Chapter IV: The Third Gift (1)

And downward again the soul wends her way. But one more gift! And as before, year follows year and melancholy has its grip upon her. The world has grown little indeed. Men are becoming ever more insignificant. Their deeds too are tiny and more so; the good and the evil alike....

And a new thought occurs to her:

“What if the Lord, Blessed be His name, were to halt the world process this very moment and announce the final Judgment; would not then the Advocate appear on the right side of the Balance and pour out the contents of his white sack, its tiny particles and little grains of sand; would not the Accuser follow and empty his sack on the left scale--his little wee bits and fragments? What a long process that would be! What a multitude of little things!

“And when the emptying of the sack is completed, what then? Of course, the indicator would be pointing right to the center!

“Such insignificant things weigh nothing; no matter what their number. Indeed, what can be the weight of a tiny thread, of a straw or of an empty husk?

“What might the decision of the Lord be then?

“Would he turn the whole into a void again? Certainly not; for the Evil deeds do not weigh more than the good.

“Perhaps he might grant salvation to all. But that, too, is unlikely, for the deeds of Good do not prevail over those of Evil.

“It is hard to see what would follow then.

“Might he not say: ‘Pass ye along. Rove ye from the realms of Hell to Heaven amid Love and Hate, in tears of mercy or vaporous blood ... from cradle unto grave, rove ye farther--even farther.’”

However, Destiny seems to have planned the deliverance of the Soul from her gloomy reflections. The din of beating drums arouses her....

“Where am I now, and what the time?” She cannot recognize the place. She has no idea of the time.

She beholds the courtyard of a prison. The rays of the sun hover about the little windows and even penetrate the iron bars.... They glide along the wall and fall upon a heap of sundry weapons supported there. The soldier-guards have but a moment ago received their whips....

Two long rows of soldiers and only a narrow passage between.

Who is it that must run the gauntlet here? Oh, it is but an insignificant Jew. A torn shirt is on his emaciated body and a skull-cap on his half-shaven head. There he is being led forth.

But what is his crime? What has he stolen? Has he robbed any one,--murdered?... Perhaps it is but a false accusation. Is that not an ancient custom and were not many such before?

The soldiers smile as they ponder: What was the use of having all of us here? Would not half the number have sufficed!

He is thrust into the passage. He steps forward. He walks directly on. The lashes fall upon him. But he curses no one, neither does he falter or fall....

A fit of rage overwhelms the soldiers. He walks on and on!

The whips whistle in the air, fiendishly. They grip and coil around the body as serpents do. The blood of the emaciated frame gushes forth and does not cease!

Whoop--whack! Whoop--whack! Suddenly a whip falling high, throws the skull-cap down to the ground. The doomed man notices it after a few paces.... He stirs and reflects. He turns round again and walks onward, serenely calm though covered with streaming blood. The skull-cap is on his head.[4] He walks on till he falls....

And when he fell thus, the Soul ran swiftly up to him, and seized the cap that had cost so many innocent lashes, and with it she flew up to the little window of Heaven.

And the third gift also found acceptance! The pious Souls tried their best and spared no trouble: the doors of Eden were now open! And a voice of the “Oracle” was heard:

“These are truly beautiful gifts, of surpassing fairness.... They may be of no practical use. They may not even serve for show.... But they are marvelous.”

--Translated by Samuel P. Rudens.

[Note 3: Soul is feminine in Yiddish. (tr.)]

[Note 4: The head must be covered during all religious services.]

THE JUDGMENT

JOSEPH OPATOSHU

I

Simka, the fisherman, a massive, uncouth man, lived near Pincus, the teacher. Simka’s peasant hut, with its straw roof that was black with age, stood at the end of the Joldovka, where the latter descends, stairlike, between towering cliffs and falls roaring into the Vistula. From far it seemed that the hut grew out of the cliffs, that it rocked and washed in the water like a little boat, surrounded by great silver ribbons.

The fisherman and his three sons stood coatless and barefooted with their trousers rolled about their knees, smearing large two-eared pails with cheese; Simka’s wife, a strong, ruddy woman with a three-cornered, white shawl on her head, also stood barefooted. The toes of her feet were webbed like those of a goose. She was mending great nets. The men put stones into the pails to prevent the current from carrying them away. When a pail filled with fish, they swiftly lit pieces of thin wood, so that the fish would not see their way out, and pulled the pail to the shore. The quivering fish were dumped into a net, which was fastened to a raft tied to the shore with thick ropes.

Simka’s youngest son, Zelik, sat on the raft. He was about ten and had a wart near his ear. He threw pieces of bread into a flask of water in which a little goldfish swam about.

Zelik grew in the woods like a wild goat. Often he disappeared for days at a time. He would climb into a salt barge and go miles down the river. Nobody ever missed him. Once when he was gone for a week, his mother said something about it, but the rest remained silent. There was a reason. When Zelik was born with the wart, his mother was very frightened and sent for the old witch to exorcise the child. The witch advised her to keep a close watch over the child, lest Wanda, the queen of Vistula, steal him. The fisherman and his sons firmly believed that the stretch of water near which they lived was demanding a human sacrifice, for their catches were diminishing every year. The water must have what belonged to it.

Each time Zelik disappeared, all of them kept still, thinking that the water had at last taken its prey. But each time he came back, as if to spite them.

The Vistula had cast him forth three times. And because of this Simka wished to know nothing of him, and did not want to teach him, and Zelik always walked around in rags and tatters.

“Why are you sitting there doing nothing, you fool?” the mother cried out at Zelik.

“Go over to the ‘teacher’ and ask him how much fish they want by Saturday.”

The boy caught up the flask with the goldfish, and ran into the wood.

Zelik thought that when he grew older he would not fish with pails. He would build himself a raft and catch fish with nets. And when he would grow rich (and he would surely grow rich) he would buy a pair of rubber boots with those long tops that would fasten with a buckle under the stomach, also a leather coat, and he would sail over the water in a real fishing smack, with a large steering wheel. Then he would build himself a house with a glass veranda, exactly like the one Pincus, the teacher, had. And perhaps he would give the goldfish to Rachel. She had been angry at him for the last two days, because he had cut off the tail of her black cat. But then, the cat deserved it. When the fish lay eggs she had no business to eat them. Yes, he would give the fish to Rachel. True, goldfish aren’t to be found everyday in the Vistula. But that was nothing. When he grew older he would catch a whale, cut its insides out, and sew a pair of trousers and a coat for himself from the skin, so that only his eyes would show. And then he would swim with his fins all standing straight up, down to the goldfish. He knew that they lived in the deepest whirlpools. But he would tell Rachel to change the water, and to throw in a few bread-crumbs.

Rachel sat on the veranda consoling the black cat that lay with a swollen back on a soft basket.

“My poor little cat. Does it hurt much? Don’t cry. Nikolai says it’ll heal soon. And Zelik’s wart will get so big, so big, see, like this,” and she stretched out both hands. “It’ll be ugly,” she laughed. “Zelik with a tail on his cheek!”

“Rachel, see, I’ve got a goldfish. Want it?”

Rachel turned away and pouted.

“I’m mad.”

“Why are you mad?”

“Because you’re a murderer.”

“But my father told me to. I swear. He even told me to put your cat in a sack and throw it straight into the water from the hill.”

“And you think you’ll be forgiven? God will punish you. Nikolai says your wart must become as big as the tail you cut off.”

Zelik lost himself for a moment. He put his hand to his cheek and it seemed to him that the wart was already becoming longer.

“It’s a lie. How much will you bet that I won’t have it at all by tomorrow? I’ve got something that’ll take it away.”

“What have you got?”

“I’ll put pigeon blood on it a few times, and it will dry and fall off.”

“Why didn’t you do it before?”

“Because mama says a wart is lucky. If I take it off before I’m thirteen, my luck will go.”

“Are you lucky?”

“Of course, see, the Vistula threw me up three times. And I can swim in the sea, too. My father is a fisherman so long, and he never caught a goldfish. And I know where they live, too. And you don’t know.”

“Where?”

“In the whirlpools.”

“Zelik, is it true that a whirlpool must get a man each year?”

“Of course. They live there together with the goldfish. You know, when I grow older, I’ll swim down there to the goldfish.”

“And if they won’t let you go back?”

“Eh, they’ll let me go back.”

“And what will you do there?”

“All the treasures of the sea are there. I’ll fill my pockets with gold and diamonds, and come back.”

“And you’ll take me, too?”

“You? You’re mad at me.”

“Of course I’m mad.”

“Then I won’t take you.”

“Don’t take me, then.”

“Give me back my goldfish.”

“The goldfish? Why are you so bad? Why did you take my cat and--”

“I swear I won’t cut the tail off again.”

“But you’ve cut it off already.”

“Rachel, where are you? The dinner is cold,” came the old servant’s voice from the house.

“I’m coming,” Rachel answered, and arose.

“Come to us tomorrow, Rachel. The storks are here already. You’ll come?”

“I’ll come.” She entered the house.

II

The woods whispered happily. The air was filled with resin.

Zelik, tanned like a gipsy, walked barefoot through the forest. He avoided the common path and trudged over the black, swampy, moss-covered earth. He was happy to feel the cool, soft earth yield beneath his feet like well kneaded dough. The boy had a key in his mouth, and whistled for all he was worth.

Rachel, happy, with flaming cheeks, with her shoes and stockings in her hands, followed him.

Sunbeams that had been hidden deep in the woods suddenly began to play and weave themselves around Rachel. They stole up from the rear, kissed her, sprang back, and all of a sudden sprayed her with such silver light, she half closed her eyes, and shrieked happily.

The birds became happier, springing up suddenly from the deep grass, and flapping their wings. They remained hanging against the flaming sun, trilling their songs.

The woods whispered joyously. They smelled of resin. It seemed that scores of fiddlers were scattered all over the woods. They had grown tired and gradually had ceased their playing. But seeing the barefooted children hand in hand on the soft ground, they began to feel younger, and rubbed their bows rapidly against the yellow resin, and the tall pines trembled like tightly stretched violin strings, and they roared like a far, quiet sea--Youth, O Youth.

When they came out of the wood the two sat down on the bank of the Vistula, and began to bathe their muddy feet in the clear water.

Wide green fields spotted with yellow flowers stretched on the other margin of the Vistula. A white stork with a black tail startled over the field. He lifted his red legs like stilts. He raised proudly his long neck with its red beak, and noisily swallowed small green toads. When the sun appeared from behind a cloud, and began to shine, the stork stood up on one leg, hid its beak and half of its head under its wing, and remained standing in the middle of the field as if it were painted.

“Rachel, you know what would be nice?”

“What?”

“Swear you won’t tell anybody.”

“I swear.”

“Go ’way. I think you will tell.”

“I swear I won’t, Zelik.”

“Remember now.” He lifted a finger to his nose. “You know what I’ve thought of?”

“What?”

“You’ll never guess,” he laughed.

“Oh, tell me,” Rachel begged, taking Zelik’s hand and rubbing a little wet foot against his.

“You know, if we could get a goose-egg, it would be so nice.”

“Why do you need a goose-egg?”

“I would put it into the stork’s nest, and it would hatch out a half-stork, half-goose.”

“Will the stork let you do it?”

“I’ll put it in before dawn, when both aren’t in the nest.”

“Zelik, you know what brings babies? Braina says that a stork brings the babies in a little basket. Where do the babies live?”

“In heaven.”

“And when it rains?”

“When it rains? I don’t know. I suppose they hide when the clouds come down to the Vis’la to drink.”

“And the stork that stands over there, can it bring babies, too?”

“Of course,” and Zelik stretched his hands. “Such a heap of babies.”

“Go ’way, I’d be ashamed of Braina to bring a baby home. A little girl mustn’t have babies. You must marry first, no?”

“Well, why did the Forester’s Franka have a baby? She never married.”

“But she’s not a Jewess.”

A second stork, slightly smaller, with chalk white wings, gently descended on the field. The he-stork in the middle of the field, seemed to awake as from sleep, spread his wings, lifted his long neck, yawned, and began to run around and around the she-stork with his head lowered, crying, “Clia-clia.” He stopped, lifted his slightly opened, red beak, in which he held a green toad, looked at the she-stork proudly, as if saying, “My wife will never die of hunger,” and gave her the toad. And while she scarcely lifted her neck, rolled her eyes and swallowed the toad that was averse to make the journey down her throat, he pecked her lovingly with his beak, put his head under her wing and looked for something. He stood on one leg again, began to slap his wings, flew around the she-stork, ogled her, stretching his long, limber neck, and the erstwhile silent bird began to sing, “Clia-clia-qua, Clia-clia-qua.”

Zelik came out of the water.

“Go home, Rachel, and bring an egg. The nest is empty by now. Put on your shoes.”

Rachel joyously put on her shoes. She felt more comfortable, and jumped up.

“Well, why don’t you go?”

“I’m too lazy to go myself.”

“Then I’ll go with you. All right?”

The children leaping up and taking each other by the hand, were lost from sight in the woods.

III

Zelik approached the barn where the storks had built their nest. He took the egg from Rachel, held it in his lips, and swiftly like a cat began to climb the straight wall. He grasped a jutting piece of wood, waited a little as if seeking balance, and threw his body on to the roof. The nest was made of an old wooden harrow. In the harrow lay a basket, filled with grass and twigs. The close odor of fish, toads, and chickens, struck Zelik in the face. Three large eggs lay in the nest. He took out one of them, replaced it with the goose-egg, and wanted to descend from the roof, when the two storks suddenly appeared and flew at him with wide-spread wings. Zelik barely had time to get down, but he was so frightened lest the storks attack him that he remained standing with the egg in both hands.

Rachel shrieked loudly.

“Zelik, jump down.”

Zelik, crouched, covered his face with both hands, like one expecting a blow, and began to slide down the incline of the roof.

The he-stork, flying swiftly by, stretched his long neck and directed his sharp beak at Zelik’s face. Zelik dodged the beak of the stork, caught the blow in his back, and fell from the roof like a stone. The egg broke and covered him with yellow liquid.

Rachel thought that Zelik was surely dead from the blow. She began to pinch herself from fear, fell to her knees before Zelik, embraced him with both hands, and began to kiss him and to cry.

“Zelik, my dear, does it hurt you much, tell me? It’s all my fault. Why did I bring the egg?”

When Zelik recovered from the blow, he felt a sharp pain in his back, and remembered that the stork had picked at him. Rachel, when she saw blood on his coat, put her hands to her head.

“O, mama, blood.”

She again dropped to her knees before Zelik and began to entreat.

“Zelik, my dear, come to us. Braina will put something on it. She won’t tell anybody. You’ll see. I beg you, Zelik, come.”

She kissed him and began to cry again. “It’s all my fault.”

Zelik, seeing her cry, became really frightened. He forgot his pain, and stood up.

“Come, Rachel. We’ll go down to the water. You’ll wash off the blood. All right? Don’t cry. It’s nothing. I have had bigger holes in my head and they healed.”

“Are you mad at me, Zelik?”

“No.”

“You want us to be friends forever?”

“Of course.”

“See, I love you so much,” Rachel said, and bit hard into the flesh of the arm above the elbow. All her teeth left red marks on the skin.

They were silent. They walked over the dry branches that cracked under their feet, in the direction of the River.

Rachel, like a little mother, began to attend on Zelik. She took off his coat, then his shirt, forgetting that a girl must not look on a naked boy. She took her white apron, dipped it into the cold water, and washed Zelik’s wound. Zelik lay on his stomach like a little wounded animal. He did not move. He was happy to know that Rachel was busy about him. When she had washed the wound, she removed the stains from the apron, wrung it out, put it on the wound, went with him into the bushes in the shade, and told him to lie down with his face in her lap, so that the wound should dry a little.

Zelik obeyed. He fell asleep almost at once.

At short intervals Rachel lifted the apron, and looked to see if the wound had dried. But the wound still ran blood. Her heart overflowed with sorrow, and she began to weep quietly. And thus, weeping with red, brimming eyes, Rachel nestled her little head among the leaves, and also fell asleep.

IV

The she-stork did not leave her nest the whole morning. She watched how her young pecked their way out of the shells.

The he-stork was upset. He flew about the nest uttering strange cries, every now and then fetching something to his mate, strutting swiftly above the nest with a shrunken neck almost hidden beneath his wings. He resembled a young man whose wife is giving birth to her first child.

The she-bird emitted a strange “Clia-clia.” The he-bird sat down, spread his wings, and guarded the nest. For a moment he seemed to be confused and looked at his mate who had lowered her head in shame as if she were saying, “I swear I am not guilty.” A little gosling rolled out of a broken egg-shell. The he-stork felt that all in him was trembling, and like a cuckold husband he threw himself at this mate, pecking her feathers with his beak. She lowered her head still more, moved closer to him and like a really guilty one, made no resistance. All in her seemed to say, “Go on beating me.”

The he-stork picked the gosling up with his beak, caught it by the head, and threw it down from the barn top. He began to destroy the nest with his beak and legs, looking no longer at his mate. Then he rested awhile, and flew away.

The she-stork smoothed her feathers, and began to sharpen the point of her beak, knowing that she was lost, that “he” had flown to tell the flock about her sin.

She lifted one foot, began to sharpen her beak still harder against the harrow, and wept in her own way. She was sure that it was not her fault, that a misfortune had befallen her, and she thought she would tell it to the elders of the flock. She would show them the two other children, real little storks, with red feet and red beaks. And she wept again.

Zelik and Rachel sat on the raft.

“You know, Rachel?”

“What?”

“From now on I’ll be able to swim just like a duck.”

“How?”

“I’ll cut into my toes--”

“You mustn’t do it, do you hear, Zelik? I swear, I’ll always be mad at you, always!”

“Well, let me finish. Listen to me first.”

“I won’t let you anyway.”

“I’ll take the skins of some goose-feet, fasten them between my toes, and keep them there till they grow into me, and then--”

“And won’t your toes bleed?” Rachel cut him short.

“Of course, they won’t. Ofelo taught me to cut a finger with the sharpest knife so that no blood would flow. And her mother is a witch.”

“But you are mad with Ofelo.”

“Of course, I’m mad with her. You know, Rachel, Ofelo knows of a grass that if you lick it, you sleep a whole day and night. You don’t believe me? I swear it.”

“She does?”

They were silent for a while.

“Zelik, is it really true that Ofelo’s mother walks in shoes made of the veins of men?”

“Of course, you know, Ofelo’s mother can turn into a straw and hide herself in the smallest crack. She is a real witch.”

The Vistula rippled. The ripples widened into rings. The rings grew longer, swallowed each other and grew still larger and larger, and the erstwhile quiet Vistula, that had looked like a crystal mirror, grew dark and rigid.

A swallow fluttered by, and seeing other swallows in the water he dropped from on high, dipped his beak into the Vistula. The Vistula rippled again.

Zelik related that below the “black stone,” in a glass palace lived Wanda, the queen of the Vistula. In the summer, during the great heat, when the Vistula grew shallow, Wanda and her sisters gathered on the stone and kidnapped little children. She had attempted to catch him three times but he knew a secret saying, which he uttered and that caused a fiery ring to grow between him and her, and she could not reach him.

“Zelik, why does Wanda need so many children?”

“Why does she need them? She kisses them till their souls leave their bodies, and then she eats their hearts.”

The children saw a flock of storks settle on an island in the middle of the Vistula.

“They’re going to have a wedding,” Zelik said, turning to Rachel. “Come, we’ll get there with the boat.”

He unbound the boat from the raft. Rachel looked around to see if any of her folks noticed them, and sprang joyously into it.

Rachel saw the little crystal waves leap up, swallow each other, and blend before her eyes. She became still happier, and gave a strange shriek.

They landed on the island, dragged the boat on to the shore, and lay down in the grass.

The storks sat in a wide semi-circle. Two old storks like two prominent citizens, walked in the center of the ring. The “he-stork” came flying, holding the dead gosling in his beak, and carried it to the old pair. “Here, look.”

The old storks looked long at the gosling, smelled it, threw it around with their long necks, made some strange sounds and two storks rose and flew away.

Soon they came back with the “she-stork.” The messengers with a “Clia-clia, clia-clia,” told of her explanation.

The storks again became noisy and excited, broke their ring, pressed into one heap, and from far it seemed that a broad-boned monster, with tens of agile heads stood in the middle of the Vistula, and cried “Clia-clia, clia-clia.”

The storks surrounded the “she-stork.” The mate approached her, poked her in the head, and then great long necks with open beaks flew at her from all sides, feathers whirled in the air, and the bird was torn to pieces.

It was late. Rachel sat and cried, knowing that she and Zelik were guilty of everything. Zelik lifted her.

“Come, Rachel. Let’s go home.”

They entered the boat. Heavy clouds suddenly rose from the Vistula, stood up like walls and all became complete darkness. A bolt of lightning lit up the whole river. Rachel became confused. She saw nothing in the blinding light, forgot that she was in a boat, and jumped up. A thunder rolled, as if rocky hills were being sundered. A flood came down from heaven.

Rachel was no longer in the boat. Zelik threw off his coat, and searched for her, diving into the water. But she was not to be seen.

The Vistula stormed.

Black waves, like angry animals with foaming mouths stood up high and threatening, roared, and threw themselves at Zelik. And lightnings like fiery ribbons, blinded his eyes on all sides. The boat was already far from him. It drifted down the river. A wave covered Zelik, and he felt that he was growing lighter. He ceased to struggle, and saw a palace with green lights closing towards him. Wanda, surrounded by whitish lightning, hung in the air above him. She called him to her, showed him Rachel, sent lightning to him, and the flashes like long tongues became thinner and thinner. The lightnings tickled him, kissed him, burned him, and his mother stood over him, squeezed lemons into sugar, and put it into his mouth. And suddenly Wanda spread out her watery tresses. They became longer, enfolded him, and water poured on him from a thousand pipes, extinguishing the lightning flashes. He felt so well, so well. And he swam on.

--Translated by Jacob Robbins.

A TALE OF A HUNGRY MAN

DAVID PINSKI

Itsye had for two days in succession had nothing in his mouth; in other words, he had been hungering. But on the third day, for three brass buttons he wheedled the lunch out of a little Hebrew school pupil that studied in the school of his yard--two little buttered cakes--and swallowed them eagerly. Then he became angry. The cakes were a mere morsel to him, but now he had at least a little strength with which to feel anger, and was seized with an impulse to accomplish evil. His fingers itched with the desire. First of all he launched a wicked kick in the direction of Zhutshke, the little dog which the landlady of his house held dearer than her own children. Zhutshke ran off yelping with pain, but this was not enough for Itsye. He tore up a stone that had been frozen to the earth and with all his strength sent it flying after the dog. It did not strike the animal, however, but landed on the door of Simkin the lawyer’s house. It struck with a resounding blow, and Itsye felt satisfied, for he wouldn’t have cared had the stone struck Simkin or Simkin’s wife on the head.

But with all this his hunger was not appeased in the slightest, nor was his seething heart calmed in the smallest degree. He waxed still angrier, for he felt that these were mere trifles, that he had accomplished nothing with them. He walked through the gate, glanced up and down the street, and felt that he was an enemy to every passer-by, and especially to every one that rode. He cursed them with bitter oaths and would gladly, with his own hands, have executed all tortures upon them.

Another little pupil approached the gate; he was wrapped in a broad scarf and wore the large shoes of a grown-up person. He held his hands inside the scarf, and whether because he was indifferent or because it was too cold, did not remove them to wipe his nose, from which mucus leaked down to his mouth.

Out of his pocket peeped a crust of bread. Itsye was seized with a longing for it, but the appearance of the poor child restrained him. He sought, however, to convince himself that he was incensed against the child, even as he was against the whole world, and that he ought to give him a hard kick, as he had just done to Zhutshke. He seized the child by the nose, then struck him on the cap and scowled, “Slob, it’s running into your mouth!” The child was frightened, brought his elbow up to his nose and ran off. But soon he turned back, looked at his unexpected enemy and began to cry, “Wicked Itsye! Itsye the bad man!” And he disappeared through the gate. Itsye did not even deign to look at him.

He leaned against the gate. Why? He did not himself know. At any rate, he was weary. Angry and exhausted. The two cakes had only excited him. Food, food! He could see before his eyes the piece of bread in the poor boy’s torn pocket. That would have come in very handy. He was sorry that he hadn’t taken it away. A whole big piece of bread....

He leaned more heavily against the gate, not knowing why and not knowing what was to come, or what would result from his standing there. The cold grew intense, but Itsye did not feel it, for he was angry and paid no attention to it. Besides, he had no place of refuge. Up there in his garret it was still colder. Moreover, there was nobody there, and he would have none upon whom to vent his wrath.

He stood thinking of nothing. It was impossible for him to think. He no longer knew precisely that he was in a rage; it seemed to him that today he would work a very clever piece of malice. He knew nothing about dynamite; otherwise he would have thought unceasingly of bombs, and would have painted himself pictures of the whole city, the whole country, the world itself, being blown by him into atoms. But he gave no thought to any definite project. He was certain that he would do something malicious enough. He felt it.

Two laborers passed by and were conversing about hunting for a job. It flashed through his head that he would stop looking for work even if the employers starved to death! At the same time he felt that his seeking was all in vain. He would find no work today, any more than yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that, or the whole twenty-seven days in which he had been searching for employment.

In his mind’s eye he could see “tomorrow,”--a dragging, cloudy day, on which he would be faint with hunger. But he did not care to think of tomorrow. Only “today”.... Today he must accomplish something; then he would know what would come tomorrow, the day after, and all the other days. Wherefore he remained leaning against the gate and looked into the street with a cutting smile upon his pale lips and in his dull, weary eyes, without the trace of a thought in his head. He even ceased scolding and cursing.

All at once he tore himself away from the gate and began to walk. He gave no heed to direction. He lost his bearings, unknown to himself. He strode on, unaware that he was moving. His feet were like logs and he could scarcely lift them. He became soon aware that he was no longer at the gate, and that he was wandering about the street. Then it seemed to him that he had wished and resolved to take a little exercise. His feet must get warm. But he affected not to be troubled about his feet any more than about the cold itself, which pierced him to the very marrow.

He walked along slowly, cautiously, calmly. The street on which he was led at one end to the city-market and at the other to the municipal garden. He had no idea of whither he was headed, but the nearer he approached to the market the shriller and clearer became the noises from that vicinity. Then he realized the direction in which his feet were taking him, and again it seemed to him that this was exactly what he had desired and determined upon. This was the very spot for him to execute his plan of vengeance. He paused on the curb.

The great market-place seethed with shouting, gesticulating persons. The air resounded with the din of thousands of human beings. The clamorous despair of the wretched poor, the grunting indifference of the sated rich, the screeching impudence of the money-hungry,--all mingled here and rose above the heads of the multitude, deafening the ears of the unaccustomed spectator. About Itsye all manner of individuals were walking, hurrying, scampering, with and without bundles. Almost every passer-by touched him, jostled against him, but he stood there calm, motionless. It occurred to him that this in itself was good,--that in this manner alone he was doing harm. Yes, he must continue to stand here and obstruct everybody’s passage! His eyes, however, darted about the square, as if seeking there just what form his vindictive ire should assume. They rested upon the bread-shops and the bank-stalls, laden with “Korah’s wealth.” And he began to contemplate how it would be if he made off with a packet of bank-notes....

A porter with a large case on his shoulders bumped against him, nearly pushing him over. He felt an intense pain in his back and came to himself. He turned red with anger.

“You plague, you! Where are your eyes?”

The porter mumbled something from under his burden and continued on his way with heavy steps.

Itsye, however, felt the pain and rubbed his back.

“I’ll bury you together with the case, you piece of carrion-meat!”

The porter craned his neck from under his case and looked back at the shouting man. Itsye’s appearance called forth little deference from the toiler; he stopped for a moment and eyed his opponent with scorn.

“Hold your mouth, or I’ll stop it for you so that you’ll be dumb forever. I’ll show you what ‘carrion-meat’ means, you bloody dog!”

The porter went on his way, grumbling and cursing. Itsye muttered a few imprecations and turned his head in another direction.

“What have you planted yourself here for, in everybody’s way?” he heard a surly voice exclaim behind him.

He looked around. Kaplan, the shopkeeper, was standing in the doorway of his shop, eyeing him angrily. He replied coarsely:

“What worry is that of yours?”

Kaplan grew excited.

“I’ll soon show you what worry of mine it is!” And he sent the errand-boy after a policeman.

As he ran by Itsye the boy jeered, with mischievous eyes, “Just wait a moment! You’ll soon have a good drubbing!”

Itsye spitefully refused to move. To hell with everybody!

Now then,--what was it he had been thinking of before? And his glances began to wander across the square and the faces of the people, as he tried to recall his previous thoughts. When he noticed the boy returning with a policeman he turned his head indifferently aside.

“What are you standing here for? Move on! Off with you!” commanded the guardian of order.

Itsye slowly faced about.

“Is this spot private property, what?”

“Move on, I tell you!”

Itsye resumed his former position.

“Move on!”

The official was now in an ugly mood and had raised his sabre.

Itsye felt that he must refuse to stir. But something moved his feet. It was the instinct that a policeman must be obeyed.

He went off. Back to his street. Slowly, scarcely moving his legs, without looking back at the official.

He was frozen through and through. It was as if he had no feet. As he approached the gate to his house he felt that it would be pleasant to lie down a while. This he felt against his will. He must remain in the street because he was filled with rage and must vent it in some vindictive deed. But his heavy, frozen limbs drew him to his attic, where it was frightfully cold, where the icy wind moaned and whistled. The wind was not so noisy here below. It seemed that his feet knew he would hunt up all sorts of old rags and wrap them around his frozen members.

So he allowed his feet to carry him along. On the way to the garret they overturned a slop-pail and stumbled across a cat. It was they, too, who opened the door of his room. The door flew back and struck against something soft. The soft object fell, and the feet had to step over a heap of tatters out of which peered the parchment-yellow, wrinkled, peaked face of an old shrivelled-up woman.

“Wow--wow--wow!” she began to wail, hopelessly enmeshed in her rags. It was the deaf-and-dumb landlady of his lodgings.

He made no reply. The feet were already in bed.

* * * * *

He slept for a long time. It was already dark when the feet slipped down from the bed. At once he recollected that he was angry, and felt his ire course through him. But he was weary and weak. So weak, in fact, that he decided not to get up, but rather to lie there forever. “A piece of bread!” flitted through his mind. He could behold rows of well-provided houses, countless kitchens, heaps of bread-loaves. But he continued to lie there, because he did not know,--could not begin to know, how to get them.

At last an idea flashed upon him. “From the deaf-and-dumb old witch!”

He arose from the three-legged bed and walked into the landlady’s room. The bundle of rags was seated at the table, before a small night-lamp that lacked a chimney, eating from a pot of water containing crumbled bits of hard bread.

He approached the bundle of rags and indicated with his fingers that he was very hungry and wished a piece of bread. She clutched the pot more tightly and began to bark savagely. This meant that she hadn’t enough for herself, and that she didn’t care to give him anything, anyway, since he had struck her with the door before, throwing her over, and since he wasn’t acting properly, not having paid his rouble and a half rent for the past two months.

He knew very well just what her barking signified, and eyed her as if deliberating what course to pursue. Quite cold-bloodedly he wrenched the pot from her grasp, pulled out a piece of bread and crammed it into his mouth. The tattered form seized him, with a frightful, wailing yelp, and drew the pot toward her. He raised it above her reach and continued to chew. The first bite had excited him. He began to eat faster, swallowing almost without chewing. The old woman barked and howled at the top of her voice, tugging at his arms. He thrust her away. She fell upon her knees, grasped his legs and with a wild gasping and snorting bit into them with her gums, in which stood only two side teeth. He pressed her with his knees to the floor and sat down upon her. She could no longer move.

Now he would eat in peace.

He stuck his fingers into the pot without finding anything. He almost yelled with fury. His heart began to bound wildly; his eyes sparkled. He must do something. He sprang to his feet, and cried out, wildly, “More bread, old witch!”

He shoved her with his foot, emptied the pot of water on her head and began to look for bread. He found nothing; there was nothing to be found. He continued his search, however. He overturned the old chest, scattered the bedclothes, broke the only chair. He became furious, not knowing what he did. The old woman seized him, dragging him toward the door with terrified shrieks. With all his might he thrust her off. The old woman’s head struck against the high oven; she groaned uncannily. Her moaning brought him to his senses. He was frightened, and held in his breath. He stepped toward her. Was she still alive? The aged landlady began to get up. He now breathed more freely and dashed out of the room.

He was exhausted, yet excited. He desired to weep,--to weep bitterly. He was thoroughly ashamed of the encounter with the deaf-and-dumb landlady. He had robbed her of her wretched supper and had come near killing her. And his hunger was now greater than ever. “A-a-ah!”

He pressed both his fists to his mouth and began to gnaw at them. The pain grew intense, yet he kept on gnawing. He wished to “feel his heart.”

The door opened and the old woman appeared. A narrow shaft of light shone over the dark steps, falling like a grey strip upon Itsye’s shoulder. But the old woman did not see him, and she sent after the supposedly vanished fellow several infuriated screams, more cutting than the most devastating curses. Itsye shuddered, stopped chewing his hands and remained motionless, holding in his breath. The landlady returned to her room and locked the door.

“Locked out!” flashed through his mind at once. His head became warm. He tried to consider what was now to be done, but he saw no prospects before him. He felt an impulse to batter down the door, enter the room, get into bed and lie there. He had already rolled his fists into a ball. But after striking the door a resounding blow, he ran down the stairs. Only when he had reached the bottom did he ask himself, “Why that blow?”

It was snowing and a strong wind was whistling and moaning. The cold went right through Itsye’s bones; he began to tremble, and his teeth knocked together. He huddled up in his tattered cotton coat, from which hung patches, strips of lining and wadding. He groaned in despair and stepped back into the entrance of the house. He felt a tug at his heart, and was once more seized with a desire to weep, to weep.

“What will come of this? What?”

He could behold no answer. He would today be frozen to death or die of hunger.

“Oh, for something to eat! Food, food!”

He looked about. He was standing near a cellar, the door to which was protected by a heavy lock. He placed his hand upon the lock, with no thought of robbery. As he felt the cold iron, however, it occurred to him that it would be a good idea to break off the lock and obtain access to the cellar. He pulled at the lock. No. This was beyond his strength. He repeated the attempt, and at length summoned all his force and gave a violent wrench.

The lock merely made a loud noise; nothing else. He was intimidated by the knock. He looked around and quickly deserted the entrance to the house.

Had he really desired to steal? And if he had succeeded in tearing the lock away, would he really have entered and committed theft? He could not believe this. He had been born into poverty; had been reared as an orphan in misery and ill-treatment, yet his hand had never been raised to another’s property. “Scandal-raiser,” they used to call him, and “wickedest of the wicked”; for he never was silent when wronged, and all were his enemies because of this vindictiveness. Yet these self-same persons admitted that you could leave heaps of gold with him in perfect security. And just now he had been on the point of stealing! That morning he had also thought of stealing. What? Would he really have stolen? And perhaps yes. Ah, he was so hungry! “Food, food, food!”

Again he surveyed the neighborhood. He was in the street! He had not even noticed it when he left the yard. What was he going to do in the street? Whither would he go? “Oh, for a bite!” But there was no sense in standing here in the street. He must walk. “Walk wherever my eyes lead me, until I fall--fall, and an end of me!”

Again his wrath returned. Anger against himself and the whole world. At once, however, he saw that he lacked the strength to be angry--that his heart was growing weaker. “Food, food, food!”

He staggered along, casting glances in every direction and knitting his brows so as to see more clearly through the thickly falling snow. He had no notion of whither he was going, nor was he at all interested. He was moving so as not to remain on the same spot. He peered more intently than ever, although he felt that he would see nothing but large snowflakes. One thing he knew very well--that he wanted and must have something to eat, even if the world came to an end. “Food, food, food!” he groaned within him desperately.

He reached the municipal garden. The pleasure-spot was situated upon a high hill, at the foot of which flowed the broad, deep river. During the winter there was usually skating on the river, and above, in the garden, a crowd of curious onlookers. But now there was not a trace of human beings in the garden. Not even the lamps were visible through the thick snow. They illuminated only the space within a few paces of them. Itsye was at a loss whether to feel vexed or not at the absence of people. He did not look back, and continued on his way. He approached the top of the hill and looked down upon the frozen river. He could see nothing. There came to his ears the shrill blows of heavy iron. Moujiks were opening a hole in the ice. And in his weary thought he beheld a broad, deep hole down there, and he was drawn thither. The suggestion came to him to hurl himself down from the hill into the deep stream. He would raise no outcry; he would not call for help. He would drown himself quite silently. But he recognized that this was merely a thought: the important thing was that he felt very weak and was ravenously hungry. “Food, food, food!”

He looked about, as if he would have liked to see something eatable in the garden. Before him was only the endlessly falling snow. Snow below him, snow on the bare trees, snow in the air. His legs bent beneath him--now, now he was about to fall. But he did not wish to fall. He desired something to eat, and gathering all his strength he continued his wanderings. Again he moved forward, not knowing whither. He walked along a deserted path, through drifts of snow that fell into his torn shoes--all alone, the only living creature in the dark, forsaken garden. He could neither hear nor see anything. He moved along because he had nowhere to go, and particularly because he wanted something to eat, eat, eat. He thought of nothing, nor could he think if he tried. Something was driving him on, and he continued on his way with the despairing, inner groan, “Food, food, food!”

He reached the square before the theater. The bright gleam of the electric lights brought him to his senses. He stopped. As he did so, he came near falling. He stumbled forward and leaned against the wall of a building. He felt that his shoes were filled with snow. This however, produced no effect whatever upon him. What did vex him was that he could scarcely stand on his feet, that his heart was fearfully weak and his desire for food persisted in growing. He would remain standing there. Whither else should he go? Here, at least, it was light, and soon he would see people. Many people--rich, happy. And what of it if he _should_ see the wealthy, sated crowd? He would beg alms. He would say that he had not eaten for three days.

Ask alms! He shuddered with repulsion at the idea. But he was so terribly hungry! He had been on the point of stealing. Which was better, stealing or begging? He leaned against the wall, threw his head back, looked with a dull glance into the snowy distance, and with his blunted mind, sought a reply.

The night watchman approached him and pushed him away.

“What are you doing here?”

Itsye scarcely moved. He could not raise his feet.

“Do you want to be arrested?”

Itsye nearly fell; he was greatly excited, but he composed himself and gathered all his strength in a desperate effort to walk off. Ouf! He could not feel his legs. Hunks of ice! He began to kick one foot against the other.

“Well! Get a move on! Faster, there!”

Itsye snarled through his clamped teeth.

“Can’t you see I can barely move? Why do you chase me away? Better ask whether I’m not hungry!”

He crossed the street. Several stores were still open. Hadn’t he better go in and beg alms? He halted before a window. He desired to take counsel with himself.

“I see you! I see you over there!” he heard the watchman shout.

He proceeded further along the street, to the other end, where it was almost pitch dark. There he paused for a while to kick his feet again. Then he walked along. He made a circle around the theatre and came to a halt before the entrance. There were no policemen in sight. They were inside the lobby seeking shelter from the wind and storm. Itsye remained there, hopping now on one foot, now on the other. Without any definite thoughts, utterly purposeless. He remained there because it was light, because inside sat wealthy sated persons enjoying themselves! And he must stand outside, covered with snow, frozen, hungry, and would be joyful if he found a piece of bread! His anger began to return. And he recollected that in the morning he had desired to do something, to wreak vengeance.... Just what had it been? He wrinkled his forehead. Just what had he meant to do?

“Ah! Much I can think up in there, now!”

He cried this out with an intense self-scorn. He was terrified at the sound of his voice, and glanced at the large glass doors. Nobody was looking at him; then he had not been heard. Whereupon this talking to himself became pleasant. It afforded distraction. So he commenced to speak. Detached phrases--fragments of his weary, confused thoughts.

“I’ll think up something, pah!... With a knife.... Or set fire.... That’s what I ought to.... That’s something!... Let them all roast alive! What am I standing here for?... What am I waiting for?... That wouldn’t give me anything!... They’d rather call the police!... Kaplan--may the fires of hell seize him!”

He did not cease his chatter. And the more he spoke, the angrier he grew. He forgot his hunger, he now “felt” his heart. He cursed with imprecations as bitter as death and felt new life course through his veins. He cast all manner of accusations upon the audience inside, eating and drinking its fill and pursuing all manner of pleasures.

“To steal from those people and murder them is not a bit wrong!” he philosophised. He was now in a mood for anything at all, and would commit in absolute indifference whatever suggested itself. It seemed to him that his strength could cope with any task now--that it was a giant’s strength.

The glass doors swung open. The gendarmes appeared, followed immediately by the crowd. Itsye remained calmly in his place. He did not even cease talking to himself. The gendarmes had not yet noticed him. They were busy with the sleighs. Itsye was therefore able to continue his conversation undisturbed.