dishesand sweep and make beds. My cousin was a gentle, sweet girl, blue-eyedand fair, and altogether attractive. She talked to me about grown-upthings, and I liked it. When her friends came to visit her she did notmind having me about, although my skirts were so short. 

My helping hand was extended also to my smaller cousins, Mendele andPerele. I played lotto with Mendele and let him beat me; I found himwhen he was lost, and I helped him play tricks on our elders. Perele, the baby, was at times my special charge, and I think she did notsuffer in my hands. I was a good nurse, though my methods weresomewhat original. 

Uncle Solomon was often away on business, and in his absence CousinHirshel was my hero. Hirshel was only a little older than I, but hewas a pupil in the high school, and wore the student's uniform, andknew nearly as much as my uncle, I thought. When he buckled on hissatchel of books in the morning, and strode away straight as asoldier, --no heder boy ever walked like that, --I stood in the doorwayand worshipped his retreating steps. I met him on his return in thelate afternoon, and hung over him when he laid out his books for hislessons. Sometimes he had long Russian pieces to commit to memory. Hewould walk up and down repeating the lines out loud, and I learned asfast as he. He would let me hold the book while he recited, and aproud girl was I if I could correct him. 

My interest in his lessons amused him; he did not take me seriously. He looked much like his father, and twinkled his eyes at me in thesame way and made fun of me, too. But sometimes he condescended to setme a lesson in spelling or arithmetic, --in reading I was as good ashe, --and if I did well, he praised me and went and told the familyabout it; but lest I grow too proud of my achievements, he would sitdown and do mysterious sums--I now believe it was algebra--to which Ihad no clue whatever, and which duly impressed me with a sense of myignorance. 

There were other books in the house than school-books. The Hebrewbooks, of course, were there, as in other Jewish homes; but I was nolonger devoted to the Psalms. There were a few books about in Russianand in Yiddish, that were neither works of devotion nor ofinstruction. These were story-books and poems. They were a greatsurprise to me and a greater delight. I read them hungrily, all therewere--a mere handful, but to me an overwhelming treasure. Of all thosebooks I remember by name only "Robinson Crusoe. " I think I preferredthe stories to the poems, though poetry was good to recite, walking upand down, like Cousin Hirshel. That was my introduction to secularliterature, but I did not understand it at the time. 

When I had exhausted the books, I began on the old volumes of aRussian periodical which I found on a shelf in my room. There was ahigh stack of these paper volumes, and I was so hungry for books thatI went at them greedily, fearing that I might not get through before Ihad to return to Polotzk. 

I read every spare minute of the day, and most of the night. Iscarcely ever stopped at night until my lamp burned out. Then I wouldcreep into bed beside Dinke, but often my head burned so fromexcitement that I did not sleep at once. And no wonder. The violentromances which rushed through the pages of that periodical were fit toinflame an older, more sophisticated brain than mine. I must believethat it was a thoroughly respectable magazine, because I found it inmy Uncle Solomon's house; but the novels it printed were certainlysensational, if I dare judge from my lurid recollections. Theseromances, indeed, may have had their literary qualities, which I wastoo untrained to appreciate. I remember nothing but startlingadventures of strange heroes and heroines, violent catastrophes inevery chapter, beautiful maidens abducted by cruel Cossacks, inhumanmothers who poisoned their daughters for jealousy of their lovers; andall these unheard-of things happening in a strange world, the verylanguage of which was unnatural to me. I was quick enough to fixmeanings to new words, however, so keen was my interest in what Iread. Indeed, when I recall the zest with which I devoured thosefearful pages, the thrill with which I followed the heartless motheror the abused maiden in her adventures, my heart beating in my throatwhen my little lamp began to flicker; and then, myself, big-eyed andshivery in the dark, stealing to bed like a guilty ghost, --when Iremember all this, I have an unpleasant feeling, as of one hearing ofanother's debauch; and I would be glad to shake the little bonyculprit that I was then. 

My uncle was away so much of the time that I doubt if he knew how Ispent my nights. My aunt, poor hard-worked housewife, knew too littleof books to direct my reading. My cousins were not enough older thanmyself to play mentors to me. Besides all this, I think it was tacitlyagreed, at my uncle's as at home, that Mashke was best let alone insuch matters. So I burnt my midnight lamp, and filled my mind with aconglomeration of images entirely unsuited to my mental digestion; andno one can say what they would have bred in me, besides headache andnervousness, had they not been so soon dispelled and superseded by ahost of strong new impressions. For these readings ended with myvisit, which was closely followed by the preparations for ouremigration. 

On the whole, then, I do not feel that I was seriously harmed by mywild reading. I have not been told that my taste was corrupted, and mymorals, I believe, have also escaped serious stricture. I would evensay that I have never been hurt by any revelation, however distortedor untimely, that I found in books, good or poor; that I have neverread an idle book that was entirely useless; and that I have neverquite lost whatever was significant to my spirit in any book, good orbad, even though my conscious memory can give no account of it. 

One lived, at Uncle Solomon's, not only one's own life, but the lifeof all around. My uncle, when he returned after a short absence, hadstories to tell and adventures to describe; and I learned that onemight travel considerably and see things unknown even in Vitebsk, without going as far as America. My cousins sometimes went to thetheatre, and I listened with rapture to their account of what they hadseen, and I learned the songs they had heard. Once Cousin Hirshel wentto see a giant, who exhibited himself for three kopecks, and came homewith such marvellous accounts of his astonishing proportions, and hisamazing feats of strength, that little Mendele cried for envy, and Ihad to play lotto with him and let him beat me oh, so easily! till hefelt himself a man again. 

And sometimes I had adventures of my own. I explored the city to someextent by myself, or else my cousins took me with them on theirerrands. There were so many fine people to see, such wonderful shops, such great distances to go. Once they took me to a bookstore. I sawshelves and shelves of books, and people buying them, and taking themaway to keep. I was told that some people had in their own houses morebooks than were in the store. Was not that wonderful? It was a greatcity, Vitebsk; I never could exhaust its delights. 

Although I did not often think of my people at home, strugglingdesperately to live while I revelled in abundance and pleasure andexcitement, I did do my little to help the family by giving lessons inlacemaking. As this was the only time in my life that I earned moneyby the work of my hands, I take care not to forget it and I like togive an account of it. 

I was always, as I have elsewhere admitted, very clumsy with my hands, counting five thumbs to the hand. Knitting and embroidery, at which mysister was so clever, I could never do with any degree of skill. Theblue peacock with the red tail that I achieved in cross-stitch was nota performance of any grace. Neither was I very much downcast at myfailures in this field; I was not an ambitious needlewoman. But whenthe fad for "Russian lace" was introduced into Polotzk by a family ofsisters who had been expelled from St. Petersburg, and all femininePolotzk, on both sides of the Dvina, dropped knitting and crochetneedles and embroidery frames to take up pillow and bobbins, I, too, was carried away by the novelty, and applied myself heartily to learnthe intricate art, with the result that I did master it. The Russiansisters charged enormous fees for lessons, and made a fortune out ofthe sale of patterns while they held the monopoly. Their pupils passedon the art at reduced fees, and their pupils' pupils charged stillless; until even the humblest cottage rang with the pretty click ofthe bobbins, and my Cousin Rachel sold steel pins by the ounce, instead of by the dozen, and the women exchanged cardboard patternsfrom one end of town to the other. 

My teacher, who taught me without fee, being a friend of ourprosperous days, lived "on the other side. " It was winter, and many atime I crossed the frozen river, carrying a lace pillow as big asmyself, till my hands were numb with cold. But I persisted, afraid asI was of cold; and when I came to Vitebsk I was glad of my oneaccomplishment. For Vitebsk had not yet seen "Russian lace, " and I wasan acceptable teacher of the new art, though I was such a mite, because there was no other. I taught my Cousin Dinke, of course, and Ihad a number of paying pupils. I gave lessons at my pupils' homes, andwas very proud, going thus about town and being received as a personof importance. If my feet did not reach the floor when I sat in achair, my hands knew their business for once; and I was such aconscientious and enthusiastic teacher that I had the satisfaction ofseeing all my pupils execute difficult pieces before I left Vitebsk. 

I never have seen money that was half so bright to look at, half sopretty to clink, as the money I earned by these lessons. And it waseasy to decide what to do with my wealth. I bought presents foreverybody I knew. I remember to this day the pattern of the shawl Ibought for my mother. When I came home and unpacked my treasures, Iwas the proudest girl in Polotzk. 

The proudest, but not the happiest. I found my family in such apitiful state that all my joy was stifled by care, if only for awhile. 

Unwilling to spoil my holiday, my mother had not written me how thingshad gone from bad to worse during my absence, and I was not prepared. Fetchke met me at the station, and conducted me to a more wretchedhole than I had ever called home before. 

I went into the room alone, having been greeted outside by my motherand brother. It was evening, and the shabbiness of the apartment wasall the gloomier for the light of a small kerosene lamp standing onthe bare deal table. At one end of the table--is this Deborah? Mylittle sister, dressed in an ugly gray jacket, sat motionless in thelamplight, her fair head drooping, her little hands folded on the edgeof the table. At sight of her I grew suddenly old. It was merely thatshe was a shy little girl, unbecomingly dressed, and perhaps a littlepale from underfeeding. But to me, at that moment, she was thepersonification of dejection, the living symbol of the fallen familystate. 

Of course my sober mood did not last long. Even "fallen family state"could be interpreted in terms of money--absent money--and that, asonce established, was a trifling matter. Hadn't I earned money myself?Heaps of it! Only look at this, and this, and this that I brought fromVitebsk, bought with my own money! No, I did not remain old. For manyyears more I was a very childish child. 

Perhaps I had spent my time in Vitebsk to better advantage than at themilliner's, from any point of view. When I returned to my native townI _saw_ things. I saw the narrowness, the stifling narrowness, of lifein Polotzk. My books, my walks, my visits, as teacher, to many homes, had been so many doors opening on a wider world; so many horizons, onebeyond the other. The boundaries of life had stretched, and I hadfilled my lungs with the thrilling air from a great Beyond. Childthough I was, Polotzk, when I came back, was too small for me. 

And even Vitebsk, for all its peepholes into a Beyond, presently beganto shrink in my imagination, as America loomed near. My father'sletters warned us to prepare for the summons, and we lived in a quiverof expectation. 

Not that my father had grown suddenly rich. He was so far from richthat he was going to borrow every cent of the money for ourthird-class passage; but he had a business in view which he couldcarry on all the better for having the family with him; and, besides, we were borrowing right and left anyway, and to no definite purpose. With the children, he argued, every year in Russia was a year lost. They should be spending the precious years in school, in learningEnglish, in becoming Americans. United in America, there were tenchances of our getting to our feet again to one chance in ourscattered, aimless state. 

So at last I was going to America! Really, really going, at last! Theboundaries burst. The arch of heaven soared. A million suns shone outfor every star. The winds rushed in from outer space, roaring in myears, "America! America!"

CHAPTER VIII

THE EXODUS

On the day when our steamer ticket arrived, my mother did not go outwith her basket, my brother stayed out of heder, and my sister saltedthe soup three times. I do not know what I did to celebrate theoccasion. Very likely I played tricks on Deborah, and wrote a longletter to my father. 

Before sunset the news was all over Polotzk that Hannah Hayye hadreceived a steamer ticket for America. Then they began to come. Friendsand foes, distant relatives and new acquaintances, young and old, wiseand foolish, debtors and creditors, and mere neighbors, --from everyquarter of the city, from both sides of the Dvina, from over thePolota, from nowhere, --a steady stream of them poured into our street, both day and night, till the hour of our departure. And my mother gaveaudience. Her faded kerchief halfway off her head, her black ringletsstraying, her apron often at her eyes, she received her guests in arainbow of smiles and tears. She was the heroine of Polotzk, and sheconducted herself appropriately. She gave her heart's thanks for thecongratulations and blessings that poured in on her; ready tears forcondolences; patient answers to monotonous questions; and handshakesand kisses and hugs she gave gratis. 

What did they not ask, the eager, foolish, friendly people? Theywanted to handle the ticket, and mother must read them what is writtenon it. How much did it cost? Was it all paid for? Were we going tohave a foreign passport or did we intend to steal across the border?Were we not all going to have new dresses to travel in? Was it surethat we could get koscher food on the ship? And with the questionspoured in suggestions, and solid chunks of advice were rammed in bynimble prophecies. Mother ought to make a pilgrimage to a "GoodJew"--say, the Rebbe of Lubavitch--to get his blessing on our journey. She must be sure and pack her prayer books and Bible, and twentypounds of zwieback at the least. If they did serve trefah on the ship, she and the four children would have to starve, unless she carriedprovisions from home. --Oh, she must take all the featherbeds!Featherbeds are scarce in America. In America they sleep on hardmattresses, even in winter. Haveh Mirel, Yachne the dressmaker'sdaughter, who emigrated to New York two years ago, wrote her motherthat she got up from childbed with sore sides, because she had nofeatherbed. --Mother mustn't carry her money in a pocketbook. She mustsew it into the lining of her jacket. The policemen in Castle Gardentake all their money from the passengers as they land, unless thetravellers deny having any. 

And so on, and so on, till my poor mother was completely bewildered. And as the day set for our departure approached, the people cameoftener and stayed longer, and rehearsed my mother in long messagesfor their friends in America, praying that she deliver them promptlyon her arrival, and without fail, and might God bless her for herkindness, and she must be sure and write them how she found theirfriends. 

Hayye Dvoshe, the wig-maker, for the eleventh time repeating herself, to my mother, still patiently attentive, thus:--

"Promise me, I beg you. I don't sleep nights for thinking of him. Emigrated to America eighteen months ago, fresh and well and strong, with twenty-five ruble in his pocket, besides his steamer ticket, withnew phylacteries, and a silk skull-cap, and a suit as good asnew, --made it only three years before, --everything respectable, therecould be nothing better;--sent one letter, how he arrived in CastleGarden, how well he was received by his uncle's son-in-law, how he wasconducted to the baths, how they bought him an American suit, everything good, fine, pleasant;--wrote how his relative promised hima position in his business--a clothing merchant is he--makesgold, --and since then not a postal card, not a word, just as if he hadvanished, as if the earth had swallowed him. _Oi, weh!_ what haven't Iimagined, what haven't I dreamed, what haven't I lamented! Alreadythree letters have I sent--the last one, you know, you yourself wrotefor me, Hannah Hayye, dear--and no answer. Lost, as if in the sea!"

And after the application of a corner of her shawl to eyes and nose, Hayye Dvoshe, continuing:--

"So you will go into the newspaper, and ask them what has become of myMöshele, and if he isn't in Castle Garden, maybe he went up toBalti-moreh, --it's in the neighborhood, you know, --and you can tellthem, for a mark, that he has a silk handkerchief with his monogram inRussian, that his betrothed embroidered for him before the engagementwas broken. And may God grant you an easy journey, and may you arrivein a propitious hour, and may you find your husband well, and strong, and rich, and may you both live to lead your children to the weddingcanopy, and may America shower gold on you. Amen. "

The weeks skipped, the days took wing, an hour was a flash of thought;so brimful of events was the interval before our departure. And no onewas more alive than I to the multiple significance of the daily drama. My mother, full of grief at the parting from home and family and allthings dear, anxious about the journey, uncertain about the future, but ready, as ever, to take up what new burdens awaited her; mysister, one with our mother in every hope and apprehension; mybrother, rejoicing in his sudden release from heder; and the littlesister, vaguely excited by mysteries afoot; the uncles and aunts anddevoted neighbors, sad and solemn over their coming loss; and myfather away over in Boston, eager and anxious about us in Polotzk, --anAmerican citizen impatient to start his children on Americancareers, --I knew the minds of every one of these, and I lived theirdays and nights with them after an apish fashion of my own. 

But at bottom I was aloof from them all. What made me silent andbig-eyed was the sense of being in the midst of a tremendousadventure. From morning till night I was all attention. I must creditmyself with some pang of parting; I certainly felt the thrill ofexpectation; but keener than these was my delight in the progress ofthe great adventure. It was delightful just to be myself. I rejoiced, with the younger children, during the weeks of packing andpreparation, in the relaxation of discipline and the generaldemoralization of our daily life. It was pleasant to be petted andspoiled by favorite cousins and stuffed with belated sweets byunfavorite ones. It was distinctly interesting to catch my motherweeping in corner cupboards over precious rubbish that could by nomeans be carried to America. It was agreeable to have my Uncle Mosesstroke my hair and regard me with affectionate eyes, while he told methat I would soon forget him, and asked me, so coaxingly, to write himan account of our journey. It was delicious to be notorious throughthe length and breadth of Polotzk; to be stopped and questioned atevery shop-door, when I ran out to buy two kopecks' worth of butter;to be treated with respect by my former playmates, if ever I foundtime to mingle with them; to be pointed at by my enemies, as I passedthem importantly on the street. And all my delight and pride andinterest were steeped in a super-feeling, the sense that it was I, Mashke, _I myself_, that was moving and acting in the midst of unusualevents. Now that I was sure of America, I was in no hurry to depart, and not impatient to arrive. I was willing to linger over every detailof our progress, and so cherish the flavor of the adventure. 

The last night in Polotzk we slept at my uncle's house, havingdisposed of all our belongings, to the last three-legged stool, exceptsuch as we were taking with us. I could go straight to the room whereI slept with my aunt that night, if I were suddenly set down inPolotzk. But I did not really sleep. Excitement kept me awake, and myaunt snored hideously. In the morning I was going away from Polotzk, forever and ever. I was going on a wonderful journey. I was going toAmerica. How could I sleep?

My uncle gave out a false bulletin, with the last batch that thegossips carried away in the evening. He told them that we were notgoing to start till the second day. This he did in the hope ofsmuggling us quietly out, and so saving us the wear and tear of apublic farewell. But his ruse failed of success. Half of Polotzk wasat my uncle's gate in the morning, to conduct us to the railwaystation, and the other half was already there before we arrived. 

The procession resembled both a funeral and a triumph. The women weptover us, reminding us eloquently of the perils of the sea, of thebewilderment of a foreign land, of the torments of homesickness thatawaited us. They bewailed my mother's lot, who had to tear herselfaway from blood relations to go among strangers; who had to facegendarmes, ticket agents, and sailors, unprotected by a masculineescort; who had to care for four young children in the confusion oftravel, and very likely feed them trefah or see them starve on theway. Or they praised her for a brave pilgrim, and expressed confidencein her ability to cope with gendarmes and ticket agents, and blessedher with every other word, and all but carried her in their arms. 

At the station the procession disbanded and became a mob. My uncle andmy tall cousins did their best to protect us, but we wanderers werealmost torn to pieces. They did get us into a car at last, but theriot on the station platform continued unquelled. When the warningbell rang out, it was drowned in a confounding babel ofvoices, --fragments of the oft-repeated messages, admonitions, lamentations, blessings, farewells. "Don't forget!"--"Take care of--""Keep your tickets--" "Möshele--newspapers!" "Garlick is best!" "Happyjourney!" "God help you!" "Good-bye! Good-bye!" "Remember--"

The last I saw of Polotzk was an agitated mass of people, wavingcolored handkerchiefs and other frantic bits of calico, madlygesticulating, falling on each other's necks, gone wild altogether. Then the station became invisible, and the shining tracks spun outfrom sky to sky. I was in the middle of the great, great world, andthe longest road was mine. 

 * * * * *

Memory may take a rest while I copy from a contemporaneous documentthe story of the great voyage. In accordance with my promise to myuncle, I wrote, during my first months in America, a detailed accountof our adventures between Polotzk and Boston. Ink was cheap, and theepistle, in Yiddish, occupied me for many hot summer hours. It was agreat disaster, therefore, to have a lamp upset on my writing-table, when I was near the end, soaking the thick pile of letter sheets inkerosene. I was obliged to make a fair copy for my uncle, and myfather kept the oily, smelly original. After a couple of years'teasing, he induced me to translate the letter into English, for thebenefit of a friend who did not know Yiddish; for the benefit of thepresent narrative, which was not thought of thirteen years ago. I canhardly refrain from moralizing as I turn to the leaves of my childishmanuscript, grateful at last for the calamity of the overturned lamp. 

Our route lay over the German border, with Hamburg for our port. Onthe way to the frontier we stopped for a farewell visit in Vilna, where my mother had a brother. Vilna is slighted in my description. Ifind special mention of only two things, the horse-cars and thebookstores. 

On a gray wet morning in early April we set out for the frontier. Thiswas the real beginning of our journey, and all my faculties ofobservation were alert. I took note of everything, --the weather, thetrains, the bustle of railroad stations, our fellow passengers, andthe family mood at every stage of our progress. 

The bags and bundles which composed our travelling outfit were muchmore bulky than valuable. A trifling sum of money, the steamer ticket, and the foreign passport were the magic agents by means of which wehoped to span the five thousand miles of earth and water between usand my father. The passport was supposed to pass us over the frontierwithout any trouble, but on account of the prevalence of cholera insome parts of the country, the poorer sort of travellers, such asemigrants, were subjected, at this time, to more than ordinarysupervision and regulation. 

At Versbolovo, the last station on the Russian side, we met the firstof our troubles. A German physician and several gendarmes boarded thetrain and put us through a searching examination as to our health, destination, and financial resources. As a result of the inquisitionwe were informed that we would not be allowed to cross the frontierunless we exchanged our third-class steamer ticket for second-class, which would require two hundred rubles more than we possessed. Ourpassport was taken from us, and we were to be turned back on ourjourney. 

My letter describes the situation:--

 We were homeless, houseless, and friendless in a strange place. We had hardly money enough to last us through the voyage for which we had hoped and waited for three long years. We had suffered much that the reunion we longed for might come about; we had prepared ourselves to suffer more in order to bring it about, and had parted with those we loved, with places that were dear to us in spite of what we passed through in them, never again to see them, as we were convinced--all for the same dear end. With strong hopes and high spirits that hid the sad parting, we had started on our long journey. And now we were checked so unexpectedly but surely, the blow coming from where we little expected it, being, as we believed, safe in that quarter. When my mother had recovered enough to speak, she began to argue with the gendarme, telling him our story and begging him to be kind. The children were frightened and all but I cried. I was only wondering what would happen. 

Moved by our distress, the German officers gave us the best advicethey could. We were to get out at the station of Kibart on the Russianside, and apply to one Herr Schidorsky, who might help us on our way. 

The letter goes on:--

 We are in Kibart, at the depot. The least important particular, even, of that place, I noticed and remembered. How the porter--he was an ugly, grinning man--carried in our things and put them away in the southern corner of the big room, on the floor; how we sat down on a settee near them, a yellow settee; how the glass roof let in so much light that we had to shade our eyes because the car had been dark and we had been crying; how there were only a few people besides ourselves there, and how I began to count them and stopped when I noticed a sign over the head of the fifth person--a little woman with a red nose and a pimple on it--and tried to read the German, with the aid of the Russian translation below. I noticed all this and remembered it, as if there were nothing else in the world for me to think of. 

The letter dwells gratefully on the kindness of Herr Schidorsky, whobecame the agent of our salvation. He procured my mother a pass toEidtkuhnen, the German frontier station, where his older brother, aschairman of a well-known emigrant aid association, arranged for ouradmission into Germany. During the negotiations, which took severaldays, the good man of Kibart entertained us in his own house, shabbyemigrants though we were. The Schidorsky brothers were Jews, but it isnot on that account that their name has been lovingly remembered forfifteen years in my family. 

On the German side our course joined that of many other emigrantgroups, on their way to Hamburg and other ports. We were a clumsyenough crowd, with wide, unsophisticated eyes, with awkward bundleshugged in our arms, and our hearts set on America. 

The letter to my uncle faithfully describes every stage of ourbustling progress. Here is a sample scene of many that I recorded:--

 There was a terrible confusion in the baggage-room where we were directed to go. Boxes, baskets, bags, valises, and great, shapeless things belonging to no particular class, were thrown about by porters and other men, who sorted them and put tickets on all but those containing provisions, while others were opened and examined in haste. At last our turn came, and our things, along with those of all other American-bound travellers, were taken away to be steamed and smoked and other such processes gone through. We were told to wait till notice should be given us of something else to be done. 

The phrases "we were told to do this" and "told to do that" occuragain and again in my narrative, and the most effective handling ofthe facts could give no more vivid picture of the proceedings. Weemigrants were herded at the stations, packed in the cars, and drivenfrom place to place like cattle. 

 At the expected hour we all tried to find room in a car indicated by the conductor. We tried, but could only find enough space on the floor for our baggage, on which we made-believe sitting comfortably. For now we were obliged to exchange the comparative comforts of a third-class passenger train for the certain discomforts of a fourth-class one. There were only four narrow benches in the whole car, and about twice as many people were already seated on these as they were probably supposed to accommodate. All other space, to the last inch, was crowded by passengers or their luggage. It was very hot and close and altogether uncomfortable, and still at every new station fresh passengers came crowding in, and actually made room, spare as it was, for themselves. It became so terrible that all glared madly at the conductor as he allowed more people to come into that prison, and trembled at the announcement of every station. I cannot see even now how the officers could allow such a thing; it was really dangerous. 

The following is my attempt to describe a flying glimpse of ametropolis:--

 Towards evening we came into Berlin. I grow dizzy even now when I think of our whirling through that city. It seemed we were going faster and faster all the time, but it was only the whirl of trains passing in opposite directions and close to us that made it seem so. The sight of crowds of people such as we had never seen before, hurrying to and fro, in and out of great depots that danced past us, helped to make it more so. Strange sights, splendid buildings, shops, people, and animals, all mingled in one great, confused mass of a disposition to continually move in a great hurry, wildly, with no other aim but to make one's head go round and round, in following its dreadful motions. Round and round went my head. It was nothing but trains, depots, crowds, --crowds, depots, trains, --again and again, with no beginning, no end, only a mad dance! Faster and faster we go, faster still, and the noise increases with the speed. Bells, whistles, hammers, locomotives shrieking madly, men's voices, peddlers' cries, horses' hoofs, dogs' barkings--all united in doing their best to drown every other sound but their own, and made such a deafening uproar in the attempt that nothing could keep it out. 

The plight of the bewildered emigrant on the way to foreign parts isalways pitiful enough, but for us who came from plague-ridden Russiathe terrors of the way were doubled. 

 In a great lonely field, opposite a solitary house within a large yard, our train pulled up at last, and a conductor commanded the passengers to make haste and get out. He need not have told us to hurry; we were glad enough to be free again after such a long imprisonment in the uncomfortable car. All rushed to the door. We breathed more freely in the open field, but the conductor did not wait for us to enjoy our freedom. He hurried us into the one large room which made up the house, and then into the yard. Here a great many men and women, dressed in white, received us, the women attending to the women and girls of the passengers, and the men to the others. 

 This was another scene of bewildering confusion, parents losing their children, and little ones crying; baggage being thrown together in one corner of the yard, heedless of contents, which suffered in consequence; those white-clad Germans shouting commands, always accompanied with "Quick! Quick!"--the confused passengers obeying all orders like meek children, only questioning now and then what was going to be done with them. 

 And no wonder if in some minds stories arose of people being captured by robbers, murderers, and the like. Here we had been taken to a lonely place where only that house was to be seen; our things were taken away, our friends separated from us; a man came to inspect us, as if to ascertain our full value; strange-looking people driving us about like dumb animals, helpless and unresisting; children we could not see crying in a way that suggested terrible things; ourselves driven into a little room where a great kettle was boiling on a little stove; our clothes taken off, our bodies rubbed with a slippery substance that might be any bad thing; a shower of warm water let down on us without warning; again driven to another little room where we sit, wrapped in woollen blankets till large, coarse bags are brought in, their contents turned out, and we see only a cloud of steam, and hear the women's orders to dress ourselves, --"Quick! Quick!"--or else we'll miss--something we cannot hear. We are forced to pick out our clothes from among all the others, with the steam blinding us; we choke, cough, entreat the women to give us time; they persist, "Quick! Quick!--or you'll miss the train!"--Oh, so we really won't be murdered! They are only making us ready for the continuing of our journey, cleaning us of all suspicions of dangerous sickness. Thank God!

In Polotzk, if the cholera broke out, as it did once or twice in everygeneration, we made no such fuss as did these Germans. Those who diedof the sickness were buried, and those who lived ran to the synagoguesto pray. We travellers felt hurt at the way the Germans treated us. Mymother nearly died of cholera once, but she was given a new name, alucky one, which saved her; and that was when she was a small girl. None of us were sick now, yet hear how we were treated! Thosegendarmes and nurses always shouted their commands at us from adistance, as fearful of our touch as if we had been lepers. 

We arrived in Hamburg early one morning, after a long night in thecrowded cars. We were marched up to a strange vehicle, long andnarrow and high, drawn by two horses and commanded by a mute driver. We were piled up on this wagon, our baggage was thrown after us, andwe started on a sight-seeing tour across the city of Hamburg. Thesights I faithfully enumerate for the benefit of my uncle includelittle carts drawn by dogs, and big cars that run of themselves, lateridentified as electric cars. 

The humorous side of our adventures did not escape me. Again and againI come across a laugh in the long pages of the historic epistle. Thedescription of the ride through Hamburg ends with this:--

 The sight-seeing was not all on our side. I noticed many people stopping to look at us as if amused, though most passed by us as though used to such sights. We did make a queer appearance all in a long row, up above people's heads. In fact, we looked like a flock of giant fowls roosting, only wide awake. 

The smiles and shivers fairly crowded each other in some parts of ourcareer. 

 Suddenly, when everything interesting seemed at an end, we all recollected how long it was since we had started on our funny ride. Hours, we thought, and still the horses ran. Now we rode through quieter streets where there were fewer shops and more wooden houses. Still the horses seemed to have but just started. I looked over our perch again. Something made me think of a description I had read of criminals being carried on long journeys in uncomfortable things--like this? Well, it was strange--this long, long drive, the conveyance, no word of explanation; and all, though going different ways, being packed off together. We were strangers; the driver knew it. He might take us anywhere--how could we tell? I was frightened again as in Berlin. The faces around me confessed the same. 

 Yes, we are frightened. We are very still. Some Polish women over there have fallen asleep, and the rest of us look such a picture of woe, and yet so funny, it is a sight to see and remember. 

Our mysterious ride came to an end on the outskirts of the city, wherewe were once more lined up, cross-questioned, disinfected, labelled, and pigeonholed. This was one of the occasions when we suspected thatwe were the victims of a conspiracy to extort money from us; for here, as at every repetition of the purifying operations we had undergone, afee was levied on us, so much per head. My mother, indeed, seeing hertiny hoard melting away, had long since sold some articles from ourbaggage to a fellow passenger richer than she, but even so she did nothave enough money to pay the fee demanded of her in Hamburg. Herstatement was not accepted, and we all suffered the last indignity ofhaving our persons searched. 

This last place of detention turned out to be a prison. "Quarantine"they called it, and there was a great deal of it--two weeks of it. Twoweeks within high brick walls, several hundred of us herded in half adozen compartments, --numbered compartments, --sleeping in rows, likesick people in a hospital; with roll-call morning and night, and shortrations three times a day; with never a sign of the free world beyondour barred windows; with anxiety and longing and homesickness in ourhearts, and in our ears the unfamiliar voice of the invisible ocean, which drew and repelled us at the same time. The fortnight inquarantine was not an episode; it was an epoch, divisible into eras, periods, events. 

 The greatest event was the arrival of some ship to take some of the waiting passengers. When the gates were opened and the lucky ones said good-bye, those left behind felt hopeless of ever seeing the gates open for them. It was both pleasant and painful, for the strangers grew to be fast friends in a day, and really rejoiced in each other's fortune; but the regretful envy could not be helped either. 

Our turn came at last. We were conducted through the gate ofdeparture, and after some hours of bewildering manœuvres, describedin great detail in the report to my uncle, we found ourselves--we fivefrightened pilgrims from Polotzk--on the deck of a great big steamshipafloat on the strange big waters of the ocean. 

For sixteen days the ship was our world. My letter dwells solemnly onthe details of the life at sea, as if afraid to cheat my uncle of thesmallest circumstance. It does not shrink from describing the tormentsof seasickness; it notes every change in the weather. A rough night isdescribed, when the ship pitched and rolled so that people were thrownfrom their berths; days and nights when we crawled through dense fogs, our foghorn drawing answering warnings from invisible ships. Theperils of the sea were not minimized in the imaginations of usinexperienced voyagers. The captain and his officers ate theirdinners, smoked their pipes and slept soundly in their turns, while wefrightened emigrants turned our faces to the wall and awaited ourwatery graves. 

All this while the seasickness lasted. Then came happy hours on deck, with fugitive sunshine, birds atop the crested waves, band music anddancing and fun. I explored the ship, made friends with officers andcrew, or pursued my thoughts in quiet nooks. It was my firstexperience of the ocean, and I was profoundly moved. 

 Oh, what solemn thoughts I had! How deeply I felt the greatness, the power of the scene! The immeasurable distance from horizon to horizon; the huge billows forever changing their shapes--now only a wavy and rolling plain, now a chain of great mountains, coming and going farther away; then a town in the distance, perhaps, with spires and towers and buildings of gigantic dimensions; and mostly a vast mass of uncertain shapes, knocking against each other in fury, and seething and foaming in their anger; the gray sky, with its mountains of gloomy clouds, flying, moving with the waves, as it seemed, very near them; the absence of any object besides the one ship; and the deep, solemn groans of the sea, sounding as if all the voices of the world had been turned into sighs and then gathered into that one mournful sound--so deeply did I feel the presence of these things, that the feeling became one of awe, both painful and sweet, and stirring and warming, and deep and calm and grand. 

 I would imagine myself all alone on the ocean, and Robinson Crusoe was very real to me. I was alone sometimes. I was aware of no human presence; I was conscious only of sea and sky and something I did not understand. And as I listened to its solemn voice, I felt as if I had found a friend, and knew that I loved the ocean. It seemed as if it were within as well as without, part of myself; and I wondered how I had lived without it, and if I could ever part with it. 

And so suffering, fearing, brooding, rejoicing we crept nearer andnearer to the coveted shore, until, on a glorious May morning, sixweeks after our departure from Polotzk, our eyes beheld the PromisedLand, and my father received us in his arms. 

CHAPTER IX

THE PROMISED LAND

Having made such good time across the ocean, I ought to be able toproceed no less rapidly on _terra firma_, where, after all, I am moreat home. And yet here is where I falter. Not that I hesitated, evenfor the space of a breath, in my first steps in America. There was notime to hesitate. The most ignorant immigrant, on landing proceeds togive and receive greetings, to eat, sleep and rise, after the mannerof his own country; wherein he is corrected, admonished, and laughedat, whether by interested friends or the most indifferent strangers;and his American experience is thus begun. The process is spontaneouson all sides, like the education of the child by the family circle. But while the most stupid nursery maid is able to contribute her parttoward the result, we do not expect an analysis of the process to befurnished by any member of the family, least of all by the engaginginfant. The philosophical maiden aunt alone, or some other witnessequally psychological and aloof, is able to trace the myriad effortsby which the little Johnnie or Nellie acquires a secure hold on thedisjointed parts of the huge plaything, life. 

Now I was not exactly an infant when I was set down, on a May day somefifteen years ago, in this pleasant nursery of America. I had longsince acquired the use of my faculties, and had collected some bits ofexperience practical and emotional, and had even learned to give anaccount of them. Still, I had very little perspective, and myobservations and comparisons were superficial. I was too much carriedaway to analyze the forces that were moving me. My Polotzk I knew wellbefore I began to judge it and experiment with it. America wasbewilderingly strange, unimaginably complex, delightfully unexplored. I rushed impetuously out of the cage of my provincialism and lookedeagerly about the brilliant universe. My question was, What have wehere?--not, What does this mean? That query came much later. When Inow become retrospectively introspective, I fall into the predicamentof the centipede in the rhyme, who got along very smoothly until hewas asked which leg came after which, whereupon he became so rattledthat he couldn't take a step. I know I have come on a thousand feet, on wings, winds and American machines, --I have leaped and run andclimbed and crawled, --but to tell which step came after which I find apuzzling matter. Plenty of maiden aunts were present during my secondinfancy, in the guise of immigrant officials, school-teachers, settlement workers, and sundry other unprejudiced and criticalobservers. Their statistics I might properly borrow to fill the gapsin my recollections, but I am prevented by my sense of harmony. Theindividual, we know, is a creature unknown to the statistician, whereas I undertook to give the personal view of everything. So I ambound to unravel, as well as I can, the tangle of events, outer andinner, which made up the first breathless years of my American life. 

During his three years of probation, my father had made a number offalse starts in business. His history for that period is the historyof thousands who come to America, like him, with pockets empty, handsuntrained to the use of tools, minds cramped by centuries ofrepression in their native land. Dozens of these men pass under youreyes every day, my American friend, too absorbed in their honestaffairs to notice the looks of suspicion which you cast at them, therepugnance with which you shrink from their touch. You see themshuffle from door to door with a basket of spools and buttons, orbending over the sizzling irons in a basement tailor shop, orrummaging in your ash can, or moving a pushcart from curb to curb, atthe command of the burly policeman. "The Jew peddler!" you say, anddismiss him from your premises and from your thoughts, never dreamingthat the sordid drama of his days may have a moral that concerns you. What if the creature with the untidy beard carries in his bosom hiscitizenship papers? What if the cross-legged tailor is supporting aboy in college who is one day going to mend your state constitutionfor you? What if the ragpicker's daughters are hastening over theocean to teach your children in the public schools? Think, every timeyou pass the greasy alien on the street, that he was born thousands ofyears before the oldest native American; and he may have something tocommunicate to you, when you two shall have learned a common language. Remember that his very physiognomy is a cipher the key to which itbehooves you to search for most diligently. 

 * * * * *

By the time we joined my father, he had surveyed many avenues ofapproach toward the coveted citadel of fortune. One of these, heretofore untried, he now proposed to essay, armed with new courage, and cheered on by the presence of his family. In partnership with anenergetic little man who had an English chapter in his history, heprepared to set up a refreshment booth on Crescent Beach. But while hewas completing arrangements at the beach we remained in town, where weenjoyed the educational advantages of a thickly populatedneighborhood; namely, Wall Street, in the West End of Boston. 

Anybody who knows Boston knows that the West and North Ends are thewrong ends of that city. They form the tenement district, or, in thenewer phrase, the slums of Boston. Anybody who is acquainted with theslums of any American metropolis knows that that is the quarter wherepoor immigrants foregather, to live, for the most part, as unkempt, half-washed, toiling, unaspiring foreigners; pitiful in the eyes ofsocial missionaries, the despair of boards of health, the hope of wardpoliticians, the touchstone of American democracy. The well-versedmetropolitan knows the slums as a sort of house of detention for pooraliens, where they live on probation till they can show a certificateof good citizenship. 

He may know all this and yet not guess how Wall Street, in the WestEnd, appears in the eyes of a little immigrant from Polotzk. Whatwould the sophisticated sight-seer say about Union Place, off WallStreet, where my new home waited for me? He would say that it is noplace at all, but a short box of an alley. Two rows of three-storytenements are its sides, a stingy strip of sky is its lid, a litteredpavement is the floor, and a narrow mouth its exit. 

But I saw a very different picture on my introduction to Union Place. I saw two imposing rows of brick buildings, loftier than any dwellingI had ever lived in. Brick was even on the ground for me to tread on, instead of common earth or boards. Many friendly windows stood open, filled with uncovered heads of women and children. I thought thepeople were interested in us, which was very neighborly. I looked upto the topmost row of windows, and my eyes were filled with the Mayblue of an American sky!

In our days of affluence in Russia we had been accustomed toupholstered parlors, embroidered linen, silver spoons andcandlesticks, goblets of gold, kitchen shelves shining with copper andbrass. We had featherbeds heaped halfway to the ceiling; we hadclothes presses dusky with velvet and silk and fine woollen. The threesmall rooms into which my father now ushered us, up one flight ofstairs, contained only the necessary beds, with lean mattresses; a fewwooden chairs; a table or two; a mysterious iron structure, whichlater turned out to be a stove; a couple of unornamental kerosenelamps; and a scanty array of cooking-utensils and crockery. And yet wewere all impressed with our new home and its furniture. It was notonly because we had just passed through our seven lean years, cookingin earthen vessels, eating black bread on holidays and wearing cotton;it was chiefly because these wooden chairs and tin pans were Americanchairs and pans that they shone glorious in our eyes. And if there wasanything lacking for comfort or decoration we expected it to bepresently supplied--at least, we children did. Perhaps my motheralone, of us newcomers, appreciated the shabbiness of the littleapartment, and realized that for her there was as yet no laying downof the burden of poverty. 

Our initiation into American ways began with the first step on the newsoil. My father found occasion to instruct or correct us even onthe way from the pier to Wall Street, which journey we made crowdedtogether in a rickety cab. He told us not to lean out of the windows, not to point, and explained the word "greenhorn. " We did not want tobe "greenhorns, " and gave the strictest attention to my father'sinstructions. I do not know when my parents found opportunity toreview together the history of Polotzk in the three years past, for wechildren had no patience with the subject; my mother's narrative wasconstantly interrupted by irrelevant questions, interjections, andexplanations. 

 [Illustration: UNION PLACE (BOSTON) WHERE MY NEW HOME WAITED FOR ME]

The first meal was an object lesson of much variety. My fatherproduced several kinds of food, ready to eat, without any cooking, from little tin cans that had printing all over them. He attempted tointroduce us to a queer, slippery kind of fruit, which he called"banana, " but had to give it up for the time being. After the meal, hehad better luck with a curious piece of furniture on runners, which hecalled "rocking-chair. " There were five of us newcomers, and we foundfive different ways of getting into the American machine of perpetualmotion, and as many ways of getting out of it. One born and bred tothe use of a rocking-chair cannot imagine how ludicrous people canmake themselves when attempting to use it for the first time. Welaughed immoderately over our various experiments with the novelty, which was a wholesome way of letting off steam after the unusualexcitement of the day. 

In our flat we did not think of such a thing as storing the coal inthe bathtub. There was no bathtub. So in the evening of the first daymy father conducted us to the public baths. As we moved along in alittle procession, I was delighted with the illumination of thestreets. So many lamps, and they burned until morning, my fathersaid, and so people did not need to carry lanterns. In America, then, everything was free, as we had heard in Russia. Light was free; thestreets were as bright as a synagogue on a holy day. Music was free;we had been serenaded, to our gaping delight, by a brass band of manypieces, soon after our installation on Union Place. 

Education was free. That subject my father had written aboutrepeatedly, as comprising his chief hope for us children, the essenceof American opportunity, the treasure that no thief could touch, noteven misfortune or poverty. It was the one thing that he was able topromise us when he sent for us; surer, safer than bread or shelter. Onour second day I was thrilled with the realization of what thisfreedom of education meant. A little girl from across the alley cameand offered to conduct us to school. My father was out, but we fivebetween us had a few words of English by this time. We knew the wordschool. We understood. This child, who had never seen us tillyesterday, who could not pronounce our names, who was not much betterdressed than we, was able to offer us the freedom of the schools ofBoston! No application made, no questions asked, no examinations, rulings, exclusions; no machinations, no fees. The doors stood openfor every one of us. The smallest child could show us the way. 

This incident impressed me more than anything I had heard in advanceof the freedom of education in America. It was a concreteproof--almost the thing itself. One had to experience it to understandit. 

It was a great disappointment to be told by my father that we were notto enter upon our school career at once. It was too near the end ofthe term, he said, and we were going to move to Crescent Beach in aweek or so. We had to wait until the opening of the schools inSeptember. What a loss of precious time--from May till September!

Not that the time was really lost. Even the interval on Union Placewas crowded with lessons and experiences. We had to visit the storesand be dressed from head to foot in American clothing; we had to learnthe mysteries of the iron stove, the washboard, and the speaking-tube;we had to learn to trade with the fruit peddler through the window, and not to be afraid of the policeman; and, above all, we had to learnEnglish. 

The kind people who assisted us in these important matters form agroup by themselves in the gallery of my friends. If I had never seenthem from those early days till now, I should still have rememberedthem with gratitude. When I enumerate the long list of my Americanteachers, I must begin with those who came to us on Wall Street andtaught us our first steps. To my mother, in her perplexity over thecookstove, the woman who showed her how to make the fire was an angelof deliverance. A fairy godmother to us children was she who led us toa wonderful country called "uptown, " where, in a dazzlingly beautifulpalace called a "department store, " we exchanged our hateful homemadeEuropean costumes, which pointed us out as "greenhorns" to thechildren on the street, for real American machine-made garments, andissued forth glorified in each other's eyes. 

With our despised immigrant clothing we shed also our impossibleHebrew names. A committee of our friends, several years ahead of us inAmerican experience, put their heads together and concocted Americannames for us all. Those of our real names that had no pleasingAmerican equivalents they ruthlessly discarded, content if theyretained the initials. My mother, possessing a name that was noteasily translatable, was punished with the undignified nickname ofAnnie. Fetchke, Joseph, and Deborah issued as Frieda, Joseph, andDora, respectively. As for poor me, I was simply cheated. The namethey gave me was hardly new. My Hebrew name being Maryashe in full, Mashke for short, Russianized into Marya (_Mar-ya_), my friends saidthat it would hold good in English as _Mary_; which was verydisappointing, as I longed to possess a strange-sounding American namelike the others. 

I am forgetting the consolation I had, in this matter of names, fromthe use of my surname, which I have had no occasion to mention untilnow. I found on my arrival that my father was "Mr. Antin" on theslightest provocation, and not, as in Polotzk, on state occasionsalone. And so I was "Mary Antin, " and I felt very important to answerto such a dignified title. It was just like America that even plainpeople should wear their surnames on week days. 

As a family we were so diligent under instruction, so adaptable, andso clever in hiding our deficiencies, that when we made the journey toCrescent Beach, in the wake of our small wagon-load of householdgoods, my father had very little occasion to admonish us on the way, and I am sure he was not ashamed of us. So much we had achieved towardour Americanization during the two weeks since our landing. 

Crescent Beach is a name that is printed in very small type on themaps of the environs of Boston, but a life-size strip of sand curvesfrom Winthrop to Lynn; and that is historic ground in the annals of myfamily. The place is now a popular resort for holiday crowds, and isfamous under the name of Revere Beach. When the reunited Antins madetheir stand there, however, there were no boulevards, no statelybath-houses, no hotels, no gaudy amusement places, no illuminations, no showmen, no tawdry rabble. There was only the bright clean sweep ofsand, the summer sea, and the summer sky. At high tide the wholeAtlantic rushed in, tossing the seaweeds in his mane; at low tide herushed out, growling and gnashing his granite teeth. Between tides ababy might play on the beach, digging with pebbles and shells, till itlay asleep on the sand. The whole sun shone by day, troops of stars bynight, and the great moon in its season. 

Into this grand cycle of the seaside day I came to live and learn andplay. A few people came with me, as I have already intimated; but themain thing was that _I_ came to live on the edge of the sea--I, whohad spent my life inland, believing that the great waters of the worldwere spread out before me in the Dvina. My idea of the human world hadgrown enormously during the long journey; my idea of the earth hadexpanded with every day at sea; my idea of the world outside the earthnow budded and swelled during my prolonged experience of the wide andunobstructed heavens. 

Not that I got any inkling of the conception of a multiple world. Ihad had no lessons in cosmogony, and I had no spontaneous revelationof the true position of the earth in the universe. For me, as for myfathers, the sun set and rose, and I did not feel the earth rushingthrough space. But I lay stretched out in the sun, my eyes level withthe sea, till I seemed to be absorbed bodily by the very materials ofthe world around me; till I could not feel my hand as separate fromthe warm sand in which it was buried. Or I crouched on the beach atfull moon, wondering, wondering, between the two splendors of the skyand the sea. Or I ran out to meet the incoming storm, my face full inthe wind, my being a-tingle with an awesome delight to the tips of myfog-matted locks flying behind; and stood clinging to some stake orupturned boat, shaken by the roar and rumble of the waves. Soclinging, I pretended that I was in danger, and was deliciouslyfrightened; I held on with both hands, and shook my head, exulting inthe tumult around me, equally ready to laugh or sob. Or else I sat, onthe stillest days, with my back to the sea, not looking at all, butjust listening to the rustle of the waves on the sand; not thinking atall, but just breathing with the sea. 

Thus courting the influence of sea and sky and variable weather, I wasbound to have dreams, hints, imaginings. It was no more than this, perhaps: that the world as I knew it was not large enough to containall that I saw and felt; that the thoughts that flashed through mymind, not half understood, unrelated to my utterable thoughts, concerned something for which I had as yet no name. Every imaginativegrowing child has these flashes of intuition, especially one thatbecomes intimate with some one aspect of nature. With me it was thegrowing time, that idle summer by the sea, and I grew all the fasterbecause I had been so cramped before. My mind, too, had so recentlybeen worked upon by the impressive experience of a change of countrythat I was more than commonly alive to impressions, which are theseeds of ideas. 

Let no one suppose that I spent my time entirely, or even chiefly, ininspired solitude. By far the best part of my day was spent inplay--frank, hearty, boisterous play, such as comes natural toAmerican children. In Polotzk I had already begun to be considered tooold for play, excepting set games or organized frolics. Here I foundmyself included with children who still played, and I willinglyreturned to childhood. There were plenty of playfellows. My father'senergetic little partner had a little wife and a large family. He keptthem in the little cottage next to ours; and that the shanty survivedthe tumultuous presence of that brood is a wonder to me to-day. Theyoung Wilners included an assortment of boys, girls, and twins, ofevery possible variety of age, size, disposition, and sex. Theyswarmed in and out of the cottage all day long, wearing the door-sillhollow, and trampling the ground to powder. They swung out of windowslike monkeys, slid up the roof like flies, and shot out of trees likefowls. Even a small person like me couldn't go anywhere without beingrun over by a Wilner; and I could never tell which Wilner it wasbecause none of them ever stood still long enough to be identified;and also because I suspected that they were in the habit ofinterchanging conspicuous articles of clothing, which was veryconfusing. 

You would suppose that the little mother must have been utterly lost, bewildered, trodden down in this horde of urchins; but you aremistaken. Mrs. Wilner was a positively majestic little person. Sheruled her brood with the utmost coolness and strictness. She had eventhe biggest boy under her thumb, frequently under her palm. If theyenjoyed the wildest freedom outdoors, indoors the young Wilners livedby the clock. And so at five o'clock in the evening, on seven days inthe week, my father's partner's children could be seen in two longrows around the supper table. You could tell them apart on thisoccasion, because they all had their faces washed. And this is thetime to count them: there are twelve little Wilners at table. 

I managed to retain my identity in this multitude somehow, and while Iwas very much impressed with their numbers, I even dared to pick andchoose my friends among the Wilners. One or two of the smaller boys Iliked best of all, for a game of hide-and-seek or a frolic on thebeach. We played in the water like ducks, never taking the trouble toget dry. One day I waded out with one of the boys, to see which of usdared go farthest. The tide was extremely low, and we had not wet ourknees when we began to look back to see if familiar objects were stillin sight. I thought we had been wading for hours, and still the waterwas so shallow and quiet. My companion was marching straight ahead, soI did the same. Suddenly a swell lifted us almost off our feet, and weclutched at each other simultaneously. There was a lesser swell, andlittle waves began to run, and a sigh went up from the sea. The tidewas turning--perhaps a storm was on the way--and we were miles, dreadful miles from dry land. 

Boy and girl turned without a word, four determined bare legsploughing through the water, four scared eyes straining toward theland. Through an eternity of toil and fear they kept dumbly on, deathat their heels, pride still in their hearts. At last they reachhigh-water mark--six hours before full tide. 

Each has seen the other afraid, and each rejoices in the knowledge. But only the boy is sure of his tongue. 

"You was scared, warn't you?" he taunts. 

The girl understands so much, and is able to reply:--

"You can schwimmen, I not. "

"Betcher life I can schwimmen, " the other mocks. 

And the girl walks off, angry and hurt. 

"An' I can walk on my hands, " the tormentor calls after her. "Say, yougreenhorn, why don'tcher look?"

The girl keeps straight on, vowing that she would never walk with thatrude boy again, neither by land nor sea, not even though the watersshould part at his bidding. 

I am forgetting the more serious business which had brought us toCrescent Beach. While we children disported ourselves like mermaidsand mermen in the surf, our respective fathers dispensed coldlemonade, hot peanuts, and pink popcorn, and piled up our respectivefortunes, nickel by nickel, penny by penny. I was very proud of myconnection with the public life of the beach. I admired greatly ourshining soda fountain, the rows of sparkling glasses, the pyramids oforanges, the sausage chains, the neat white counter, and the brightarray of tin spoons. It seemed to me that none of the otherrefreshment stands on the beach--there were a few--were half soattractive as ours. I thought my father looked very well in a longwhite apron and shirt sleeves. He dished out ice cream withenthusiasm, so I supposed he was getting rich. It never occurred to meto compare his present occupation with the position for which he hadbeen originally destined; or if I thought about it, I was just as wellcontent, for by this time I had by heart my father's saying, "Americais not Polotzk. " All occupations were respectable, all men were equal, in America. 

If I admired the soda fountain and the sausage chains, I almostworshipped the partner, Mr. Wilner. I was content to stand for an hourat a time watching him make potato chips. In his cook's cap and apron, with a ladle in his hand and a smile on his face, he moved about withthe greatest agility, whisking his raw materials out of nowhere, dipping into his bubbling kettle with a flourish, and bringing forththe finished product with a caper. Such potato chips were not to be hadanywhere else on Crescent Beach. Thin as tissue paper, crisp as drysnow, and salt as the sea--such thirst-producing, lemonade-selling, nickel-bringing potato chips only Mr. Wilner could make. On holidays, when dozens of family parties came out by every train from town, hecould hardly keep up with the demand for his potato chips. And with awaiting crowd around him our partner was at his best. He was as volubleas he was skilful, and as witty as he was voluble; at least so Iguessed from the laughter that frequently drowned his voice. I couldnot understand his jokes, but if I could get near enough to watch hislips and his smile and his merry eyes, I was happy. That any one couldtalk so fast, and in English, was marvel enough, but that this prodigyshould belong to _our_ establishment was a fact to thrill me. I hadnever seen anything like Mr. Wilner, except a wedding jester; but thenhe spoke common Yiddish. So proud was I of the talent and good tastedisplayed at our stand that if my father beckoned to me in the crowdand sent me on an errand, I hoped the people noticed that I, too, wasconnected with the establishment. 

And all this splendor and glory and distinction came to a sudden end. There was some trouble about a license--some fee or fine--there was astorm in the night that damaged the soda fountain and otherfixtures--there was talk and consultation between the houses of Antinand Wilner--and the promising partnership was dissolved. No more wouldthe merry partner gather the crowd on the beach; no more would thetwelve young Wilners gambol like mermen and mermaids in the surf. Andthe less numerous tribe of Antin must also say farewell to the jollyseaside life; for men in such humble business as my father's carrytheir families, along with their other earthly goods, wherever theygo, after the manner of the gypsies. We had driven a feeble stake intothe sand. The jealous Atlantic, in conspiracy with the Sunday law, hadtorn it out. We must seek our luck elsewhere. 

In Polotzk we had supposed that "America" was practically synonymouswith "Boston. " When we landed in Boston, the horizon was pushed back, and we annexed Crescent Beach. And now, espying other lands ofpromise, we took possession of the province of Chelsea, in the name ofour necessity. 

In Chelsea, as in Boston, we made our stand in the wrong end of thetown. Arlington Street was inhabited by poor Jews, poor Negroes, and asprinkling of poor Irish. The side streets leading from it wereoccupied by more poor Jews and Negroes. It was a proper locality for aman without capital to do business. My father rented a tenement with astore in the basement. He put in a few barrels of flour and of sugar, a few boxes of crackers, a few gallons of kerosene, an assortment ofsoap of the "save the coupon" brands; in the cellar, a few barrels ofpotatoes, and a pyramid of kindling-wood; in the showcase, an alluringdisplay of penny candy. He put out his sign, with a gilt-letteredwarning of "Strictly Cash, " and proceeded to give creditindiscriminately. That was the regular way to do business on ArlingtonStreet. My father, in his three years' apprenticeship, had learned thetricks of many trades. He knew when and how to "bluff. " The legend of"Strictly Cash" was a protection against notoriously irresponsiblecustomers; while none of the "good" customers, who had a record forpaying regularly on Saturday, hesitated to enter the store with emptypurses. 

If my father knew the tricks of the trade, my mother could be countedon to throw all her talent and tact into the business. Of course shehad no English yet, but as she could perform the acts of weighing, measuring, and mental computation of fractions mechanically, she wasable to give her whole attention to the dark mysteries of thelanguage, as intercourse with her customers gave her opportunity. Inthis she made such rapid progress that she soon lost all sense ofdisadvantage, and conducted herself behind the counter very much as ifshe were back in her old store in Polotzk. It was far more cosey thanPolotzk--at least, so it seemed to me; for behind the store was thekitchen, where, in the intervals of slack trade, she did her cookingand washing. Arlington Street customers were used to waiting while thestorekeeper salted the soup or rescued a loaf from the oven. 

Once more Fortune favored my family with a thin little smile, and myfather, in reply to a friendly inquiry, would say, "One makes aliving, " with a shrug of the shoulders that added "but nothing to boastof. " It was characteristic of my attitude toward bread-and-buttermatters that this contented me, and I felt free to devote myself to theconquest of my new world. Looking back to those critical first years, I see myself always behaving like a child let loose in a garden to playand dig and chase the butterflies. Occasionally, indeed, I was stung bythe wasp of family trouble; but I knew a healing ointment--my faith inAmerica. My father had come to America to make a living. America, whichwas free and fair and kind, must presently yield him what he sought. Ihad come to America to see a new world, and I followed my own ends withthe utmost assiduity; only, as I ran out to explore, I would look backto see if my house were in order behind me--if my family still kept itshead above water. 

In after years, when I passed as an American among Americans, if I wassuddenly made aware of the past that lay forgotten, --if a letter fromRussia, or a paragraph in the newspaper, or a conversation overheardin the street-car, suddenly reminded me of what I might have been, --Ithought it miracle enough that I, Mashke, the granddaughter of Raphaelthe Russian, born to a humble destiny, should be at home in anAmerican metropolis, be free to fashion my own life, and should dreammy dreams in English phrases. But in the beginning my admiration wasspent on more concrete embodiments of the splendors of America; suchas fine houses, gay shops, electric engines and apparatus, publicbuildings, illuminations, and parades. My early letters to my Russianfriends were filled with boastful descriptions of these glories of mynew country. No native citizen of Chelsea took such pride and delightin its institutions as I did. It required no fife and drum corps, noFourth of July procession, to set me tingling with patriotism. Eventhe common agents and instruments of municipal life, such as theletter carrier and the fire engine, I regarded with a measure ofrespect. I know what I thought of people who said that Chelsea was avery small, dull, unaspiring town, with no discernible excuse for aseparate name or existence. 

The apex of my civic pride and personal contentment was reached on thebright September morning when I entered the public school. That day Imust always remember, even if I live to be so old that I cannot tellmy name. To most people their first day at school is a memorableoccasion. In my case the importance of the day was a hundred timesmagnified, on account of the years I had waited, the road I had come, and the conscious ambitions I entertained. 

I am wearily aware that I am speaking in extreme figures, insuperlatives. I wish I knew some other way to render the mental lifeof the immigrant child of reasoning age. I may have been ever so muchan exception in acuteness of observation, powers of comparison, andabnormal self-consciousness; none the less were my thoughts andconduct typical of the attitude of the intelligent immigrant childtoward American institutions. And what the child thinks and feels is areflection of the hopes, desires, and purposes of the parents whobrought him overseas, no matter how precocious and independent thechild may be. Your immigrant inspectors will tell you what poverty theforeigner brings in his baggage, what want in his pockets. Let theovergrown boy of twelve, reverently drawing his letters in the babyclass, testify to the noble dreams and high ideals that may be hiddenbeneath the greasy caftan of the immigrant. Speaking for the Jews, atleast, I know I am safe in inviting such an investigation. 

Who were my companions on my first day at school? Whose hand was inmine, as I stood, overcome with awe, by the teacher's desk, andwhispered my name as my father prompted? Was it Frieda's steady, capable hand? Was it her loyal heart that throbbed, beat for beat withmine, as it had done through all our childish adventures? Frieda'sheart did throb that day, but not with my emotions. My heart pulsedwith joy and pride and ambition; in her heart longing fought withabnegation. For I was led to the schoolroom, with its sunshine and itssinging and the teacher's cheery smile; while she was led to theworkshop, with its foul air, care-lined faces, and the foreman's sterncommand. Our going to school was the fulfilment of my father's bestpromises to us, and Frieda's share in it was to fashion and fit thecalico frocks in which the baby sister and I made our first appearancein a public schoolroom. 

I remember to this day the gray pattern of the calico, soaffectionately did I regard it as it hung upon the wall--myconsecration robe awaiting the beatific day. And Frieda, I am sure, remembers it, too, so longingly did she regard it as the crisp, starchy breadths of it slid between her fingers. But whatever were herlongings, she said nothing of them; she bent over the sewing-machinehumming an Old-World melody. In every straight, smooth seam, perhaps, she tucked away some lingering impulse of childhood; but she matchedthe scrolls and flowers with the utmost care. If a sudden shock ofrebellion made her straighten up for an instant, the next instant shewas bending to adjust a ruffle to the best advantage. And when themomentous day arrived, and the little sister and I stood up to bearrayed, it was Frieda herself who patted and smoothed my stiff newcalico; who made me turn round and round, to see that I was perfect;who stooped to pull out a disfiguring basting-thread. If there wasanything in her heart besides sisterly love and pride and good-will, as we parted that morning, it was a sense of loss and a woman'sacquiescence in her fate; for we had been close friends, and now ourways would lie apart. Longing she felt, but no envy. She did notgrudge me what she was denied. Until that morning we had been childrentogether, but now, at the fiat of her destiny, she became a woman, with all a woman's cares; whilst I, so little younger than she, wasbidden to dance at the May festival of untroubled childhood. 

I wish, for my comfort, that I could say that I had some notion of thedifference in our lots, some sense of the injustice to her, of theindulgence to me. I wish I could even say that I gave serious thoughtto the matter. There had always been a distinction between us ratherout of proportion to the difference in our years. Her good health anddomestic instincts had made it natural for her to become my mother'sright hand, in the years preceding the emigration, when there were nomore servants or dependents. Then there was the family tradition thatMary was the quicker, the brighter of the two, and that hers could beno common lot. Frieda was relied upon for help, and her sister forglory. And when I failed as a milliner's apprentice, while Frieda madeexcellent progress at the dressmaker's, our fates, indeed, weresealed. It was understood, even before we reached Boston, that shewould go to work and I to school. In view of the family prejudices, itwas the inevitable course. No injustice was intended. My father sentus hand in hand to school, before he had ever thought of America. If, in America, he had been able to support his family unaided, it wouldhave been the culmination of his best hopes to see all his children atschool, with equal advantages at home. But when he had done his best, and was still unable to provide even bread and shelter for us all, hewas compelled to make us children self-supporting as fast as it waspracticable. There was no choosing possible; Frieda was the oldest, the strongest, the best prepared, and the only one who was of legalage to be put to work. 

My father has nothing to answer for. He divided the world between hischildren in accordance with the laws of the country and the compulsionof his circumstances. I have no need of defending him. It is myselfthat I would like to defend, and I cannot. I remember that I acceptedthe arrangements made for my sister and me without much reflection, and everything that was planned for my advantage I took as a matter ofcourse. I was no heartless monster, but a decidedly self-centredchild. If my sister had seemed unhappy it would have troubled me; butI am ashamed to recall that I did not consider how little it was thatcontented her. I was so preoccupied with my own happiness that I didnot half perceive the splendid devotion of her attitude towards me, the sweetness of her joy in my good luck. She not only stood byapprovingly when I was helped to everything; she cheerfully waited onme herself. And I took everything from her hand as if it were my due. 

The two of us stood a moment in the doorway of the tenement house onArlington Street, that wonderful September morning when I first wentto school. It was I that ran away, on winged feet of joy andexpectation; it was she whose feet were bound in the treadmill ofdaily toil. And I was so blind that I did not see that the glory layon her, and not on me. 

 * * * * *

Father himself conducted us to school. He would not have delegatedthat mission to the President of the United States. He had awaited theday with impatience equal to mine, and the visions he saw as hehurried us over the sun-flecked pavements transcended all my dreams. Almost his first act on landing on American soil, three years before, had been his application for naturalization. He had taken theremaining steps in the process with eager promptness, and at theearliest moment allowed by the law, he became a citizen of the UnitedStates. It is true that he had left home in search of bread for hishungry family, but he went blessing the necessity that drove him toAmerica. The boasted freedom of the New World meant to him far morethan the right to reside, travel, and work wherever he pleased; itmeant the freedom to speak his thoughts, to throw off the shackles ofsuperstition, to test his own fate, unhindered by political orreligious tyranny. He was only a young man when he landed--thirty-two;and most of his life he had been held in leading-strings. He washungry for his untasted manhood. 

Three years passed in sordid struggle and disappointment. He was notprepared to make a living even in America, where the day laborer eatswheat instead of rye. Apparently the American flag could not protecthim against the pursuing Nemesis of his limitations; he must expiatethe sins of his fathers who slept across the seas. He had been endowedat birth with a poor constitution, a nervous, restless temperament, and an abundance of hindering prejudices. In his boyhood his body wasstarved, that his mind might be stuffed with useless learning. In hisyouth this dearly gotten learning was sold, and the price was thebread and salt which he had not been trained to earn for himself. Under the wedding canopy he was bound for life to a girl whosefeatures were still strange to him; and he was bidden to multiplyhimself, that sacred learning might be perpetuated in his sons, to theglory of the God of his fathers. All this while he had been led aboutas a creature without a will, a chattel, an instrument. In hismaturity he awoke, and found himself poor in health, poor in purse, poor in useful knowledge, and hampered on all sides. At the first nodof opportunity he broke away from his prison, and strove to atone forhis wasted youth by a life of useful labor; while at the same time hesought to lighten the gloom of his narrow scholarship by freelypartaking of modern ideas. But his utmost endeavor still left him farfrom his goal. In business, nothing prospered with him. Some fault ofhand or mind or temperament led him to failure where other men foundsuccess. Wherever the blame for his disabilities be placed, he reapedtheir bitter fruit. "Give me bread!" he cried to America. "What willyou do to earn it?" the challenge came back. And he found that he wasmaster of no art, of no trade; that even his precious learning was ofno avail, because he had only the most antiquated methods ofcommunicating it. 

So in his primary quest he had failed. There was left him thecompensation of intellectual freedom. That he sought to realize inevery possible way. He had very little opportunity to prosecute hiseducation, which, in truth, had never been begun. His struggle for abare living left him no time to take advantage of the public eveningschool; but he lost nothing of what was to be learned through reading, through attendance at public meetings, through exercising the rightsof citizenship. Even here he was hindered by a natural inability toacquire the English language. In time, indeed, he learned to read, tofollow a conversation or lecture; but he never learned to writecorrectly, and his pronunciation remains extremely foreign to thisday. 

If education, culture, the higher life were shining things to beworshipped from afar, he had still a means left whereby he could drawone step nearer to them. He could send his children to school, tolearn all those things that he knew by fame to be desirable. Thecommon school, at least, perhaps high school; for one or two, perhapseven college! His children should be students, should fill his housewith books and intellectual company; and thus he would walk by proxyin the Elysian Fields of liberal learning. As for the childrenthemselves, he knew no surer way to their advancement and happiness. 

So it was with a heart full of longing and hope that my father led usto school on that first day. He took long strides in his eagerness, the rest of us running and hopping to keep up. 

At last the four of us stood around the teacher's desk; and my father, in his impossible English, gave us over in her charge, with somebroken word of his hopes for us that his swelling heart could nolonger contain. I venture to say that Miss Nixon was struck bysomething uncommon in the group we made, something outside of Semiticfeatures and the abashed manner of the alien. My little sister was aspretty as a doll, with her clear pink-and-white face, short goldencurls, and eyes like blue violets when you caught them looking up. Mybrother might have been a girl, too, with his cherubic contours offace, rich red color, glossy black hair, and fine eyebrows. Whateversecret fears were in his heart, remembering his former teachers, whohad taught with the rod, he stood up straight and uncringing beforethe American teacher, his cap respectfully doffed. Next to him stood astarved-looking girl with eyes ready to pop out, and short dark curlsthat would not have made much of a wig for a Jewish bride. 

All three children carried themselves rather better than the commonrun of "green" pupils that were brought to Miss Nixon. But the figurethat challenged attention to the group was the tall, straight father, with his earnest face and fine forehead, nervous hands eloquent ingesture, and a voice full of feeling. This foreigner, who brought hischildren to school as if it were an act of consecration, who regardedthe teacher of the primer class with reverence, who spoke of visions, like a man inspired, in a common schoolroom, was not like otheraliens, who brought their children in dull obedience to the law; wasnot like the native fathers, who brought their unmanageable boys, gladto be relieved of their care. I think Miss Nixon guessed what myfather's best English could not convey. I think she divined that bythe simple act of delivering our school certificates to her he tookpossession of America. 

CHAPTER X

INITIATION

It is not worth while to refer to voluminous school statistics to seejust how many "green" pupils entered school last September, notknowing the days of the week in English, who next February will bedeclaiming patriotic verses in honor of George Washington and AbrahamLincoln, with a foreign accent, indeed, but with plenty of enthusiasm. It is enough to know that this hundred-fold miracle is common to theschools in every part of the United States where immigrants arereceived. And if I was one of Chelsea's hundred in 1894, it was onlyto be expected, since I was one of the older of the "green" children, and had had a start in my irregular schooling in Russia, and wascarried along by a tremendous desire to learn, and had my family tocheer me on. 

I was not a bit too large for my little chair and desk in the babyclass, but my mind, of course, was too mature by six or seven yearsfor the work. So as soon as I could understand what the teacher saidin class, I was advanced to the second grade. This was within a weekafter Miss Nixon took me in hand. But I do not mean to give my dearteacher all the credit for my rapid progress, nor even half thecredit. I shall divide it with her on behalf of my race and my family. I was Jew enough to have an aptitude for language in general, and tobend my mind earnestly to my task; I was Antin enough to read eachlesson with my heart, which gave me an inkling of what was comingnext, and so carried me along by leaps and bounds. As for the teacher, she could best explain what theory she followed in teaching usforeigners to read. I can only describe the method, which was sosimple that I wish holiness could be taught in the same way. 

There were about half a dozen of us beginners in English, in age fromsix to fifteen. Miss Nixon made a special class of us, and aided us soskilfully and earnestly in our endeavors to "see-a-cat, " and"hear-a-dog-bark, " and "look-at-the-hen, " that we turned over pageafter page of the ravishing history, eager to find out how the commonworld looked, smelled, and tasted in the strange speech. The teacherknew just when to let us help each other out with a word in our owntongue, --it happened that we were all Jews, --and so, working alltogether, we actually covered more ground in a lesson than the nativeclasses, composed entirely of the little tots. 

But we stuck--stuck fast--at the definite article; and sometimes thelesson resolved itself into a species of lingual gymnastics, in whichwe all looked as if we meant to bite our tongues off. Miss Nixon waspretty, and she must have looked well with her white teeth showing inthe act; but at the time I was too solemnly occupied to admire herlooks. I did take great pleasure in her smile of approval, whenever Ipronounced well; and her patience and perseverance in struggling withus over that thick little word are becoming to her even now, afterfifteen years. It is not her fault if any of us to-day give a buzzingsound to the dreadful English _th_. 

I shall never have a better opportunity to make public declaration ofmy love for the English language. I am glad that American historyruns, chapter for chapter, the way it does; for thus America came tobe the country I love so dearly. I am glad, most of all, that theAmericans began by being Englishmen, for thus did I come to inheritthis beautiful language in which I think. It seems to me that in anyother language happiness is not so sweet, logic is not so clear. I amnot sure that I could believe in my neighbors as I do if I thoughtabout them in un-English words. I could almost say that my convictionof immortality is bound up with the English of its promise. And as Iam attached to my prejudices, I must love the English language!

Whenever the teachers did anything special to help me over my privatedifficulties, my gratitude went out to them, silently. It meant somuch to me that they halted the lesson to give me a lift, that I needsmust love them for it. Dear Miss Carrol, of the second grade, would beamazed to hear what small things I remember, all because I was soimpressed at the time with her readiness and sweetness in takingnotice of my difficulties. 

Says Miss Carrol, looking straight at me:--

"If Johnnie has three marbles, and Charlie has twice as many, how manymarbles has Charlie?"

I raise my hand for permission to speak. 

"Teacher, I don't know vhat is tvice. "

Teacher beckons me to her, and whispers to me the meaning of thestrange word, and I am able to write the sum correctly. It's all inthe day's work with her; with me, it is a special act of kindness andefficiency. 

She whom I found in the next grade became so dear a friend that I canhardly name her with the rest, though I mention none of them lightly. Her approval was always dear to me, first because she was "Teacher, "and afterwards, as long as she lived, because she was my MissDillingham. Great was my grief, therefore, when, shortly after myadmission to her class, I incurred discipline, the first, and next tothe last, time in my school career. 

The class was repeating in chorus the Lord's Prayer, heads bowed ondesks. I was doing my best to keep up by the sound; my mind could notgo beyond the word "hallowed, " for which I had not found the meaning. In the middle of the prayer a Jewish boy across the aisle trod on myfoot to get my attention. "You must not say that, " he admonished in asolemn whisper; "it's Christian. " I whispered back that it wasn't, andwent on to the "Amen. " I did not know but what he was right, but thename of Christ was not in the prayer, and I was bound to do everythingthat the class did. If I had any Jewish scruples, they were laggingaway behind my interest in school affairs. How American this was: twopupils side by side in the schoolroom, each holding to his ownopinion, but both submitting to the common law; for the boy at leastbowed his head as the teacher ordered. 

But all Miss Dillingham knew of it was that two of her pupilswhispered during morning prayer, and she must discipline them. So Iwas degraded from the honor row to the lowest row, and it was many aday before I forgave that young missionary; it was not enough for myvengeance that he suffered punishment with me. Teacher, of course, heard us both defend ourselves, but there was a time and a place forreligious arguments, and she meant to help us remember that point. 

I remember to this day what a struggle we had over the word "water, "Miss Dillingham and I. It seemed as if I could not give the sound of_w_; I said "vater" every time. Patiently my teacher worked with me, inventing mouth exercises for me, to get my stubborn lips to producethat _w_; and when at last I could say "village" and "water" in rapidalternation, without misplacing the two initials, that memorable wordwas sweet on my lips. For we had conquered, and Teacher was pleased. 

Getting a language in this way, word by word, has a charm that may beset against the disadvantages. It is like gathering a posy blossom byblossom. Bring the bouquet into your chamber, and these nasturtiumsstand for the whole flaming carnival of them tumbling over the fenceout there; these yellow pansies recall the velvet crescent of colorglowing under the bay window; this spray of honeysuckle smells likethe wind-tossed masses of it on the porch, ripe and bee-laden; thewhole garden in a glass tumbler. So it is with one who gathers words, loving them. Particular words remain associated with importantoccasions in the learner's mind. I could thus write a history of myEnglish vocabulary that should be at the same time an account of mycomings and goings, my mistakes and my triumphs, during the years ofmy initiation. 

If I was eager and diligent, my teachers did not sleep. As fast as myknowledge of English allowed, they advanced me from grade to grade, without reference to the usual schedule of promotions. My father wasright, when he often said, in discussing my prospects, that abilitywould be promptly recognized in the public schools. Rapid as was myprogress, on account of the advantages with which I started, some ofthe other "green" pupils were not far behind me; within a grade ortwo, by the end of the year. My brother, whose childhood had been onehideous nightmare, what with the stupid rebbe, the cruel whip, and thegeneral repression of life in the Pale, surprised my father by theprogress he made under intelligent, sympathetic guidance. Indeed, hesoon had a reputation in the school that the American boys envied; andall through the school course he more than held his own with pupils ofhis age. So much for the right and wrong way of doing things. 

There is a record of my early progress in English much better than myrecollections, however accurate and definite these may be. I haveseveral reasons for introducing it here. First, it shows what theRussian Jew can do with an adopted language; next, it proves thatvigilance of our public-school teachers of which I spoke; and last, Iam proud of it! That is an unnecessary confession, but I could not besatisfied to insert the record here, with my vanity unavowed. 

This is the document, copied from an educational journal, a tatteredcopy of which lies in my lap as I write--treasured for fifteen years, you see, by my vanity. 

 EDITOR "PRIMARY EDUCATION":--

 This is the uncorrected paper of a Russian child twelve years old, who had studied English only four months. She had never, until September, been to school even in her own country and has heard English spoken _only_ at school. I shall be glad if the paper of my pupil and the above explanation may appear in your paper. 

 M. S. DILLINGHAM. 

 CHELSEA, MASS. 

 SNOW

 Snow is frozen moisture which comes from the clouds. Now the snow is coming down in feather-flakes, which makes nice snow-balls. But there is still one kind of snow more. This kind of snow is called snow-crystals, for it comes down in little curly balls. These snow-crystals aren't quiet as good for snow-balls as feather-flakes, for they (the snow-crystals) are dry: so they can't keep together as feather-flakes do. 

 The snow is dear to some children for they like sleighing. 

 As I said at the top--the snow comes from the clouds. 

 Now the trees are bare, and no flowers are to see in the fields and gardens, (we all know why) and the whole world seems like asleep without the happy birds songs which left us till spring. But the snow which drove away all these pretty and happy things, try, (as I think) not to make us at all unhappy; they covered up the branches of the trees, the fields, the gardens and houses, and the whole world looks like dressed in a beautiful white--instead of green--dress, with the sky looking down on it with a pale face. 

 And so the people can find some joy in it, too, without the happy summer. 

 MARY ANTIN. 

And now that it stands there, with _her_ name over it, I am ashamed ofmy flippant talk about vanity. More to me than all the praise I couldhope to win by the conquest of fifty languages is the association ofthis dear friend with my earliest efforts at writing; and it pleasesme to remember that to her I owe my very first appearance in print. Vanity is the least part of it, when I remember how she called me toher desk, one day after school was out, and showed me mycomposition--my own words, that I had written out of my ownhead--printed out, clear black and white, with my name at the end!Nothing so wonderful had ever happened to me before. My wholeconsciousness was suddenly transformed. I suppose that was the momentwhen I became a writer. I always loved to write, --I wrote letterswhenever I had an excuse, --yet it had never occurred to me to sit downand write my thoughts for no person in particular, merely to put theword on paper. But now, as I read my own words, in a deliciousconfusion, the idea was born. I stared at my name: MARY ANTIN. Wasthat really I? The printed characters composing it seemed strange tome all of a sudden. If that was my name, and those were the words outof my own head, what relation did it all have to _me_, who was alonethere with Miss Dillingham, and the printed page between us? Why, itmeant that I could write again, and see my writing printed for peopleto read! I could write many, many, many things: I could write a book!The idea was so huge, so bewildering, that my mind scarcely couldaccommodate it. 

I do not know what my teacher said to me; probably very little. It washer way to say only a little, and look at me, and trust me tounderstand. Once she had occasion to lecture me about living a shut-uplife; she wanted me to go outdoors. I had been repeatedly scolded andreproved on that score by other people, but I had only laughed, sayingthat I was too happy to change my ways. But when Miss Dillingham spoketo me, I saw that it was a serious matter; and yet she only said a fewwords, and looked at me with that smile of hers that was only half asmile, and the rest a meaning. Another time she had a great questionto ask me, touching my life to the quick. She merely put her question, and was silent; but I knew what answer she expected, and not beingable to give it then, I went away sad and reproved. Years later I hadmy triumphant answer, but she was no longer there to receive it; andso her eyes look at me, from the picture on the mantel there, with areproach I no longer merit. 

I ought to go back and strike out all that talk about vanity. Whatreason have I to be vain, when I reflect how at every step I waspetted, nursed, and encouraged? I did not even discover my own talent. It was discovered first by my father in Russia, and next by my friendin America. What did I ever do but write when they told me to write? Isuppose my grandfather who drove a spavined horse through lonelycountry lanes sat in the shade of crisp-leaved oaks to refresh himselfwith a bit of black bread; and an acorn falling beside him, in theimmense stillness, shook his heart with the echo, and left himwondering. I suppose my father stole away from the synagogue one longfestival day, and stretched himself out in the sun-warmed grass, andlost himself in dreams that made the world of men unreal when hereturned to them. And so what is there left for me to do, who do nothave to drive a horse nor interpret ancient lore, but put mygrandfather's question into words and set to music my father's dream?The tongue am I of those who lived before me, as those that are tocome will be the voice of my unspoken thoughts. And so who shall beapplauded if the song be sweet, if the prophecy be true?

I never heard of any one who was so watched and coaxed, so passedalong from hand to helping hand, as was I. I always had friends. Theysprang up everywhere, as if they had stood waiting for me to come. Sohere was my teacher, the moment she saw that I could give a goodparaphrase of her talk on "Snow, " bent on finding out what more Icould do. One day she asked me if I had ever written poetry. I hadnot, but I went home and tried. I believe it was more snow, and Iknow it was wretched. I wish I could produce a copy of that earlyeffusion; it would prove that my judgment is not severe. Wretched itwas, --worse, a great deal, than reams of poetry that is written bychildren about whom there is no fuss made. But Miss Dillingham was notdiscouraged. She saw that I had no idea of metre, so she proceeded toteach me. We repeated miles of poetry together, smooth lines that sangthemselves, mostly out of Longfellow. Then I would go home andwrite--oh, about the snow in our back yard!--but when Miss Dillinghamcame to read my verses, they limped and they lagged and they dragged, and there was no tune that would fit them. 

At last came the moment of illumination: I saw where my trouble lay. Ihad supposed that my lines matched when they had an equal number ofsyllables, taking no account of accent. Now I knew better; now I couldwrite poetry! The everlasting snow melted at last, and the mud puddlesdried in the spring sun, and the grass on the common was green, andstill I wrote poetry! Again I wish I had some example of my springtimerhapsodies, the veriest rubbish of the sort that ever a childperpetrated. Lizzie McDee, who had red hair and freckles, and aSunday-school manner on weekdays, and was below me in the class, did agreat deal better. We used to compare verses; and while I do notremember that I ever had the grace to own that she was the betterpoet, I do know that I secretly wondered why the teachers did notinvite her to stay after school and study poetry, while they took somuch pains with me. But so it was always with me: somebody didsomething for me all the time. 

Making fair allowance for my youth, retarded education, andstrangeness to the language, it must still be admitted that I neverwrote good verse. But I loved to read it. My half-hours with MissDillingham were full of delight for me, quite apart from my new-bornambition to become a writer. What, then, was my joy, when MissDillingham, just before locking up her desk one evening, presented mewith a volume of Longfellow's poems! It was a thin volume ofselections, but to me it was a bottomless treasure. I had never owneda book before. The sense of possession alone was a source of bliss, and this book I already knew and loved. And so Miss Dillingham, whowas my first American friend, and who first put my name in print, wasalso the one to start my library. Deep is my regret when I considerthat she was gone before I had given much of an account of all hergifts of love and service to me. 

About the middle of the year I was promoted to the grammar school. Then it was that I walked on air. For I said to myself that I was a_student_ now, in earnest, not merely a school-girl learning to spelland cipher. I was going to learn out-of-the-way things, things thathad nothing to do with ordinary life--things to _know_. When I walkedhome afternoons, with the great big geography book under my arm, itseemed to me that the earth was conscious of my step. Sometimes Icarried home half the books in my desk, not because I should needthem, but because I loved to hold them; and also because I loved to beseen carrying books. It was a badge of scholarship, and I was proud ofit. I remembered the days in Vitebsk when I used to watch my cousinHirshel start for school in the morning, every thread of his student'suniform, every worn copybook in his satchel, glorified in my enviouseyes. And now I was myself as he: aye, greater than he; for I knewEnglish, and I could write poetry. 

If my head was not turned at this time it was because I was so busyfrom morning till night. My father did his best to make me vain andsilly. He made much of me to every chance caller, boasting of myprogress at school, and of my exalted friends, the teachers. For aschool-teacher was no ordinary mortal in his eyes; she was a superiorbeing, set above the common run of men by her erudition and devotionto higher things. That a school-teacher could be shallow or petty, orgreedy for pay, was a thing that he could not have been brought tobelieve, at this time. And he was right, if he could only have stuckto it in later years, when a new-born pessimism, fathered by hisperception that in America, too, some things needed mending, threw himto the opposite extreme of opinion, crying that nothing in theAmerican scheme of society or government was worth tinkering. 

He surely was right in his first appraisal of the teacher. The meansort of teachers are not teachers at all; they are self-seekers whotake up teaching as a business, to support themselves and keep theirhands white. These same persons, did they keep store or drive a milkwagon or wash babies for a living, would be respectable. Astrespassers on a noble profession, they are worth no more than thebooks and slates and desks over which they preside; so much furniture, to be had by the gross. They do not love their work. They contributenothing to the higher development of their pupils. They busythemselves, not with research into the science of teaching, but withorganizing political demonstrations to advance the cause of selfishcandidates for public office, who promise them rewards. The trueteachers are of another strain. Apostles all of an ideal, they go totheir work in a spirit of love and inquiry, seeking not comfort, notposition, not old-age pensions, but truth that is the soul of wisdom, the joy of big-eyed children, the food of hungry youth. 

They were true teachers who used to come to me on Arlington Street, somy father had reason to boast of the distinction brought upon hishouse. For the school-teacher in her trim, unostentatious dress was anuncommon visitor in our neighborhood; and the talk that passed in thebare little "parlor" over the grocery store would not have beenentirely comprehensible to our next-door neighbor. 

In the grammar school I had as good teaching as I had had in theprimary. It seems to me in retrospect that it was as good, on thewhole, as the public school ideals of the time made possible. When Irecall how I was taught geography, I see, indeed, that there was roomfor improvement occasionally both in the substance and in the methodof instruction. But I know of at least one teacher of Chelsea whorealized this; for I met her, eight years later, at a greatmetropolitan university that holds a summer session for the benefit ofschool-teachers who want to keep up with the advance in their science. Very likely they no longer teach geography entirely within doors, andby rote, as I was taught. Fifteen years is plenty of time forprogress. 

When I joined the first grammar grade, the class had had a half-year'sstart of me, but it was not long before I found my place near thehead. In all branches except geography it was genuine progress. Iovertook the youngsters in their study of numbers, spelling, reading, and composition. In geography I merely made a bluff, but I did notknow it. Neither did my teacher. I came up to such tests as she putme. 

The lesson was on Chelsea, which was right: geography, like charity, should begin at home. Our text ran on for a paragraph or so on thelocation, boundaries, natural features, and industries of the town, with a bit of local history thrown in. We were to learn all theseinteresting facts, and be prepared to write them out from memory thenext day. I went home and learned--learned every word of the text, every comma, every footnote. When the teacher had read my paper shemarked it "EE. " "E" was for "excellent, " but my paper was absolutelyperfect, and must be put in a class by itself. The teacher exhibitedmy paper before the class, with some remarks about the diligence thatcould overtake in a week pupils who had had half a year's start. Itook it all as modestly as I could, never doubting that I was indeed avery bright little girl, and getting to be very learned to boot. I was"perfect" in geography, a most erudite subject. 

But what was the truth? The words that I repeated so accurately on mypaper had about as much meaning to me as the words of the Psalms Iused to chant in Hebrew. I got an idea that the city of Chelsea, andthe world in general, was laid out flat, like the common, and shavedoff at the ends, to allow the north, south, east, and west to snuggleup close, like the frame around a picture. If I looked at the map, Iwas utterly bewildered; I could find no correspondence between thepicture and the verbal explanations. With words I was safe; I couldlearn any number of words by heart, and sometime or other they wouldpop out of the medley, clothed with meaning. Chelsea, I read, wasbounded on all sides--"bounded" appealed to my imagination--by variousthings that I had never identified, much as I had roamed about thetown. I immediately pictured these remote boundaries as a six-footfence in a good state of preservation, with the Mystic River, thetowns of Everett and Revere, and East Boston Creek, rejoicing, on thesouth, west, north, and east of it, respectively, that they had gotinside; while the rest of the world peeped in enviously through a knothole. In the middle of this cherished area piano factories--or was itshoe factories?--proudly reared their chimneys, while the populationpromenaded on a _rope walk_, saluted at every turn by the benevolentinmates of the Soldiers' Home on the top of Powderhorn Hill. 

Perhaps the fault was partly mine, because I always would reduceeverything to a picture. Partly it may have been because I had not hadtime to digest the general definitions and explanations at thebeginning of the book. Still, I can take but little of the blame, whenI consider how I fared through my geography, right to the end of thegrammar-school course. I did in time disentangle the symbolism of theorange revolving on a knitting-needle from the astronomical facts inthe case, but it took years of training under a master of the subjectto rid me of my distrust of the map as a representation of the earth. To this day I sometimes blunder back to my early impression that anygiven portion of the earth's surface is constructed upon a skeletonconsisting of two crossed bars, terminating in arrowheads which pinthe cardinal points into place; and if I want to find any desiredpoint of the compass, I am inclined to throw myself flat on my nose, my head due north, and my outstretched arms seeking the east and westrespectively. 

For in the schoolroom, as far as the study of the map went, we beganwith the symbol and stuck to the symbol. No teacher of geography Iever had, except the master I referred to, took the pains to ascertainwhether I had any sense of the facts for which the symbols stood. Outside the study of maps, geography consisted of statistics: tablesof population, imports and exports, manufactures, and degrees oftemperature; dimensions of rivers, mountains, and political states;with lists of minerals, plants, and plagues native to any given partof the globe. The only part of the whole subject that meant anythingto me was the description of the aspect of foreign lands, and themanners and customs of their peoples. The relation of physiography tohuman history--what might be called the moral of geography--was nottaught at all, or was touched upon in an unimpressive manner. Theprevalence of this defect in the teaching of school geography is borneout by the surprise of the college freshman, who remarked to theprofessor of geology that it was curious to note how all the bigrivers and harbors on the Atlantic coastal plain occurred in theneighborhood of large cities! A little instruction in the elements ofchartography--a little practice in the use of the compass and thespirit level, a topographical map of the town common, an excursionwith a road map--would have given me a fat round earth in place of mypaper ghost; would have illumined the one dark alley in my schoollife. 

CHAPTER XI

"MY COUNTRY"

The public school has done its best for us foreigners, and for thecountry, when it has made us into good Americans. I am glad it is mineto tell how the miracle was wrought in one case. You should be glad tohear of it, you born Americans; for it is the story of the growth ofyour country; of the flocking of your brothers and sisters from thefar ends of the earth to the flag you love; of the recruiting of yourarmies of workers, thinkers, and leaders. And you will be glad to hearof it, my comrades in adoption; for it is a rehearsal of your ownexperience, the thrill and wonder of which your own hearts have felt. 

How long would you say, wise reader, it takes to make an American? Bythe middle of my second year in school I had reached the sixth grade. When, after the Christmas holidays, we began to study the life ofWashington, running through a summary of the Revolution, and the earlydays of the Republic, it seemed to me that all my reading and studyhad been idle until then. The reader, the arithmetic, the song book, that had so fascinated me until now, became suddenly sober exercisebooks, tools wherewith to hew a way to the source of inspiration. Whenthe teacher read to us out of a big book with many bookmarks in it, Isat rigid with attention in my little chair, my hands tightly claspedon the edge of my desk; and I painfully held my breath, to preventsighs of disappointment escaping, as I saw the teacher skip the partsbetween bookmarks. When the class read, and it came my turn, my voiceshook and the book trembled in my hands. I could not pronounce thename of George Washington without a pause. Never had I prayed, neverhad I chanted the songs of David, never had I called upon the MostHoly, in such utter reverence and worship as I repeated the simplesentences of my child's story of the patriot. I gazed with adorationat the portraits of George and Martha Washington, till I could seethem with my eyes shut. And whereas formerly my self-consciousness hadbordered on conceit, and I thought myself an uncommon person, paradingmy schoolbooks through the streets, and swelling with pride when ateacher detained me in conversation, now I grew humble all at once, seeing how insignificant I was beside the Great. 

As I read about the noble boy who would not tell a lie to save himselffrom punishment, I was for the first time truly repentant of my sins. Formerly I had fasted and prayed and made sacrifice on the Day ofAtonement, but it was more than half play, in mimicry of my elders. Ihad no real horror of sin, and I knew so many ways of escapingpunishment. I am sure my family, my neighbors, my teachers inPolotzk--all my world, in fact--strove together, by example andprecept, to teach me goodness. Saintliness had a new incarnation inabout every third person I knew. I did respect the saints, but I couldnot help seeing that most of them were a little bit stupid, and thatmischief was much more fun than piety. Goodness, as I had known it, was respectable, but not necessarily admirable. The people I reallyadmired, like my Uncle Solomon, and Cousin Rachel, were those whopreached the least and laughed the most. My sister Frieda wasperfectly good, but she did not think the less of me because I playedtricks. What I loved in my friends was not inimitable. One could bedownright good if one really wanted to. One could be learned if onehad books and teachers. One could sing funny songs and tell anecdotesif one travelled about and picked up such things, like one's unclesand cousins. But a human being strictly good, perfectly wise, andunfailingly valiant, all at the same time, I had never heard ordreamed of. This wonderful George Washington was as inimitable as hewas irreproachable. Even if I had never, never told a lie, I could notcompare myself to George Washington; for I was not brave--I was afraidto go out when snowballs whizzed--and I could never be the FirstPresident of the United States. 

So I was forced to revise my own estimate of myself. But the twin ofmy new-born humility, paradoxical as it may seem, was a sense ofdignity I had never known before. For if I found that I was a personof small consequence, I discovered at the same time that I was morenobly related than I had ever supposed. I had relatives and friendswho were notable people by the old standards, --I had never beenashamed of my family, --but this George Washington, who died longbefore I was born, was like a king in greatness, and he and I wereFellow Citizens. There was a great deal about Fellow Citizens in thepatriotic literature we read at this time; and I knew from my fatherhow he was a Citizen, through the process of naturalization, and how Ialso was a citizen, by virtue of my relation to him. Undoubtedly I wasa Fellow Citizen, and George Washington was another. It thrilled me torealize what sudden greatness had fallen on me; and at the same timeit sobered me, as with a sense of responsibility. I strove to conductmyself as befitted a Fellow Citizen. 

Before books came into my life, I was given to stargazing anddaydreaming. When books were given me, I fell upon them as a gluttonpounces on his meat after a period of enforced starvation. I livedwith my nose in a book, and took no notice of the alternations of thesun and stars. But now, after the advent of George Washington and theAmerican Revolution, I began to dream again. I strayed on the commonafter school instead of hurrying home to read. I hung on fence rails, my pet book forgotten under my arm, and gazed off to theyellow-streaked February sunset, and beyond, and beyond. I was nolonger the central figure of my dreams; the dry weeds in the lanecrackled beneath the tread of Heroes. 

What more could America give a child? Ah, much more! As I read how thepatriots planned the Revolution, and the women gave their sons to diein battle, and the heroes led to victory, and the rejoicing people setup the Republic, it dawned on me gradually what was meant by _mycountry_. The people all desiring noble things, and striving for themtogether, defying their oppressors, giving their lives for eachother--all this it was that made _my country_. It was not a thing thatI _understood_; I could not go home and tell Frieda about it, as Itold her other things I learned at school. But I knew one could say"my country" and _feel_ it, as one felt "God" or "myself. " My teacher, my schoolmates, Miss Dillingham, George Washington himself could notmean more than I when they said "my country, " after I had once feltit. For the Country was for all the Citizens, and _I was a Citizen_. And when we stood up to sing "America, " I shouted the words with allmy might. I was in very earnest proclaiming to the world my love formy new-found country. 

 "I love thy rocks and rills. Thy woods and templed hills. "

Boston Harbor, Crescent Beach, Chelsea Square--all was hallowed groundto me. As the day approached when the school was to hold exercises inhonor of Washington's Birthday, the halls resounded at all hours withthe strains of patriotic songs; and I, who was a model of theattentive pupil, more than once lost my place in the lesson as Istrained to hear, through closed doors, some neighboring classrehearsing "The Star-Spangled Banner. " If the doors happened to open, and the chorus broke out unveiled--

 "O! say, does that Star-Spangled Banner yet wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?"--

delicious tremors ran up and down my spine, and I was faint withsuppressed enthusiasm. 

Where had been my country until now? What flag had I loved? Whatheroes had I worshipped? The very names of these things had beenunknown to me. Well I knew that Polotzk was not my country. It was_goluth_--exile. On many occasions in the year we prayed to God tolead us out of exile. The beautiful Passover service closed with thewords, "Next year, may we be in Jerusalem. " On childish lips, indeed, those words were no conscious aspiration; we repeated the Hebrewsyllables after our elders, but without their hope and longing. Stillnot a child among us was too young to feel in his own flesh the lashof the oppressor. We knew what it was to be Jews in exile, from thespiteful treatment we suffered at the hands of the smallest urchinwho crossed himself; and thence we knew that Israel had good reason topray for deliverance. But the story of the Exodus was not history tome in the sense that the story of the American Revolution was. It wasmore like a glorious myth, a belief in which had the effect of cuttingme off from the actual world, by linking me with a world of phantoms. Those moments of exaltation which the contemplation of the Biblicalpast afforded us, allowing us to call ourselves the children ofprinces, served but to tinge with a more poignant sense ofdisinheritance the long humdrum stretches of our life. In very truthwe were a people without a country. Surrounded by mocking foes anddetractors, it was difficult for me to realize the persons of mypeople's heroes or the events in which they moved. Except in momentsof abstraction from the world around me, I scarcely understood thatJerusalem was an actual spot on the earth, where once the Kings of theBible, real people, like my neighbors in Polotzk, ruled in puissantmajesty. For the conditions of our civil life did not permit us tocultivate a spirit of nationalism. The freedom of worship that wasgrudgingly granted within the narrow limits of the Pale by no meansincluded the right to set up openly any ideal of a Hebrew State, anyhero other than the Czar. What we children picked up of our ancientpolitical history was confused with the miraculous story of theCreation, with the supernatural legends and hazy associations of Biblelore. As to our future, we Jews in Polotzk had no nationalexpectations; only a life-worn dreamer here and there hoped to die inPalestine. If Fetchke and I sang, with my father, first making sure ofour audience, "Zion, Zion, Holy Zion, not forever is it lost, " we didnot really picture to ourselves Judæa restored. 

So it came to pass that we did not know what _my country_ could meanto a man. And as we had no country, so we had no flag to love. It wasby no far-fetched symbolism that the banner of the House of Romanoffbecame the emblem of our latter-day bondage in our eyes. Even a childwould know how to hate the flag that we were forced, on pain of severepenalties, to hoist above our housetops, in celebration of the adventof one of our oppressors. And as it was with country and flag, so itwas with heroes of war. We hated the uniform of the soldier, to thelast brass button. On the person of a Gentile, it was the symbol oftyranny; on the person of a Jew, it was the emblem of shame. 

So a little Jewish girl in Polotzk was apt to grow up hungry-mindedand empty-hearted; and if, still in her outreaching youth, she was setdown in a land of outspoken patriotism, she was likely to love her newcountry with a great love, and to embrace its heroes in a greatworship. Naturalization, with us Russian Jews, may mean more than theadoption of the immigrant by America. It may mean the adoption ofAmerica by the immigrant. 

On the day of the Washington celebration I recited a poem that I hadcomposed in my enthusiasm. But "composed" is not the word. The processof putting on paper the sentiments that seethed in my soul was reallyvery discomposing. I dug the words out of my heart, squeezed therhymes out of my brain, forced the missing syllables out of theirhiding-places in the dictionary. May I never again know such travailof the spirit as I endured during the fevered days when I was engagedon the poem. It was not as if I wanted to say that snow was white orgrass was green. I could do that without a dictionary. It was aquestion now of the loftiest sentiments, of the most abstract truths, the names of which were very new in my vocabulary. It was necessary touse polysyllables, and plenty of them; and where to find rhymes forsuch words as "tyranny, " "freedom, " and "justice, " when you had lessthan two years' acquaintance with English! The name I wished tocelebrate was the most difficult of all. Nothing but "Washington"rhymed with "Washington. " It was a most ambitious undertaking, but myheart could find no rest till it had proclaimed itself to the world;so I wrestled with my difficulties, and spared not ink, tillinspiration perched on my penpoint, and my soul gave up its best. 

When I had done, I was myself impressed with the length, gravity, andnobility of my poem. My father was overcome with emotion as he readit. His hands trembled as he held the paper to the light, and the mistgathered in his eyes. My teacher, Miss Dwight, was plainly astonishedat my performance, and said many kind things, and asked manyquestions; all of which I took very solemnly, like one who had been inthe clouds and returned to earth with a sign upon him. When MissDwight asked me to read my poem to the class on the day ofcelebration, I readily consented. It was not in me to refuse a chanceto tell my schoolmates what I thought of George Washington. 

I was not a heroic figure when I stood up in front of the class topronounce the praises of the Father of his Country. Thin, pale, andhollow, with a shadow of short black curls on my brow, and the staringlook of prominent eyes, I must have looked more frightened thanimposing. My dress added no grace to my appearance. "Plaids" were infashion, and my frock was of a red-and-green "plaid" that had aghastly effect on my complexion. I hated it when I thought of it, buton the great day I did not know I had any dress on. Heels clappedtogether, and hands glued to my sides, I lifted up my voice in praiseof George Washington. It was not much of a voice; like my hollowcheeks, it suggested consumption. My pronunciation was faulty, mydeclamation flat. But I had the courage of my convictions. I was faceto face with twoscore Fellow Citizens, in clean blouses and extrafrills. I must tell them what George Washington had done for theircountry--for _our_ country--for me. 

I can laugh now at the impossible metres, the grandiose phrases, theverbose repetitions of my poem. Years ago I must have laughed at it, when I threw my only copy into the wastebasket. The copy I am nowturning over was loaned me by Miss Dwight, who faithfully preserved itall these years, for the sake, no doubt, of what I strove to expresswhen I laboriously hitched together those dozen and more ungracefulstanzas. But to the forty Fellow Citizens sitting in rows in front ofme it was no laughing matter. Even the bad boys sat in attitudes ofattention, hypnotized by the solemnity of my demeanor. If they got anyinkling of what the hail of big words was about, it must have beenthrough occult suggestion. I fixed their eighty eyes with my singlestare, and gave it to them, stanza after stanza, with such emphasis asthe lameness of the lines permitted. 

 He whose courage, will, amazing bravery, Did free his land from a despot's rule, From man's greatest evil, almost slavery, And all that's taught in tyranny's school. Who gave his land its liberty, Who was he?

 'T was he who e'er will be our pride. Immortal Washington, Who always did in truth confide. We hail our Washington!

 [Illustration: TWOSCORE OF MY FELLOW-CITIZENS--PUBLIC SCHOOL, CHELSEA]

The best of the verses were no better than these, but the childrenlistened. They had to. Presently I gave them news, declaring thatWashington

 Wrote the famous Constitution; sacred's the hand That this blessed guide to man had given, which says, "One And all of mankind are alike, excepting none. "

This was received in respectful silence, possibly because the otherFellow Citizens were as hazy about historical facts as I at thispoint. "Hurrah for Washington!" they understood, and "Three cheers forthe Red, White, and Blue!" was only to be expected on that occasion. But there ran a special note through my poem--a thought that onlyIsrael Rubinstein or Beckie Aronovitch could have fully understood, besides myself. For I made myself the spokesman of the "luckless sonsof Abraham, " saying--

 Then we weary Hebrew children at last found rest In the land where reigned Freedom, and like a nest To homeless birds your land proved to us, and therefore Will we gratefully sing your praise evermore. 

The boys and girls who had never been turned away from any doorbecause of their father's religion sat as if fascinated in theirplaces. But they woke up and applauded heartily when I was done, following the example of Miss Dwight, who wore the happy face whichmeant that one of her pupils had done well. 

The recitation was repeated, by request, before several other classes, and the applause was equally prolonged at each repetition. After theexercises I was surrounded, praised, questioned, and made much of, byteachers as well as pupils. Plainly I had not poured my praise ofGeorge Washington into deaf ears. The teachers asked me if anybody hadhelped me with the poem. The girls invariably asked, "Mary Antin, howcould you think of all those words?" None of them thought of thedictionary!

If I had been satisfied with my poem in the first place, the applausewith which it was received by my teachers and schoolmates convinced methat I had produced a very fine thing indeed. So the person, whoeverit was, --perhaps my father--who suggested that my tribute toWashington ought to be printed, did not find me difficult to persuade. When I had achieved an absolutely perfect copy of my verses, at theexpense of a dozen sheets of blue-ruled note paper, I crossed theMystic River to Boston and boldly invaded Newspaper Row. 

It never occurred to me to send my manuscript by mail. In fact, it hasnever been my way to send a delegate where I could go myself. Consciously or unconsciously, I have always acted on the motto of awise man who was one of the dearest friends that Boston kept for meuntil I came. "Personal presence moves the world, " said the great Dr. Hale; and I went in person to beard the editor in his armchair. 

From the ferry slip to the offices of the "Boston Transcript" the waywas long, strange, and full of perils; but I kept resolutely on upHanover Street, being familiar with that part of my route, till I cameto a puzzling corner. There I stopped, utterly bewildered by thetangle of streets, the roar of traffic, the giddy swarm ofpedestrians. With the precious manuscript tightly clasped, I balancedmyself on the curbstone, afraid to plunge into the boiling vortex ofthe crossing. Every time I made a start, a clanging street carsnatched up the way. I could not even pick out my street; theunobtrusive street signs were lost to my unpractised sight, in theglaring confusion of store signs and advertisements. If I accosted apedestrian to ask the way, I had to speak several times before I washeard. Jews, hurrying by with bearded chins on their bosoms and eyesintent, shrugged their shoulders at the name "Transcript, " andshrugged till they were out of sight. Italians sauntering behind theirfruit carts answered my inquiry with a lift of the head that madetheir earrings gleam, and a wave of the hand that referred me to allfour points of the compass at once. I was trying to catch the eye ofthe tall policeman who stood grandly in the middle of the crossing, astout pillar around which the waves of traffic broke, when deliverancebellowed in my ear. 

"Herald, Globe, Record, _Tra-avel-er_! Eh? Whatcher want, sis?" Thetall newsboy had to stoop to me. "Transcript? Sure!" And in half atwinkling he had picked me out a paper from his bundle. When Iexplained to him, he good-naturedly tucked the paper in again, pilotedme across, unravelled the end of Washington Street for me, and withmuch pointing out of landmarks, headed me for my destination, my noseseeking the spire of the Old South Church. 

I found the "Transcript" building a waste of corridors tunnelled by amaze of staircases. On the glazed-glass doors were many signs with thenames or nicknames of many persons: "City Editor"; "Beggars andPeddlers not Allowed. " The nameless world not included in thesecategories was warned off, forbidden to be or do: "Private--NoAdmittance"; "Don't Knock. " And the various inhospitable legends onthe doors and walls were punctuated by frequent cuspidors on thefloor. There was no sign anywhere of the welcome which I, as anauthor, expected to find in the home of a newspaper. 

I was descending from the top story to the street for the seventhtime, trying to decide what kind of editor a patriotic poem belongedto, when an untidy boy carrying broad paper streamers and whistlingshrilly, in defiance of an express prohibition on the wall, bustledthrough the corridor and left a door ajar. I slipped in behind him, and found myself in a room full of editors. 

I was a little surprised at the appearance of the editors. I hadimagined my editor would look like Mr. Jones, the principal of myschool, whose coat was always buttoned, and whose finger nails werebeautiful. These people were in shirt sleeves, and they smoked, andthey didn't politely turn in their revolving chairs when I came in, and ask, "What can I do for you?"

The room was noisy with typewriters, and nobody heard my "Please, canyou tell me. " At last one of the machines stopped, and the operatorthought he heard something in the pause. He looked up through his ownsmoke. I guess he thought he saw something, for he stared. It troubledme a little to have him stare so. I realized suddenly that the hand inwhich I carried my manuscript was moist, and I was afraid it wouldmake marks on the paper. I held out the manuscript to the editor, explaining that it was a poem about George Washington, and would heplease print it in the "Transcript. "

There was something queer about that particular editor. The way hestared and smiled made me feel about eleven inches high, and my voicekept growing smaller and smaller as I neared the end of my speech. 

At last he spoke, laying down his pipe, and sitting back at his ease. 

"So you have brought us a poem, my child?"

"It's about George Washington, " I repeated impressively. "Don't youwant to read it?"

"I should be delighted, my dear, but the fact is--"

He did not take my paper. He stood up and called across the room. 

"Say, Jack! here is a young lady who has brought us a poem--aboutGeorge Washington. --Wrote it yourself, my dear?--Wrote it all herself. What shall we do with her?"

Mr. Jack came over, and another man. My editor made me repeat mybusiness, and they all looked interested, but nobody took my paperfrom me. They put their hands into their pockets, and my hand keptgrowing clammier all the time. The three seemed to be consulting, butI could not understand what they said, or why Mr. Jack laughed. 

A fourth man, who had been writing busily at a desk near by, broke inon the consultation. 

"That's enough, boys, " he said, "that's enough. Take the young lady toMr. Hurd. "

Mr. Hurd, it was found, was away on a vacation, and of several othereditors in several offices, to whom I was referred, none proved to bethe proper editor to take charge of a poem about George Washington. Atlast an elderly editor suggested that as Mr. Hurd would be away forsome time, I would do well to give up the "Transcript" and try the"Herald, " across the way. 

A little tired by my wanderings, and bewildered by the complexity ofthe editorial system, but still confident about my mission, I pickedmy way across Washington Street and found the "Herald" offices. Here Ihad instant good luck. The first editor I addressed took my paper andinvited me to a seat. He read my poem much more quickly than I couldmyself, and said it was very nice, and asked me some questions, andmade notes on a slip of paper which he pinned to my manuscript. Hesaid he would have my piece printed very soon, and would send me acopy of the issue in which it appeared. As I was going, I could nothelp giving the editor my hand, although I had not experienced anyhandshaking in Newspaper Row. I felt that as author and editor we wereon a very pleasant footing, and I gave him my hand in token ofcomradeship. 

I had regained my full stature and something over, during this cordialinterview, and when I stepped out into the street and saw the crowdintently studying the bulletin board I swelled out of all proportion. For I told myself that I, Mary Antin, was one of the inspiredbrotherhood who made newspapers so interesting. I did not know whethermy poem would be put upon the bulletin board; but at any rate, itwould be in the paper, with my name at the bottom, like my story about"Snow" in Miss Dillingham's school journal. And all these people inthe streets, and more, thousands of people--all Boston!--would read mypoem, and learn my name, and wonder who I was. I smiled to myself indelicious amusement when a man deliberately put me out of his path, asI dreamed my way through the jostling crowd; if he only _knew_ whomhe was treating so unceremoniously!

When the paper with my poem in it arrived, the whole house pouncedupon it at once. I was surprised to find that my verses were not allover the front page. The poem was a little hard to find, if anything, being tucked away in the middle of the voluminous sheet. But when wefound it, it looked wonderful, just like real poetry, not at all as ifsomebody we knew had written it. It occupied a gratifying amount ofspace, and was introduced by a flattering biographical sketch of theauthor--the _author_!--the material for which the friendly editor hadartfully drawn from me during that happy interview. And my name, as Ihad prophesied, was at the bottom!

When the excitement in the house had subsided, my father took all thechange out of the cash drawer and went to buy up the "Herald. " He didnot count the pennies. He just bought "Heralds, " all he could lay hishands on, and distributed them gratis to all our friends, relatives, and acquaintances; to all who could read, and to some who could not. For weeks he carried a clipping from the "Herald" in his breastpocket, and few were the occasions when he did not manage to introduceit into the conversation. He treasured that clipping as for years hehad treasured the letters I wrote him from Polotzk. 

Although my father bought up most of the issue containing my poem, afew hundred copies were left to circulate among the general public, enough to spread the flame of my patriotic ardor and to enkindle athousand sluggish hearts. Really, there was something more solemn thanvanity in my satisfaction. Pleased as I was with my notoriety--andnobody but I knew how exceedingly pleased--I had a sober feeling aboutit all. I enjoyed being praised and admired and envied; but what gavea divine flavor to my happiness was the idea that I had publicly bornetestimony to the goodness of my exalted hero, to the greatness of myadopted country. I did not discount the homage of Arlington Street, because I did not properly rate the intelligence of its population. Itook the admiration of my schoolmates without a grain of salt; it wasjust so much honey to me. I could not know that what made me great inthe eyes of my neighbors was that "there was a piece about me in thepaper"; it mattered very little to them what the "piece" was about. Ithought they really admired my sentiments. On the street, in theschoolyard, I was pointed out. The people said, "That's Mary Antin. She had her name in the paper. " _I_ thought they said, "This is shewho loves her country and worships George Washington. "

To repeat, I was well aware that I was something of a celebrity, andtook all possible satisfaction in the fact; yet I gave my schoolmatesno occasion to call me "stuck-up. " My vanity did not express itself instrutting or wagging the head. I played tag and puss-in-the-corner inthe schoolyard, and did everything that was comrade-like. But in theschoolroom I conducted myself gravely, as befitted one who waspreparing for the noble career of a poet. 

I am forgetting Lizzie McDee. I am trying to give the impression thatI behaved with at least outward modesty during my schoolgirl triumphs, whereas Lizzie could testify that she knew Mary Antin as a vainboastful, curly-headed little Jew. For I had a special style ofdeportment for Lizzie. If there was any girl in the school besides mewho could keep near the top of the class all the year through, andgive bright answers when the principal or the school committee poppedsudden questions, and write rhymes that almost always rhymed, _I_ wasdetermined that that ambitious person should not soar unduly in herown estimation. So I took care to show Lizzie all my poetry, and whenshe showed me hers I did not admire it too warmly. Lizzie, as I havealready said, was in a Sunday-school mood even on week days; herverses all had morals. My poems were about the crystal snow, and theocean blue, and sweet spring, and fleecy clouds; when I tried to dragin a moral it kicked so that the music of my lines went out in agroan. So I had a sweet revenge when Lizzie, one day, volunteered tobolster up the eloquence of Mr. Jones, the principal, who waslecturing the class for bad behavior, by comparing the bad boy in theschoolroom to the rotten apple that spoils the barrelful. The groans, coughs, a-hem's, feet shufflings, and paper pellets that filled theroom as Saint Elizabeth sat down, even in the principal's presence, were sweet balm to my smart of envy; I didn't care if I didn't knowhow to moralize. 

When my teacher had visitors I was aware that I was the show pupil ofthe class. I was always made to recite, my compositions were passedaround, and often I was called up on the platform--oh, climax ofexaltation!--to be interviewed by the distinguished strangers; whilethe class took advantage of the teacher's distraction, to holdforbidden intercourse on matters not prescribed in the curriculum. When I returned to my seat, after such public audience with the great, I looked to see if Lizzie McDee was taking notice; and Lizzie, who wasa generous soul, her Sunday-school airs notwithstanding, generallysmiled, and I forgave her her rhymes. 

Not but what I paid a price for my honors. With all my self-possessionI had a certain capacity for shyness. Even when I arose to recitebefore the customary audience of my class I suffered from incipientstage fright, and my voice trembled over the first few words. Whenvisitors were in the room I was even more troubled; and when I wasmade the special object of their attention my triumph was marred byacute distress. If I was called up to speak to the visitors, fortypairs of eyes pricked me in the back as I went. I stumbled in theaisle, and knocked down things that were not at all in my way; and myawkwardness increasing my embarrassment I would gladly have changedplaces with Lizzie or the bad boy in the back row; anything, only tobe less conspicuous. When I found myself shaking hands with an augustSchool-Committeeman, or a teacher from New York, the remnants of myself-possession vanished in awe; and it was in a very husky voice thatI repeated, as I was asked, my name, lineage, and personal history. Onthe whole, I do not think that the School-Committeeman found a veryforward creature in the solemn-faced little girl with the tight curlsand the terrible red-and-green "plaid. "

These awful audiences did not always end with the handshaking. Sometimes the great personages asked me to write to them, andexchanged addresses with me. Some of these correspondences continuedthrough years, and were the source of much pleasure, on one side atleast. And Arlington Street took notice when I received letters withimportant-looking or aristocratic-looking letterheads. Lizzie McDeealso took notice. _I_ saw to that. 

CHAPTER XII

MIRACLES

It was not always in admiration that the finger was pointed at me. Oneday I found myself the centre of an excited group in the middle of theschoolyard, with a dozen girls interrupting each other to expresstheir disapproval of me. For I had coolly told them, in answer to aquestion, that I did not believe in God. 

How had I arrived at such a conviction? How had I come, from prayingand fasting and Psalm-singing, to extreme impiety? Alas! mybacksliding had cost me no travail of spirit. Always weak in my faith, playing at sanctity as I played at soldiers, just as I was in the moodor not, I had neglected my books of devotion and given myself up toprofane literature at the first opportunity, in Vitebsk; and I nevertook up my prayer book again. On my return to Polotzk, America loomedso near that my imagination was fully occupied, and I did not revivethe secret experiments with which I used to test the nature andintention of Deity. It was more to me that I was going to America thanthat I might not be going to Heaven. And when we joined my father, andI saw that he did not wear the sacred fringes, and did not put on thephylacteries and pray, I was neither surprised nor shocked, remembering the Sabbath night when he had with his own hand turned outthe lamp. When I saw him go out to work on Sabbath exactly as on aweek day, I understood why God had not annihilated me with hislightnings that time when I purposely carried something in my pocketon Sabbath: there was no God, and there was no sin. And I ran out toplay, pleased to find that I was free, like other little girls in thestreet, instead of being hemmed about with prohibitions andobligations at every step. And yet if the golden truth of Judaism hadnot been handed me in the motley rags of formalism, I might not havebeen so ready to put away my religion. 

It was Rachel Goldstein who provoked my avowal of atheism. She askedif I wasn't going to stay out of school during Passover, and I saidno. Wasn't I a Jew? she wanted to know. No, I wasn't; I was aFreethinker. What was that? I didn't believe in God. Rachel washorrified. Why, Kitty Maloney believed in God, and Kitty was only aCatholic! She appealed to Kitty. 

"Kitty Maloney! Come over here. Don't you believe in God?--There, now, Mary Antin!--Mary Antin says she doesn't believe in God!"

Rachel Goldstein's horror is duplicated. Kitty Maloney, who used tomock Rachel's Jewish accent, instantly becomes her voluble ally, andproceeds to annihilate me by plying me with crucial questions. 

"You don't believe in God? Then who made you, Mary Antin?"

"Nature made me. "

"_Nature_ made you! What's that?"

"It's--everything. It's the trees--no, it's what makes the trees grow. _That's_ what it is. "

"But _God_ made the trees, Mary Antin, " from Rachel and Kitty inchorus. "Maggie O'Reilly! Listen to Mary Antin. She says there isn'tany God. She says the trees made her!"

Rachel and Kitty and Maggie, Sadie and Annie and Beckie, made a circlearound me, and pressed me with questions, and mocked me, andthreatened me with hell flames and utter extinction. I held my groundagainst them all obstinately enough, though my argument wasexceedingly lame. I glibly repeated phrases I had heard my father use, but I had no real understanding of his atheistic doctrines. I had beensurprised into this dispute. I had no spontaneous interest in thesubject; my mind was occupied with other things. But as the number ofmy opponents grew, and I saw how unanimously they condemned me, myindifference turned into a heat of indignation. The actual point atissue was as little as ever to me, but I perceived that a crowd ofFree Americans were disputing the right of a Fellow Citizen to haveany kind of God she chose. I knew, from my father's teaching, thatthis persecution was contrary to the Constitution of the UnitedStates, and I held my ground as befitted the defender of a cause. George Washington would not have treated me as Rachel Goldstein andKitty Maloney were doing! "This is a free country, " I reminded them inthe middle of the argument. 

The excitement in the yard amounted to a toy riot. When the schoolbell rang and the children began to file in, I stood out there as longas any of my enemies remained, although it was my habit to go to myroom very promptly. And as the foes of American Liberty crowded andpushed in the line, whispering to those who had not heard that aheretic had been discovered in their midst, the teacher who kept theline in the corridor was obliged to scold and pull the noisy ones intoorder; and Sadie Cohen told her, in tones of awe, what the commotionwas about. 

Miss Bland waited till the children had filed in before she asked me, in a tone encouraging confidence, to give my version of the story. This I did, huskily but fearlessly; and the teacher, who was a womanof tact, did not smile or commit herself in any way. She was sorrythat the children had been rude to me, but she thought they would nottrouble me any more if I let the subject drop. She made me understand, somewhat as Miss Dillingham had done on the occasion of my whisperingduring prayer, that it was proper American conduct to avoid religiousarguments on school territory. I felt honored by this privateinitiation into the doctrine of the separation of Church and State, and I went to my seat with a good deal of dignity, my alarm about thesafety of the Constitution allayed by the teacher's calmness. 

This is not so strictly the story of the second generation that I maynot properly give a brief account of how it fared with my mother whenmy father undertook to purge his house of superstition. The process ofher emancipation, it is true, was not obvious to me at the time, butwhat I observed of her outward conduct has been interpreted by mysubsequent experience; so that to-day I understand how it happens thatall the year round my mother keeps the same day of rest as her Gentileneighbors; but when the ram's horn blows on the Day of Atonement, calling upon Israel to cleanse its heart from sin and draw nearer tothe God of its fathers, her soul is stirred as of old, and she needsmust join in the ancient service. It means, I have come to know, thatshe has dropped the husk and retained the kernel of Judaism; but yearswere required for this process of instinctive selection. 

My father, in his ambition to make Americans of us, was ratherheadlong and strenuous in his methods. To my mother, on the eve ofdeparture for the New World, he wrote boldly that progressive Jews inAmerica did not spend their days in praying; and he urged her to leaveher wig in Polotzk, as a first step of progress. My mother, like themajority of women in the Pale, had all her life taken her religion onauthority; so she was only fulfilling her duty to her husband when shetook his hint, and set out upon her journey in her own hair. Not thatit was done without reluctance; the Jewish faith in her was deeplyrooted, as in the best of Jews it always is. The law of the Fatherswas binding to her, and the outward symbols of obedience inseparablefrom the spirit. But the breath of revolt against orthodox externalswas at this time beginning to reach us in Polotzk from the greaterworld, notably from America. Sons whose parents had impoverishedthemselves by paying the fine for non-appearance for military duty, inorder to save their darlings from the inevitable sins of violatedJudaism while in the service, sent home portraits of themselves withtheir faces shaved; and the grieved old fathers and mothers, afteroffering up special prayers for the renegades, and giving charity intheir name, exhibited the significant portraits on their parlortables. My mother's own nephew went no farther than Vilna, ten hours'journey from Polotzk, to learn to cut his beard; and even within ourtown limits young women of education were beginning to reject the wigafter marriage. A notorious example was the beautiful daughter ofLozhe the Rav, who was not restrained by her father's conspicuousrelation to Judaism from exhibiting her lovely black curls like amaiden; and it was a further sign of the times that the rav did notdisown his daughter. What wonder, then, that my poor mother, shakenby these foreshadowings of revolution in our midst, and by the expressauthority of her husband, gave up the emblem of matrimonial chastitywith but a passing struggle? Considering how the heavy burdens whichshe had borne from childhood had never allowed her time to think forherself at all, but had obliged her always to tread blindly in thebeaten paths, I think it greatly to her credit that in her puzzlingsituation she did not lose her poise entirely. Bred to submission, submit she must; and when she perceived a conflict of authorities, sheprepared to accept the new order of things under which her children'sfuture was to be formed; wherein she showed her native adaptability, the readiness to fall into line, which is one of the most charmingtraits of her gentle, self-effacing nature. 

My father gave my mother very little time to adjust herself. He wasonly three years from the Old World with its settled prejudices. Considering his education, he had thought out a good deal for himself, but his line of thinking had not as yet brought him to include womanin the intellectual emancipation for which he himself had been soeager even in Russia. This was still in the day when he was astonishedto learn that women had written books--had used their minds, theirimaginations, unaided. He still rated the mental capacity of theaverage woman as only a little above that of the cattle she tended. Heheld it to be a wife's duty to follow her husband in all things. Hecould do all the thinking for the family, he believed; and beingconvinced that to hold to the outward forms of orthodox Judaism was tobe hampered in the race for Americanization, he did not hesitate toorder our family life on unorthodox lines. There was no consciousdespotism in this; it was only making manly haste to realize an idealthe nobility of which there was no one to dispute. 

My mother, as we know, had not the initial impulse to depart fromancient usage that my father had in his habitual scepticism. He hadalways been a nonconformist in his heart; she bore lovingly the yokeof prescribed conduct. Individual freedom, to him, was the onlytolerable condition of life; to her it was confusion. My mother, therefore, gradually divested herself, at my father's bidding, of themantle of orthodox observance; but the process cost her many a pang, because the fabric of that venerable garment was interwoven with thefabric of her soul. 

My father did not attempt to touch the fundamentals of her faith. Hecertainly did not forbid her to honor God by loving her neighbor, which is perhaps not far from being the whole of Judaism. If his louddenials of the existence of God influenced her to reconsider hercreed, it was merely an incidental result of the freedom of expressionhe was so eager to practise, after his life of enforced hypocrisy. Asthe opinions of a mere woman on matters so abstract as religion didnot interest him in the least, he counted it no particular triumph ifhe observed that my mother weakened in her faith as the years went by. He allowed her to keep a Jewish kitchen as long as she pleased, but hedid not want us children to refuse invitations to the table of ourGentile neighbors. He would have no bar to our social intercourse withthe world around us, for only by freely sharing the life of ourneighbors could we come into our full inheritance of American freedomand opportunity. On the holy days he bought my mother a ticket for thesynagogue, but the children he sent to school. On Sabbath eve mymother might light the consecrated candles, but he kept the store openuntil Sunday morning. My mother might believe and worship as shepleased, up to the point where her orthodoxy began to interfere withthe American progress of the family. 

The price that all of us paid for this disorganization of our familylife has been levied on every immigrant Jewish household where thefirst generation clings to the traditions of the Old World, while thesecond generation leads the life of the New. Nothing more pitifulcould be written in the annals of the Jews; nothing more inevitable;nothing more hopeful. Hopeful, yes; alike for the Jew and for thecountry that has given him shelter. For Israel is not the only partythat has put up a forfeit in this contest. The nations may well sit byand watch the struggle, for humanity has a stake in it. I say this, whose life has borne witness, whose heart is heavy with revelations ithas not made. And I speak for thousands; oh, for thousands!

My gray hairs are too few for me to let these pages trespass the limitI have set myself. That part of my life which contains the climax ofmy personal drama I must leave to my grandchildren to record. Myfather might speak and tell how, in time, he discovered that in hisfirst violent rejection of everything old and established he cast fromhim much that he afterwards missed. He might tell to what extent helater retraced his steps, seeking to recover what he had learned tovalue anew; how it fared with his avowed irreligion when put to theextreme test; to what, in short, his emancipation amounted. And he, like myself, would speak for thousands. My grandchildren, for all Iknow, may have a graver task than I have set them. Perhaps they mayhave to testify that the faith of Israel is a heritage that no heir inthe direct line has the power to alienate from his successors. Even I, with my limited perspective, think it doubtful if the conversion ofthe Jew to any alien belief or disbelief is ever thoroughlyaccomplished. What positive affirmation of the persistence of Judaismin the blood my descendants may have to make, I may not be present tohear. 

It would be superfluous to state that none of these hints andprophecies troubled me at the time when I horrified the schoolyard bydenying the existence of God, on the authority of my father; anddefended my right to my atheism, on the authority of the Constitution. I considered myself absolutely, eternally, delightfully emancipatedfrom the yoke of indefensible superstitions. I was wild withindignation and pity when I remembered how my poor brother had beencruelly tormented because he did not want to sit in heder and learnwhat was after all false or useless. I knew now why poor Reb' Lebe hadbeen unable to answer my questions; it was because the truth was notwhispered outside America. I was very much in love with myenlightenment, and eager for opportunities to give proof of it. 

It was Miss Dillingham, she who helped me in so many ways, whounconsciously put me to an early test, the result of which gave me ashock that I did not get over for many a day. She invited me to teaone day, and I came in much trepidation. It was my first entrance intoa genuine American household; my first meal at a Gentile--yes, aChristian--board. Would I know how to behave properly? I do not knowwhether I betrayed my anxiety; I am certain only that I was all eyesand ears, that nothing should escape me which might serve to guideme. This, after all, was a normal state for me to be in, so I supposeI looked natural, no matter how much I stared. I had been accustomedto consider my table manners irreproachable, but America was notPolotzk, as my father was ever saying; so I proceeded very cautiouslywith my spoons and forks. I was cunning enough to try to conceal myuncertainty; by being just a little bit slow, I did not get to anygiven spoon until the others at table had shown me which it was. 

All went well, until a platter was passed with a kind of meat that wasstrange to me. Some mischievous instinct told me that it washam--forbidden food; and I, the liberal, the free, was afraid to touchit! I had a terrible moment of surprise, mortification, self-contempt;but I helped myself to a slice of ham, nevertheless, and hung my headover my plate to hide my confusion. I was furious with myself for myweakness. I to be afraid of a pink piece of pig's flesh, who haddefied at least two religions in defence of free thought! And I beganto reduce my ham to indivisible atoms, determined to eat more of itthan anybody at the table. 

Alas! I learned that to eat in defence of principles was not so easyas to talk. I ate, but only a newly abnegated Jew can understand withwhat squirming, what protesting of the inner man, what exquisiteabhorrence of myself. That Spartan boy who allowed the stolen foxhidden in his bosom to consume his vitals rather than be detected inthe theft, showed no such miracle of self-control as did I, sittingthere at my friend's tea-table, eating unjewish meat. 

And to think that so ridiculous a thing as a scrap of meat should bethe symbol and test of things so august! To think that in the mentallife of a half-grown child should be reflected the struggles andtriumphs of ages! Over and over and over again I discover that I am awonderful thing, being human; that I am the image of the universe, being myself; that I am the repository of all the wisdom in the world, being alive and sane at the beginning of this twentieth century. Theheir of the ages am I, and all that has been is in me, and shallcontinue to be in my immortal self. 

CHAPTER XIII

A CHILD'S PARADISE

All this while that I was studying and exploring in the borderlandbetween the old life and the new; leaping at conclusions, andsometimes slipping; finding inspiration in common things, andinterpretations in dumb things; eagerly scaling the ladder oflearning, my eyes on star-diademmed peaks of ambition; building upfriendships that should support my youth and enrich my womanhood;learning to think much of myself, and much more of my world, --while Iwas steadily gathering in my heritage, sowed in the dim past, andripened in the sun of my own day, what was my sister doing?

Why, what she had always done: keeping close to my mother's side onthe dreary marches of a humdrum life; sensing sweet gardens offorbidden joy, but never turning from the path of duty. I cannotbelieve but that her sacrifices tasted as dust and ashes to her attimes; for Frieda was a mere girl, whose childhood, on the whole, hadbeen gray, while her appetite for happy things was as great as anynormal girl's. She had a fine sense for what was best in the lifeabout her, though she could not articulate her appreciation. Shelonged to possess the good things, but her position in the familyforbidding possession, she developed a talent for vicarious enjoymentwhich I never in this life hope to imitate. And her simple mind didnot busy itself with self-analysis. She did not even know why she washappy; she thought life was good to her. Still, there must have beenmoments when she perceived that the finer things were not inthemselves unattainable, but were kept from her by a social tyranny. This I can only surmise, as in our daily intercourse she never gave asign of discontent. 

We continued to have part of our life in common for some time aftershe went to work. We formed ourselves into an evening school, she andI and the two youngsters, for the study of English and arithmetic. Assoon as the supper dishes were put away, we gathered around thekitchen table, with books borrowed from school, and pencils suppliedby my father with eager willingness. I was the teacher, the others thediligent pupils; and the earnestness with which we labored was worthyof the great things we meant to achieve. Whether the results werecommensurate with our efforts I cannot say. I only know that Frieda'scheeks flamed with the excitement of reading English monosyllables;and her eyes shone like stars on a moonless night when I explained toher how she and I and George Washington were Fellow Citizens together. 

Inspired by our studious evenings, what Frieda Antin would not be gladto sit all day bent over the needle, that the family should keep onits feet, and Mary continue at school? The morning ride on theferryboat, when spring winds dimpled the river, may have stirred herheart with nameless longings, but when she took her place at themachine her lot was glorified to her, and she wanted to sing; for thegirls, the foreman, the boss, all talked about Mary Antin, whose poemswere printed in an American newspaper. Wherever she went on her humblebusiness, she was sure to hear her sister's name. For, withcharacteristic loyalty, the whole Jewish community claimed kinshipwith me, simply because I was a Jew; and they made much of my smalltriumphs, and pointed to me with pride, just as they always do when aJew distinguishes himself in any worthy way. Frieda, going home fromwork at sunset, when rosy buds beaded the shining stems, may have feltthe weariness of those who toil for bread; but when we opened ourbooks after supper, her spirit revived afresh, and it was only whenthe lamp began to smoke that she thought of taking rest. 

At bedtime she and I chatted as we used to do when we were littlegirls in Polotzk; only now, instead of closing our eyes to seeimaginary wonders, according to a bedtime game of ours, we exchangedanecdotes about the marvellous adventures of our American life. Mycontributions on these occasions were boastful accounts, I have nodoubt, of what I did at school, and in the company of school-committeemen, editors, and other notables; and Frieda's delight in myachievements was the very flower of her fine sympathy. As formerly, when I had been naughty and I invited her to share in my repentance, she used to join me in spiritual humility and solemnly dedicateherself to a better life; so now, when I was full of pride andambition, she, too, felt the crown on her brows, and heard theapplause of future generations murmuring in her ear. And so partakingof her sister's glory, what Frieda Antin would not say that herportion was sufficient reward for a youth of toil?

I did not, like my sister, earn my bread in those days; but let us saythat I earned my salt, by sweeping, scrubbing, and scouring, onSaturdays, when there was no school. My mother's housekeeping wasnecessarily irregular, as she was pretty constantly occupied in thestore; so there was enough for us children to do to keep the barerooms shining. Even here Frieda did the lion's share; it used to takeme all Saturday to accomplish what Frieda would do with half a dozenturns of her capable hands. I did not like housework, but I lovedorder; so I polished windows with a will, and even got some fun out ofscrubbing, by laying out the floor in patterns and tracing them allaround the room in a lively flurry of soapsuds. 

There is a joy that comes from doing common things well, especially ifthey seem hard to us. When I faced a day's housework I was halfparalyzed with a sense of inability, and I wasted precious minuteswalking around it, to see what a very hard task I had. But havingpitched in and conquered, it gave me an exquisite pleasure to surveymy work. My hair tousled and my dress tucked up, streaked arms bare tothe elbow, I would step on my heels over the damp, clean boards, andpass my hand over chair rounds and table legs, to prove that no dustwas left. I could not wait to put my dress in order before running outinto the street to see how my windows shone. Every workman who carriesa dinner pail has these moments of keen delight in the product of hisdrudgery. Men of genius, likewise, in their hours of relaxation fromtheir loftier tasks, prove this universal rule. I know a man who fillsa chair at a great university. I have seen him hold a roomful ofotherwise restless youths spellbound for an hour, while he discoursedabout the respective inhabitants of the earth and sea at a time whennothing walked on fewer than four legs. And I have seen this scholar, his ponderous tomes shelved for a space, turning over and over withcherishing hands a letter-box that he had made out of card-board andpaste, and exhibiting it proudly to his friends. For the hand was thefirst instrument of labor, that distinctive accomplishment by whichman finally raised himself above his cousins, the lower animals; and arespect for the work of the hand survives as an instinct in all of us. 

The stretch of weeks from June to September, when the schools wereclosed, would have been hard to fill in had it not been for the publiclibrary. At first I made myself a calendar of the vacation months, andevery morning I tore off a day, and comforted myself with thedecreasing number of vacation days. But after I discovered the publiclibrary I was not impatient for the reopening of school. The librarydid not open till one o'clock in the afternoon, and each reader wasallowed to take out only one book at a time. Long before one o'clock Iwas to be seen on the library steps, waiting for the door of paradiseto open. I spent hours in the reading-room, pleased with theatmosphere of books, with the order and quiet of the place, so unlikeanything on Arlington Street. The sense of these things permeated myconsciousness even when I was absorbed in a book, just as the rustleof pages turned and the tiptoe tread of the librarian reached my ear, without distracting my attention. Anything so wonderful as a libraryhad never been in my life. It was even better than school in someways. One could read and read, and learn and learn, as fast as oneknew how, without being obliged to stop for stupid little girls andinattentive little boys to catch up with the lesson. When I went homefrom the library I had a book under my arm; and I would finish itbefore the library opened next day, no matter till what hours of thenight I burned my little lamp. 

What books did I read so diligently? Pretty nearly everything thatcame to my hand. I dare say the librarian helped me select my books, but, curiously enough, I do not remember. Something must have directedme, for I read a great many of the books that are written forchildren. Of these I remember with the greatest delight LouisaAlcott's stories. A less attractive series of books was of the SundaySchool type. In volume after volume a very naughty little girl by thename of Lulu was always going into tempers, that her father might haveopportunity to lecture her and point to her angelic little sister, Gracie, as an example of what she should be; after which they all feltbetter and prayed. Next to Louisa Alcott's books in my esteem wereboys' books of adventure, many of them by Horatio Alger; and I readall, I suppose, of the Rollo books, by Jacob Abbott. 

But that was not all. I read every kind of printed rubbish that cameinto the house, by design or accident. A weekly story paper of a worsethan worthless character, that circulated widely in our neighborhoodbecause subscribers were rewarded with a premium of a diamond ring, warranted I don't know how many karats, occupied me for hours. Thestories in this paper resembled, in breathlessness of plot, abundanceof horrors, and improbability of characters, the things I used to readin Vitebsk. The text was illustrated by frequent pictures, in whichthe villain generally had his hands on the heroine's throat, while thehero was bursting in through a graceful drapery to the rescue of hisbeloved. If a bundle came into the house wrapped in a stained oldnewspaper, I laboriously smoothed out the paper and read it through. Ienjoyed it all, and found fault with nothing that I read. And, as inthe case of the Vitebsk readings, I cannot find that I suffered anyharm. Of course, reading so many better books, there came a time whenthe diamond-ring story paper disgusted me; but in the beginning myappetite for print was so enormous that I could let nothing passthrough my hands unread, while my taste was so crude that nothingprinted could offend me. 

Good reading matter came into the house from one other source besidesthe library. The Yiddish newspapers of the day were excellent, and myfather subscribed to the best of them. Since that time Yiddishjournalism has sadly degenerated, through imitation of the vicious"yellow journals" of the American press. 

There was one book in the library over which I pored very often, andthat was the encyclopædia. I turned usually to the names of famouspeople, beginning, of course, with George Washington. Oftenest of allI read the biographical sketches of my favorite authors, and felt thatthe worthies must have been glad to die just to have their names andhistories printed out in the book of fame. It seemed to me theapotheosis of glory to be even briefly mentioned in an encyclopædia. And there grew in me an enormous ambition that devoured all my otherambitions, which was no less than this: that I should live to knowthat after my death my name would surely be printed in theencyclopædia. It was such a prodigious thing to expect that I kept theidea a secret even from myself, just letting it lie where it sprouted, in an unexplored corner of my busy brain. But it grew on me in spiteof myself, till finally I could not resist the temptation to study outthe exact place in the encyclopædia where my name would belong. I sawthat it would come not far from "Alcott, Louisa M. "; and I covered myface with my hands, to hide the silly, baseless joy in it. I practisedsaying my name in the encyclopædic form, "Antin, Mary"; and I realizedthat it sounded chopped off, and wondered if I might not annex amiddle initial. I wanted to ask my teacher about it, but I was afraidI might betray my reasons. For, infatuated though I was with the ideaof the greatness I might live to attain, I knew very well that thusfar my claims to posthumous fame were ridiculously unfounded, and Idid not want to be laughed at for my vanity. 

Spirit of all childhood! Forgive me, forgive me, for so lightlybetraying a child's dream-secrets. I that smile so scoffingly to-dayat the unsophisticated child that was myself, have I found any noblerthing in life than my own longing to be noble? Would I not rather beconsumed by ambitions that can never be realized than live in stupidacceptance of my neighbor's opinion of me? The statue in the publicsquare is less a portrait of a mortal individual than a symbol of theimmortal aspiration of humanity. So do not laugh at the little boyplaying at soldiers, if he tells you he is going to hew the world intogood behavior when he gets to be a man. And do, by all means, write myname in the book of fame, saying, She was one who aspired. For that, in condensed form, is the story of the lives of the great. 

 * * * * *

Summer days are long, and the evenings, we know, are as long as thelamp-wick. So, with all my reading, I had time to play; and, with allmy studiousness, I had the will to play. My favorite playmates wereboys. It was but mild fun to play theatre in Bessie Finklestein'sback yard, even if I had leading parts, which I made impressive byrecitations in Russian, no word of which was intelligible to myaudience. It was far better sport to play hide-and-seek with the boys, for I enjoyed the use of my limbs--what there was of them. I was sooften reproached and teased for being little, that it gave me greatsatisfaction to beat a five-foot boy to the goal. 

Once a great, hulky colored boy, who was the torment of theneighborhood, treated me roughly while I was playing on the street. Myfather, determined to teach the rascal a lesson for once, had himarrested and brought to court. The boy was locked up overnight, and heemerged from his brief imprisonment with a respect for the rights andpersons of his neighbors. But the moral of this incident lies notherein. What interested me more than my revenge on a bully was what Isaw of the way in which justice was actually administered in theUnited States. Here we were gathered in the little courtroom, beardedArlington Street against wool-headed Arlington Street; accused andaccuser, witnesses, sympathizers, sight-seers, and all. Nobodycringed, nobody was bullied, nobody lied who didn't want to. We wereall free, and all treated equally, just as it said in theConstitution! The evil-doer was actually punished, and not the victim, as might very easily happen in a similar case in Russia. "Liberty andjustice for all. " Three cheers for the Red, White, and Blue!

There was one occasion in the week when I was ever willing to put awaymy book, no matter how entrancing were its pages. That was on Saturdaynight, when Bessie Finklestein called for me; and Bessie and I, witharms entwined, called for Sadie Rabinowitch; and Bessie and Sadie andI, still further entwined, called for Annie Reilly; and Bessie, etc. , etc. , inextricably wound up, marched up Broadway, and took possessionof all we saw, heard, guessed, or desired, from end to end of thatmain thoroughfare of Chelsea. 

Parading all abreast, as many as we were, only breaking ranks to letpeople pass; leaving the imprints of our noses and fingers onplate-glass windows ablaze with electric lights and alluring withdisplay; inspecting tons of cheap candy, to find a few pennies' worthof the most enduring kind, the same to be sucked and chewed by thecompany, turn and turn about, as we continued our promenade; loiteringwherever a crowd gathered, or running for a block or so to cheer onthe fire-engine or police ambulance; getting into everybody's way, andjust keeping clear of serious mischief, --we were only girls, --weenjoyed ourselves as only children can whose fathers keep a basementgrocery store, whose mothers do their own washing, and whose sistersoperate a machine for five dollars a week. Had we been boys, I supposeBessie and Sadie and the rest of us would have been a "gang, " andwould have popped into the Chinese laundry to tease "Chinky Chinaman, "and been chased by the "cops" from comfortable doorsteps, and had a"bully" time of it. Being what we were, we called ourselves a "set, "and we had a "lovely" time, as people who passed us on Broadway couldnot fail to see. And hear. For we were at the giggling age, andBroadway on Saturday night was full of giggles for us. We stayed outtill all hours, too; for Arlington Street had no strict domesticprogramme, not even in the nursery, the inmates of which were aslikely to be found in the gutter as in their cots, at any time thisside of one o'clock in the morning. 

There was an element in my enjoyment that was yielded neither by thesights, the adventures, nor the chewing-candy. I had a keen feelingfor the sociability of the crowd. All plebeian Chelsea was abroad, anda bourgeois population is nowhere unneighborly. Women shapeless withbundles, their hats awry over thin, eager faces, gathered in knots onthe edge of the curb, boasting of their bargains. Little girls incurlpapers and little boys in brimless hats clung to their skirts, whining for pennies, only to be silenced by absent-minded cuffs. A fewdisconsolate fathers strayed behind these family groups, the restbeing distributed between the barber shops and the corner lamp-posts. I understood these people, being one of them, and I liked them, and Ifound it all delightfully sociable. 

Saturday night is the workman's wife's night, but that does notentirely prevent my lady from going abroad, if only to leave an orderat the florist's. So it happened that Bellingham Hill and WashingtonAvenue, the aristocratic sections of Chelsea, mingled with ArlingtonStreet on Broadway, to the further enhancement of my enjoyment of theoccasion. For I always loved a mixed crowd. I loved the contrasts, thehigh lights and deep shadows, and the gradations that connect the two, and make all life one. I saw many, many things that I was not aware ofseeing at the time. I only found out afterwards what treasures mybrain had stored up, when, coming to the puzzling places in life, light and meaning would suddenly burst on me, the hidden fruit of someexperience that had not impressed me at the time. 

How many times, I wonder, did I brush past my destiny on Broadway, foolishly staring after it, instead of going home to pray? I wonderdid a stranger collide with me, and put me patiently out of his way, wondering why such a mite was not at home and abed at ten o'clock inthe evening, and never dreaming that one day he might have to reckonwith me? Did some one smile down on my childish glee, I wonder, unwarned of a day when we should weep together? I wonder--I wonder. Amillion threads of life and love and sorrow was the common street; andwhether we would or not, we entangled ourselves in a common maze, without paying the homage of a second glance to those who would someday master us; too dull to pick that face from out the crowd which oneday would bend over us in love or pity or remorse. What company ofskipping, laughing little girls is to be reproached for carelesshours, when men and women on every side stepped heedlessly into thetraps of fate? Small sin it was to annoy my neighbor by getting in hisway, as I stared over my shoulder, if a grown man knew no better thanto drop a word in passing that might turn the course of another'slife, as a boulder rolled down from the mountain-side deflects thecurrent of a brook. 

CHAPTER XIV

MANNA

So went the life in Chelsea for the space of a year or so. Then myfather, finding a discrepancy between his assets and liabilities onthe wrong side of the ledger, once more struck tent, collected hisflock, and set out in search of richer pastures. 

There was a charming simplicity about these proceedings. Here to-day, apparently rooted; there to-morrow, and just as much at home. Anotherbasement grocery, with a freshly painted sign over the door; the broomin the corner, the loaf on the table--these things made home for us. There were rather more Negroes on Wheeler Street, in the lower SouthEnd of Boston, than there had been on Arlington Street, which promisedmore numerous outstanding accounts; but they were a neighborly folk, and they took us strangers in--sometimes very badly. Then there wasthe school three blocks away, where "America" was sung to the sametune as in Chelsea, and geography was made as dark a mystery. It wasimpossible not to feel at home. 

And presently, lest anything be lacking to our domestic bliss, therewas a new baby in a borrowed crib; and little Dora had only a few moreturns to take with her battered doll carriage before a life-sizevehicle with a more animated dolly was turned over to her constantcare. 

The Wheeler Street neighborhood is not a place where a refined younglady would care to find herself alone, even in the cheery daylight. Ifshe came at all, she would be attended by a trusty escort. Shewould not get too close to people on the doorsteps, and she wouldshrink away in disgust and fear from a blear-eyed creature careeringdown the sidewalk on many-jointed legs. The delicate damsel wouldhasten home to wash and purify and perfume herself till the foulcontact of Wheeler Street was utterly eradicated, and her wontedpurity restored. And I do not blame her. I only wish that she wouldbring a little soap and water and perfumery into Wheeler Street nexttime she comes; for some people there may be smothering in the filthwhich they abhor as much as she, but from which they cannot, like her, run away. 

 [Illustration: WHEELER STREET, IN THE LOWER SOUTH END OF BOSTON]

Many years after my escape from Wheeler Street I returned to see ifthe place was as bad as I remembered it. I found the narrow streetgrown even narrower, the sidewalk not broad enough for two to walkabreast, the gutter choked with dust and refuse, the dingy row oftenements on either side unspeakably gloomy. I discovered, what I hadnot realized before, that Wheeler Street was a crooked lane connectinga corner saloon on Shawmut Avenue with a block of houses of ill reputeon Corning Street. It had been the same in my day, but I had notunderstood much, and I lived unharmed. 

On this later visit I walked slowly up one side of the street, anddown the other, remembering many things. It was eleven o'clock in theevening, and sounds of squabbling coming through doors and windowsinformed my experienced ear that a part of Wheeler Street was going tobed. The grocery store in the basement of Number 11--my father's oldstore--was still open for business; and in the gutter in front of thestore, to be sure, was a happy baby, just as there used to be. 

I was not alone on this tour of inspection. I was attended by a trustyescort. But I brought soap and water with me. I am applying them now. 

I found no fault with Wheeler Street when I was fourteen years old. Onthe contrary, I pronounced it good. We had never lived so near the cartracks before, and I delighted in the moonlike splendor of the arclamp just in front of the saloon. The space illumined by this lamp andenlivened by the passage of many thirsty souls was the favoriteplayground for Wheeler Street youth. On our street there was not roomto turn around; here the sidewalk spread out wider as it swung aroundto Shawmut Avenue. 

I played with the boys by preference, as in Chelsea. I learned to cutacross the tracks in front of an oncoming car, and it was great fun tosee the motorman's angry face turn scared, when he thought I was goingto be shaved this time sure. It was amusing, too, to watch the sidedoor of the saloon, which opened right opposite the grocery store, andsee a drunken man put out by the bartender. The fellow would whine socomically, and cling to the doorpost so like a damp leaf to a twig, and blubber so like a red-faced baby, that it was really funny to seehim. 

And there was Morgan Chapel. It was worth coming to Wheeler Streetjust for that. All the children of the neighborhood, except the mostrowdyish, flocked to Morgan Chapel at least once a week. This was onSaturday evening, when a free entertainment was given, consisting ofmusic, recitations, and other parlor accomplishments. The performanceswere exceedingly artistic, according to the impartial judgment ofjuvenile Wheeler Street. I can speak with authority for the crowd ofus from Number 11. We hung upon the lips of the beautiful ladies whoread or sang to us; and they in turn did their best, recognizing thequality of our approval. We admired the miraculously clean gentlemenwho sang or played, as heartily as we applauded their performance. Sometimes the beautiful ladies were accompanied by ravishing littlegirls who stood up in a glory of golden curls, frilled petticoats, andsilk stockings, to recite pathetic or comic pieces, with trainedexpression and practised gestures that seemed to us the perfection ofthe elocutionary art. We were all a little bit stage-struck afterthese entertainments; but what was more, we were genuinely moved bythe glimpses of a fairer world than ours which we caught through themusic and poetry; the world in which the beautiful ladies dwelt withthe fairy children and the clean gentlemen. 

Brother Hotchkins, who managed these entertainments, knew what he wasthere for. His programmes were masterly. Classics of the lighter sortwere judiciously interspersed with the favorite street songs of theday. Nothing that savored of the chapel was there: the hour washonestly devoted to entertainment. The total effect was an exquisitelybalanced compound of pleasure, wonder, and longing. Knock-kneed menwith purple noses, bristling chins, and no collars, who slouched insceptically and sat tentatively on the edge of the rear settees at thebeginning of the concert, moved nearer the front as the programme wenton, and openly joined in the applause at the end. Scowling fellows whocame in with defiant faces occasionally slunk out shamefaced; and boththe knock-kneed and the defiant sometimes remained to hear BrotherTompkins pray and preach. And it was all due to Brother Hotchkins'smasterly programme. The children behaved very well, for the most part;the few "toughs" who came in on purpose to make trouble were promptlyexpelled by Brother Hotchkins and his lieutenants. 

I could not help admiring Brother Hotchkins, he was so eminentlyefficient in every part of the hall, at every stage of theproceedings. I always believed that he was the author of the alluringnotices that occupied the bulletin board every Saturday, though Inever knew it for a fact. The way he handled the bad boys wasmasterly. The way he introduced the performers was inimitable. The wayhe did everything was the best way. And yet I did not like BrotherHotchkins. I could not. He was too slim, too pale, too fair. His voicewas too encouraging, his smile was too restrained. The man was amissionary, and it stuck out all over him. I could not abide amissionary. That was the Jew in me, the European Jew, trained by thecruel centuries of his outcast existence to distrust any one who spokeof God by any other name than _Adonai_. But I should have resented thesuggestion that inherited distrust was the cause of my dislike forgood Brother Hotchkins; for I considered myself freed from racialprejudices, by the same triumph of my infallible judgment which hadlifted from me the yoke of credulity. An uncompromising atheist, suchas I was at the age of fourteen, was bound to scorn all those whosought to implant religion in their fellow men, and thereby prolongthe reign of superstition. Of course that was the explanation. 

Brother Hotchkins, happily unconscious of my disapproval of hiscomplexion, arose at intervals behind the railing, to announce, from aslip of paper, that "the next number on our programme will be amusical selection by, " etc. , etc. ; until he arrived at "I am sure youwill all join me in thanking the ladies and gentlemen who haveentertained us this evening. " And as I moved towards the door with mycompanions, I would hear his voice raised for the inevitable "You areall invited to remain to a short prayer service, after which--" alittle louder--"refreshments will be served in the vestry. I will askBrother Tompkins to--" The rest was lost in the shuffle of feet aboutthe door and the roar of electric cars glancing past each other onopposite tracks. I always got out of the chapel before BrotherTompkins could do me any harm. As if there was anything he could stealfrom me, now that there was no God in my heart!

If I were to go back to Morgan Chapel now, I should stay to hearBrother Tompkins, and as many other brethren as might have anything tosay. I would sit very still in my corner seat and listen to theprayer, and silently join in the Amen. For I know now what WheelerStreet is, and I know what Morgan Chapel is there for, in the midst ofthose crooked alleys, those saloons, those pawnshops, those gloomytenements. It is there to apply soap and water, and it is doing thatall the time. I have learned, since my deliverance from WheelerStreet, that there is more than one road to any given goal. I shouldlook with respect at Brother Hotchkins applying soap and water in hisown way, convinced at last that my way is not the only way. Men mustwork with those tools to the use of which they are best fitted bynature. Brother Hotchkins must pray, and I must bear witness, andanother must nurse a feeble infant. We are all honest workmen, anddeserve standing-room in the workshop of sweating humanity. It isonly the idle scoffers who stand by and jeer at our efforts to cleanseour house that should be kicked out of the door, as Brother Hotchkinsturned out the rowdies. 

It was characteristic of the looseness of our family discipline atthis time that nobody was seriously interested in our visits to MorganChapel. Our time was our own, after school duties and household taskswere done. Joseph sold newspapers after school; I swept and washeddishes; Dora minded the baby. For the rest, we amused ourselves asbest we could. Father and mother were preoccupied with the store dayand night; and not so much with weighing and measuring and makingchange as with figuring out how long it would take the outstandingaccounts to ruin the business entirely. If my mother had scruplesagainst her children resorting to a building with a cross on it, shedid not have time to formulate them. If my father heard us talkingabout Morgan Chapel, he dismissed the subject with a sarcasticcharacterization, and wanted to know if we were going to join theSalvation Army next; but he did not seriously care, and he was willingthat the children should have a good time. And if my parents hadobjected to Morgan Chapel, was the sidewalk in front of the saloon abetter place for us children to spend the evening? They could not haveargued with us very long, so they hardly argued at all. 

In Polotzk we had been trained and watched, our days had beenregulated, our conduct prescribed. In America, suddenly, we were letloose on the street. Why? Because my father having renounced hisfaith, and my mother being uncertain of hers, they had no particularcreed to hold us to. The conception of a system of ethics independentof religion could not at once enter as an active principle in theirlife; so that they could give a child no reason why to be truthful orkind. And as with religion, so it fared with other branches of ourdomestic education. Chaos took the place of system; uncertainty, inconsistency undermined discipline. My parents knew only that theydesired us to be like American children; and seeing how theirneighbors gave their children boundless liberty, they turned us alsoloose, never doubting but that the American way was the best way. Inpublic deportment, in etiquette, in all matters of social intercourse, they had no standards to go by, seeing that America was not Polotzk. In their bewilderment and uncertainty they needs must trust uschildren to learn from such models as the tenements afforded. Morethan this, they must step down from their throne of parentalauthority, and take the law from their children's mouths; for they hadno other means of finding out what was good American form. The resultwas that laxity of domestic organization, that inversion of normalrelations which makes for friction, and which sometimes ends inbreaking up a family that was formerly united and happy. 

This sad process of disintegration of home life may be observed inalmost any immigrant family of our class and with our traditions andaspirations. It is part of the process of Americanization; an upheavalpreceding the state of repose. It is the cross that the first andsecond generations must bear, an involuntary sacrifice for the sake ofthe future generations. These are the pains of adjustment, as rackingas the pains of birth. And as the mother forgets her agonies in thebliss of clasping her babe to her breast, so the bent and heart-soreimmigrant forgets exile and homesickness and ridicule and loss andestrangement, when he beholds his sons and daughters moving asAmericans among Americans. 

On Wheeler Street there were no real homes. There were miserable flatsof three or four rooms, or fewer, in which families that did notpractise race suicide cooked, washed, and ate; slept from two to fourin a bed, in windowless bedrooms; quarrelled in the gray morning, andmade up in the smoky evening; tormented each other, supported eachother, saved each other, drove each other out of the house. But therewas no common life in any form that means life. There was no room forit, for one thing. Beds and cribs took up most of the floor space, disorder packed the interspaces. The centre table in the "parlor" wasnot loaded with books. It held, invariably, a photograph album and anornamental lamp with a paper shade; and the lamp was usually out oforder. So there was as little motive for a common life as there wasroom. The yard was only big enough for the perennial rubbish heap. Thenarrow sidewalk was crowded. What were the people to do withthemselves? There were the saloons, the missions, the libraries, thecheap amusement places, and the neighborhood houses. People selectedtheir resorts according to their tastes. The children, let it bethankfully recorded, flocked mostly to the clubs; the little girls tosew, cook, dance, and play games; the little boys to hammer and paste, mend chairs, debate, and govern a toy republic. All these, of course, are forms of baptism by soap and water. 

Our neighborhood went in search of salvation to Morgan Memorial Hall, Barnard Memorial, Morgan Chapel aforementioned, and some other cleanplaces that lighted a candle in their window. My brother, my sisterDora, and I were introduced to some of the clubs by our youngneighbors, and we were glad to go. For our home also gave us littlebesides meals in the kitchen and beds in the dark. What with the sixof us, and the store, and the baby, and sometimes a "greener" or twofrom Polotzk, whom we lodged as a matter of course till they found apermanent home--what with such a company and the size of our tenement, we needed to get out almost as much as our neighbors' children. I sayalmost; for our parlor we managed to keep pretty clear, and the lampon our centre table was always in order, and its light fell often onan open book. Still, it was part of the life of Wheeler Street tobelong to clubs, so we belonged. 

I didn't care for sewing or cooking, so I joined a dancing-club; andeven here I was a failure. I had been a very good dancer in Russia, but here I found all the steps different, and I did not have thecourage to go out in the middle of the slippery floor and mince it andtoe it in front of the teacher. When I retired to a corner and triedto play dominoes, I became suddenly shy of my partner; and I nevercould win a game of checkers, although formerly I used to beat myfather at it. I tried to be friends with a little girl I had known inChelsea, but she met my advances coldly. She lived on Appleton Street, which was too aristocratic to mix with Wheeler Street. Geraldine wasstudying elocution, and she wore a scarlet cape and hood, and she wasgoing on the stage by and by. I acknowledged that her sense ofsuperiority was well-founded, and retired farther into my corner, forthe first time conscious of my shabbiness and lowliness. 

I looked on at the dancing until I could endure it no longer. Overcomeby a sense of isolation and unfitness, I slipped out of the room, avoiding the teacher's eye, and went home to write melancholy poetry. 

What had come over me? Why was I, the confident, the ambitious, suddenly grown so shy and meek? Why was the candidate for encyclopædicimmortality overawed by a scarlet hood? Why did I, a very tomboyyesterday, suddenly find my playmates stupid, and hide-and-seek abore? I did not know why. I only knew that I was lonely and troubledand sore; and I went home to write sad poetry. 

I shall never forget the pattern of the red carpet in our parlor, --wehad achieved a carpet since Chelsea days, --because I lay for hoursface down on the floor, writing poetry on a screechy slate. When I hadperfected my verses, and copied them fair on the famous blue-linednote paper, and saw that I had made a very pathetic poem indeed, Ifelt better. And this happened over and over again. I gave up thedancing-club, I ceased to know the rowdy little boys, and I wrotemelancholy poetry oftener, and felt better. The centre table became mystudy. I read much, and mooned between chapters, and wrote longletters to Miss Dillingham. 

For some time I wrote to her almost daily. That was when I found in myheart such depths of woe as I could not pack into rhyme. And finallythere came a day when I could utter my trouble in neither verse norprose, and I implored Miss Dillingham to come to me and hear mysorrowful revelations. But I did not want her to come to the house. Inthe house there was no privacy; I could not talk. Would she meet me onBoston Common at such and such a time?

Would she? She was a devoted friend, and a wise woman. She met me onBoston Common. It was a gray autumn day--was it not actuallydrizzling?--and I was cold sitting on the bench; but I was thrilledthrough and through with the sense of the magnitude of my troubles, and of the romantic nature of the rendezvous. Who that was even halfawake when he was growing up does not know what all these symptomsbetokened? Miss Dillingham understood, and she wisely gave me noinkling of her diagnosis. She let me talk and kept a grave face. Shedid not belittle my troubles--I made specific charges against my home, members of my family, and life in general; she did not say that Iwould get over them, that every growing girl suffers from the blues;that I was, in brief, a little goose stretching my wings for flight. She told me rather that it would be noble to bear my sorrows bravely, to soothe those who irritated me, to live each day with all my might. She reminded me of great men and women who have suffered, and whoovercame their troubles by living and working. And she sent me homeamazingly comforted, my pettiness and self-consciousness routed by thequiet influence of her gray eyes searching mine. This, or somethinglike this, had to be repeated many times, as anybody will know who waspresent at the slow birth of his manhood. From now on, for some years, of course, I must weep and laugh out of season, stand on tiptoe topluck the stars in heaven, love and hate immoderately, propoundtheories of the destiny of man, and not know what is going on in myown heart. 

CHAPTER XV

TARNISHED LAURELS

In the intervals of harkening to my growing-pains I was, of course, still a little girl. As a little girl, in many ways immature for myage, I finished my course in the grammar school, and was graduatedwith honors, four years after my landing in Boston. 

Wheeler Street recognizes five great events in a girl's life: namely, christening, confirmation, graduation, marriage, and burial. Theseoccasions all require full dress for the heroine, and full dress isforthcoming, no matter if the family goes into debt for it. There wasnot a girl who came to school in rags all the year round that did notburst forth in sudden glory on Graduation Day. Fine muslin frocks, lace-trimmed petticoats, patent-leather shoes, perishable hats, gloves, parasols, fans--every girl had them. A mother who had scrubbedfloors for years to keep her girl in school was not going to have hershamed in the end for want of a pretty dress. So she cut off thechildren's supply of butter and worked nights and borrowed and fellinto arrears with the rent; and on Graduation Day she feltmagnificently rewarded, seeing her Mamie as fine as any girl in theschool. And in order to preserve for posterity this triumphantspectacle, she took Mamie, after the exercises, to be photographed, with her diploma in one hand, a bouquet in the other, and the gloves, fan, parasol, and patent-leather shoes in full sight around a fancytable. Truly, the follies of the poor are worth studying. 

It did not strike me as folly, but as the fulfilment of the portent ofmy natal star, when I saw myself, on Graduation Day, arrayed like untoa princess. Frills, lace, patent-leather shoes--I had everything. Ieven had a sash with silk fringes. 

Did I speak of folly? Listen, and I will tell you quite another tale. Perhaps when you have heard it you will not be too hasty to run andteach The Poor. Perhaps you will admit that The Poor may havesomething to teach you. 

Before we had been two years in America, my sister Frieda was engagedto be married. This was under the old dispensation: Frieda came toAmerica too late to avail herself of the gifts of an Americangirlhood. Had she been two years younger she might have dodged hercircumstances, evaded her Old-World fate. She would have gone toschool and imbibed American ideas. She might have clung to hergirlhood longer instead of marrying at seventeen. I am so fond of theAmerican way that it has always seemed to me a pitiful accident thatmy sister should have come so near and missed by so little thefulfilment of my country's promise to women. A long girlhood, a freechoice in marriage, and a brimful womanhood are the precious rights ofan American woman. 

My father was too recently from the Old World to be entirely free fromthe influence of its social traditions. He had put Frieda to work outof necessity. The necessity was hardly lifted when she had an offer ofmarriage, but my father would not stand in the way of what heconsidered her welfare. Let her escape from the workshop, if she had achance, while the roses were still in her cheeks. If she remained forten years more bent over the needle, what would she gain? Not evenher personal comfort; for Frieda never called her earnings her own, but spent everything on the family, denying herself all butnecessities. The young man who sued for her was a good workman, earning fair wages, of irreproachable character, and refined manners. My father had known him for years. 

So Frieda was to be released from the workshop. The act was really inthe nature of a sacrifice on my father's part, for he was still in thewoods financially, and would sorely miss Frieda's wages. The greaterthe pity, therefore, that there was no one to counsel him to giveAmerica more time with my sister. She attended the night school; shewas fond of reading. In books, in a slowly ripening experience, shemight have found a better answer to the riddle of a girl's life than apremature marriage. 

My sister's engagement pleased me very well. Our confidences were notinterrupted, and I understood that she was happy. I was very fond ofMoses Rifkin myself. He was the nicest young man of my acquaintance, not at all like other workmen. He was very kind to us children, bringing us presents and taking us out for excursions. He had a senseof humor, and he was going to marry our Frieda. How could I help beingpleased?

The marriage was not to take place for some time, and in the intervalFrieda remained in the shop. She continued to bring home all herwages. If she was going to desert the family, she would not let themfeel it sooner than she must. 

Then all of a sudden she turned spendthrift. She appropriated I do notknow what fabulous sums, to spend just as she pleased, for once. Sheattended bargain sales, and brought away such finery as had nevergraced our flat before. Home from work in the evening, after a hurriedsupper, she shut herself up in the parlor, and cut and snipped andmeasured and basted and stitched as if there were nothing else in theworld to do. It was early summer, and the air had a wooing touch, evenon Wheeler Street. Moses Rifkin came, and I suppose he also had awooing touch. But Frieda only smiled and shook her head; and as hermouth was full of pins, it was physically impossible for Moses toargue. She remained all evening in a white disorder of tuckedbreadths, curled ruffles, dismembered sleeves, and swirls of freshlace; her needle glancing in the lamplight, and poor Moses picking upher spools. 

Her trousseau, was it not? No, not her trousseau. It was my graduationdress on which she was so intent. And when it was finished, and waspronounced a most beautiful dress, and she ought to have beensatisfied, Frieda went to the shops once more and bought the sash withthe silk fringes. 

The improvidence of the poor is a most distressing spectacle to allright-minded students of sociology. But please spare me your homilythis time. It does not apply. The poor are the poor in spirit. Thosewho are rich in spiritual endowment will never be found bankrupt. 

Graduation Day was nothing less than a triumph for me. It was not onlythat I had two pieces to speak, one of them an original composition;it was more because I was known in my school district as the"smartest" girl in the class, and all eyes were turned on the prodigy, and I was aware of it. I was aware of everything. That is why I amable to tell you everything now. 

The assembly hall was crowded to bursting, but my friends had notrouble in finding seats. They were ushered up to the platform, whichwas reserved for guests of honor. I was very proud to see my friendstreated with such distinction. My parents were there, and Frieda, ofcourse; Miss Dillingham, and some others of my Chelsea teachers. Adozen or so of my humbler friends and acquaintances were scatteredamong the crowd on the floor. 

When I stepped up on the stage to read my composition I was seizedwith stage fright. The floor under my feet and the air around me wereoppressively present to my senses, while my own hand I could not havelocated. I did not know where my body began or ended, I was soconscious of my gloves, my shoes, my flowing sash. My wonderful dress, in which I had taken so much satisfaction, gave me the most trouble. Iwas suddenly paralyzed by a conviction that it was too short, and itseemed to me I stood on absurdly long legs. And ten thousand peoplewere looking up at me. It was horrible!

I suppose I no more than cleared my throat before I began to read, butto me it seemed that I stood petrified for an age, an awful silencebooming in my ears. My voice, when at last I began, sounded far away. I thought that nobody could hear me. But I kept on, mechanically; forI had rehearsed many times. And as I read I gradually forgot myself, forgot the place and the occasion. The people looking up at me heardthe story of a beautiful little boy, my cousin, whom I had loved verydearly, and who died in far-distant Russia some years after I came toAmerica. My composition was not a masterpiece; it was merely good fora girl of fifteen. But I had written that I still loved the littlecousin, and I made a thousand strangers feel it. And before theapplause there was a moment of stillness in the great hall. 

After the singing and reading by the class, there were the customaryaddresses by distinguished guests. We girls were reminded that we weregoing to be women, and happiness was promised to those of us who wouldaim to be noble women. A great many trite and obvious things, a greatdeal of the rhetoric appropriate to the occasion, compliments, applause, general satisfaction; so went the programme. Much of therhetoric, many of the fine sentiments did not penetrate to thethoughts of us for whom they were intended, because we were in such aflutter about our ruffles and ribbons, and could hardly refrain fromopenly prinking. But we applauded very heartily every speaker andevery would-be speaker, understanding that by a consensus of opinionon the platform we were very fine young ladies, and much was to beexpected of us. 

One of the last speakers was introduced as a member of the SchoolBoard. He began like all the rest of them, but he ended differently. Abandoning generalities, he went on to tell the story of a particularschoolgirl, a pupil in a Boston school, whose phenomenal career mightserve as an illustration of what the American system of free educationand the European immigrant could make of each other. He had not gotvery far when I realized, to my great surprise and no small delight, that he was telling my story. I saw my friends on the platform beamingbehind the speaker, and I heard my name whispered in the audience. Ihad been so much of a celebrity, in a small local way, thatidentification of the speaker's heroine was inevitable. My classmates, of course, guessed the name, and they turned to look at me, andnudged me, and all but pointed at me; their new muslins rustling andsilk ribbons hissing. 

One or two nearest me forgot etiquette so far as to whisper to me. "Mary Antin, " they said, as the speaker sat down, amid a burst of themost enthusiastic applause, --"Mary Antin, why don't you get up andthank him?"

I was dazed with all that had happened. Bursting with pride I was, butI was moved, too, by nobler feelings. I realized, in a vague, far-offway, what it meant to my father and mother to be sitting there andseeing me held up as a paragon, my history made the theme of aneloquent discourse; what it meant to my father to see his ambitioushopes thus gloriously fulfilled, his judgment of me verified; what itmeant to Frieda to hear me all but named with such honor. With allthese things choking my heart to overflowing, my wits forsook me, if Ihad had any at all that day. The audience was stirring and whisperingso that I could hear: "Who is it?" "Is that so?" And again theyprompted me:--

"Mary Antin, get up. Get up and thank him, Mary. "

And I rose where I sat, and in a voice that sounded thin as a fly'safter the oratorical bass of the last speaker, I began:--

"I want to thank you--"

That is as far as I got. Mr. Swan, the principal, waved his hand tosilence me; and then, and only then, did I realize the enormity ofwhat I had done. 

My eulogist had had the good taste not to mention names, and I hadbeen brazenly forward, deliberately calling attention to myself whenthere was no need. Oh, it was sickening! I hated myself, I hated withall my heart the girls who had prompted me to such immodest conduct. Iwished the ground would yawn and snap me up. I was ashamed to look upat my friends on the platform. What was Miss Dillingham thinking ofme? Oh, what a fool I had been! I had ruined my own triumph. I haddisgraced myself, and my friends, and poor Mr. Swan, and the WinthropSchool. The monster vanity had sucked out my wits, and left me astaring idiot. 

It is easy to say that I was making a mountain out of a mole hill, acatastrophe out of a mere breach of good manners. It is easy to saythat. But I know that I suffered agonies of shame. After theexercises, when the crowd pressed in all directions in search offriends, I tried in vain to get out of the hall. I was mobbed, I waslionized. Everybody wanted to shake hands with the prodigy of the day, and they knew who it was. I had made sure of that; I had exhibitedmyself. The people smiled on me, flattered me, passed me on from oneto another. I smirked back, but I did not know what I said. I was wildto be clear of the building. I thought everybody mocked me. All myroses had turned to ashes, and all through my own brazen conduct. 

I would have given my diploma to have Miss Dillingham know how thething had happened, but I could not bring myself to speak first. Ifshe would ask me--But nobody asked. Nobody looked away from me. Everybody congratulated me, and my father and mother and my remotestrelations. But the sting of shame smarted just the same; I could notbe consoled. I had made a fool of myself: Mr. Swan had publicly put medown. 

Ah, so that was it! Vanity was the vital spot again. It was woundedvanity that writhed and squirmed. It was not because I had been bold, but because I had been pronounced bold, that I suffered somonstrously. If Mr. Swan, with an eloquent gesture, had not silencedme, I might have made my little speech--good heavens! what _did_ Imean to say?--and probably called it another feather in my bonnet. Buthe had stopped me promptly, disgusted with my forwardness, and he hadshown before all those hundreds what he thought of me. Therein lay thesting. 

With all my talent for self-analysis, it took me a long time torealize the essential pettiness of my trouble. For years--actually foryears--after that eventful day of mingled triumph and disgrace, Icould not think of the unhappy incident without inward squirming. Iremember distinctly how the little scene would suddenly flash upon meat night, as I lay awake in bed, and I would turn over impatiently, asif to shake off a nightmare; and this so long after the occurrencethat I was myself amazed at the persistence of the nightmare. I hadnever been reproached by any one for my conduct on Graduation Day. Whycould I not forgive myself? I studied the matter deeply--it wearies meto remember how deeply--till at last I understood that it was woundedvanity that hurt so, and no nobler remorse. Then, and only then, wasthe ghost laid. If it ever tried to get up again, after that, I onlyhad to call it names to see it scurry back to its grave and pull thesod down after it. 

Before I had laid my ghost, a friend told me of a similar experienceof his boyhood. He was present at a small private entertainment, and aviolinist who should have played being absent, the host asked for avolunteer to take his place. My friend, then a boy in his teens, offered himself, and actually stood up with the violin in his hands, as if to play. But he could not even hold the instrument properly--hehad never been taught the violin. He told me he never knew whatpossessed him to get up and make a fool of himself before a roomful ofpeople; but he was certain that ten thousand imps possessed him andtormented him for years and years after if only he remembered theincident. 

My friend's confession was such a consolation to me that I could nothelp thinking I might do some other poor wretch a world of good byoffering him my company and that of my friend in his misery. For if ittook me a long time to find out that I was a vain fool, the corollarydid not escape me: there must be other vain fools. 

CHAPTER XVI

DOVER STREET

What happened next was Dover Street. 

And what was Dover Street?

Ask rather, What was it not? Dover Street was my fairest garden ofgirlhood, a gate of paradise, a window facing on a broad avenue oflife. Dover Street was a prison, a school of discipline, a battlefieldof sordid strife. The air in Dover Street was heavy with evil odors ofdegradation, but a breath from the uppermost heavens rippled through, whispering of infinite things. In Dover Street the dragon povertygripped me for a last fight, but I overthrew the hideous creature, andsat on his neck as on a throne. In Dover Street I was shackled with ahundred chains of disadvantage, but with one free hand I plantedlittle seeds, right there in the mud of shame, that blossomed into thehoneyed rose of widest freedom. In Dover Street there was often noloaf on the table, but the hand of some noble friend was ever in mine. The night in Dover Street was rent with the cries of wrong, but thethunders of truth crashed through the pitiful clamor and died out inprophetic silences. 

Outwardly, Dover Street is a noisy thoroughfare cut through a SouthEnd slum, in every essential the same as Wheeler Street. Turn down anystreet in the slums, at random, and call it by whatever name youplease, you will observe there the same fashions of life, death, andendurance. Every one of those streets is a rubbish heap of damagedhumanity, and it will take a powerful broom and an ocean of soapsudsto clean it out. 

Dover Street is intersected, near its eastern end, where we lived, byHarrison Avenue. That street is to the South End what Salem Street isto the North End. It is the heart of the South End ghetto, for thegreater part of its length; although its northern end belongs to therealm of Chinatown. Its multifarious business bursts through thenarrow shop doors, and overruns the basements, the sidewalk, thestreet itself, in pushcarts and open-air stands. Its multitudinouspopulation bursts through the greasy tenement doors, and floods thecorridors, the doorsteps, the gutters, the side streets, pushing inand out among the pushcarts, all day long and half the night besides. 

Rarely as Harrison Avenue is caught asleep, even more rarely is itfound clean. Nothing less than a fire or flood would cleanse thisstreet. Even Passover cannot quite accomplish this feat. For althoughthe tenements may be scrubbed to their remotest corners, on this oneoccasion, the cleansing stops at the curbstone. A great deal of thefilthy rubbish accumulated in a year is pitched into the street, oftenthrough the windows; and what the ashman on his daily round does notremove is left to be trampled to powder, in which form it steals backinto the houses from which it was so lately removed. 

The City Fathers provide soap and water for the slums, in the form ofexcellent schools, kindergartens, and branch libraries. And there theystop: at the curbstone of the people's life. They cleanse anddiscipline the children's minds, but their bodies they pitch into thegutter. For there are no parks and almost no playgrounds in theHarrison Avenue district, --in my day there were none, --and such asthere are have been wrenched from the city by public-spirited citizenswho have no offices in City Hall. No wonder the ashman is not morethorough: he learns from his masters. 

It is a pity to have it so, in a queen of enlightened cities likeBoston. If we of the twentieth century do not believe in baseball asmuch as in philosophy, we have not learned the lesson of modernscience, which teaches, among other things, that the body is thenursery of the soul; the instrument of our moral development; thesecret chart of our devious progress from worm to man. The greatachievement of recent science, of which we are so proud, has been thedeciphering of the hieroglyphic of organic nature. To worship thefacts and neglect the implications of the message of science is toapplaud the drama without taking the moral to heart. And we certainlyare not taking the moral to heart when we try to make a hero out ofthe boy by such foreign appliances as grammar and algebra, whileutterly despising the fittest instrument for his uplifting--the boy'sown body. 

We had no particular reason for coming to Dover Street. It might justas well have been Applepie Alley. For my father had sold, with thegoods, fixtures, and good-will of the Wheeler Street store, all hishopes of ever making a living in the grocery trade; and I doubt if hegot a silver dollar the more for them. We had to live somewhere, evenif we were not making a living, so we came to Dover Street, wheretenements were cheap; by which I mean that rent was low. The ultimatecost of life in those tenements, in terms of human happiness, is highenough. 

Our new home consisted of five small rooms up two flights ofstairs, with the right of way through the dark corridors. In the"parlor" the dingy paper hung in rags and the plaster fell in chunks. One of the bedrooms was absolutely dark and air-tight. The kitchenwindows looked out on a dirty court, at the back of which was the reartenement of the estate. To us belonged, along with the five rooms andthe right of way aforesaid, a block of upper space the length of apulley line across this court, and the width of an arc described by awindy Monday's wash in its remotest wanderings. 

 [Illustration: HARRISON AVENUE IS THE HEART OF THE SOUTH END GHETTO]

The little front bedroom was assigned to me, with only one partner, mysister Dora. A mouse could not have led a cat much of a chase acrossthis room; still we found space for a narrow bed, a crazy bureau, anda small table. From the window there was an unobstructed view of alumberyard, beyond which frowned the blackened walls of a factory. Thefence of the lumberyard was gay with theatre posters and illustratedadvertisements of tobacco, whiskey, and patent baby foods. When thewindow was open, there was a constant clang and whirr of electriccars, varied by the screech of machinery, the clatter of empty wagons, or the rumble of heavy trucks. 

There was nothing worse in all this than we had had before since ourexile from Crescent Beach; but I did not take the same delight in thepropinquity of electric cars and arc lights that I had till now. Isuppose the tenement began to pall on me. 

It must not be supposed that I enjoyed any degree of privacy, becauseI had half a room to myself. We were six in the five rooms; we werebound to be always in each other's way. And as it was within our flat, so it was in the house as a whole. All doors, beginning with thestreet door, stood open most of the time; or if they were closed, thetenants did not wear out their knuckles knocking for admittance. Icould stand at any time in the unswept entrance hall and tell, from ananalysis of the medley of sounds and smells that issued from doorsajar, what was going on in the several flats from below up. Thatguttural, scolding voice, unremittent as the hissing of a steam pipe, is Mrs. Rasnosky. I make a guess that she is chastising the infantIsaac for taking a second lump of sugar in his tea. _Spam! Bam!_ Yes, and she is rubbing in her objections with the flat of her hand. Thatblubbering and moaning, accompanying an elephantine tread, is fat Mrs. Casey, second floor, home drunk from an afternoon out, in fear of thevengeance of Mr. Casey; to propitiate whom she is burning a pan ofbacon, as the choking fumes and outrageous sizzling testify. I hear afeeble whining, interrupted by long silences. It is that scabby babyon the third floor, fallen out of bed again, with nobody home to pickhim up. 

To escape from these various horrors I ascend to the roof, where baconand babies and child-beating are not. But there I find two figures incalico wrappers, with bare red arms akimbo, a basket of wet clothes infront of each, and only one empty clothes-line between them. I do notwant to be dragged in as a witness in a case of assault and battery, so I descend to the street again, grateful to note, as I pass, thatthe third-floor baby is still. 

In front of the door I squeeze through a group of children. They aregoing to play tag, and are counting to see who should be "it":--

 "My-mother-and-your-mother-went-out-to-hang-clothes; My-mother-gave-your-mother-a-punch-in-the-nose. "

If the children's couplet does not give a vivid picture of the life, manners, and customs of Dover Street, no description of mine can everdo so. 

Frieda was married before we came to Dover Street, and went to live inEast Boston. This left me the eldest of the children at home. Whetheron this account, or because I was outgrowing my childish carelessness, or because I began to believe, on the cumulative evidence of theCrescent Beach, Chelsea, and Wheeler Street adventures, that America, after all, was not going to provide for my father's family, --whetherfor any or all of these reasons, I began at this time to takebread-and-butter matters more to heart, and to ponder ways and meansof getting rich. My father sought employment wherever work was goingon. His health was poor; he aged very fast. Nevertheless he offeredhimself for every kind of labor; he offered himself for a boy's wages. Here he was found too weak, here too old; here his imperfect Englishwas in the way, here his Jewish appearance. He had a few short termsof work at this or that; I do not know the name of the form ofdrudgery that my father did not practise. But all told, he did notearn enough to pay the rent in full and buy a bone for the soup. Theonly steady source of income, for I do not know what years, was mybrother's earnings from his newspapers. 

Surely this was the time for me to take my sister's place in theworkshop. I had had every fair chance until now: school, my time tomyself, liberty to run and play and make friends. I had graduated fromgrammar school; I was of legal age to go to work. What was I doing, sitting at home and dreaming?

I was minding my business, of course; with all my might I was mindingmy business. As I understood it, my business was to go to school, tolearn everything there was to know, to write poetry, become famous, and make the family rich. Surely it was not shirking to lay out such aprogramme for myself. I had boundless faith in my future. I wascertainly going to be a great poet; I was certainly going to take careof the family. 

Thus mused I, in my arrogance. And my family? They were as bad as I. My father had not lost a whit of his ambition for me. Since GraduationDay, and the school-committeeman's speech, and half a column about mein the paper, his ambition had soared even higher. He was going tokeep me at school till I was prepared for college. By that time, hewas sure, I would more than take care of myself. It never for a momententered his head to doubt the wisdom or justice of this course. And mymother was just as loyal to my cause, and my brother, and my sister. 

It is no wonder if I got along rapidly: I was helped, encouraged, andupheld by every one. Even the baby cheered me on. When I asked herwhether she believed in higher education, she answered, without amoment's hesitation, "Ducka-ducka-da!" Against her I remember onlythat one day, when I read her a verse out of a most pathetic piece Iwas composing, she laughed right out, a most disrespectful laugh; forwhich I revenged myself by washing her face at the faucet, and rubbingit red on the roller towel. 

It was just like me, when it was debated whether I would be bestfitted for college at the High or the Latin School, to go in person toMr. Tetlow, who was principal of both schools, and so get the mostexpert opinion on the subject. I never send a messenger, you mayremember, where I can go myself. It was vacation time, and I had tofind Mr. Tetlow at his home. Away out to the wilds of Roxbury I foundmy way--perhaps half an hour's ride on the electric car from DoverStreet. I grew an inch taller and broader between the corner of CedarStreet and Mr. Tetlow's house, such was the charm of the clean, greensuburb on a cramped waif from the slums. My faded calico dress, myrusty straw sailor hat, the color of my skin and all bespoke the waif. But never a bit daunted was I. I went up the steps to the porch, rangthe bell, and asked for the great man with as much assurance as if Iwere a daily visitor on Cedar Street. I calmly awaited the appearanceof Mr. Tetlow in the reception room, and stated my errand withouttrepidation. 

And why not? I was a solemn little person for the moment, earnestlyseeking advice on a matter of great importance. That is what Mr. Tetlow saw, to judge by the gravity with which he discussed mybusiness with me, and the courtesy with which he showed me to thedoor. He saw, too, I fancy, that I was not the least bit conscious ofmy shabby dress; and I am sure he did not smile at my appearance, evenwhen my back was turned. 

A new life began for me when I entered the Latin School in September. Until then I had gone to school with my equals, and as a matter ofcourse. Now it was distinctly a feat for me to keep in school, and myschoolmates were socially so far superior to me that my poverty becameconspicuous. The pupils of the Latin School, from the nature of theinstitution, are an aristocratic set. They come from refined homes, dress well, and spend the recess hour talking about parties, beaux, and the matinée. As students they are either very quick or veryhard-working; for the course of study, in the lingo of the schoolworld, is considered "stiff. " The girl with half her brain asleep, orwith too many beaux, drops out by the end of the first year; or a oneand only beau may be the fatal element. At the end of the course theweeding process has reduced the once numerous tribe of academiccandidates to a cosey little family. 

By all these tokens I should have had serious business on my hands asa pupil in the Latin School, but I did not find it hard. To makemyself letter-perfect in my lessons required long hours of study, butthat was my delight. To make myself at home in an alien world was alsowithin my talents; I had been practising it day and night for the pastfour years. To remain unconscious of my shabby and ill-fitting clotheswhen the rustle of silk petticoats in the schoolroom protested againstthem was a matter still within my moral reach. Half a dress a year hadbeen my allowance for many seasons; even less, for as I did not growmuch I could wear my dresses as long as they lasted. And I had stoodbefore editors, and exchanged polite calls with school-teachers, untroubled by the detestable colors and archaic design of my garments. To stand up and recite Latin declensions without trembling from hungerwas something more of a feat, because I sometimes went to school withlittle or no breakfast; but even that required no special heroism, --atmost it was a matter of self-control. I had the advantage of a poorappetite, too; I really did not need much breakfast. Or if I washungry it would hardly show; I coughed so much that my unsteadinesswas self-explained. 

Everything helped, you see. My schoolmates helped. Aristocrats thoughthey were, they did not hold themselves aloof from me. Some of thegirls who came to school in carriages were especially cordial. Theyrated me by my scholarship, and not by my father's occupation. Theyteased and admired me by turns for learning the footnotes in the Latingrammar by heart; they never reproached me for my ignorance of thelatest comic opera. And it was more than good breeding that made themseem unaware of the incongruity of my presence. It was a generousappreciation of what it meant for a girl from the slums to be in theLatin School, on the way to college. If our intimacy ended on thesteps of the school-house, it was more my fault than theirs. Most ofthe girls were democratic enough to have invited me to their homes, although to some, of course, I was "impossible. " But I had no time forvisiting; school work and reading and family affairs occupied all thedaytime, and much of the night time. I did not "go with" any of thegirls, in the school-girl sense of the phrase. I admired some of them, either for good looks, or beautiful manners, or more subtleattributes; but always at a distance. I discovered somethinginimitable in the way the Back Bay girls carried themselves; and Ishould have been the first to perceive the incongruity of CommonwealthAvenue entwining arms with Dover Street. Some day, perhaps, when Ishould be famous and rich; but not just then. So my companions and Iparted on the steps of the school-house, in mutual respect; theyguiltless of snobbishness, I innocent of envy. It was a graciouslyAmerican relation, and I am happy to this day to recall it. 

The one exception to this rule of friendly distance was my chum, Florence Connolly. But I should hardly have said "chum. " Florence andI occupied adjacent seats for three years, but we did not walk arm inarm, nor call each other nicknames, nor share our lunch, norcorrespond in vacation time. Florence was quiet as a mouse, and I wasreserved as an oyster; and perhaps we two had no more in commonfundamentally than those two creatures in their natural state. Still, as we were both very studious, and never strayed far from our desks atrecess, we practised a sort of intimacy of propinquity. AlthoughFlorence was of my social order, her father presiding over a cheaplunch room, I did not on that account feel especially drawn to her. Ispent more time studying Florence than loving her, I suppose. And yetI ought to have loved her; she was such a good girl. Always perfect inher lessons, she was so modest that she recited in a noticeabletremor, and had to be told frequently to raise her voice. Florencewore her light brown hair brushed flatly back and braided in a singleplait, at a time when pompadours were six inches high and braids hungin pairs. Florence had a pocket in her dress for her handkerchief, ina day when pockets were repugnant to fashion. All these things oughtto have made me feel the kinship of humble circumstances, thecomradeship of intellectual earnestness; but they did not. 

The truth is that my relation to persons and things depended neitheron social distinctions nor on intellectual or moral affinities. Myattitude, at this time, was determined by my consciousness of theunique elements in my character and history. It seemed to me that Ihad been pursuing a single adventure since the beginning of the world. Through highways and byways, underground, overground, by land, by sea, ever the same star had guided me, I thought, ever the same purposehad divided my affairs from other men's. What that purpose was, wherewas the fixed horizon beyond which my star would not recede, was anabsorbing mystery to me. But the current moment never puzzled me. WhatI chose instinctively to do I knew to be right and in accordance withmy destiny. I never hesitated over great things, but answered promptlyto the call of my genius. So what was it to me whether my neighborsspurned or embraced me, if my way was no man's way? Nor should any oneever reject me whom I chose to be my friend, because I would make sureof a kindred spirit by the coincidence of our guiding stars. 

When, where in the harum-scarum life of Dover Street was there time orplace for such self-communing? In the night, when everybody slept; ona solitary walk, as far from home as I dared to go. 

I was not unhappy on Dover Street; quite the contrary. Everything ofconsequence was well with me. Poverty was a superficial, temporarymatter; it vanished at the touch of money. Money in America wasplentiful; it was only a matter of getting some of it, and I was on myway to the mint. If Dover Street was not a pleasant place to abide in, it was only a wayside house. And I was really happy, actively happy, in the exercise of my mind in Latin, mathematics, history, and therest; the things that suffice a studious girl in the middle teens. 

Still I had moments of depression, when my whole being protestedagainst the life of the slum. I resented the familiarity of my vulgarneighbors. I felt myself defiled by the indecencies I was compelled towitness. Then it was I took to running away from home. I went out inthe twilight and walked for hours, my blind feet leading me. I didnot care where I went. If I lost my way, so much the better; I neverwanted to see Dover Street again. 

But behold, as I left the crowds behind, and the broader avenues werespanned by the open sky, my grievances melted away, and I fell todreaming of things that neither hurt nor pleased. A fringe of treesagainst the sunset became suddenly the symbol of the whole world, andI stood and gazed and asked questions of it. The sunset faded; thetrees withdrew. The wind went by, but dropped no hint in my ear. Theevening star leaped out between the clouds, and sealed the secret witha seal of splendor. 

A favorite resort of mine, after dark, was the South Boston Bridge, across South Bay and the Old Colony Railroad. This was so near homethat I could go there at any time when the confusion in the housedrove me out, or I felt the need of fresh air. I liked to standleaning on the bridge railing, and look down on the dim tangle ofrailroad tracks below. I could barely see them branching out, elbowing, winding, and sliding out into the night in pairs. I wasfascinated by the dotted lights, the significant red and green ofsignal lamps. These simple things stood for a complexity that it mademe dizzy to think of. Then the blackness below me was split by thefiery eye of a monster engine, his breath enveloped me in blindingclouds, his long body shot by, rattling a hundred claws of steel; andhe was gone, with an imperative shriek that shook me where I stood. 

So would I be, swift on my rightful business, picking out my propertrack from the million that cross it, pausing for no obstacles, sureof my goal. 

 [Illustration: I LIKED TO STAND AND LOOK DOWN ON THE DIM TANGLE OF RAILROAD TRACKS BELOW]

After my watches on the bridge I often stayed up to write or study. Itis late before Dover Street begins to go to bed. It is past midnightbefore I feel that I am alone. Seated in my stiff little chair beforemy narrow table, I gather in the night sounds through the open window, curious to assort and define them. As, little by little, the citysettles down to sleep, the volume of sound diminishes, and thequalities of particular sounds stand out. The electric car lurches bywith silent gong, taking the empty track by leaps, humming to itselfin the invisible distance. A benighted team swings recklessly aroundthe corner, sharp under my rattling window panes, the staccato peltingof hoofs on the cobblestones changed suddenly to an even pounding onthe bridge. A few pedestrians hurry by, their heavy boots all out ofstep. The distant thoroughfares have long ago ceased their murmur, andI know that a million lamps shine idly in the idle streets. 

My sister sleeps quietly in the little bed. The rhythmic dripping of afaucet is audible through the flat. It is so still that I can hear thepaper crackling on the wall. Silence upon silence is added to thenight; only the kitchen clock is the voice of my broodingthoughts, --ticking, ticking, ticking. 

Suddenly the distant whistle of a locomotive breaks the stillness witha long-drawn wail. Like a threatened trouble, the sound comes nearer, piercingly near; then it dies out in a mangled silence, complaining tothe last. 

The sleepers stir in their beds. Somebody sighs, and the burden of allhis trouble falls upon my heart. A homeless cat cries in the alley, inthe voice of a human child. And the ticking of the kitchen clock isthe voice of my troubled thoughts. 

Many things are revealed to me as I sit and watch the world asleep. But the silence asks me many questions that I cannot answer; and I amglad when the tide of sound begins to return, by little and little, and I welcome the clatter of tin cans that announces the milkman. Icannot see him in the dusk, but I know his wholesome face has noproblem in it. 

It is one flight up to the roof; it is a leap of the soul to thesunrise. The morning mist rests lightly on chimneys and roofs andwalls, wreathes the lamp-posts, and floats in gauzy streamers down thestreets. Distant buildings are massed like palace walls, with turretsand spires lost in the rosy clouds. I love my beautiful city spreadingall about me. I love the world. I love my place in the world. 

CHAPTER XVII

THE LANDLADY

From sunrise to sunset the day was long enough for many things besidesschool, which occupied five hours. There was time for me to try toearn my living; or at least the rent of our tenement. Rent was astanding trouble. We were always behind, and the landlady was veryangry; so I was particularly ambitious to earn the rent. I had had oneor two poems published since the celebrated eulogy of GeorgeWashington, but nobody had paid for my poems--yet. I was coming tothat, of course, but in the mean time I could not pay the rent with mywriting. To be sure, my acquaintance with men of letters gave me anopening. A friend of mine introduced me to a slightly literary ladywho introduced me to the editor of the "Boston Searchlight, " whooffered me a generous commission for subscriptions to his paper. 

If our rent was three and one-half dollars per week, payable on strongdemand, and the annual subscription to the "Searchlight" was onedollar, and my commission was fifty per cent, how many subscribers didI need? How easy! Seven subscribers a week--one a day! Anybody coulddo that. Mr. James, the editor, said so. He said I could get two orthree any afternoon between the end of school and supper. If I workedall Saturday--my head went dizzy computing the amount of mycommissions. It would be rent and shoes and bonnets and everything foreverybody. 

Bright and early one Saturday morning in the fall I started outcanvassing, in my hand a neatly folded copy of the "Searchlight, " inmy heart, faith in my lucky star and good-will towards all the world. I began with one of the great office buildings on Tremont Street, asMr. James had advised. The first half-hour I lost, wandering throughthe corridors, reading the names on the doors. There were so manypeople in the same office, how should I know, when I entered, whichwas Wilson & Reed, Solicitors, and which C. Jenkins Smith, Mortgagesand Bonds? I decided that it did not matter: I would call them all"Sir. "

I selected a door and knocked. After waiting some time, I knocked alittle louder. The building buzzed with noise, --swift footsteps echoedon the stone floors, snappy talk broke out with the opening of everydoor, bells tinkled, elevators hummed, --no wonder they did not hear meknock. But I noticed that other people went in without knocking, soafter a while I did the same. 

There were several men and two women in the small, brightly lightedroom. They were all busy. It was very confusing. Should I say "Sir" tothe roomful?

"Excuse me, sir, " I began. That was a very good beginning, I feltsure, but I must speak louder. Lately my voice had been poor inschool--gave out, sometimes, in the middle of a recitation. I clearedmy throat, but I did not repeat myself. The back of the bald head thatI had addressed revolved and presented its complement, a bald front. 

"Will you--would you like--I'd like--"

I stared in dismay at the bald gentleman, unable to recall a word ofwhat I meant to say; and he stared in impatience at me. 

"Well, well!" he snapped, "What is it? What is it?"

That reminded me. 

"It's the 'Boston Searchlight, ' sir. I take sub--"

"Take it away--take it away. We're busy here. " He waved me away overhis shoulder, the back of his head once more presented to me. 

I stole out of the room in great confusion. Was that the way I wasgoing to be received? Why, Mr. James had said nobody would hesitate tosubscribe. It was the best paper in Boston, the "Searchlight, " and nobusiness man could afford to be without it. I must have made someblunder. _Was_ "Mortgages and Bonds" a business? I'd never heard ofit, and very likely I had spoken to C. Jenkins Smith. I must tryagain--of course I must try again. 

I selected a real estate office next. A real estate broker, I knew forcertain, was a business man. Mr. George A. Hooker must be just waitingfor the "Boston Searchlight. "

Mr. Hooker was indeed waiting, and he was telling "Central" about it. 

"Yes, Central; waiting, waiting--What?--Yes, yes; ring _four_--What'sthat?--Since when?--Why didn't you say so at first, then, instead ofkeeping me on the line--What?--Oh, is that so? Well, never mind thistime, Central. --I see, I see. --All right. "

I had become so absorbed in this monologue that when Mr. Hooker swungaround on me in his revolving chair I was startled, feeling that I hadbeen caught eavesdropping. I thought he was going to rebuke me, but heonly said, "What can I do for you, Miss?"

Encouraged by his forbearance, I said:--

"Would you like to subscribe to the 'Boston Searchlight, ' sir?"--"Sir"was safer, after all. --"It's a dollar a year. "

I was supposed to say that it was the best paper in Boston, etc. , butMr. Hooker did not look interested, though he was not cross. 

"No, thank you, Miss; no new papers for me. Excuse me, I am verybusy. " And he began to dictate to a stenographer. 

Well, that was not so bad. Mr. Hooker was at least polite. I must tryto make a better speech next time. I stuck to real estate now. O'Lair& Kennedy were both in, in my next office, and both apparentlyenjoying a minute of relaxation, tilted back in their chairs behind alow railing. Said I, determined to be businesslike at last, andaddressing myself to the whole firm:--

"Would you like to subscribe to the 'Boston Searchlight?' It's a verygood paper. No business man can afford it--afford to be without it, Imean. It's only a dollar a year. "

Both men smiled at my break, and I smiled, too. I wondered would theysubscribe separately, or would they take one copy for the firm. 

"The 'Boston Searchlight, '" repeated one of the partners. "Never heardof it. Is that the paper you have there?"

He unfolded the paper I gave him, looked over it, and handed it to hispartner. 

"Ever heard of the 'Searchlight, ' O'Lair? What do you think--can weafford to be without it?"

"I guess we'll make out somehow, " replied Mr. O'Lair, handing me backmy paper. "But I'll buy this copy of you, Miss, " he added, from secondthoughts. 

"And I'll go partner on the bargain, " said Mr. Kennedy. 

But I objected. 

"This is a sample, " I said; "I don't sell single papers. I takesubscriptions for the year. It's one dollar. "

"And no business man can afford it, you know. " Mr. Kennedy winked ashe said it, and we all smiled again. It would have been stupid not tosee the joke. 

"I'm sorry I can't sell my sample, " I said, with my hand on thedoorknob. 

"That's all right, my dear, " said Mr. Kennedy, with a gracious wave ofthe hand. And his partner called after me, "Better luck next door!"

Well, I was getting on! The people grew friendlier all the time. But Iskipped "next door"; it was "Mortgages and Bonds. " I tried"Insurance. "

"The best paper in Boston, is it?" remarked Mr. Thomas F. Dix, turningover my sample. "And who told you that, young lady?"

"Mr. James, " was my prompt reply. 

"Who is Mr. James?--The _editor_! Oh, I see. And do you also think the'Searchlight' the best paper in Boston?"

"I don't know, sir. I like the 'Herald' much better, and the'Transcript. '"

At that Mr. Dix laughed. "That's right, " he said. "Business isbusiness, but you tell the truth. One dollar, is it? Here you are. Myname is on the door. Good-day. "

I think I spent twenty minutes copying the name and room number fromthe door. I did not trust myself to read plain English. What if I madea mistake, and the "Searchlight" went astray, and good Mr. Dixremained unilluminated? He had paid for the year--it would bedreadful to make a mistake. 

Emboldened by my one success, I went into the next office withoutconsidering the kind of business announced on the door. I triedbrokers, lawyers, contractors, and all, just as they came around thecorridor; but I copied no more addresses. Most of the people werepolite. Some men waved me away, like C. Jenkins Smith. Some lookedimpatient at first, but excused themselves politely in the end. Almosteverybody said, "We're busy here, " as if they suspected I wanted themto read a whole year's issue of the "Searchlight" at once. At last oneman told me he did not think it was a nice business for a girl, goingthrough the offices like that. 

This took me aback. I had not thought anything about the nature of thebusiness. I only wanted the money to pay the rent. I wandered throughmiles of stone corridors, unable to see why it was not a nicebusiness, and yet reluctant to go on with it, with the doubt in mymind. Intent on my new problem, I walked into a messenger boy; andlooking back to apologize to him, I collided softly with acushion-shaped gentleman getting out of an elevator. I was making upmy mind to leave the building forever, when I saw an office doorstanding open. It was the first open door I had come across sincemorning--it was past noon now--and it was a sign to me to keep on. Imust not give up so easily. 

Mr. Frederick A. Strong was alone in the office, surreptitiouslypicking his teeth. He had been to lunch. He heard me outgood-naturedly. 

"How much is your commission, if I may ask?" It was the first thing hehad said. 

"Fifty cents, sir. "

"Well, I'll tell you what I will do. I don't care to subscribe, buthere's a quarter for you. "

If I did not blush, it was because it is not my habit, but all of asudden I choked. A lump jumped into my throat; almost the tears werein my eyes. That man was right who said it was not nice to go throughthe offices. I was taken for a beggar: a stranger offered me money fornothing. 

I could not say a word. I started to go out. But Mr. Strong jumped upand prevented me. 

"Oh, don't go like that!" he cried. "I didn't mean to offend you; uponmy word, I didn't. I beg your pardon. I didn't know--you see--Won'tyou sit down a minute to rest? That's kind of you. "

Mr. Strong was so genuinely repentant that I could not refuse him. Besides, I felt a little weak. I had been on my feet since morning, and had had no lunch. I sat down, and Mr. Strong talked. He showed mea picture of his wife and little girl, and said I must go and see themsome time. Pretty soon I was chatting, too, and I told Mr. Strongabout the Latin School; and of course he asked me if I was French, theway people always did when they wanted to say that I had a foreignaccent. So we got started on Russia, and had such an interesting timethat we both jumped up, surprised, when a fine young lady in abeautiful hat came in to take possession of the idle typewriter. 

Mr. Strong introduced me very formally, thanked me for an interestinghour, and shook hands with me at the door. I did not add his name tomy short subscription list, but I counted it a greater triumph that Ihad made a friend. 

It would have been seeking an anticlimax to solicit any more in thebuilding. I went out, into the roar of Tremont Street, and across theCommon, still green and leafy. I rested a while on a bench, debatingwhere to go next. It was past two by the clock on Park Street Church. I had had a long day already, but it was too early to quit work, withonly one half dollar of my own in my pocket. It was Saturday--in theevening the landlady would come. I must try a little longer. 

I went out along Columbus Avenue, a popular route for bicyclists atthat time. The bicycle stores all along the way looked promising tome. The people did not look so busy as in the office building: theywould at least be polite. 

They were not particularly rude, but they did not subscribe. Nobodywanted the "Searchlight. " They had never heard of it--they made jokesabout it--they did not want it at any price. 

I began to lose faith in the paper myself. I got tired of its name. Ibegan to feel dizzy. I stopped going into the stores. I walkedstraight along, looking at nothing. I wanted to go back, go home, butI wouldn't. I felt like doing myself spite. I walked right along, straight as the avenue ran. I did not know where it would lead me. Idid not care. Everything was horrid. I would go right on until night. I would get lost. I would fall in a faint on a strange doorstep, andbe found dead in the morning, and be pitied. 

Wouldn't that be interesting! The adventure might even end happily. Imight faint at the door of a rich old man's house, who would take mein, and order his housekeeper to nurse me, just like in the storybooks. In my delirium--of course I would have a fever--I would talkabout the landlady, and how I had tried to earn the rent; and the oldgentleman would wipe his spectacles for pity. Then I would wake up, and ask plaintively, "Where am I?" And when I got strong, after adelightfully long convalescence, the old gentleman would take me toDover Street--in a carriage!--and we would all be reunited, and laughand cry together. The old gentleman, of course, would engage my fatheras his steward, on the spot, and we would all go to live in one of hishouses, with a garden around it. 

I walked on and on, gleefully aware that I had not eaten sincemorning. Wasn't I beginning to feel shaky? Yes; I should certainlyfaint before long. But I didn't like the houses I passed. They did notlook fit for my adventure. I must keep up till I reached a betterneighborhood. 

Anybody who knows Boston knows how cheaply my adventure ended. Columbus Avenue leads out to Roxbury Crossing. When I saw that thehouses were getting shabbier, instead of finer, my heart sank. When Icame out on the noisy, thrice-commonplace street-car centre, my spiritcollapsed utterly. 

I did not swoon. I woke up from my foolish, childish dream with ashock. I was disgusted with myself, and frightened besides. It wasevening now, and I was faint and sick in good earnest, and I did notknow where I was. I asked a starter at the transfer station the way toDover Street, and he told me to get on a car that was just coming in. 

"I'll walk, " I said, "if you will please tell me the shortest way. "How could I spend five cents out of the little I had made?

But the starter discouraged me. 

"You can't walk it before midnight--the way you look, my girl. Betterhop on that car before it goes. "

I could not resist the temptation. I rode home in the car, and feltlike a thief when I paid the fare. Five cents gone to pay for myfolly!

I was grateful for a cold supper; thrice grateful to hear that Mrs. Hutch, the landlady, had been and gone, content with two dollars thatmy father had brought home. 

Mrs. Hutch seldom succeeded in collecting the full amount of the rentsfrom her tenants. I suppose that made the bookkeeping complicated, which must have been wearing on her nerves; and hence her temper. Welived, on Dover Street, in fear of her temper. Saturday had a distinctquality about it, derived from the imminence of Mrs. Hutch's visit. Ofcourse I awoke on Saturday morning with the no-school feeling; but thegrim thing that leaped to its feet and glowered down on me, while therest of my consciousness was still yawning on its back, was theMrs. -Hutch-is-coming-and-there's-no-rent feeling. 

It is hard, if you are a young girl, full of life and inclined to beglad, to go to sleep in anxiety and awake in fear. It is apt tointerfere with the circulation of the vital ether of happiness in theyoung, which is damaging to the complexion of the soul. It is bitter, when you are middle-aged and unsuccessful, to go to sleep inself-reproach and awake unexonerated. It is likely to causefermentation in the sweetest nature; it is certain to breed gray hairsand a premature longing for death. It is pitiful, if you are thehome-keeping mother of an impoverished family, to drop in your traceshelpless at night, and awake unstrengthened in the early morning. Thehaunting consciousness of rooted poverty is an improper bedfellow fora woman who still bears. It has been known to induce physical andspiritual malformations in the babies she nurses. 

It did require strength to lift the burden of life, in the graymorning, on Dover Street; especially on Saturday morning. Perhaps mymother's pack was the heaviest to lift. To the man of the house, poverty is a bulky dragon with gripping talons and a poisonous breath;but he bellows in the open, and it is possible to give him knightlybattle, with the full swing of the angry arm that cuts to the enemy'svitals. To the housewife, want is an insidious myriapod creature thatcrawls in the dark, mates with its own offspring, breeds all the yearround, persists like leprosy. The woman has an endless, ingloriousstruggle with the pest; her triumphs are too petty for applause, herfailures too mean for notice. Care, to the man, is a hound to be keptin leash and mastered. To the woman, care is a secret parasite thatinfects the blood. 

Mrs. Hutch, of course, was only one symptom of the disease of poverty, but there were times when she seemed to me the sharpest tooth of thegnawing canker. Surely as sorrow trails behind sin, Saturday eveningbrought Mrs. Hutch. The landlady did not trail. Her movements wereanything but impassive. She climbed the stairs with determination andlanded at the top with emphasis. Her knock on the door was clearsharp, unfaltering; it was impossible to pretend not to hear it. Her"Good-evening" announced business; her manner of taking a chairsuggested the throwing-down of the gauntlet. Invariably she asked formy father, calling him Mr. Anton, and refusing to be corrected; almostinvariably he was not at home--was out looking for work. Had he lefther the rent? My mother's gentle "No, ma'am" was the signal for thestorm. I do not want to repeat what Mrs. Hutch said. It would be hardon her, and hard on me. She grew red in the face; her voice grewshriller with every word. My poor mother hung her head where shestood; the children stared from their corners; the frightened babycried. The angry landlady rehearsed our sins like a prophetforetelling doom. We owed so many weeks' rent; we were too lazy towork; we never intended to pay; we lived on others; we deserved to beput out without warning. She reproached my mother for having too manychildren; she blamed us all for coming to America. She enumerated herlosses through nonpayment of her rents; told us that she did notcollect the amount of her taxes; showed us how our irregularities weredriving a poor widow to ruin. 

My mother did not attempt to excuse herself, but when Mrs. Hutch beganto rail against my absent father, she tried to put in a word in hisdefence. The landlady grew all the shriller at that, and silenced mymother impatiently. Sometimes she addressed herself to me. I alwaysstood by, if I was at home, to give my mother the moral support of mydumb sympathy. I understood that Mrs. Hutch had a special grudgeagainst me, because I did not go to work as a cash girl and earn threedollars a week. I wanted to explain to her how I was preparing myselffor a great career, and I was ready to promise her the payment of thearrears as soon as I began to get rich. But the landlady would not letme put in a word. And I was sorry for her, because she seemed to behaving such a bad time. 

At last Mrs. Hutch got up to leave, marching out as determinedly asshe had marched in. At the door she turned, in undiminished wrath, toshoot her parting dart:--

"And if Mr. Anton does not bring me the rent on Monday, I will servenotice of eviction on Tuesday, without fail. "

We breathed when she was gone. My mother wiped away a few tears, andwent to the baby, crying in the windowless, air-tight room. 

I was the first to speak. 

"Isn't she queer, mamma!" I said. "She never remembers how to say ourname. She insists on saying _Anton--Anton_. Celia, say _Anton_. " And Imade the baby laugh by imitating the landlady, who had made her cry. 

But when I went to my little room I did not mock Mrs. Hutch. I thoughtabout her, thought long and hard, and to a purpose. I decided that shemust hear me out once. She must understand about my plans, my future, my good intentions. It was too irrational to go on like this, weliving in fear of her, she in distrust of us. If Mrs. Hutch would onlytrust me, and the tax collectors would trust her, we could all livehappily forever. 

I was the more certain that my argument would prevail with thelandlady, if only I could make her listen, because I understood herpoint of view. I even sympathized with her. What she said about thebabies, for instance, was not all unreasonable to me. There was thislast baby, my mother's sixth, born on Mrs. Hutch's premises--yes, inthe windowless, air-tight bedroom. Was there any need of this baby?When May was born, two years earlier, on Wheeler Street, I hadaccepted her; after a while I even welcomed her. She was born anAmerican, and it was something to me to have one genuine Americanrelative. I had to sit up with her the whole of her first night onearth, and I questioned her about the place she came from, and so wegot acquainted. As my mother was so ill that my sister Frieda, who wasnurse, and the doctor from the dispensary had all they could do totake care of her, the baby remained in my charge a good deal, and so Igot used to her. But when Celia came I was two years older, and myoutlook was broader; I could see around a baby's charms, and discernthe disadvantages of possessing the baby. I was supplied with allkinds of relatives now--I had a brother-in-law, and an American-bornnephew, who might become a President. Moreover, I knew there was notenough to eat before the baby's advent, and she did not bring anysupplies with her that I could see. The baby was one too many. Therewas no need of her. I resented her existence. I recorded my resentmentin my journal. 

I was pleased with my broad-mindedness, that enabled me to see allsides of the baby question. I could regard even the rent questiondisinterestedly, like a philosopher reviewing natural phenomena. Itseemed not unreasonable that Mrs. Hutch should have a craving for therent as such. A school-girl dotes on her books, a baby cries for itsrattle, and a landlady yearns for her rents. I could easily believethat it was doing Mrs. Hutch spiritual violence to withhold the rentfrom her; and hence the vehemence with which she pursued the arrears. 

Yes, I could analyze the landlady very nicely. I was certainlyqualified to act as peacemaker between her and my family. But I mustgo to her own house, and _not_ on a rent day. Saturday evening, whenshe was embittered by many disappointments, was no time to approachher with diplomatic negotiations. I must go to her house on a day ofgood omen. 

And I went, as soon as my father could give me a week's rent to takealong. I found Mrs. Hutch in the gloom of a long, faded parlor. Divested of the ample black coat and widow's bonnet in which I hadalways seen her, her presence would have been less formidable had Inot been conscious that I was a mere rumpled sparrow fallen into thelion's den. When I had delivered the money, I should have begun myspeech; but I did not know what came first of all there was to say. While I hesitated, Mrs. Hutch observed me. She noticed my books, andasked about them. I thought this was my opening, and I showed hereagerly my Latin grammar, my geometry, my Virgil. I began to tell herhow I was to go to college, to fit myself to write poetry, and getrich, and pay the arrears. But Mrs. Hutch cut me short at the mentionof college. She broke out with her old reproaches, and worked herselfinto a worse fury than I had ever witnessed before. I was all alone inthe tempest, and a very old lady was sitting on a sofa, drinking tea;and the tidy on the back of the sofa was sliding down. 

I was so bewildered by the suddenness of the onslaught, I felt sohelpless to defend myself, that I could only stand and stare at Mrs. Hutch. She kept on railing without stopping for breath, repeatingherself over and over. At last I ceased to hear what she said; Ibecame hypnotized by the rapid motions of her mouth. Then the movingtidy caught my eye and the spell was broken. I went over to the sofawith a decided step and carefully replaced the tidy. 

It was now the landlady's turn to stare, and I stared back, surprisedat my own action. The old lady also stared, her teacup suspended underher nose. The whole thing was so ridiculous! I had come on such agrand mission, ready to dictate the terms of a noble peace. I was metwith anger and contumely; the dignity of the ambassador of peacerubbed off at a touch, like the golden dust from the butterfly's wing. I took my scolding like a meek child; and then, when she was in themiddle of a trenchant phrase, her eye fixed daggerlike on mine, Icalmly went to put the enemy's house in order! It was ridiculous, andI laughed. 

Immediately I was sorry. I wanted to apologize, but Mrs. Hutch didn'tgive me a chance. If she had been harsh before, she was terrific now. Did I come there to insult her?--she wanted to know. Wasn't it enoughthat I and my family lived on her, that I must come to her on purposeto rile her with my talk about college--_college!_ these beggars!--andlaugh in her face? "What did you come for? Who sent you? Why do youstand there staring? Say something! _College!_ these beggars! And doyou think I'll keep you till you go to college? _You_, learninggeometry! Did you ever figure out how much rent your father owes me?You are all too lazy--Don't say a word! Don't speak to me! Coming hereto laugh in my face! I don't believe you can say one sensible word. _Latin_--and _French_! Oh, these beggars! You ought to go to work, ifyou know enough to do one sensible thing. _College!_ Go home and tellyour father never to send you again. Laughing in my face--and staring!Why don't you say something? How old are you?"

Mrs. Hutch actually stopped, and I jumped into the pause. 

"I'm seventeen, " I said quickly, "and I feel like seventy. "

This was too much, even for me who had spoken. I had not meant to saythe last. It broke out, like my wicked laugh. I was afraid, if Istayed any longer, Mrs. Hutch would have the apoplexy; and I felt thatI was going to cry. I moved towards the door, but the landlady got inanother speech before I had escaped. 

"Seventeen--seventy! And looks like twelve! The child is silly. Can'teven tell her own age. No wonder, with her Latin, and French, and--"

I did cry when I got outside, and I didn't care if I was noticed. Whatwas the use of anything? Everything I did was wrong. Everything Itried to do for Mrs. Hutch turned out bad. I tried to sell papers, forthe sake of the rent, and nobody wanted the "Searchlight, " and I wastold it was not a nice business. I wanted to take her into myconfidence, and she wouldn't hear a word, but scolded and called menames. She was an unreasonable, ungrateful landlady. I wished she_would_ put us out, then we should be rid of her. --But wasn't it funnyabout that tidy? What made me do that? I never meant to. Curious, theway we sometimes do things we don't want to at all. --The old lady mustbe deaf; she didn't say anything all that time. --Oh, I have a wholebook of the "Æneid" to review, and it's getting late. I must hurryhome. 

It was impossible to remain despondent long. The landlady came onlyonce a week, I reflected, as I walked, and the rest of the time I wassurrounded by friends. Everybody was good to me, at home, of course, and at school; and there was Miss Dillingham, and her friend who tookme out in the country to see the autumn leaves, and her friend'sfriend who lent me books, and Mr. Hurd, who put my poems in the"Transcript, " and gave me books almost every time I came, and a dozenothers who did something good for me all the time, besides the severaldozen who wrote me such nice letters. Friends? If I named one forevery block I passed I should not get through before I reached home. There was Mr. Strong, too, and he wanted me to meet his wife andlittle girl. And Mr. Pastor! I had almost forgotten Mr. Pastor. Iarrived at the corner of Washington and Dover Streets, on my way home, and looked into Mr. Pastor's showy drug store as I passed, and thatreminded me of the history of my latest friendship. 

My cough had been pretty bad--kept me awake nights. My voice gave outfrequently. The teachers had spoken to me several times, suggestingthat I ought to see a doctor. Of course the teachers did not know thatI could not afford a doctor, but I could go to the free dispensary, and I did. They told me to come again, and again, and I lost precioushours sitting in the waiting-room, watching for my turn. I wasexamined, thumped, studied, and sent out with prescriptions andinnumerable directions. All that was said about food, fresh air, sunnyrooms, etc. , was, of course, impossible; but I would try the medicine. A bottle of medicine was a definite thing with a fixed price. Youeither could or could not afford it, on a given day. Once you beganwith milk and eggs and such things, there was no end of it. You werealways going around the corner for more, till the grocer said he couldgive no more credit. No; the medicine bottle was the only safe thing. 

I had taken several bottles, and was told that I was looking better, when I went, one day, to have my prescription renewed. It was justafter a hard rain, and the pools on the broken pavements were full ofblue sky. I was delighted with the beautiful reflections; there wereeven the white clouds moving across the blue, there, at my feet, onthe pavement! I walked with my head down all the way to the drugstore, which was all right; but I should not have done it going back, with the new bottle of medicine in my hand. 

In front of a cigar store, halfway between Washington Street andHarrison Avenue, stood a wooden Indian with a package of wooden cigarsin his hand. My eyes on the shining rain pools, I walked plump intothe Indian, and the bottle was knocked out of my hand and broke with acrash. 

I was horrified at the catastrophe. The medicine cost fifty cents. Mymother had given me the last money in the house. I must not be withoutmy medicine; the dispensary doctor was very emphatic about that. Itwould be dreadful to get sick and have to stay out of school. What wasto be done?

I made up my mind in less than five minutes. I went back to the drugstore and asked for Mr. Pastor himself. He knew me; he often sold mepostage stamps, and joked about my large correspondence, and heard agood deal about my friends. He came out, on this occasion, from hislittle office in the back of the store; and I told him of my accident, and that there was no more money at home, and asked him to give meanother bottle, to be paid for as soon as possible. My father had ajob as night watchman in a store. I should be able to pay very soon. 

"Certainly, my dear, certainly, " said Mr. Pastor; "very glad to obligeyou. It's doing you good, isn't it?--That's right. You're such astudious young lady, with all those books, and so many letters towrite--you need something to build you up. There you are. --Oh, don'tmention it! Any time at all. And lookout for wild Indians!"

Of course we were great friends after that, and this is the way mytroubles often ended on Dover Street. To bump into a wooden Indian wasto bump into good luck, a hundred times a week. No wonder I was happymost of the time. 

CHAPTER XVIII

THE BURNING BUSH

Just when Mrs. Hutch was most worried about the error of my ways, Ientered on a new chapter of adventures, even more remote from the cashgirl's career than Latin and geometry. But I ought not to name suchharsh things as landladies at the opening of the fairy story of mygirlhood. I have reached what was the second transformation of mylife, as truly as my coming to America was the first greattransformation. 

Robert Louis Stevenson, in one of his delightful essays, credits thelover with a feeling of remorse and shame at the contemplation of thatpart of his life which he lived without his beloved, content with hisbarren existence. It is with just such a feeling of remorse that Ilook back to my bookworm days, before I began the study of naturalhistory outdoors; and with a feeling of shame akin to the lover's Iconfess how late in my life nature took the first place in myaffections. 

The subject of nature study is better developed in the public schoolsto-day than it was in my time. I remember my teacher in the Chelseagrammar school who encouraged us to look for different kinds ofgrasses in the empty lots near home, and to bring to school samples ofthe cereals we found in our mothers' pantries. I brought the grassesand cereals, as I did everything the teacher ordered, but I wascontent when nature study was over and the arithmetic lesson began. Iwas not interested, and the teacher did not make it interesting. 

In the boys' books I was fond of reading I came across all sorts ofheroes, and I sympathized with them all. The boy who ran away to sea;the boy who delighted in the society of ranchmen and cowboys; thestage-struck boy, whose ambition was to drive a pasteboard chariot ina circus; the boy who gave up his holidays in order to earn money forbooks; the bad boy who played tricks on people; the clever boy whoinvented amusing toys for his blind little sister--all these boys Iadmired. I could put myself in the place of any one of these heroes, and delight in their delights. But there was one sort of hero I nevercould understand, and that was the boy whose favorite reading wasnatural history, who kept an aquarium, collected beetles, and knew allabout a man by the name of Agassiz. This style of boy always had aseafaring uncle, or a missionary aunt, who sent him all sorts of queerthings from China and the South Sea Islands; and the conversationbetween this boy and the seafaring uncle home on a visit, I wasperfectly willing to skip. The impossible hero usually kept snakes ina box in the barn, where his little sister was fond of playing withher little friends. The snakes escaped at least once before the end ofthe story; and the things the boy said to the frightened little girls, about the harmless and fascinating qualities of snakes, was somethingI had no patience to read. 

No, I did not care for natural history. I would read about travels, about deserts, and nameless islands, and strange peoples; but snakesand birds and minerals and butterflies did not interest me in theleast. I visited the Natural History Museum once or twice, because itwas my way to enter every open door, so as to miss nothing that wasfree to the public; but the curious monsters that filled the glasscases and adorned the walls and ceilings failed to stir myimagination, and the slimy things that floated in glass vessels weretoo horrid for a second glance. 

Of all the horrid things that ever passed under my eyes when I liftedmy nose from my book, spiders were the worst. Mice were bad enough, and so were flies and worms and June bugs; but spiders were absolutelythe most loathsome creatures I knew. And yet it was the spider thatopened my eyes to the wonders of nature, and touched my girlishhappiness with the hues of the infinite. 

And it happened at Hale House. 

It was not Dr. Hale, though it might have been, who showed me the wayto the settlement house on Garland Street which bears his name. HaleHouse is situated in the midst of the labyrinth of narrow streets andalleys that constitutes the slum of which Harrison Avenue is thebackbone, and of which Dover Street is a member. 

Bearing in mind the fact that there are almost no playgrounds in allthis congested district, you will understand that Hale House hasplenty of work on its hands to carry a little sunshine into the grimytenement homes. The beautiful story of how that is done cannot be toldhere, but what Hale House did for me I may not omit to mention. 

It was my brother Joseph who discovered Hale House. He started adebating club, and invited his chums to help him settle the problemsof the Republic on Sunday afternoon. The club held its first sessionin our empty parlor on Dover Street, and the United States Governmentwas in a fair way to be put on a sound basis at last, when thenumerous babies belonging to our establishment broke up the meeting, leaving the Administration in suspense as to its future course. 

The next meeting was held in Isaac Maslinsky's parlor, and the oratorswere beginning to jump to their feet and shake their fists at eachother, in excellent parliamentary form, when Mrs. Maslinsky salliedin, to smile at the boys' excitement. But at the sight of seven pairsof boys' boots scuffling on her cherished parlor carpet, the fringedcover of the centre table hanging by one corner, and the plushphotograph album unceremoniously laid aside, indignation took theplace of good humor in Mrs. Maslinsky's ample bosom, and she orderedthe boys to clear out, threatening "Ike" with dire vengeance if everagain he ventured to enter the parlor with ungentle purpose. 

On the following Sunday Harry Rubinstein offered the club thehospitality of _his_ parlor, and the meeting began satisfactorily. Thesubject on the table was the Tariff, and the pros and antis were aboutevenly divided. Congress might safely have taken a nap, with the HubDebating Club to handle its affairs, if Harry Rubinstein's big brotherJake had not interfered. He came out of the kitchen, where he had beenstuffing the baby with peanuts, and stood in the doorway of the parlorand winked at the dignified chairman. The chairman turned his back onhim, whereupon Jake pelted him with peanut shells. He mocked thespeakers, and called them "kids, " and wanted to know how they couldtell the Tariff from a sunstroke, anyhow. "We've got to have freetrade, " he mocked. "Pa, listen to the kids! 'In the interests of theAmerican laborer. ' Hoo-ray! Listen to the kids, pa!"

Flesh and blood could not bear this. The political reformersadjourned indefinitely, and the club was in danger of extinction forwant of a sheltering roof, when one of the members discovered thatHale House, on Garland Street, was waiting to welcome the club. 

How the debating-club prospered in the genial atmosphere of thesettlement house; how from a little club it grew to be a big club, asthe little boys became young men; how Joseph and Isaac and Harry andthe rest won prizes in public debates; how they came to be a part ofthe multiple influence for good that issues from Garland Street--allthis is a piece of the history of Hale House, whose business in theslums is to mould the restless children on the street corners intonoble men and women. I brought the debating-club into my story just toshow how naturally the children of the slums drift toward theirsalvation, if only some island of safety lies in the course of theirinnocent activities. Not a child in the slums is born to be lost. Theyare all born to be saved, and the raft that carries them unharmedthrough the perilous torrent of tenement life is the child'sunconscious aspiration for the best. But there must be lighthouses toguide him midstream. 

Dora followed Joseph to Hale House, joining a club for little girlswhich has since become famous in the Hale House district. The leaderof this club, under pretence of teaching the little girls the properway to sweep and make beds, artfully teaches them how to beautify atenement home by means of noble living. 

Joseph and Dora were so enthusiastic about Hale House that I had to goover and see what it was all about. And I found the Natural HistoryClub. 

I do not know how Mrs. Black, who was then the resident, persuaded meto try the Natural History Club, in spite of my aversion for bugs. Isuppose she tried me in various girls' clubs, and found that I did notfit, any more than I fitted in the dancing-club that I attempted yearsbefore. I dare say she decided that I was an old maid, and urged me tocome to the meetings of the Natural History Club, which was composedof adults. The members of this club were not people from theneighborhood, I understood, but workers at Hale House and theirfriends; and they often had eminent naturalists, travellers, and othernotables lecture before them. My curiosity to see a real livenaturalist probably induced me to accept Mrs. Black's invitation inthe end; for up to that time I had never met any one who enjoyed thecreepy society of snakes and worms, except in books. 

The Natural History Club sat in a ring around the reception room, facing the broad doorway of the adjoining room. Mrs. Black introducedme, and I said "Glad to meet you" all around the circle, and sat downin a kindergarten chair beside the piano. It was Friday evening, and Ihad the sense of leisure which pervades the school-girl'sconsciousness when there is to be no school on the morrow. I liked thepleasant room, pleasanter than any at home. I liked the faces of thecompany I was in. I was prepared to have an agreeable evening, even ifI was a little bored. 

The tall, lean gentleman with the frank blue eyes got up to read theminutes of the last meeting. I did not understand what he read, but Inoticed that it gave him great satisfaction. This man had greeted meas if he had been waiting for my coming all his life. What did Mrs. Black call him? He looked and spoke as if he was happy to be alive. Iliked him. Oh, yes! this was Mr. Winthrop. 

I let my thoughts wander, with my eyes, all around the circle, tryingto read the characters of my new friends in their faces. But suddenlymy attention was arrested by a word. Mr. Winthrop had finished readingthe minutes, and was introducing the speaker of the evening. "We arevery fortunate in having with us Mr. Emerson, whom we all know as anauthority on spiders. "

_Spiders!_ What hard luck! Mr. Winthrop pronounced the word "spiders"with unmistakable relish, as if he doted on the horrid creatures; butI--My nerves contracted into a tight knot. I gripped the arms of mylittle chair, determined _not_ to run, with all those strangerslooking on. I watched Mr. Emerson, to see when he would open a box ofspiders. I recalled a hideous experience of long ago, when, putting ona dress that had hung on the wall for weeks, I felt a thing with ahundred legs crawling down my bare arm, and shook a spider out of mysleeve. I watched the lecturer, but I was _not_ going to run. It wastoo bad that Mrs. Black had not warned me. 

After a while I realized that the lecturer had no menagerie in hispockets. He talked, in a familiar way, about different kinds ofspiders and their ways; and as he talked, he wove across the doorway, where he stood, a gigantic spider's web, unwinding a ball of twine inhis hand, and looping various lengths on invisible tacks he had readyin the door frame. 

I was fascinated by the progress of the web. I forgot my terrors; Ibegan to follow Mr. Emerson's discourse. I was surprised to hear howmuch there was to know about a dusty little spider, besides that hecould spin his webs as fast as my broom could sweep them away. Thedrama of the spider's daily life became very real to me as thelecturer went on. His struggle for existence; his wars with hisenemies; his wiles, his traps, his patient labors; the intricatesafeguards of his simple existence; the fitness of his body for hissurroundings, of his instincts for his vital needs--the whole pictureof the spider's pursuit of life under the direction of definite lawsfilled me with a great wonder and left no room in my mind forrepugnance or fear. It was the first time the natural history of aliving creature had been presented to me under such circumstances thatI could not avoid hearing and seeing, and I was surprised at mydulness in the past when I had rejected books on natural history. 

I did not become an enthusiastic amateur naturalist at once; I did notat once begin to collect worms and bugs. But on the next sweeping-dayI stood on a chair, craning my neck, to study the spider webs Idiscovered in the corners of the ceiling; and one or two webs of morethan ordinary perfection I suffered to remain undisturbed for weeks, although it was my duty, as a house-cleaner, to sweep the ceilingclean. I began to watch for the mice that were wont to scurry acrossthe floor when the house slept and I alone waked. I even placed acrust for them on the threshold of my room, and cultivated abreathless intimacy with them, when the little gray beastsacknowledged my hospitality by nibbling my crust in full sight. And soby degrees I came to a better understanding of my animal neighbors onall sides, and I began to look forward to the meetings of the NaturalHistory Club. 

The club had frequent field excursions, in addition to the regularmeetings. At the seashore, in the woods, in the fields; at hightide and low tide, in summer and winter, by sunlight and by moonlight, the marvellous story of orderly nature was revealed to me, infragments that allured the imagination and made me beg for more. Someof the members of the club were school-teachers, accustomed toanswering questions. All of them were patient; some of them tookspecial pains with me. But nobody took me seriously as a member of theclub. They called me the club mascot, and appointed me curator of theclub museum, which was not in existence, at a salary of ten cents ayear, which was never paid. And I was well pleased with my uniqueposition in the club, delighted with my new friends, enraptured withmy new study. 

 [Illustration: THE NATURAL HISTORY CLUB HAD FREQUENT FIELD EXCURSIONS]

More and more, as the seasons rolled by, and page after page of thebook of nature was turned before my eager eyes, did I feel the wonderand thrill of the revelations of science, till all my thoughts becamecolored with the tints of infinite truths. My days arranged themselvesaround the meetings of the club as a centre. The whole structure of mylife was transfigured by my novel experiences outdoors. I realized, with a shock at first, but afterwards with complacency, that bookswere taking a secondary place in my life, my irregular studies innatural history holding the first place. I began to enjoy the NaturalHistory rooms; and I was obliged to admit to myself that my heart hungwith a more thrilling suspense over the fate of some beans I hadplanted in a window box than over the fortunes of the classic heroabout whom we were reading at school. 

But for all my enthusiasm about animals, plants, and rocks, --for allmy devotion to the Natural History Club, --I did not become a thoroughnaturalist. My scientific friends were right not to take meseriously. Mr. Winthrop, in his delightfully frank way, called me afraud; and I did not resent it. I dipped into zoölogy, botany, geology, ornithology, and an infinite number of other ologies, as theactivities of the club or of particular members of it gave meopportunity, but I made no systematic study of any branch of science;at least not until I went to college. For what enthralled myimagination in the whole subject of natural history was not theorderly array of facts, but the glimpse I caught, through this or thatfragment of science, of the grand principles underlying the facts. Byasking questions, by listening when my wise friends talked, byreading, by pondering and dreaming, I slowly gathered together thekaleidoscopic bits of the stupendous panorama which is painted in theliterature of Darwinism. Everything I had ever learned at school wasillumined by this new knowledge; the world lay newly made under myeyes. Vastly as my mind had stretched to embrace the idea of a greatcountry, when I exchanged Polotzk for America, it was no suchenlargement as I now experienced, when in place of the measurableearth, with its paltry tale of historic centuries, I was given theillimitable universe to contemplate, with the numberless æons ofinfinite time. 

As the meaning of nature was deepened for me, so was its aspectbeautified. Hitherto I had loved in nature the spectacular, --theblazing sunset, the whirling tempest, the flush of summer, thesnow-wonder of winter. Now, for the first time, my heart was satisfiedwith the microscopic perfection of a solitary blossom. The harmoniousmurmur of autumn woods broke up into a hundred separate melodies, asthe pelting acorn, the scurrying squirrel, the infrequent chirp ofthe lingering cricket, and the soft speed of ripe pine cones throughdense-grown branches, each struck its discriminate chord in thescented air. The outdoor world was magnified in every dimension;inanimate things were vivified; living things were dignified. 

No two persons set the same value on any given thing, and so it mayvery well be that I am boasting of the enrichment of my life throughthe study of natural history to ears that hear not. I need only recallmy own obtuseness to the subject, before the story of the spidersharpened my senses, to realize that these confessions of a naturelover may bore every other person who reads them. But I do not pretendto be concerned about the reader at this point. I never hope toexplain to my neighbor the exact value of a winter sunrise in myspiritual economy, but I know that my life has grown better since Ilearned to distinguish between a butterfly and a moth; that my faithin man is the greater because I have watched for the coming of thesong sparrow in the spring; and my thoughts of immortality are theless wavering because I have cherished the winter duckweed on my lawn. 

Those who find their greatest intellectual and emotional satisfactionin the study of nature are apt to refer their spiritual problems alsoto science. That is how it went with me. Long before my introductionto natural history I had realized, with an uneasy sense of thebreaking of peace, that the questions which I thought to have beensettled years before were beginning to tease me anew. In Russia I hadpractised a prescribed religion, with little faith in what Iprofessed, and a restless questioning of the universe. When I came toAmerica I lightly dropped the religious forms that I had half mockedbefore, and contented myself with a few novel phrases employed by myfather in his attempt to explain the riddle of existence. The busyyears flew by, when from morning till night I was preoccupied with theprocess of becoming an American; and no question arose in my mind thatmy books or my teachers could not fully answer. Then came a time whenthe ordinary business of my girl's life discharged itselfautomatically, and I had leisure once more to look over and aroundthings. This period coinciding with my moody adolescence, I rapidlyentangled myself in a net of doubts and questions, after thewell-known manner of a growing girl. I asked once more, How did I cometo be?--and I found that I was no whit wiser than poor Reb' Lebe, whomI had despised for his ignorance. For all my years of America andschooling, I could give no better answer to my clamoring questionsthan the teacher of my childhood. Whence came the fair world? Wasthere a God, after all? And if so, what did He intend when He made me?

It was always my way, if I wanted anything, to turn my daily life intoa pursuit of that thing. "Have you seen the treasure I seek?" I askedof every man I met. And if it was God that I desired, I made all myfriends search their hearts for evidence of His being. I asked all thewise people I knew what they were going to do with themselves afterdeath; and if the wise failed to satisfy me, I questioned the simple, and listened to the babies talking in their sleep. 

Still the imperative clamor of my mind remained unallayed. Was all mylife to be a hunger and a questioning? I complained of my teachers, who stuffed my head with facts and gave my soul no crumb to feed on. I blamed the stars for their silence. I sat up nights brooding overthe emptiness of knowledge, and praying for revelations. 

Sometimes I lived for days in a chimera of doubts, feeling that it washardly worth while living at all if I was never to know why I was bornand why I could not live forever. It was in one of these prolongedmoods that I heard that a friend of mine, a distinguished man ofletters whom I greatly admired, was coming to Boston for a shortvisit. A terrific New England blizzard arrived some hours in advanceof my friend's train, but so intent was I on questioning him that Idisregarded the weather, and struggled through towering snowdrifts, inthe teeth of the wild wind, to the railroad station. There I nearlyperished of weariness while waiting for the train, which was delayedby the storm. But when my friend emerged from one of the snow-crustedcars I was rewarded; for the blizzard had kept the reporters away, andthe great man could give me his undivided attention. 

No doubt he understood the pressing importance of the matter to me, from the trouble I had taken to secure an early interview with him. Heheard me out very soberly, and answered my questions as honestly as athinking man could. Not a word of what he said remains in my mind, butI remember going away with the impression that it was possible to livewithout knowing everything, after all, and that I might even try to behappy in a world full of riddles. 

In such ways as this I sought peace of mind, but I never achieved morethan a brief truce. I was coming to believe that only the stupid couldbe happy, and that life was pretty hard on the philosophical, whenthe great new interest of science came into my life, and scattered myblue devils as the sun scatters the night damps. 

Some of my friends in the Natural History Club were deeply versed inthe principles of evolutionary science, and were able to guide me inmy impetuous rush to learn everything in a day. I was in a hurry todeduce, from the conglomeration of isolated facts that I picked up inthe lectures, the final solution of all my problems. It took bothpatience and wisdom to check me and at the same time satisfy me, Ihave no doubt; but then I was always fortunate in my friends. Wisdomand patience in plenty were spent on me, and I was instructed andinspired and comforted. Of course my wisest teacher was not able totell me how the original spark of life was kindled, nor to point out, on the starry map of heaven, my future abode. The bread of absoluteknowledge I do not hope to taste in this life. But all creation wasremodelled on a grander scale by the utterances of my teachers; and myproblems, though they deepened with the expansion of all nameablephenomena, were carried up to the heights of the impersonal, andceased to torment me. Seeing how life and death, beginning and end, were all parts of the process of being, it mattered less in whatparticular ripple of the flux of existence I found myself. If pasttime was a trooping of similar yesterdays, back over the unbrokenmillenniums, to the first moment, it was simple to think of futuretime as a trooping of knowable to-days, on and on, to infinity. Possibly, also, the spark of life that had persisted through thegeological ages, under a million million disguises, was vital enoughto continue for another earth-age, in some shape as potent as thefirst or last. Thinking in æons and in races, instead of in years andindividuals, somehow lightened the burden of intelligence, and filledme anew with a sense of youth and well-being, that I had almost lostin the pit of my narrow personal doubts. 

No one who understands the nature of youth will be misled, by thissummary of my intellectual history, into thinking that I actuallyarranged my newly acquired scientific knowledge into any such orderlyphilosophy as, for the sake of clearness, I have outlined above. I hadlong passed my teens, and had seen something of life that is notrevealed to poetizing girls, before I could give any logical accountof what I read in the book of cosmogony. But the high peaks of thepromised land of evolution did flash on my vision in the earlier days, and with these to guide me I rebuilt the world, and found it muchnobler than it had ever been before, and took great comfort in it. 

I did not become a finished philosopher from hearing a couple ofhundred lectures on scientific subjects. I did not even become afinished woman. If anything, I grew rather more girlish. I remembermyself as very merry in the midst of my serious scientific friends, and I can think of no time when I was more inclined to play the tomboythan when off for a day in the woods, in quest of botanical andzoological specimens. The freedom of outdoors, the society ofcongenial friends, the delight of my occupation--all acted as a strongwine on my mood, and sent my spirits soaring to immoderate heights Iam very much afraid I made myself a nuisance, at times, to some of themore sedate of my grown-up companions. I wish they could know that Ihave truly repented. I wish they had known at the time that it wasthe exuberance of my happiness that played tricks, and no wickeddesire to annoy kind friends. But I am sure that those who wereoffended have long since forgotten or forgiven, and I need remembernothing of those wonderful days other than that a new sun rose above anew earth for me, and that my happiness was like unto the iridescentdews. 

CHAPTER XIX

A KINGDOM IN THE SLUMS

I did not always wait for the Natural History Club to guide me todelectable lands. Some of the happiest days of that happy time I spentwith my sister in East Boston. We had a merry time at supper, Mosesmaking clever jokes, without cracking a smile himself; and the babyromping in his high chair, eating what wasn't good for him. But thebest of the evening came later, when father and baby had gone to bed, and the dishes were put away, and there was not a crumb left on thered-and-white checked tablecloth. Frieda took out her sewing, and Itook a book; and the lamp was between us, shining on the table, on thelarge brown roses on the wall, on the green and brown diamonds of theoil cloth on the floor, on the baby's rattle on a shelf, and on theshining stove in the corner. It was such a pleasant kitchen--such acosey, friendly room--that when Frieda and I were left alone I wasperfectly happy just to sit there. Frieda had a beautiful parlor, withplush chairs and a velvet carpet and gilt picture frames; but wepreferred the homely, homelike kitchen. 

I read aloud from Longfellow, or Whittier, or Tennyson; and it was asgreat a treat to me as it was to Frieda. Her attention alone wasinspiring. Her delight, her eager questions doubled the meaning of thelines I read. Poor Frieda had little enough time for reading, unlessshe stole it from the sewing or the baking or the mending. But she washungry for books, and so grateful when I came to read to her that itmade me ashamed to remember all the beautiful things I had and did notshare with her. 

It is true I shared what could be shared. I brought my friends to her. At her wedding were some of the friends of whom I was most proud. MissDillingham came, and Mr. Hurd; and the humbler guests stared inadmiration at our school-teachers and editors. But I had so manydelightful things that I could not bring to Frieda--my walks, mydreams, my adventures of all sorts. And yet when I told her aboutthem, I found that she partook of everything. For she had her talentfor vicarious enjoyment, by means of which she entered as an actorinto my adventures, was present as a witness at the frolic of myyounger life. Or if I narrated things that were beyond her, on accountof her narrower experience, she listened with an eager longing tounderstand that was better than some people's easy comprehension. Myworld ever rang with good tidings, and she was grateful if I broughther the echo of them, to ring again within the four walls of thekitchen that bounded her life. And I, who lived on the heights, andwalked with the learned, and bathed in the crystal fountains of youth, sometimes climbed the sublimest peak in my sister's humble kitchen, there caught the unfaltering accents of inspiration, and rejoiced insilver pools of untried happiness. 

The way she reached out for everything fine was shown by her interestin the incomprehensible Latin and French books that I brought. Sheliked to hear me read my Cicero, pleased by the movement of thesonorous periods. I translated Ovid and Virgil for her; and herpleasure illumined the difficult passages, so that I seldom needed tohave recourse to the dictionary. I shall never forget the evening Iread to her, from the "Æneid, " the passage in the fourth bookdescribing the death of Dido. I read the Latin first, and then my ownversion in English hexameters, that I had prepared for a recitation atschool. Frieda forgot her sewing in her lap, and leaned forward inrapt attention. When I was through, there were tears of delight in hereyes; and I was surprised myself at the beauty of the words I had justpronounced. 

I do not dare to confess how much of my Latin I have forgotten, lestany of the devoted teachers who taught me should learn the sad truth;but I shall always boast of some acquaintance with Virgil, throughthat scrap of the "Æneid" made memorable by my sister's enjoyment ofit. 

Truly my education was not entirely in the hands of persons who hadlicenses to teach. My sister's fat baby taught me things about theorigin and ultimate destiny of dimples that were not in any of myschool-books. Mr. Casey, of the second floor, who was drunk wheneverhis wife was sober, gave me an insight into the psychology of the beermug that would have added to the mental furniture of my most scholarlyteacher. The bold-faced girls who passed the evening on the corner, inpromiscuous flirtation with the cock-eyed youths of the neighborhood, unconsciously revealed to me the eternal secrets of adolescence. Myneighbor of the third floor, who sat on the curbstone with the scabbybaby in her bedraggled lap, had things to say about the fine ladieswho came in carriages to inspect the public bathhouse across thestreet that ought to be repeated in the lecture halls of every schoolof philanthropy. Instruction poured into my brain at such a rate thatI could not digest it all at the time; but in later years, when mydestiny had led me far from Dover Street, the emphatic moral of thoselessons became clear. The memory of my experience on Dover Streetbecame the strength of my convictions, the illumined index of mypurpose, the aureola of my happiness. And if I paid for those lessonswith days of privation and dread, with nights of tormenting anxiety, Icount the price cheap. Who would not go to a little trouble to findout what life is made of? Life in the slums spins busily as aschoolboy's top, and one who has heard its humming never forgets. Ilook forward to telling, when I get to be a master of language, what Iread in the crooked cobblestones when I revisited Dover Street theother day. 

Dover Street was never really my residence--at least, not the whole ofit. It happened to be the nook where my bed was made, but I inhabitedthe City of Boston. In the pearl-misty morning, in the ruby-redevening, I was empress of all I surveyed from the roof of the tenementhouse. I could point in any direction and name a friend who wouldwelcome me there. Off towards the northwest, in the direction ofHarvard Bridge, which some day I should cross on my way to RadcliffeCollege, was one of my favorite palaces, whither I resorted every dayafter school. 

A low, wide-spreading building with a dignified granite front it was, flanked on all sides by noble old churches, museums, andschool-houses, harmoniously disposed around a spacious triangle, called Copley Square. Two thoroughfares that came straight from thegreen suburbs swept by my palace, one on either side, converged at theapex of the triangle, and pointed off, past the Public Garden, acrossthe historic Common, to the domed State House sitting on a height. 

It was my habit to go very slowly up the low, broad steps to thepalace entrance, pleasing my eyes with the majestic lines of thebuilding, and lingering to read again the carved inscriptions: _PublicLibrary_--_Built by the People_--_Free to All_. 

Did I not say it was my palace? Mine, because I was a citizen; mine, though I was born an alien; mine, though I lived on Dover Street. Mypalace--_mine_!

I loved to lean against a pillar in the entrance hall, watching thepeople go in and out. Groups of children hushed their chatter at theentrance, and skipped, whispering and giggling in their fists, up thegrand stairway, patting the great stone lions at the top, with an eyeon the aged policemen down below. Spectacled scholars came slowly downthe stairs, loaded with books, heedless of the lofty arches thatechoed their steps. Visitors from out of town lingered long in theentrance hall, studying the inscriptions and symbols on the marblefloor. And I loved to stand in the midst of all this, and remindmyself that I was there, that I had a right to be there, that I was athome there. All these eager children, all these fine-browed women, allthese scholars going home to write learned books--I and they had thisglorious thing in common, this noble treasure house of learning. Itwas wonderful to say, _This is mine_; it was thrilling to say, _Thisis ours_. 

I visited every part of the building that was open to the public. Ispent rapt hours studying the Abbey pictures. I repeated to myselflines from Tennyson's poem before the glowing scenes of the HolyGrail. Before the "Prophets" in the gallery above I was mute, butechoes of the Hebrew Psalms I had long forgotten throbbed somewhere inthe depths of my consciousness. The Chavannes series around the mainstaircase I did not enjoy for years. I thought the pictures lookedfaded, and their symbolism somehow failed to move me at first. 

Bates Hall was the place where I spent my longest hours in thelibrary. I chose a seat far at one end, so that looking up from mybooks I would get the full effect of the vast reading-room. I felt thegrand spaces under the soaring arches as a personal attribute of mybeing. 

The courtyard was my sky-roofed chamber of dreams. Slowly strollingpast the endless pillars of the colonnade, the fountain murmured in myear of all the beautiful things in all the beautiful world. I imaginedthat I was a Greek of the classic days, treading on sandalled feetthrough the glistening marble porticoes of Athens. I expected to see, if I looked over my shoulder, a bearded philosopher in a droopingmantle, surrounded by beautiful youths with wreathed locks. EverythingI read in school, in Latin or Greek, everything in my history books, was real to me here, in this courtyard set about with stately columns. 

Here is where I liked to remind myself of Polotzk, the better to bringout the wonder of my life. That I who was born in the prison of thePale should roam at will in the land of freedom was a marvel that itdid me good to realize. That I who was brought up to my teens almostwithout a book should be set down in the midst of all the books thatever were written was a miracle as great as any on record. That anoutcast should become a privileged citizen, that a beggar should dwellin a palace--this was a romance more thrilling than poet ever sung. Surely I was rocked in an enchanted cradle. 

 [Illustration: BATES HALL, WHERE I SPENT MY LONGEST HOURS IN THE LIBRARY]

From the Public Library to the State House is only a step, and I foundmy way there without a guide. The State House was one of the places Icould point to and say that I had a friend there to welcome me. I donot mean the representative of my district, though I hope he was aworthy man. My friend was no less a man than the Honorable SenatorRoe, from Worcester, whose letters to me, written under the embossedletter head of the Senate Chamber, I could not help exhibiting toFlorence Connolly. 

How did I come by a Senator? Through being a citizen of Boston, ofcourse. To be a citizen of the smallest village in the United Stateswhich maintains a free school and a public library is to stand in thepath of the splendid processions of opportunity. And as Boston hasrather better schools and a rather finer library than some othervillages, it comes natural there for children in the slums to summongentlemen from the State House to be their personal friends. 

It is so simple, in Boston! You are a school-girl, and your teachergives you a ticket for the annual historical lecture in the Old SouthChurch, on Washington's Birthday. You hear a stirring discourse onsome subject in your country's history, and you go home with a heartbursting with patriotism. You sit down and write a letter to thespeaker who so moved you, telling him how glad you are to be anAmerican, explaining to him, if you happen to be a recently madeAmerican, why you love your adopted country so much better than yournative land. Perhaps the patriotic lecturer happens to be a Senator, and he reads your letter under the vast dome of the State House; andit occurs to him that he and his eminent colleagues and the statelycapitol and the glorious flag that floats above it, all gathered onthe hill above the Common, do his country no greater honor than theoutspoken admiration of an ardent young alien. The Senator replies toyour letter, inviting you to visit him at the State House; and in therenowned chamber where the august business of the State is conducted, you, an obscure child from the slums, and he, a chosen leader of thepeople, seal a democratic friendship based on the love of a commonflag. 

Even simpler than to meet a Senator was it to become acquainted with aman like Edward Everett Hale. "The Grand Old Man of Boston, " thepeople called him, from the manner of his life among them. He keptopen house in every public building in the city. Wherever two citizensmet to devise a measure for the public weal, he was a third. Wherevera worthy cause needed a champion, Dr. Hale lifted his mighty voice. Atsome time or another his colossal figure towered above an eagermultitude from every pulpit in the city, from every lecture platform. And where is the map of Boston that gives the names of the lost alleysand back ways where the great man went in search of the lame in body, who could not join the public assembly, in quest of the maimed inspirit, who feared to show their faces in the open? If all the littlechildren who have sat on Dr. Hale's knee were started in a processionon the State House steps, standing four abreast, there would be a laneof merry faces across the Common, out to the Public Library, overHarvard Bridge, and away beyond to remoter landmarks. 

That I met Dr. Hale is no wonder. It was as inevitable as that Ishould be a year older every twelvemonth. He was a part of Boston, asthe salt wave is a part of the sea. I can hardly say whether he cameto me or I came to him. We met, and my adopted country took me closerto her breast. 

A day or two after our first meeting I called on Dr. Hale, at hisinvitation. It was only eight o'clock in the morning, you may be sure, because he had risen early to attend to a hundred great affairs, and Ihad risen early so as to talk with a great man before I went toschool. I think we liked each other a little the more for the factthat when so many people were still asleep, we were already busy inthe interests of citizenship and friendship. We certainly liked eachother. 

I am sure I did not stay more than fifteen minutes, and all that Irecall of our conversation was that Dr. Hale asked me a great manyquestions about Russia, in a manner that made me feel that I was anauthority on the subject; and with his great hand in good-bye he gaveme a bit of homely advice, namely, that I should never study beforebreakfast!

That was all, but for the rest of the day I moved against a backgroundof grandeur. There was a noble ring to Virgil that day that even myteacher's firm translation had never brought out before. Obscurepoints in the history lesson were clear to me alone, of the thirtygirls in the class. And it happened that the tulips in Copley Squareopened that day, and shone in the sun like lighted lamps. 

Any one could be happy a year on Dover Street, after spending half anhour on Highland Street. I enjoyed so many half-hours in the greatman's house that I do not know how to convey the sense of myremembered happiness. My friend used to keep me in conversation a fewminutes, in the famous study that was fit to have been preserved as ashrine; after which he sent me to roam about the house, and explorehis library, and take away what books I pleased. Who would feelcramped in a tenement, with such royal privileges as these?

Once I brought Dr. Hale a present, a copy of a story of mine that hadbeen printed in a journal; and from his manner of accepting it youmight have thought that I was a princess dispensing gifts from athrone. I wish I had asked him, that last time I talked with him, howit was that he who was so modest made those who walked with him sogreat. 

Modest as the man was the house in which he lived. A gray old house ofa style that New England no longer builds, with a pillared porchcurtained by vines, set back in the yard behind the old trees. Whatever cherished flowers glowed in the garden behind the house, thecommon daisy was encouraged to bloom in front. And was there sun orsnow on the ground, the most timid hand could open the gate, the mosthumble visitor was sure of a welcome. Out of that modest house thetroubled came comforted, the fallen came uplifted, the noble cameinspired. 

My explorations of Dr. Hale's house might not have brought me to thegables, but for my friend's daughter, the artist, who had a studio atthe top of the house. She asked me one day if I would sit for aportrait, and I consented with the greatest alacrity. It would be aninteresting experience, and interesting experiences were the bread oflife to me. I agreed to come every Saturday morning, and felt thatsomething was going to happen to Dover Street. 

 [Illustration: THE FAMOUS STUDY, THAT WAS FIT TO HAVE BEEN PRESERVED AS A SHRINE]

When I came home from my talk with Miss Hale, I studied myself long inmy blotched looking-glass. I saw just what I expected. My face was toothin, my nose too large, my complexion too dull. My hair, which wascurly enough, was too short to be described as luxurious tresses; andthe color was neither brown nor black. My hands were neither white norvelvety; the fingers ended decidedly, instead of tapering off likerosy dreams. I was disgusted with my wrists; they showed too far belowthe tight sleeves of my dress of the year before last, and they lookedconsumptive. 

No, it was not for my beauty that Miss Hale wanted to paint me. It wasbecause I was a girl, a person, a piece of creation. I understoodperfectly. If I could write an interesting composition about a broom, why should not an artist be able to make an interesting picture of me?I had done it with the broom, and the milk wagon, and the rain spout. It was not what a thing was that made it interesting, but what I wasable to draw out of it. It was exciting to speculate as to what MissHale was going to draw out of me. 

The first sitting was indeed exciting. There was hardly any sitting toit. We did nothing but move around the studio, and move the easelaround, and try on ever so many backgrounds, and ever so many poses. In the end, of course, we left everything just as it had been at thestart, because Miss Hale had had the right idea from the beginning;but I understood that a preliminary tempest in the studio was theproper way to test that idea. 

I was surprised to find that I should not be obliged to hold mybreath, and should be allowed to wink all I wanted. Posing was justsitting with my hands in my lap, and enjoying the most interestingconversation with the artist. We hit upon such out-of-the-waytopics--once, I remember, we talked about the marriage laws ofdifferent states! I had a glorious time, and I believe Miss Hale didtoo. I watched the progress of the portrait with utter lack ofcomprehension, and with perfect faith in the ultimate result. Themorning flew so fast that I could have sat right on into the afternoonwithout tiring. 

Once or twice I stayed to lunch, and sat opposite the artist's motherat table. It was like sitting face to face with Martha Washington, Ithought. Everything was wonderful in that wonderful old house. 

One thing disturbed my enjoyment of those Saturday mornings. It was asmall thing, hardly as big as a pen-wiper. It was a silver coin whichMiss Hale gave me regularly when I was going. I knew that models werepaid for sitting, but I was not a professional model. When people satfor their portraits they usually paid the artist, instead of theartist paying them. Of course I had not ordered this portrait, but Ihad such a good time sitting that it did not seem to me I could beearning money. But what troubled me was not the suspicion that I didnot earn the money, but that I did not know what was in my friend'smind when she gave it to me. Was it possible that Miss Hale had askedme to sit on purpose to be able to pay me, so that I could help paythe rent? Everybody knew about the rent sooner or later, because I wasalways asking my friends what a girl could do to make the landladyhappy. Very possibly Miss Hale had my landlady in mind when she askedme to pose. I might have asked her--I dearly loved explanations, whichcleared up hidden motives--but her answer would not have made anyreal difference. I should have accepted the money just the same. MissHale was not a stranger, like Mr. Strong when he offered me a quarter. She knew me, she believed in my cause, and she wanted to contribute toit. Thus I, in my hair-splitting analyses of persons and motives;while the portrait went steadily on. 

It was Miss Hale who first found a use for our superfluous baby. Shecame to Dover Street several times to study our tiny Celia, inswaddling clothes improvised by my mother, after the fashion of theold country. Miss Hale wanted a baby for a picture of the Nativitywhich she was doing for her father's church; and of all the babies inBoston, our Celia, our little Jewish Celia, was posing for the ChristChild! It does not matter in this connection that the Infant that liesin the lantern light, brooded over by the Mother's divine sorrow oflove, in the beautiful altar piece in Dr. Hale's church, was notactually painted from my mother's baby, in the end. The point is thatmy mother, in less than half a dozen years of America, had so farshaken off her ancient superstitions that she feared no evilconsequence from letting her child pose for a Christian picture. 

A busy life I led, on Dover Street; a happy, busy life. When I was notreciting lessons, nor writing midnight poetry, nor selling papers, norposing, nor studying sociology, nor pickling bugs, nor interviewingstatesmen, nor running away from home, I made long entries in nayjournal, or wrote forty-page letters to my friends. It was a happything that poor Mrs. Hutch did not know what sums I spent forstationery and postage stamps. She would have gone into consumption, Ido believe, from inexpressible indignation; and she would have beenin the right--to be indignant, not to go into consumption. I admit it;she would have been justified--from her point of view. From my pointof view I was also in the right; of course I was. To make friendsamong the great was an important part of my education, and was not tobe accomplished without a liberal expenditure of paper and postagestamps. If Mrs. Hutch had not repulsed my offer of confidences, Icould have shown her long letters written to me by people whose meresignature was prized by autograph hunters. It is true that I could notturn those letters directly into rent-money, --or if I could, I wouldnot, --but indirectly my interesting letters did pay a week's rent nowand then. Through the influence of my friends my father sometimesfound work that he could not have got in any other way. Thesepractical results of my costly pursuit of friendships might have givenMrs. Hutch confidence in my ultimate solvency, had she not remainedobstinately deaf to my plea for time, her heart being set on direct, immediate, convertible cash payment. 

That was very narrow-minded, even though I say it who should not. Thegrocer on Harrison Avenue who supplied our table could have taught herto take a more liberal view. We were all anxious to teach her, if sheonly would have listened. Here was this poor grocer, conducting hisbusiness on the same perilous credit system which had driven my fatherout of Chelsea and Wheeler Street, supplying us with tea and sugar andstrong butter, milk freely splashed from rusty cans, potent yeast, andbananas done to a turn, --with everything, in short, that keeps a poorman's family hearty in spite of what they eat, --and all this for theconsideration of part payment, with the faintest prospect of a futuresettlement in full. Mr. Rosenblum had an intimate knowledge of thefinancial situation of every family that traded with him, from thegossip of his customers around his herring barrel. He knew withoutasking that my father had no regular employment, and that, consequently, it was risky to give us credit. Nevertheless he gave uscredit by the week, by the month, accepted partial payment withthanks, and let the balance stand by the year. 

We owed him as much as the landlady, I suppose, every time he balancedour account. But he never complained; nay, he even insisted on mymother's taking almonds and raisins for a cake for the holidays. Heknew, as well as Mrs. Hutch, that my father kept a daughter at schoolwho was of age to be put to work; but so far was he from reproachinghim for it that he detained my father by the half-hour, inquiringabout my progress and discussing my future. He knew very well, did thepoor grocer, who it was that burned so much oil in my family; but whenI came in to have my kerosene can filled, he did not fall upon me withharsh words of blame. Instead, he wanted to hear about my latesttriumph at school, and about the great people who wrote me letters andeven came to see me; and he called his wife from the kitchen behindthe store to come and hear of these grand doings. Mrs. Rosenblum, whocould not sign her name, came out in her faded calico wrapper, andstood with her hands folded under her apron, shy and respectful beforethe embryo scholar; and she nodded her head sideways in approval, drinking in with envious pleasure her husband's Yiddish version of mytale. If her black-eyed Goldie happened to be playing jackstones onthe curb, Mrs. Rosenblum pulled her into the store, to hear whatdistinction Mr. Antin's daughter had won at school, bidding her takeexample from Mary, if she would also go far in education. 

"Hear you, Goldie? She has the best marks, in everything, Goldie, allthe time. She is only five years in the country, and she'll be incollege soon. She beats them all in school, Goldie--her father saysshe beats them all. She studies all the time--all night--and shewrites, it is a pleasure to hear. She writes in the paper, Goldie. Youought to hear Mr. Antin read what she writes in the paper. Longpieces--"

"You don't understand what he reads, ma, " Goldie interruptsmischievously; and I want to laugh, but I refrain. Mr. Rosenblum doesnot fill my can; I am forced to stand and hear myself eulogized. 

"Not understand? Of course I don't understand. How should Iunderstand? I was not sent to school to learn. Of course I don'tunderstand. But _you_ don't understand, Goldie, and that's a shame. Ifyou would put your mind on it, and study hard, like Mary Antin, youwould also stand high, and you would go to high school, and besomebody. "

"Would you send me to high school, pa?" Goldie asks, to test hermother's promises. "Would you really?"

"Sure as I am a Jew, " Mr. Rosenblum promptly replies, a look ofaspiration in his deep eyes. "Only show yourself worthy, Goldie, andI'll keep you in school till you get to something. In Americaeverybody can get to something, if he only wants to. I would even sendyou farther than high school--to be a teacher, maybe. Why not? InAmerica everything is possible. But you have to work hard, Goldie, like Mary Antin--study hard, put your mind on it. "

"Oh, I know it, pa!" Goldie exclaims, her momentary enthusiasmextinguished at the thought of long lessons indefinitely prolonged. Goldie was a restless little thing who could not sit long over hergeography book. She wriggled out of her mother's grasp now, and madefor the door, throwing a "back-hand" as she went, without losing asingle jackstone. "I hate long lessons, " she said. "When I graduategrammar school next year I'm going to work in Jordan-Marsh's bigstore, and get three dollars a week, and have lots of fun with thegirls. I can't write pieces in the paper, anyhow. --Beckie! BeckieHurvich! Where you going? Wait a minute, I'll go along. " And she wasoff, leaving her ambitious parents to shake their heads over herflightiness. 

Mr. Rosenblum gave me my oil. If he had had postage stamps in stock, he would have given me all I needed, and felt proud to think that hewas assisting in my important correspondences. And he was a poor man, and had a large family, and many customers who paid as irregularly aswe. He ran the risk of ruin, of course, but he did not scold--not us, at any rate. For he _understood_. He was himself an immigrant Jew ofthe type that values education, and sets a great price on the higherdevelopment of the child. He would have done in my father's place justwhat my father was doing: borrow, beg, go without, run indebt--anything to secure for a promising child the fulfilment of thepromise. That is what America was for. The land of opportunity it was, but opportunities must be used, must be grasped, held, squeezed dry. To keep a child of working age in school was to invest the meagrepresent for the sake of the opulent future. If there was but onechild in a family of twelve who promised to achieve an intellectualcareer, the other eleven, and father, and mother, and neighbors mustdevote themselves to that one child's welfare, and feed and clothe andcheer it on, and be rewarded in the end by hearing its name mentionedwith the names of the great. 

So the poor grocer helped to keep me in school for I do not know howmany years. And this is one of the things that is done on HarrisonAvenue, by the people who pitch rubbish through their windows. Let theCity Fathers strike the balance. 

Of course this is wretched economics. If I had a son who wanted to gointo the grocery business, I should take care that he was wellgrounded in the principles of sound bookkeeping and prudence. But Ishould not fail to tell him the story of the Harrison Avenue grocer, hoping that he would puzzle out the moral. 

Mr. Rosenblum himself would be astonished to hear that any one wasdrawing morals from his manner of conducting his little store, and yetit is from men like him that I learn the true values of things. Thegrocer weighed me out a quarter of a pound of butter, and when thescales were even he threw in another scrap. "_Na!_" he said, smilingacross the counter, "you can carry that much around the corner!"Plainly he was showing me that if I have not as many houses as myneighbor, that should not prevent me from cultivating as many graces. If I made some shame-faced reference to the unpaid balance, Mr. Rosenblum replied, "I guess you're not thinking of running away fromBoston yet. You haven't finished turning the libraries inside out, have you?" In this way he reminded me that there were things moreimportant than conventional respectability. The world belongs to thosewho can use it to the best advantage, the grocer seemed to argue; andI found that I had the courage to test this philosophy. 

From my little room on Dover Street I reached out for the world, andthe world came to me. Through books, through the conversation of noblemen and women, through communion with the stars in the depth of night, I entered into every noble chamber of the palace of life. I employedno charm to win admittance. The doors opened to me because I had aright to be within. My patent of nobility was the longing for theabundance of life with which I was endowed at birth; and from the timeI could toddle unaided I had been gathering into my hand everythingthat was fine in the world around me. Given health and standing-room, I should have worked out my salvation even on a desert island. Beingset down in the garden of America, where opportunity waits onambition, I was bound to make my days a triumphal march toward mygoal. The most unfriendly witness of my life will not venture to denythat I have been successful. For aside from subordinate desires forgreatness or wealth or specific achievement, my chief ambition in lifehas been _to live_, and I have lived. A glowing life has been mine, and the fires that blazed highest in all my days were kindled on DoverStreet. 

I have never had a dull hour in my life; I have never had a liveliertime than in the slums. In all my troubles I was thrilled through andthrough with a prophetic sense of how they were to end. A halo ofromance floated before every to-morrow; the wings of futureadventures rustled in the dead of night. Nothing could be quite commonthat touched my life, because I had a power for attracting uncommonthings. And when my noblest dreams shall have been realized I shallmeet with nothing finer, nothing more remote from the commonplace, than some of the things that came into my life on Dover Street. 

Friends came to me bearing noble gifts of service, inspiration, andlove. There came one, to talk with whom was to double the volume oflife. She left roses on my pillow when I lay ill, and in my heart sheplanted a longing for greatness that I have yet to satisfy. Anothercame whose soul was steeped in sunshine, whose eyes saw through everypretence, whose lips mocked nothing holy. And one came who carried thegolden key that unlocked the last secret chamber of life for me. Friends came trooping from everywhere, and some were poor, and somewere rich, but all were devoted and true; and they left no niche in myheart unfilled, and no want unsatisfied. 

To be alive in America, I found out long ago, is to ride on thecentral current of the river of modern life; and to have a consciouspurpose is to hold the rudder that steers the ship of fate. I wasalive to my finger tips, back there on Dover Street, and all mygirlish purposes served one main purpose. It would have been amazingif I had stuck in the mire of the slum. By every law of my nature Iwas bound to soar above it, to attain the fairer places that wait forevery emancipated immigrant. 

A characteristic thing about the aspiring immigrant is the fact thathe is not content to progress alone. Solitary success is imperfectsuccess in his eyes. He must take his family with him as he rises. Sowhen I refused to be adopted by a rich old man, and clung to myfamily in the slums, I was only following the rule; and I can tell itwithout boasting, because it is no more to my credit than that I wakerefreshed after a night's sleep. 

This suggests to me a summary of my virtues, through the exercise ofwhich I may be said to have attracted my good fortune. I find that Ihave always given nature a chance, I have used my opportunities, andhave practised self-expression. So much my enemies will grant me; morethan this my friends cannot claim for me. 

In the Dover Street days I did not philosophize about my privatecharacter, nor about the immigrant and his ways. I lived the life, andthe moral took care of itself. And after Dover Street came ApplepieAlley, Letterbox Lane, and other evil corners of the slums of Boston, till it must have looked to our neighbors as if we meant to go onforever exploring the underworld. But we found a short-cut--we found ashort-cut! And the route we took from the tenements of the stiflingalleys to a darling cottage of our own, where the sun shines in atevery window, and the green grass runs up to our very doorstep, wassurveyed by the Pilgrim Fathers, who trans-scribed their field noteson a very fine parchment and called it the Constitution of the UnitedStates. 

It was good to get out of Dover Street--it was better for the growingchildren, better for my weary parents, better for all of us, as theclean grass is better than the dusty pavement. But I must never forgetthat I came away from Dover Street with my hands full of riches. Imust not fail to testify that in America a child of the slums owns theland and all that is good in it. All the beautiful things I sawbelonged to me, if I wanted to use them; all the beautiful things Idesired approached me. I did not need to seek my kingdom. I had onlyto be worthy, and it came to me, even on Dover Street. Everything thatwas ever to happen to me in the future had its germ or impulse in theconditions of my life on Dover Street. My friendships, my advantagesand disadvantages, my gifts, my habits, my ambitions--these were thematerials out of which I built my after life, in the open workshop ofAmerica. My days in the slums were pregnant with possibilities; itonly needed the ripeness of events to make them fruit forth inrealities. Steadily as I worked to win America, America advanced tolie at my feet. I was an heir, on Dover Street, awaiting maturity. Iwas a princess waiting to be led to the throne. 

CHAPTER XX

THE HERITAGE

One of the inherent disadvantages of premature biography is that itcannot go to the natural end of the story. This difficulty threatenedme in the beginning, but now I find I do not need to tax my judgmentto fix the proper stopping-place. Sudden qualms of reluctance warn mewhere the past and present meet. I have reached a point where myyesterdays lie in a quick heap, and I cannot bear to prod and turnthem and set them up to be looked at. For that matter, I am not surethat I should add anything really new, even if I could force myself tocross the line of discretion. I have already shown what a real thingis this American freedom that we talk about, and in what manner acertain class of aliens make use of it. Anything that I might add ofmy later adventures would be a repetition, in substance, of what Ihave already described. Having traced the way an immigrant child maytake from the ship through the public schools, passed on from hand tohand by the ready teachers; through free libraries and lecture halls, inspired by every occasion of civic consciousness; dragging throughthe slums the weight of private disadvantage, but heartened for theeffort by public opportunity; welcomed at a hundred open doors ofinstruction, initiated with pomp and splendor and flags unfurledseeking, in American minds, the American way, and finding it in thethoughts of the noble, --striving against the odds of foreign birth andpoverty, and winning, through the use of abundant opportunity, aplace as enviable as that of any native child, --having traced thefootsteps of the young immigrant almost to the college gate, the restof the course may be left to the imagination. Let us say that from theLatin School on I lived very much as my American schoolmates lived, having overcome my foreign idiosyncrasies, and the rest of my outwardadventures you may read in any volume of American feminine statistics. 

But lest I be reproached for a sudden affectation of reserve, afterhaving trained my reader to expect the fullest particulars, I amwilling to add a few details. I went to college, as I proposed, thoughnot to Radcliffe. Receiving an invitation to live in New York that Idid not like to refuse, I went to Barnard College instead. There Itook all the honors that I deserved; and if I did not learn to writepoetry, as I once supposed I should, I learned at least to think inEnglish without an accent. Did I get rich? you may want to know, remembering my ambition to provide for the family. I can reply that Ihave earned enough to pay Mrs. Hutch the arrears, and satisfy all mywants. And where have I lived since I left the slums? My favoriteabode is a tent in the wilderness, where I shall be happy to serve youa cup of tea out of a tin kettle, and answer further questions. 

And is this really to be the last word? Yes, though a long chapter ofthe romance of Dover Street is left untold. I could fill another bookwith anecdotes, telling how I took possession of Beacon Street, andlearned to distinguish the lord of the manor from the butler in fulldress. I might trace my steps from my bare room overlooking thelumber-yard to the satin drawing-rooms of the Back Bay, where I drankafternoon tea with gentle ladies whose hands were as delicate astheir porcelain cups. My journal of those days is full of comments onthe contrasts of life, that I copied from my busy thoughts in theevening, after a visit to my aristocratic friends. Coming straightfrom the cushioned refinement of Beacon Street, where the maid whobrought my hostess her slippers spoke in softer accents than thefinest people on Dover Street, I sometimes stumbled over poor Mr. Casey lying asleep in the corridor; and the shock of the contrast waslike a searchlight turned suddenly on my life, and I pondered over therevelation, and wrote touching poems, in which I figured as a heroineof two worlds. 

I might quote from my journals and poems, and build up the picture ofthat double life. I might rehearse the names of the gracious friendswho admitted me to their tables, although I came direct from thereeking slums. I might enumerate the priceless gifts they showered onme; gifts bought not with gold but with love. It would be a pleasanttask to recall the high things that passed in the gilded drawing-roomsover the afternoon tea. It would add a splendor to my simple narrativeto weave in the portraits of the distinguished men and women whobusied themselves with the humble fortunes of a school-girl. Andfinally, it would relieve my heart of a burden of gratitude topublish, once for all, the amount of my indebtedness to the devotedfriends who took me by the hand when I walked in the paths ofobscurity, and led me, by a pleasanter lane than I could have found bymyself, to the open fields where obstacles thinned and opportunitiescrowded to meet me. Outside America I should hardly be believed if Itold how simply, in my experience, Dover Street merged into the BackBay. These are matters to which I long to testify, but I must waittill they recede into the past. 

I can conjure up no better symbol of the genuine, practical equalityof all our citizens than the Hale House Natural History Club, whichplayed an important part in my final emancipation from the slums. Forall I was regarded as a plaything by the serious members of the club, the attention and kindness they lavished on me had a deepsignificance. Every one of those earnest men and women unconsciouslytaught me my place in the Commonwealth, as the potential equal of thebest of them. Few of my friends in the club, it is true, could haverightly defined their benevolence toward me. Perhaps some of themthought they befriended me for charity's sake, because I was a starvedwaif from the slums. Some of them imagined they enjoyed my society, because I had much to say for myself, and a gay manner of meetinglife. But all these were only secondary motives. I myself, in myunclouded perception of the true relation of things that concerned me, could have told them all why they spent their friendship on me. Theymade way for me because I was their foster sister. They opened theirhomes to me that I might learn how good Americans lived. In the leastof their attentions to me, they cherished the citizen in the making. 

 * * * * *

The Natural History Club had spent the day at Nahant, studying marinelife in the tide pools, scrambling up and down the cliffs with nothought for decorum, bent only on securing the starfish, limpets, sea-urchins, and other trophies of the chase. There had been a merryluncheon on the rocks, with talk and laughter between sandwiches, andstrange jokes, intelligible only to the practising naturalist. Thetide had rushed in at its proper time, stealing away our seaweedcushions, drowning our transparent pools, spouting in the crevices, booming and hissing, and tossing high the snowy foam. 

 [Illustration: THE TIDE HAD RUSHED IN, STEALING AWAY OUR SEAWEED CUSHIONS]

From the deck of the jolly excursion steamer which was carrying ushome, we had watched the rosy sun dip down below the sea. The membersof the club, grouped in twos and threes, discussed the day'ssuccesses, compared specimens, exchanged field notes, or watched thewestern horizon in sympathetic silence. 

It had been a great day for me. I had seen a dozen new forms of life, had caught a hundred fragments of the song of nature by the sea; andmy mind was seething with meanings that crowded in. I do not rememberto which of my learned friends I addressed my questions on thisoccasion, but he surely was one of the most learned. For he took upall my fragments of dawning knowledge in his discourse, and weldedthem into a solid structure of wisdom, with windows looking far downthe past and a tower overlooking the future. I was so absorbed in myprivate review of creation that I hardly realized when we landed, orhow we got into the electric cars, till we were a good way into thecity. 

At the Public Library I parted from my friends, and stood on the broadstone steps, my jar of specimens in my hand, watching the car thatcarried them glide out of sight. My heart was full of a stirringwonder. I was hardly conscious of the place where I stood, or of theday, or the hour. I was in a dream, and the familiar world around mewas transfigured. My hair was damp with sea spray; the roar of thetide was still in my ears. Mighty thoughts surged through my dreams, and I trembled with understanding. 

I sank down on the granite ledge beside the entrance to the Library, and for a mere moment I covered my eyes with my hand. In that moment Ihad a vision of myself, the human creature, emerging from the dimplaces where the torch of history has never been, creeping slowly intothe light of civilized existence, pushing more steadily forward to thebroad plateau of modern life, and leaping, at last, strong and glad, to the intellectual summit of the latest century. 

What an awful stretch of years to contemplate! What a weighty past tocarry in memory! How shall I number the days of my life, except by thestars of the night, except by the salt drops of the sea?

But hark to the clamor of the city all about! This is my latest home, and it invites me to a glad new life. The endless ages have indeedthrobbed through my blood, but a new rhythm dances in my veins. Myspirit is not tied to the monumental past, any more than my feet werebound to my grandfather's house below the hill. The past was only mycradle, and now it cannot hold me, because I am grown too big; just asthe little house in Polotzk, once my home, has now become a toy ofmemory, as I move about at will in the wide spaces of this splendidpalace, whose shadow covers acres. No! it is not I that belong to thepast, but the past that belongs to me. America is the youngest of thenations, and inherits all that went before in history. And I am theyoungest of America's children, and into my hands is given all herpriceless heritage, to the last white star espied through thetelescope, to the last great thought of the philosopher. Mine is thewhole majestic past, and mine is the shining future. 

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

 _To my mother who bore me; to my father who endowed me; to my brothers and sisters who believed in me; to my friends who loved me; to my teachers who inspired me; to my neighbors who befriended me; to my daughter who enlarged me; to my husband who opened the door of the greater life for me;--to all these who helped to make this book, I give my thanks. _

GLOSSARY

KEY TO PRONUNCIATION

 a as in man ä as in far e as in met ē as in meet ë as long e in German Leder i as in pin ī as in file o as in not ō as in note ö as in German König u as in circus ū as in mute u̇ as in pull ai as in aisle oi as in joint ch as in German ach, Scotch loch ḥ as in German ach, Scotch loch l̂ as in failure ñ as in cañon zh as z in seizure. 

_Explanations_

The abbreviations _Germ. _ (= German), _Hebr. _ (= Hebrew), _Russ. _(= Russian), and _Yid. _ (= Yiddish) indicate the origin of a word. Most of the names marked _Yiddish_ are such in form only, the rootsbeing for the most part Hebrew. 

Prop. N = proper name. 

The endings _ke_ and _le_ of Yiddish proper names (Mashke, Perele)have a diminutive or endearing value, like the German _chen_(Helenchen). 

Double names are given under the first name. 

The religious customs described prevail among the Orthodox Jews ofEuropean countries. In the United States they have been considerablymodified, especially among the Reformed Jews. 

 =Ab= (äb) _Hebr. _ The fifth month of the Hebrew calendar. The ninth of Ab is a day of fasting and mourning, in commemoration of the destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple. 

 =Adonai= (ä-do-nai´), _Hebr. _ An appellation of God. 

 =Aleph= (ä'-lef), _Hebr. _ The first letter of the Hebrew alphabet. 

 =Atonement, Day of= (Hebrew, _Yom Kippur_). The most solemn of the Hebrew festivals, observed by fasting and an elaborate ceremonial. 

 =Bahur= (bä´-hur), _Hebr. _ A young unmarried man, particularly a student of the Talmud. (See _Yeshibah bahur_. )

 =Berl= (berl). _Yid. _ Prop. N. 

 =Cabala= (käb-ä´-lä), _Hebr. _ A system of Hebrew mystic philosophy which flourished in the Middle Ages. 

 =Candle Prayer= (Yiddish, _licht bentschen_). Prayer pronounced over lighted candles by the women and older girls of the household at the commencement of the Sabbath. 

 =Canopy, wedding= (Hebrew _huppah_). A portable canopy under which the marriage ceremony is performed, usually outdoors. 

 =Cossaks= (kos´-aks), _Russ. _ A name given to certain Russian tribes, formerly distinguished for their freebooting habits, now best known for their position in the army. 

 =Dayyan= (dai´-an), _Hebr. _ A judge to whom are submitted civil disputes, as distinguished from purely religious questions, which are decided by the Rav. 

 =Dinke= (din´-ke), _Yid. _ Prop. N. 

 =Dvina= (dvē´-nä), _Russ. _ Name of a river. 

 =Dvornik= (dvor´-nik), _Russ. _ An outdoor man; a choreman. 

 =Dvoshe= (dvo´-she), _Yid. _ Prop. N. 

 =Earlocks= (Hebrew _peath_). Two locks of hair allowed to grow long and hang in front of the ears. Among the fanatical Hasidim, a mark of piety. 

 =Eidtkuhnen= (eit-koo´-ñen), _Germ. _ Name of a Russo-German frontier town. 

 =Fetchke= (fëtch´-ke), _Yid. _ Prop. N. 

 =Fringes, sacred= (Hebrew _zizit_). Specially prepared fringes fastened to the four corners of the _arba kanfot_ (literally, "four-corners"), a garment worn by all pious males underneath the jacket or frock coat, usually with the fringes showing. The latter play a part in the daily ritual. 

 =Goluth= (gol´-ut), _Hebr. _ Banishment; exile. 

 =Good Jew= (Yiddish _guter id_). Among the Hasidim, a title popularly accorded to more or less learned individuals distinguished for their piety, and credited with supernatural powers of healing, divination, etc. Pilgrimages to some renowned "Good Jew" were often undertaken by the very pious, on occasions of perplexity or trouble, for the purpose of obtaining his advice or help. 

 =Groschen= (gro´-shen), _Germ. _ A popular name for various coins of small denomination, especially the half-kopeck. 

 =Gutke= (gut´-ke), _Yid. _ Prop. N. 

 =Hannah Hayye= (ḥän´-a ḥai´-e), _Hebr. _ Prop. N. 

 =Hasid=, pl. =Hasidim= (ḥäs´-id, ḥas-id´-im), _Hebr. _ A numerous sect of Jews distinguished for their enthusiasm in religious observance, a fanatical worship of their rabbis and many superstitious practices. 

 =Haven Mirel= (ḥa´-ve mirl), _Hebr. _ and _Yid. _ Prop. N. 

 =Hayye Dvoshe= (ḥai´-e dvo´-she), _Hebr. _ and _Yid. _ Prop. N. 

 =Hayyim= (ḥai´-im), _Hebr. _ Prop. N. 

 =Hazzan= (ḥäz-an), _Hebr. _ Cantor in a synagogue. 

 =Heder= (ḥë´-der), _Hebr. _ Elementary Hebrew school, usually held at the teacher's residence. 

 =Henne Rösel= (he´-ñe rözl), _Yid. _ Prop. N. 

 =Hirshel= (hir´-shl), _Yid. _ Prop. N. 

 =Hode= (ho´-de), _Yid. _ Prop. N. 

 =Horn, ram's= (Hebrew _shofar_). Ritual horn, used in the synagogue during the great festivals. 

 =Hossen= (ḥo´-ssn), _Hebr. _ Bridegroom; prospective bridegroom; betrothed. 

 =Humesh= (ḥu̇´-mesh), _Hebr. _ The Pentateuch. 

 =Icon= (ī´-kon) _Russ. _ A representation of Christ or some saint, usually in an elaborate frame, found in every orthodox Russian house. 

 =Itke= (it´-ke), _Yid. _ Prop. N. 

 =Jew, Good. = See under =Good=. 

 =Kibart= (ki-bärt´), _Russ. _ Name of a town. 

 =Kiddush= (kid´-ush), _Hebr. _ Benediction pronounced over a cup of wine before the Sabbath evening meal. 

 =Kimanye= (ki-mä´-ñe), _Russ. _ Name of a village. 

 =Kimanyer= (ki-mä´-ñer), _Yid. _ Belonging to or hailing from the village of Kimanye. 

 =Knupf= (knupf), _Yid. _ A sort of turban. 

 =Kopeck= (ko´-pek), _Russ. _ A copper coin, the 1/100 part of a ruble, worth about half a cent. 

 =Kopistch= (ko´-pistch), _Russ. _ Name of a town. 

 =Kosher= (ko´-sher), _Hebr. _ Clean, according to Jewish ritual law; opposed to =tref=, unclean. Applied chiefly to articles of diet and cooking and eating vessels. 

 =Lamden= (läm´-den), _Hebr. _ Scholar; one versed in Hebrew learning. 

 =Law, the= (specifically used). The Mosaic Law; the Torah. 

 =Lebe= (lë´-be), _Yid. _ Prop. N. 

 =Loaf, Sabbath. = See under Sabbath. 

 =Lozhe= (lo´-zhe), _Yid. _ Prop. N. 

 =Lubavitch= (lu̇-bäv´-itch), _Russ. _ Name of a town. 

 =Maryashe= (mär-yä´-she), _Yid. _ Prop. N. 

 =Mashinke= (mä´-shin-ke), _Yid. _ A diminutive of Mashke. 

 =Mashke= (mäsh´-ke), _Yid. _ Prop. N. 

 =Mendele= (men´-del-e), _Yid. _ Prop. N. 

 =Mezuzah= (me-zu´-zä), _Hebr. _ A piece of parchment inscribed with a passage of Scripture, rolled in a case and tacked to the doorpost. The pious touch or kiss this when leaving or entering a house. 

 =Mikweh= (mik´-we), _Hebr. _ Ritual bath, constructed and used according to minute directions. 

 =Mirele= (mir´-e-le), _Yid. _ Prop. N. 

 =Mishka= (mish´-kä), _Russ. _ Prop. N. 

 =Moon, blessing of. = Benediction pronounced at the appearance of the new moon. 

 =Moshe= (mo´-she), _Yid. _ Prop, n. , a form of Moses. 

 =Möshele= (mo´-she-le), _Yid. _ Prop, n. , diminutive of Moshe. 

 =Mulke= (ṁu̇l̂´-ke), _Yid. _ Prop, n. , diminutive of Mulye. 

 =Mulye= (mu̇l̂´-e), _Yid. _ Prop. N. 

 =Na!= (nä), _Yid. _ Here you are! Take it!

 =Nohem= (no´-ḥem), _Hebr. _ Prop. N. 

 =Nu, nu!= (nu̇, nu̇), _Yid. _ Well, well. 

 =Oi, weh!= (oi, vë), _Yid. _ Woe is me!

 =Oven, sealing of. = As no fire is kindled on the Sabbath, the Sabbath dinner is cooked on Friday afternoon and left in the brick oven overnight. The oven is tightly closed with a board or sheet of metal, wet rags being stuffed into the interstices. 

 =Passover= (Hebrew, _pesech_). The feast of Unleavened Bread, commemorating the escape of the Israelites from Egypt. 

 =Passport, foreign. = A special passport required of any Russian subject wishing to go to a foreign country. To avoid the necessity of procuring such a passport, travellers often cross the border by stealth. 

 =Perele= (per´-e-le), _Yid. _ Prop. N. 

 =Phylacteries= (fi-lak´-ter-is; Hebrew _tefillin_). Two small leathern boxes containing parchments inscribed with certain passages of Scripture, worn during morning prayer, one on the forehead and one on the left arm, where they are fastened by means of straps, in a manner carefully prescribed. The wearing of the _tefillin_ is obligatory on all males over thirteen years of age (the age of confirmation). 

 =Pinchus= (pin´-chus), _Hebr. _ Prop. N. 

 =Pogrom= (po-grom´), _Russ. _ An organized massacre of Jews. 

 =Poll= (pol), _Yid. _ A series of steps in the bathing-room, where cupping, etc. , is done under a high temperature. 

 =Polota= (Po-lo-tä´), _Russ. _ Name of a river. 

 =Polotzk= (po´-lotzk), _Russ. _, also spelled Polotsk. A town in the government of Vitebsk, Russia, since early times a stronghold of Jewish orthodoxy. _N. B. _ Polotzk must not be confused with Plotzk (also spelled Plock), the capital of the government of Plotzk, in Russian Poland, about 400 miles southwest of Polotzk. 

 =Praying Shawl= (Hebrew, _tallit_). A fine white woollen shawl with sacred fringes (_zizit_), in the four corners, worn by males after marriage, during certain devotional exercises. 

 =Purim= (pu̇´-rim), _Hebr. _ A feast in commemoration of the deliverance of the Persian Jews, through the intervention of Esther, from the massacre planned by Haman. Masquerading, feasting, exchange of presents, and general license make this celebration the jolliest of the Jewish year. 

 =Questions, the Four. = At the Passover feast, the youngest son (or, in the absence of a son of suitable age, a daughter) asks four questions as to the significance of various symbolic articles used in the ceremonial, in reply to which the family read the story of Exodus. 

 =Rabbi= (rab´-ī), _Hebr. _ A title accorded to men distinguished for learning and authorized to teach the Law. As used in the present work, _rabbi_ is identical with the official title of _rav_, which see. 

 =Rabbonim= (räb-on´-im), _Hebr. _ Plural of _rabbi_. 

 =Rav= (räv), _Hebr. _ The spiritual head of a Jewish community, whose duties include the settlement of ritualistic questions. 

 =Reb'= (reb), _Yid. _ An abbreviation of _rebbe_, used as a title of respect, equivalent to the old-fashioned English "master. "

 =Rebbe= (reb´-e), _Yid. _ Colloquial form of _rabbi_. A Hebrew teacher. Applied usually to teachers of lesser rank; also used as a title for a "Good Jew"; as, the Rebbe of Kopistch. 

 =Rebbetzin= (reb´-e-tzin), _Yid. _ Female Hebrew teacher. 

 =Riga= (ri´-gä), _Russ. _ Name of a city. 

 =Ruble= (ru̇´-bl), _Russ. _ The monetary unit of Russia. A silver coin (or, more commonly, a paper bill) worth a little over fifty cents. 

 =Sabbath Loaf= (Hebrew, _hallah_). A wheaten loaf of peculiar shape used in the Sabbath ceremonial. 

 =Sacred Fringes. = See under =Fringes=. 

 =Shadchan= (shäd´-chan), _Hebr. _ Professional match-maker; marriage broker. 

 =Shawl, Praying. = See under =Praying=. 

 =Shema= (shmä), _Hebr. _ The verse recited as the Jewish confession of faith ("Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One"); so called from the initial word. The "Shema" recurs constantly in the daily ritual, and is informally repeated on every occasion of distress, or as a charm to ward off evil influences. 

 =Shohat= (sho´-ḥat), _Hebr. _ Slaughterer of cattle according to ritual law. 

 =Succoth= (su̇´-kot), _Hebr. _ The feast of Tabernacles, celebrated with many symbolic rites, among these being the eating of the festive meals outdoors, in a booth or bower of lattice work covered with evergreens. 

 =Talakno= (täl-äk-no´), _Russ. _ Meal made of ground oats, often mixed with other grains or with weeds. An important article of diet among the peasants, generally moistened with cold water and eaten raw. 

 =Talmudists= (tal´-mu̇d-ists; from Hebrew _talmud_). The compilers of the Talmud (the body of Jewish traditional lore); scholars versed in the teachings of the Talmud. 

 =Tav= (täv), _Hebr. _ The last letter of the Hebrew alphabet. 

 =Torah= (tō´-rä), _Hebr. _ The Mosaic Law; the book or scroll of the Law; sacred learning. 

 =Trefah= (trëf´-a), _Hebr. _ Unclean, according to ritual law; opposed to kosher, clean. Chiefly applied to articles of food and eating and cooking vessels. 

 =Versbolovo= (vers-bo-lo´-vä), _Russ. _ Name of a town. 

 =Verst= (vyerst), _Russ. _ A measure of length, about two-thirds of an English mile. 

 =Vilna= (vil´-nä), _Russ. _ Name of a city. 

 =Vitebsk= (vi´-tebsk), _Russ. _ Name of a city. 

 =Vodka= (vod´-kä), _Russ. _ A kind of whiskey distilled from barley or from potatoes, constantly indulged in by the lower classes in Russia, especially by the peasants. 

 =Wedding Canopy. = See under =Canopy=. 

 =Yachne= (Yäch´-ne), _Yid. _ Prop. N. 

 =Yakub= (yä-ku̇b´), _Russ. _ Prop. N. 

 =Yankel= (yän´-kl), _Yid. _ Prop. N. 

 =Yeshibah= (ye-shib´-ä), _Hebr. _ Rabbinical school or seminary. 

 =Yeshibah Bachur=, a student in a _yeshibah_. 

 =Yiddish= (yid´-ish), _Yid. _ Judeo-German, the language of the Jews of Eastern Europe. The basis is an archaic form of German, on which are grafted many words of Hebrew origin, and words from the vernacular of the country. 

 =Yochem= (yo´-chem), _Yid. _ Prop. N. 

 =Yuchovitch= (yu̇-chov-itch´), _Russ. _ Name of a village. 

 =Zaddik= (tzä´-dik), _Hebr. _ A man of piety; a holy man. 

 =Zalmen= (zäl´-men), _Yid. _ Prop. N. 

 =Zimbler= (tzim´-bler), _Yid. _ A performer on the _zimble_, an instrument constructed like a wooden tray, with several wires stretched across lengthwise, and played by means of two short rods. 

The Riverside PressCAMBRIDGE. MASSACHUSETTSU. S. A. 

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