The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, July 3, 1904, Page 4

vou were baptized long ago. May your enemies bite off their tongues for utter- ing such calumnies!” “And how long have you been here?” 1 asked. *“About everything, I have tried button-holing the best business for me. And why did 1 leave home?" He shrugged his shoulders, answering a question I had in my mind. “The town burned down a second time and left me without a position. What could 1 do at home? I sailed for America.” After he had urged me a number of times to call at his house, or if I did not care to honor him in that way, at least to call at Saturday’s service in £hool, I promised to see him again, and left him clicking at bis machine, Coming into the street I lifted my eyes to read another sign. I had some experience now, and knew that not everything on the sign was true. How- ever, noticing a placard In a window that read, “Ten thousand hands wanted,” and realizing that T could supply two of these, I opened the door of the shop. “Any work?” I asked. Here agaip I found one man bent al- most double over a sewing-machine and pushing a piece of skin under the needl eight years. but I find b he answered. “Whrr—whrr—whrr—rrr,” chine whired and hummed. I pointed to the placard in the win- dow. He glanced at me from the crown of my head to the narrow-pointed tips of my foreign shoes, and laughed. *“Oh, I see you're a ‘greener.’ Of course I want ten thou- sand hands to wear my gloves.” I went to my lodging and stretched myself upon my bed, lost in a sea of despairing thoughts. CHAPTER IV. IN A “SWEAT SHOP.” The same evening I had a long con- sultation with Mr. Takiff and Malke (her husband being out for business most of the time), and though the lat- ter strenuously objected and the form- er grumbled that the handicraft of a plain workman was altogether unbe- coming for me, I decided to learn shirt- making at Mr. Levando’s. I realized that at present I could not depend on my knowledge of languages to make a living Mr. Levando's shirt factory was on the third floor of a rickety old frame house among the tall tenements of Suffolk street, in the heart of New York's Jewry. The dingy building, once red, but now the color of the gut- ters, stood prominent among the other buildings by reason of its very hum- bleness. Under one of the windows was nailed an unassuming square sign bearing the inscription: “D. Levando, shirt manufacturer.” At sight of me Mr. Levando dropped the shirt on which he was working and came forward with a beam of welcome in his eves. “Well!” he said with a hough it grieves me to see a rsity graduate taking up a handi- craft, I'll be glad to teach you the trade since you can do nothing better.” The next day I started on my new career. Daniel, Mr. Levando’s young- est son, was my instructor. After a few days’ practice I was able to work and talk at the same time. I found the small company exceedingly pleasant. Occasionally we would indulge in long discussions. We talked philosophy, poetry, religion, economics—of Russia (with a pang at my heart), of her Iit- erature, of her Jews, and of her inhu- manity. Daniel Levando was of a quiet dispo- sition; he always looked sad and dream: His eyes showed that he was keenly critical, but the lower part of his face told that he was easily moved by emotions—by pity, sympathy, love. Though his profile, his thoughtfulness, 2nd his peculiar sadness showed his Hebrew lineage clearly enough, his type was not purely Semitic. Several months passed, full of ex- hausting work, but made almost pleasant by agreeable companionship. I had almost become accustomed to the eweat shop and to work with my hands, but I felt that the machine was graduall undermining my _constitu- tion. My cheeks faded, and I coughed quite often, especially at night. I real- ized I ought to give up shirt-making, but at the same time I felt it discreet not to do so until T saw better pros- pects ahe Mr. Levando sold most of his product to one firm, Mark Fetter & Co., promi- nent wholesale dealers in men’s furn- ishing goods, and the tenem=nt where the Levando family worked and lived was owned by the head of the firm, Mark Fetter, a German Jew. This firm was far from popular with the Levandos. “I would rather go to a pack of wild dogs than on these er- rands,” Daniel would often confide to me when his father sent him to deliver shirts. And Daniel's opinion was the opinion of his father and brother. One warm afternoon in the early fall, when we were driving our machines at full speed, Mr. Levando returned from a call upon Mark Fetter & Co. in a very happy frame of mind. “I have a big order, and I hope we shall have steady work all winter,” he announced Joyfully as soon as he was in the shop. “Were you at Fetter's?” asked his eldest son. Mr. Levando's happiness subsided wvery suddenly. “Yes. He tried to squeeze us again.” “Oh, that Mark Fetter!” muttered T'd rather starve than take the ma- scrutinizing me “Daniel,” replied the father softly, “you know how much I love that haughty fool with the glasses, but what can we do at present? He buys most of our goods, and we must endure him till we have worked ourselves up a little, and then we can shake him off entirely.” “Whrrr — whrrr — whrrr — rrr — ‘whzzz," went the machines, and we fell to work again at full speed. One of the girls, about 17 and very pretty, began to sing a popular love song. Several of us tried to join in, but she song so much better than any of us that we stopped and let her carry the song alone. It brought back to me recollections that were sweetly painful, and unconsciously I let my foot rest quietly on the treadle. The singer, however, worked on automatically as she poured forth her soul in the song. “Stop!” cried Mr. Levando suddenly. The song broke off abruptly, and we all looked up. A tall, solidly built man, with a hooked nose and plercing black eyes that glared behind glasses, stood by the door, like a tyrannical general surveying an army. He was bandy- Jegged, with a crop of curly hair, bushy black mustache, and narrow forehead. He looked fiercely around him without not even a bow to Mr. Levando. Mr. Fetter.” The iously, but the did not by even so much a nod of his head. “How many dozen irts do you make a day, 1 ndo?” asked Mr. Fet- ter superciliously, his giance not upon the one he addressed. but wandering about utinizing every- thing and everybody in the small shop. Mr. Levando answered humbly. Then he added: “You buy most of them, and the rest 1 sell to another house.” “You ans want the earth with around it,” Mr. Fetter said “When one gives you one hair » want the whole beard—hey, Puilack?” (The German Jews and their American extraction call any co- religionist Pullack who was not fortu- nate enough to have been born in Ger- many.) “1 gave you the first $10 to buy ma- terial,” he continued, “and pledged my credit for your machinery and tools, and reanted you these 22, itor the harsk rooms for $22, which are worth $25 at least, with the clear understanding that you must not sell your goods to any one eise. 1 found out the other day that you sell goods to another firm at the same prices you do to me.” He spoke cruelly and moved his fierce black eyes right and left. “But judge for yourself, sir,” said Mr. Levando in self-justification. “We made no agreement to this effect, and how could 1 possibly make a decent living for my family by depending solely upon you? And your prices are so low.” “Why, your boys make about $8 a week, you told me, and your work is worth about the same. Isn't that enough for a livelihood?” Mr. Fetter asked this with an air of astonishment, as he might wonder at the income of the Rothschilds not being enough for a family’s support. “Did you make more in Russia or Poland, wherever the devil you came from?” “Oh, in Russia,” sighed Mr. L as if that word wounded him—* sia I had my own houses, and did not have to pay $22 for five small rooms.” “You Pullacks become actually wild when you come over to this country. No wonder the Czar is driving you peo- ple out. You wish to grab everything —everything. Have you ever lived in a house in the country where you came from with such big windows as this— hey? Here you want nice carpets and nice stoves and perhaps a piano, too. All your people are a lot of schnorrers (beggars), one as bad as the other.” We all kept our faces down and our feet pressing the treadles softly—all except Daniel, who had been cutting a thickly folded pad of linen. He now laid down his long cutter's knife and moved about restlessly, his face glow- ing with intense agitation. “How much do you make a week Mr. Fetter asked of our prima donna, who blushed and looked up at the “boss.” He gave her a wink, which she evidently interpreted ‘“‘higher price,” but as half a dollar was a big sum to her, she answered: “Six dollars and a half.” “You Pullack! Schnorre Mr. Fet- ter shouted indignantly, as if he would play philanthropist. “You only pay $6 50 to such a big grown girl, and you wish to become a millionaire and have a plano in your house—hey?” “But how can I pay more when the prices I get for my goods are so low? Raise the prices on my shirts and Ldl raise wages.” Mr. Levando's face grew red with subdued anger. “A discount of four per cent will be my terms for your goods henceforth. Whog will buy of you shabby Pullack, and who will understand your broken English and jabbering German?” I noticed that Danlel's face burned and that he quivered in every limb. “But how can I live? The prices are low enough as they are,”” the poor “sweater” said imploringly. ‘Well,” said Mr. Fetter in a slow, staccatc-like tone, “if you don’t agree I'll bundle you out with your cock- reaches, take away the machines, and put in some other lousy Pull—" “You dirty scoundrel! Get out of here! and quick!” Daniel shouted, jumping up, with his cutter's knife flashing in his trembling hand like a sword. He looked fierce, almost wild— like a young Italian bandit. “Daniel!” cried his father in conster- nation. Mr. Fetter stepped toward the door in alarm. “Keep that dog off,” he or- dered with a sneer. “Get out, or—"" shrieked the raging youth. “I'll teach you a lesson,” Mr. Fetter said flercely between his teeth and rushed out. Perfect quiet reigned in the shop. No one uttered a word. Mr. Levando re- mained standing, speechless, in the middle of the room, his skull-cap push- ed back, exposing his high and broad forehead, on which wrinkles appeared and disappeared, and his shrewd, al- mond-shaped grayish-blue eyes filled with tears. His eldest son, being of a very peaceful nature, Jooked a little an- gry with his younger brother for his rashness, but there was at the same time some satisfaction in his eyes. Fan- nie, our prima donna, stole admiring glances through the corners of her eyes at Daniel, and all of us regarded him with a new respect in which there was a little of fear. He sat down in his chair and leaned his head on his bare arm, the knife still clenched in his hand, and his tears flowed profusely upon the table littered with pieces of linep and muslin. CHAPTER V. THE END 6F THE SWEATSHOP. The following morning, just after we had sat down to work, two men opened the door and asked for David Levando. Mr. Levando, who was stooping over a large bundle of finished goods which he was preparing for delivery, straight- ened up, a trifle frightened, and asked what was their wish. The younger of the two men sald he was a lawyer, and that his companion was a constable, and thereupon he produced a writ of replevin. Mr. Levando stared dazedly at the two, and the rest of us sat be- wildered, with our feet motionless on the treadles. Daniel was the first to ask the attorney to explain what the trouble was, to whose question the lat- ter explained very explicitly: “Mark Fetter, who holds a chattel mortgage on all of your belongings, replevins the goods instead of commencing foreclo- sure proceedings.” “But, if you please,” the poor mort- gager pleaded with the lawyer, “I only owe Mr. Fetter $45 on this mortgage d my machines and other goods are well-nigh worth $1000.” “Well, you will have the chance to prove this in court,” the attorney re- plied with a smile, as if to say: “I know your tricks.”, “I have got the notes in my possession, and they show o an indebtedness of $673, besides inter- est at 8 per cent for one year and three months.” “But I have paid all this but $45. It was deducted from my bills when I delivered goods.to him. The interest was figured In the principal when he loaned me the money.” There were tears in the eyes of the unfortunate “sweater.” “Well, you'll have your say in court,” the attorney replied shortly. And turn- ing to the constable he said: “Call up your men and begin to pack up.” The constable opened the door and shouted down the stairs: “Oh, Bill! Come up!” Two men immediately ap- peared. “Youse ladies and gentlemen will have to get up,”. the constable said, turning to us operators. All of us arose instantly; some of us trembled, for the fear of legal author- ity generated by Russian tyranny and oppression was still strong in those of us who were not long from our native land of barbarism. We stood huddled together in a corner, full of pity and sympathy for our poor employer, who remained standing in the middle of the room, with his skull cap on the back of his head, his hands clasped in front of him, and tears gathering in his al- mond-shaped eyes. “You may still have the goods,” said the lawyer philanthropically, “if you pay us the full amount of these notes, and for your sake I'll throw off half the interest.” “But I only owe him $45!” Mr. Le- vando returned imploringly. “And even those $45 @ can’t pay him to-day. ‘We agreed thatl Mr. Fetter should de- duct this sum from the next five bills of goods.” “Well, you'll tell your tale in court,” the lawyer responded nonchalantly. “Hurry up and get these things out,” he gaid to the constable and his as- sistant, ‘While we were all watching them car- ry out Mr. Levando's machines—our bread-winners—a policeman entered and asked for Danfel. The officer read to the trembling youth a warrant which charged him with assault with intent to kill. A sad smile played on the boy’s lips as the officer took him by the arm and led him away. Mr. Levando left all his belongings to the mercy of the constable and follow- ed the officer and his son. And a short while later the little sweatshop was quiet—without a whirr of a machine, without a click, without the sound of a voice—quiet and empty! e CHAPTER VL I APPLY FOR AID AND GET SOME- THING ELSE. In the afternoon I went to Mr. Le- vando’s home. He was utterly ex- hausted from running about to procure the release of his son, whose bail had been fixed at $1000. Those of his friends who were willing to give bail had no property, and those who had feared to stake i The family was a picture of . Mrs. Levando lay on a couch, moaning and crying; the oldest son sat helplessly on the arm of a rocking- chair, with his head drooped and his hands clasped around his knees, and Mr. Takiff puffed at his pipe and cursed the “golden land,” its people and its laws. “Blazes to this country with her jus- tice!” he complained bitterly. “It's worse than Russia—" “'A thousand times worse,” struck in Mrs. Levando. “Who ever heard,” resumed Mr. Takiff wrathfully, “that a boy of 17 years should be locked up under $1000 bail?” Mrs. Levando groaned, “Oi, my dear child—my Daniel, he will have to stay in jail overnight!"* and she burst anew into a flood of tears. “And he says America is a good Takiff turned to his country.” Mr. brother-in-law, his eyes full of an- ger. 1 slipped out of this house of sorrow and walked along Canal street, think- ing how I could be of some assistance to them. Iirst the idea of my helping them seemed absurd, as I had only a dollar and some cents in my possession. Then a hopeful thought cleared the gloom frdm my mind. “The Jews in general have always been charitable.” But to whom could I apply? I scarcely knew any one. Of course I had heard of Jewish philanthropists in New York, but how could I reach those magnani- mous men? Then I thought of the rabbis. Surely I could find some rabbi who would help Mr. Levando, with a recommendation at least, or influence Mark Fetter to drop his proceedings. I had heard of Doctor Fuchs, who was the rabbi of a gorgeous uptown synagogue, and who was renowned for his erudition. I determined to apply to* him for assistance. If he won't help he won’t harm, I assured myself. On Jookinrg up his address in the directory I found he lived far uptown, and my capital was so scanty that I could hard- ly afford to spend 10 cents for car fare. I hesitated long before I decided to take a Third-avenue elevated train. “If I do not find the rabbi it means 10 cents wasted,” I reflected, and started out on foot. I walked several squares ard stopped. “Nearly ninety squares.” 1 hesitated and again fumbled the dime in my pocket, whirled it, fon- dled it, and unconsclously began climb- Ing the stairs to the elevated station. I found the house that I sought, but its elegance frightened me, so I walked past it to the next corner. Then I plucked up courage, and returning I ascended the stoop and timidly pulled the knob of the doorbell. I heard its tinkling deep within the house, and an echo, 1 thought, sounded deep within me. I felt awkward, and stood before the house like a tramp waiting for a sandwich, ‘The door opened and a pretty German servant girl (I could not help thinking of her beauty) stuck out her head and glanced at me and asked me what I wished. In much embarrassment I told her that I wished to see Rev. Doctor Fuchs. She showed me into the recep- tion room and disappeared with my request. In a few minutes, which seemed dou- ble their number, a middle-aged, obese woman of medium height, with a flat nose, double chin and green eyes, rustled into the room, panting as she walked, her diamond earrings bhobbing and twinkling. She contracted her eye- lids, as 1f to get a better look at me, in order to judge what reception to give me. Evidently the impression was not favorable, for her face assumed a sour expression as she said to me: “Doctor Fuch iss taking hig avternun nap from one to two.” % “I'll wait until the Doctor gets up,” I said in a humble tone. 1 waited and yawned and waited. T studied the color of the carpet, the ‘wall paper, and counted the books in the two cases. I noticed a paper lying on a chair close to mine, and I picked it up. At this movement on my part the flat nose and green eyes were again framed between the curtains. Finally, after I had scrutinized every- thing about me, heavy steps reached my ears. I divined the coming of Rab- bi Fuchs. I cleared my throat, passed my hand down over the buttons of my walstcoat, passed iy slim fingers through my hair to arrange it in poetic disarrangement, and awaited his arri- val. He appeared at the door and measured me from the soles of my torn shoes to the top of my untrimmed hair in one glance from his steady, cold eyes. He was a little taller than his wife and almost as fat, and his grayish beard was closely trimmed. His nose was aquiline, and purple at the end, which 1 thought (mistakenly, perhaps) resulted from a too zealous worship of Bacchus, He wore a white tie and a high walistcoat, which—so my fancy struck me—gave him the full appear- ance of the Almighty's coachman. His forehead was originally not high, but it was heightened and broadened by his partial baldness. I rose and bade him ‘“good after- noon,” to which he bowed perfunctorily. He did not ask me to sit down, so I told him my story standing, expiating espegially on the high position of fhe Levandos in former days. He listened as members of his congregation listen to his sermons, I thought; but he did not. fall asleep. He stood with his hands in his trousers pockets, unmoved by my tale of woe as his congregation by his lectures, I fancied. Several tinies I no- ticed a spasmodic shake of his head, as if he wished to interrupt me, but he waited without a word to the end of my speech. This politeness, flashed through my mind, he had also learned from his flock. ““Oh, yes, you Russians are ever dis- satisfled with work and look for some- thing easy,” he said coldly. “Aparch- ism, soclalism, nihillsm, and all kinds of isms—that's all you care about. I can't do anything for you. There are Hebrew charity societies and hospitals which do all they can for paupers and immigrants.” “But you must realize,” I pleaded, almost with tears in my eyes, “the injustice of Mr. Fetter in trying to ruin this noble family, that has worked in a ‘sweatshop’ in order to make an hon- est living. I do not ask of you anything but merely to go and see Mr. Fetter on behalf of these unfortunate people, and he will not be so hard upon them.” “I know you Russians,” he said im- patiently. *“Well, this you have for your trouble,” he added with a mean- ing smile, drawing half a .dollar from his pocket and handing it to me. At this I lost my control. T spat on his outstretched hand and shrieked at the highest pitch of my voice: “Hypo- crite! high-toned beggar! I ask no alms * of you, stone-hearted rabbi in Israel!” He grew as white as the tie he wore around his neck, and his fat wife, who had been watching us between the cur- tains, rushed to the front door and cried: ‘‘Police! Police.” An officer answered the call with a promptness that ought to be recorded in the history of the police department. “Dis Russian anarchist vanted to sjhoot my husband if he vouldn't give him a t'ousand t'alers,” Mrs. Fuchs ex- plained to the officer. Rabbi Fuchs stood dumfounded and trembling. “Come along—come along,” said the officér, giving me a few touches from his club. - “We have a good place for anarchists who throw bombs.” He laid hold of my arm, gripped it tightly, and led me out of the house. Some people appeared on the neigh- boring stoops; servant girls stood in the doors and windows, with their aprons rolled around their clasped hands, looking at the officer and his prisoner. A driver jumped off his wagon, and leaving his horses standing ing the middle of the street eagerly in- quired: “What's the matter?” An in- creasing crowd of boys followed us ex- citedly as we walked toward the cor- ner. The policeman telephoned for another officer to take me to the station, and while we waited for his arrival a large crowd gathered around us, asking one avother: “What's the matter?” I heard several voices answer: “An an- archist.” *“He was going to shoot Doc- tor Fuchs.” I heard all this as if in a dream. 1 became 8o confused that I lost my memory and did not know what had happened. A cold drizzle began to fall. I kept my eyes on the ground and wish- ed for some open grave below. One of the crowd shouted: “Look at his face! Look at his eyes! He shot Rabbi Fuchs!” “Did 1?7 I asked myself. I did not know then. Perhaps I had shot him. In a comparatively short time an- other officer arrived and took me to'the station. The desk sergeant asked my name (which I had given as Russ) and inquired regarding my nationality. They searched my pockets, in which they found a dollar and a few cents. Then I was locked up. ‘When I sat down on the bunk in my dark room I realized what had happen- ed to me that afternoon. My expecta- tions were gone, and now I was con- fined in a murky cell with a lot of crim- inals. Criminals, did I say? They were, perhaps, just much criminals as I. How I spent that night I leave to the reader's imagination. The next morning about 10 o’clock I was taken to the police court and there brought before the magistrate. The prosecutor read a long list of ac- cusations against me In a voice like the conductors’ who call out streets, and I could only catch, “ at have you got to say for yourself?’ “Not guilty,” I stammered. The officer whe had arrested me was called to the witness-stand and stated all he knew, or rather all he did not know. F The rabbl did not appear, so there was no evidence against me. However, the Judge dipped his pen in the inkstand, and looking at me over hlgtunecnclu. said: “Thirty days and costs.” CHAPTER VIL AN OLD FRIEND. As soon as I was set free I repaired to Mr. Levando's home, but found an- other family in their place. After some inquiries I was iInformed that some kind of a settlement had been effected between Mr. Levando and Mr. Fetter, and the former, in company with his brother-in-law. had left (he city. I did not care to go back to my old boarding place, for I was utterly weary of Shmunke, go I found new lodgings. I was again without friends in the sor- did Ghetto. My five weeks of imprisonment had left a deep impression upon me. I had been getting thin while I worked at the sweatshop, and now I began to spit blood. I consulted a physician, who admonished me not to take up my old trade again. But he encouraged me and said there was no iImmediate dan- ger if I should take good care of my- self. One night, after I had spent two or three hours in aimless wandering, I de- cided to go to a cafe on East Broadway which I frequented and rest for a while over a glass of tea. One could get here a good glass of tea for 5 cents and read Russian, German and English papers 1o his heart's content, and here one was likely to meet at any time of the day and before 2 o'clock in the morn- ing Russian Jewish students who fled from gymnasiums and universities, and some from Sfberia, discussing social- ism, anarchism, philosophy, religion and roetry. The restaurant was owned by a Russian, who, while waiting on customers, usually took part in all the discussions, and could not determine himself whether he was an anarchist, socialist, pessimist, or philosopher. He had been a student at Lodi, Poland, and later had tilled the stony flelds of Palestine a few years. Coming in now, I found the cafe well filled. Presently when I looked up my eyes were caught immediately by a new- comer who had just joined the group of young men. His back was toward me, but a glance at him was sufficient. I hurriedly rose from my chair and clapped my hand upon his shoulder. “Ephraim!” I cried joyously. He looked about, then sprang to his feet. “Why, Israel! You in America?” ‘Without waiting for my reply, he ex- cused himself and we went off to his room, talking volubly all the while. “I thought you were digging gold for the Czar,” 1 remarked when we had taken off our hats and settled into comfortable chairs. “No, I knew better,” he smiled, “and thought Siberia would be too cold for me. He coughed violently, and took off his glasses, which he put carefully on his desk. I observed his face by the yellowish light of the lamp that burned on the desk, and a shudder passed through me. It was thin and haggard; his long hair was neglected; his mus- tache was heavy and long, which made his cheeks appear still more hollow. But his eyes glittered with the same Qud fire. “How did you escape? How did you come here? What have you been doing since?” I showered questions at him. “I have not as many adventures to tell of as you imagine,” Ephraim said, felgning to smile. “I was confined about seven months in a dark and fiithy cell, in which big rats kept me company and had occasional fights over a crust of bread that the turnkey had brought me. They claimed share and share alike, and I never denied them their rights. He paused and his face resumed a bitter expression. “But I did come out after seven months of brooding and reflection,” he resumed. “There was no strong evi- dence against me, so I was released. As soon as I was set free I hastened to Levinski. ‘He left for Palestine,’ his housekeeper told me. I tried to find friend after friend. ‘In Palestine’ or ‘in America’ were the answers I got everywhere. I had hardly an acquaint- ance left in Kieff. I hardly knew what to do. Weak from my long confine- ment, made friendless by Russian bar- barism, I grew despondent and thought of suicide. I am ashamed of myself now; but you must remember the con- dition I was in. I carried polson about me for days, but finally I regained con- trol of myself and decided to come to this country. Later in the evening our talk turned to religion, and I was surprised that he hated reformed Judaism even more than he hated orthodox Judaism in the old days at Javolin and Kieff. “So you are against reformed Juda- ism and you advocate the old belief,” :’c‘asually remarked, laughing as I said his. He looked at me seriously for a mo- ment and his pale cheeks colored. Lighting a cigarette, he puffed violent- ly in silence for a while. Then he fixed his flery eyes upon me and, while spurts of smoke issued rapidly from his mouth, he said: “Yes, I am against American reformed Judaism as such. I don’t object to it as a separate creed, or rather the aping of a creed, but it is not religlon—to be sure, not the religion of Judaism. Religion, and Judaism in particular, is poetry—and nothing but poetry. Or rather it is poetry for one and sclence for another. To the philosopher, searcher after truth, it is dry sclence ad finem, proved by algebralc formulas, and by the process of elimination gives a big zero. To mankind at large, in its pres- ent state of development, it is poetry pure and simple—poetry which cannot, must not be analyzed by a mathemati- cal process. Religion, no more than the ‘Divine Comedy’ or ‘Paradise Lost,’ can be reduced to prosaic accuracy. For as soon as we attempt to inquire into their truth Dante and Milton become maniacs.” He spoke bitterly, brilllantly, puff- ing at cigarette after cigarette and in- haling all the smoke, his hair tumbled, his eyes darting fire, his body all aquiver from intellectual passion. I listened to him till 2 o’clock. Friendless as I was, I was glad In- deed to meet Razovskl again. How- ever, he could pffer me no ald, so I had to continue my blind search for a job. So my financial condition grew acute and despair began to take hold of me. CHAPTER VIIL ASSISTANCE COMES UNEX- PECTEDLY, It must have been a week later that, starting out of my room to get my sup- per, I happened to recall a cheap Jew- ish restaurant that had recently been opened in Hester street, and thither I decided to go. In my better days I had been accustomed to eating in restau- rants on East Broadway, but twenty- five cents was the price of a “regular supper” in those eating-places, and that sum I now regarded as extrava- t. This restaurant was in the basement of a six-story tenement house, and though a new establishment, it had won a speedy reputation. Its cheap- ness was its best advertisement. I stopped before a big sign with yellow letters that read in Yiddish “A regular dinner and supper, the best and most relishable Jewish dishes, as those in Poland, with a glass of beer and two cigarettes, for 9 cents; with chicken, 10 cents. Strictly koshe: 1 did not care for its being strictly kosher, but it was strictly cheap, which was enough to attract me. I looked through the window, and finding the room well filled with shabby people I hesitated to enter. But the “9 cents” on the big sign was an inducement I could not withstand, and I went in and sat down at a small table intended for two. The customers dame and went. I THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CAI id little attention to apy of them Ei?lldl noticed a man in a long, heavy ulster covered With smow, his hat drawn down over his eyes. v\ullfln'x.' slowly down the restaurant, keenly ey- ing every customer. He was of me- dium helght, with a pointed brown beard, lively dancing eyes that bet kened shrewdness, conceit and suspi- cion, and a straight nose which gave the owner a certain dignity of appear- ance. His eyes took me in while he was yet several U € y He passed two or three Vv stopped at my table. He took ulster off and hung it on the back his chair, and then, without removing his hat, sat down, rubbing his hands and emitting a soft sigh. “It's getting cold,” he sald to me in of . 1 answered abruptly, for his appearance had aroused my dislike and 1 did not care to talk to him. The waliter brought me the Borsch, and I hungrily began on the sour soup. My unwelcome tablemate first washed his hands, according to the orthodox ritual. He recited aloud the appropri- ate benediction over the bread, and took a big bite thereof, trying to draw the attention of other people to his plety. He talked about the condition of la- bor on the East Side for a while, then very deftly shifted the one-sided con- versation to religion: “The love for Judaism, the religion their fathers valued so preciously, entirely extin- guished from the hearts of the younger generation. The Russo-Jewish intelli- gent young men who fled—or, her, have been expelled—from the ¢ eges and universities despise that old Juda- ism with its mystic ceremonies and ab- surd formalities. A pure monotheistic belief, shrouded in a cloud of cere- monies and symbols, may be beautiful, but it is by no means tenacious on the human mind. It may be good philosc phy, but it is poor religion. At least, it is too remote for the average brain to grasp. It is belief in something of which we have no conception at all Don’t stare at me so wildly. I know my people. I have lived and suffered with them and for them and from them. I once shared their hopes, their ideas, their beliefs.” He paused and looked at me steadily for a few seconds. His last words were enigmatic, being so contradictory to his actions at first. Then he resumed in a low tome: “These Russian-Jewish students d spise their ancestral bellef; Qut to ac- cept the more liberal and more human Christian religion in the land of ty- ranny would be degrading. The Jew likes to do everything voluntarily, but nothing under compulsion. He pos- sesses the true spirit of the poet and the martyr. Coming over to this coun- try and finding most of their country- men in a deplorable condition, and on the other hand the ‘reform’ Jews, who are of the wealthier class, repelling them, these young Russians have drifted away from both. The former would not assist them because they a irreligious, and the later excuse thei selves because they claim those Rus- sians have too many ideas. Besides, reformed Judaism cannot attract these enlightened young men. That creed has no life, no vitality, neither as a re- ligion nor as a philosophic theory; and its professors adhere to it from sheer fashion or perhaps because they fear the aversion of their Christian neigh- bors, who dislike infidels. Some of these young men, in fact, find some so- lace in socialism. What are anarch- ism and socialism if not the impulses of ambition that fall short? Anarchism is no idea at all; it is merely the hatred that springs up in the breast of a stripped rival. When one loses in a race he is more likely to find fault with the winner for his own defeat than with himself. Hence socialism and anarchism. “The only remedy for these intelli- gent young men is to adopt a new faith that will stream fresh blood, so to speak, in their veins and resuscitate them—I mean Christianity. They would also get some help from Chris- tian philanthropists, and would con- tinue to lead the life they had dreamed of in their native land. He stopped talking and cut the meat the waiter had set before him. “You were innocently convicted sev- eral weeks ago,” he went on. “Who was at fault but the haughty rabbi? It was not because he hated you indi- vidually; he hated your nationality. The wealthy American Jews are retali- ating on theig own poor co-religionists for the prejullice they suffer from the gentiles. They look down upon you Russians, with all your intelligence, unsurpassed liberality and broadmind- edness, and, If possible, ostracize you from their clubs and societies. But the American gentile has no such feeling. He would be willing to accept your company and friendship. In short, my friend, I can help you,” he ended sig- nificantly, “and you will be able to earn your livellhood easily and pursue your studies besides if you like.” He now arose to leave, and finding me silent id: “Think over. My name is Gavniack. I'll see you to-mor- row. Saying this he threw a $10 bill upon the table and hurried out of the res- taurant before I could stop him. I ran after him to return his money, but he was lost in the crowded street. CHAPTER IX. THE MISSIONARY AGAIN. Coming home the following day, I found my landlady in tears. The youngest girl was sick, and she had not a cent with which to buy the pre- scribed medicine. I owed her a little over $6, but she did not even hint for it. However, I felt myself gullty of a gross wrong; the little girl might dle for want of medicine, and I had the money! I put my hand into my pocket and crumpled the $10 bill, hesitating what to do. “It is not mine,” I argued with myself; “how. can I give 1§ away?” “But the sick child might dle,” another thought protested. I quickly drew out the money and handed it to the landlady, who was looking at her poor child with tearful eyes. “Here is your $6 15. You will bring me the change.” She wiped away her tears and looked at me a trifle abashed, probably won- dering how I came by that fortune. ““God knows the truth, I did not mean to press you,” she apologized. “I know that you would have paid me long ago if you had only had it, but I was sim- ply giving vent to my bitter heart.” Then I worried again because I had used the missionary’s money. I began to walk the floor of my room restlessly. The walls, the ceiling, the very air of the inclosure put a certain burden, so to speak, upon my brain and nerves. I wished I could shake off everything from my mind. So I took a stroll through the dingy streets. Razovski's talk and the incident I had experienced with the rabbi came back to my mind