NEW WORK
Things seemed very muddled indeed to Yetta as she rushed out of the
office of the Woman's Trade Union League. It was not until she reached
the elevated and was on her way downtown that any coherent thought came
to her. Then she was caught by one of those amazing psychological
reactions, which escape all laboratory explanation. She was suddenly
calm. All this turmoil of misunderstanding and quarrels was utterly
unbelievable. It was quite impossible that her love for Walter, her long
friendship with Mabel, should be wrecked in so short a time. With the
fairest look of truth the whole muddle straightened out. That note on
Mabel's desk had been Walter's definite break with her, an announcement
of his new love. It was as plain as day. A letter like that would
explain Mabel's raw humor. She would find Walter waiting for her on her
doorstep. They would have supper together and never, never separate
again. She began to smile at the thought of all the dumb, gratuitous
misery of these last two days. She ran down the stairs of the Ninth
Street station, dashed through the chaos of Sixth Avenue cars, and
walked her fastest to Waverly Place.
Walter was not sitting on her doorstep.
It was dark in the hallway--appallingly dark. But the light shone about
her once more when she found a letter from him in her box. She ran
upstairs, let herself into the apartment, locked her bedroom door, and
tore open the letter. It was written on the paper of the Café Lafayette.
"DEAR YETTA,
"No word from you all morning--so I know you have decided to keep
faith with your Dream. Perhaps you are right. I hope for your sake
that you are--although it seems very like a death sentence to me.
"I should like to ask your pardon for all the pain this has caused
you, but it's hard to apologize for having tried desperately to
tell the truth. Feeling as your silence tells me you do about it,
it must be better for both of us that Isadore's coming forced an
explanation, forced us to an understanding--in time. I trust you,
Yetta, to see clearly--perhaps not now, but sometime--how I tried
above all things to be fair and honest to you. I wanted your love.
You must never think I was pretending about that, Yetta darling.
There is nothing I want more at this moment. And, although you will
not agree with me--and may be right--I thought we could win
together to a happy, useful life. I still think we might if you did
not feel about such things as you do.
"But after all, it doesn't matter much what I think. You're a
woman. You've lived long enough to make your own choice, to
formulate for yourself the demands you will present to the Great
Employer--Life.
"I don't feel that you are asking too much--I don't believe we can
do that. I won't admit that you are asking more than I. But I doubt
if you are asking wisely--for the Real Thing. Yet, for years on
end, I made the same demand. Perhaps it is my defeat which has
changed me from a romanticist to a realist. Nowadays I prefer
something real to any Dream.
"But you must make your choice according to your present lights. I
can't ask you to accept my experience. And more deeply--more
devoutly--than I wish for anything else, I hope that your Dream may
lead your feet into pleasant paths--to the Happy Valley.
"Once my pen is started, I could write on and on to you. But this
desire to commune with you is not what you think love should be, so
it would be of no comfort. After all, there is nothing more for me
to say. It was my business to make you see the choice clearly. You
did, I think. And you made it bravely. So I must say Good-by.
"I'm leaving in half an hour for Boston, and I will sail from there
in a few days. The Fates have arranged a haven for me in Oxford. It
is not what I would like most in the world, but it will do. Better
chance to you.
"WALTER."
Very little of this letter reached Yetta's consciousness. The import of
all these phrases was that he had gone. So there was not any hope. If
Walter had loved her--in anything like the way she meant--he would not
have gone.
Yetta had not cried very much, even as a little girl. Now, it seemed to
her that, having lost control of her tears, she had lost everything. She
wilted on to the bed, burying her face in the pillow to hide the shame
of her sobs.
Her body was utterly prone on the bed--but her spirit had fallen even
lower. Why had she let Isadore divert her with the call to work? What
did work matter, if she had lost Walter? Why had she not gone to him
that first morning? He had waited for some word from her. She had let
her stupid pride stand in her way. What was her pride worth to her? If
she had gone to his room, she might have held something of him. She had
demanded all and had lost everything.
As the minutes grew into hours, Yetta sank deeper and deeper into the
Slough of Despond. She lost desire to struggle out. But gradually the
wild turmoil of grief wore away, and she fell into a heavy sleep.
When she awoke, she heard Sadie moving about in the kitchen. The pride
which she had cursed a few hours before came back to her. She did not
want Sadie to see her defeat. There is a vast difference between the
abstract proposition, "Is life worth living?" and the concrete question,
"Shall I let Tom, Dick, or Mary see tears in my eyes!" She had wanted to
die, and now she did not want to be ashamed.
So the will came to Yetta to hold her head high. It was six o'clock when
she got up and washed her face. Sadie was preparing supper. She wanted
to go out and help. But instead she sat down drearily. She did not have
the courage to face her room-mate. The willing of a deed does not
guarantee the power of execution.
She was dry-eyed now; the tears were spent, but she was utterly weak.
She leaned a little sideways and, resting her cheek against the cool
surface of her bureau, looked--unseeing--out of her window at the array
of milk bottles on the window ledge across the airshaft. Where could she
find help? It was the first time in her life she had wanted such
assistance. Often she had needed advice, aid in thinking things out. But
now she needed help in the elemental job of living. Often she had been
at a loss as to what she ought to do, but now she knew. Yet instead of
going out to help Sadie, she sat there--weak.
If she had been an Italian, she might have crept out to the
Confessional, whispered her troubles into a kind Padre's ear, and so
found comfort and strength. But the solace of religion was unknown to
her. In these latter active years, even the memory of her father had
faded. She could no longer shut her eyes and talk things over with him.
But without some external aid, she knew she could not go forward.
She--the individual--was defeated. Like the little band of besieged in
Lucknow there was nothing more that she could do. The ammunition was
spent. In what direction should she turn in the hope of hearing the
pipes of the rescuers?
In those few desolate moments she saw her situation clearly. She did not
want to die. But unless relief came quickly the black waves of death
which were beleaguering her spirit would close over her. Never as long
as she might live could she ever be proud of her strength again.
What solid, basic thing was there for her to lean against?
Suddenly she caught the sound of the distant bagpipes. She rushed out
into the hall and took down the receiver of the telephone.
"Hello, Central. Park Row 3900."...
"Hello. _The Clarion_?"...
"One! Two! Three!!"
Sadie came to the kitchen door and looked out in surprise. The gaslight
shone full on Yetta's face; it was drawn and haggard.
Harry Moore, who happened to answer the call in _The Clarion_ office,
did not recognize Yetta's voice, but he recognized the signal of
distress.
"O-o-oh!" he shouted back. "Cut it out and work for Socialism."
Yetta's fixed stare melted into the look of one who sees a fair vision,
the strained lines about her mouth relaxed into a glad smile.
"Thanks!" she said, and hung up the receiver.
After all, there was something bigger than her little personal woes--a
Cause to work for even if her wings were broken.
"I'm sorry to have slept so late," she said, coming out into the
kitchen. "I was up on that paper-box strike in Brooklyn most of last
night. Dead tired. I turned in about one this afternoon. I thought I'd
surely wake up in time to get supper."
Sadie was aggrieved at Yetta's matter-of-fact tone. She knew that
something was wrong. In spite of the firm smile, Sadie was sure
something exciting had happened. She herself was used to telling her
troubles to almost any one who would listen. That her ready sympathy
should be allowed to lie fallow, hurt her. But she did not want Yetta to
think she was prying. So she talked about other things. But when Yetta
put on her hat after supper, Sadie could not help asking where she was
going.
"Down to _The Clarion_. An Executive Committee. I hope I'll get back
early. This all-night game is killing me."
Yetta took little part in the Committee meeting, but she listened
carefully to get the measure of the other members. Rheinhardt, the
chairman, was a printer; he had some familiarity with that side of
newspaper work at least. He was a quiet, earnest man, and as the evening
passed, Yetta's respect for him grew. He seemed sleepy and indifferent
most of the time, but whenever any matter of real importance came up, he
was wide-awake. Paulding, the magazine writer, with whom Isadore had
spent his vacation, was the strongest man on the Committee. But in spite
of his deep interest in the paper, he was a bit restive, quick to voice
any passing discouragement, impatient with the less-cultured working-men
and their rather indirect methods of thought and work. Idle discussion,
waste of time, made him fume. Yetta saw that if she was to do any real
work on this Committee, it must be in coöperation with Rheinhardt and
Paulding against the other two who were dead-wood--nonentities.
When the routine work had ended and they had reached, in the Order of
Business, "Good and Welfare," Rheinhardt asked Yetta if she had any
suggestions.
"Every improvement," she said, "seems to depend on getting more money.
And that's got to be done by increased circulation. Our financial
condition will never be sound so long as we are dependent on gifts and
friendly loans. We've got about 12,000 circulation now, and I guess
that's as many Socialists as we can count on. If we're to grow, it must
be among non-Socialist working-men. So it seems to me that we must put
our best efforts on the labor page. That page is very weak now. It's
full of stuff about the unions, but it's written to interest Socialists.
It ought to be the other way round. Until it is made interesting to
working-men who are not yet Socialists it's useless as a
circulation-getter."
Paulding leaned forward and broke in impulsively.
"Comrade, everybody has knocks! Every page in the paper is weak. We
don't have to be told that. How can it be improved with the resources at
hand? That's the question."
"Nothing can be done without some money. But if we could raise one man's
salary, I think we could make a great improvement. What's needed is a
man who can give all his time to it, some one who has an idea of
news-value, of up-to-date journalism, who understands the labor movement
and can write about it without an offensive Socialist bias."
"And," Paulding growled, "how much would a man like that cost us? There
aren't half a dozen men with those qualifications in the city. How much
would Karner pay a man, who could make real circulation for _The Star_
out of a labor page?"
"The kind of man I mean would value the freedom we could give him.
Nobody who's sincere likes to work for Karner. We can get him for less."
"Well, I'm doubtful," Paulding said. "We're sweating our staff now worse
than any sweat-shop. Look at this rotten office where we ask them to
work. We're overworking them, underpaying them, and about every week
asking them to sign off some of their wages."
"They do it willingly," one of the nonentities put in, "the Great
Ideal--"
"Oh! that Great Ideal talk makes me tired," Paulding interrupted. "We
can't get high-class men at such terms. I know two really able men; they
give us a lot of stuff gratis. They've got the Great Ideal as strong as
anybody, but they've also got families! They'd be glad to work for us if
we could give them, not fancy salaries, but decent ones. We can't. The
men we've got are wonderful. I take off my hat whenever I think of them.
They're devoted to the limit. Very likely they're of high moral
character"--his voice rose querulously--"good to their mothers, and all
that. But there is no use shutting our eyes to the fact that they're not
newspaper men. Braun had some experience on the _Forwaertz_. But there
isn't a man in the office who ever saw the inside of a modern
metropolitan daily.
"What can we offer a man? Twenty-five dollars a week--at most. That's
what Braun is getting--sometimes. It's a joke. A hundred a month to our
editor-in-chief! That's our whole trouble. What we--"
"Could you offer twenty-five a week?" Yetta interrupted his despondency.
"It would be hard," Rheinhardt said.
"Sure we could--for a good man," Paulding contradicted him. "I could
guarantee it myself. I've a lot of friends who are interested in _The
Clarion_, but just dead sick of its sloppy appearance. I haven't seen
anything in it for weeks that jolted me till this paper-box story of
yours. Think of it! A Socialist paper which isn't afraid to tell the
truth, but can't afford to hire the brains to do it! Yes, if we had a
live-wire on the paper, I could find ten people who would pledge ten
dollars a month. But what's the use of talking about it? The kind of man
we need could get fifty a week--more. It's the same all the way through.
We need keen men in every department and can't afford to pay their
market value. If we got the right kind of a man for advertising
manager--the kind we need--he'd be valuable to other richer papers. The
right kind of a man for our circulation department would be worth ten
thousand to a dozen other--"
"I don't know anything about the business side of it," Yetta interrupted
again. "But I know a lot of reporters. If you'll authorize me to offer
twenty-five a week, I'll see if I can find one."
"No one can work on the paper who isn't a party member," the other
nonentity said. "We can't ask the Comrades to put up money to support a
broken-down capitalist."
"What's the use of discussing it?" Paulding asked Yetta, ignoring the
nonentity. "Have you the nerve to ask a friend to take such a job? You
wouldn't do it yourself."
Yetta suddenly remembered that she was probably jobless.
"On the contrary," she said, "if I had the right kind of training, I'd
jump at it."
"Well," Rheinhardt said, suddenly waking up, "I think you come nearer to
what we need than any one we're likely to find. If Paulding can raise
twenty-five a week, will you accept it?"
"Yes," Paulding chimed in, "I'll get the money. Will you do it?"
"I haven't the training," Yetta laughed, not taking the offer
seriously. "I've only had six months' newspaper work altogether, and
that was very specialized stuff on the Woman's page. We need some one
with more general and longer experience."
"You don't answer," Rheinhardt said, slumping back in his chair; "we
can't get the wonder you talk about. Even with your limited experience
you can earn more elsewhere."
"Of course you won't take it," Paulding sneered. "Not that I blame you.
I'm not taking it either."
"On second thought," Yetta said, "I will."
It was a complicated psychological process which caused Yetta so
suddenly to throw in her lot with the struggling Socialist paper. She
did not often act so impetuously.
The motive which seemed to her strongest was the distaste for her old
life which had suddenly flooded her. She had emigrated spiritually. Fate
had jerked her roughly out of the orderly progress, which had been
typified by Walter's great leather chair. It seemed incongruous to go on
with the old work of the League from the new flat in Waverly Place.
Everything must be changed.
But a self-protective instinct, more subtle and less easily recognized,
was equally strong. She was not so likely to be reminded of Walter in
the rushing turmoil of _The Clarion_ office. In learning the details of
a new job she would have less time and energy for the destructive work
of mourning.
Deeper even than this was a subconscious reaching out for help. Here she
could find the strength she needed to go forward. She had tapped it over
the telephone wire when she had been tottering on the raw edge of
despair. She wanted to keep ever in touch with this indomitable little
band of fighters. She had looked down upon them--rather despised
them--from the false standard she had acquired uptown. They had seemed
to her unkempt. But in her moment of greatest need it was to them she
had turned. "Culture" and "gentility" had been no help to her. It was
the handclasp of her own people that had given her strength to climb up
out of the Slough of Despond.
As a little child in whose brain is as yet no clear concept of "danger"
clings, when frightened, to its mother's hand, so Yetta--knowing that
her need had not passed, afraid of the future--wanted to keep close to
the protecting enthusiasm, the dauntless faith which had proven her only
helper--her one hope of salvation.
But it was not until many months had passed that Yetta woke up to a
vital, emotional attitude towards her new work. The deeper side of her
personality had been stunned by the crash of her romance. She walked
through life a high-class physical machine, a keen, forthright
intellect. But it did not seem to matter very much to her. Nothing did.
The moments came when she cursed the Fates for having sent Walter to
rescue her from Harry Klein. That could have been no more painful, and
it would have been over quicker. The years she had spent studying seemed
only to have increased her capacity for suffering.
Each day was a task to be accomplished. The very uncertainty of _The
Clarion's_ existence fitted into Yetta's mood. Any moment the flimsy
structure might collapse. She thought of the future as little as
possible. Can I get through another day without breaking down? Can we
get out another issue? These two questions seemed almost the same to
her. She and the paper were struggling desperately to keep going until
they found firmer ground underfoot.