web and colors, deducing the strangest possible details from the feel of
the wool in a certain spot, and embroidering upon it till one thinks of
the fabric as a living thing, freighted with a thousand passions and
burdened with hatreds and prejudices as we all are--each one of us a
stitch in the web of the universe woven by the great master on the loom
of eternity.
On an afternoon I found Afghian seated in a corner and fingering some
topazes. He was not alone. A portly man and a young lady were looking
at the rugs displayed on the four walls.
I heard the two Americans speak about room measurements and color
harmony with the furniture they possessed. They looked like sure buyers,
and their appearance left no doubt of their ability to pay for what they
wanted. As I looked at them I remembered the powerful car waiting
outside--the liveried chauffeur and the footman in their gold bespangled
coats fairly shouting the riches of their master.
Yet why was Afghian so cold? Why was he not at the elbows of his rich
customers, persuading them, telling them stories, explaining values,
demonstrating, cajoling?
He sat in a corner polishing some green-blue stones on the sleeves of
his coat--his small eyes ablaze, the thin dry lips drawn inside, coiling
himself like a serpent before the spring.
A few minutes after I had come in, the gentleman pointed with his cane
to a large rug on the wall and said:
"What's the price of this one?"
"It's sold," answered Afghian, without lifting his eyes. And he
continued to polish the topazes on his sleeve.
"And what's the price of this one?" the lady asked, pointing her
white-gloved hand to a rug that I hoped to possess some day.
"Sold, also--belongs to this gentleman," he answered, pointing at me.
The two looked me over for an instant and left the store without the
usual murmured apology from the dealer.
"Why did you say that the rug they wanted was sold? and why did you tell
them that the other one belonged to me?"
"Because I don't want to sell them any rugs," he answered sharply.
"Why, have they not the money to pay?"
"Oh, yes, they have. They have gold enough to pave all the Avenue. I
know how rich he is. But I would not sell him any of my rugs, for the
same reason that you would not sell your work to serve as reading matter
for a herring advertisement. As to the Turkestan rug, I was not lying.
Some day, some day we will talk more about it."
I knew Afghian too well to press for further information. But it turned
out he was willing himself to go on and talk without my having to urge
him.
"Several years ago this young lady came to buy a rug. She was so
beautiful that I could not think of anything good enough to lay under
her feet.
"I have loved once; Yousouf Afghian has loved once, many, many years ago
when I still bathed in the River Atrek in summer and climbed the
mountains in winter. I loved a Circassian girl, and for her I had woven
myself, of the best silk and young wool, a little carpet. The Afghians
have woven carpets ere the rest of the world knew that there was such an
art as carpet weaving; and of all the Afghians, I, it was said, could
weave the finest.
"And in the carpet for my maiden I embroidered stories from Hafiz and
Omar, the like of which have never reached the rest of the world. I
hoped to see my work sanctified by the touch of Kizil's bare feet. But
it was not to be so.
"God had willed that I should shed the blood of my own brother for her.
God had willed that the curse of my mother should rest on my head. God
had willed that I should flee my parental home and fields.
"When Kizil begged that she should follow me, I refused. My sins were
too great. Should God choose to visit upon me His punishment, I meant to
be alone to suffer.
"Every day I feed another man beside myself. And from this man I exact
no labor and no thanks. And because I have deprived the Just One of his
due I say the prayers for my brother twice a day. And to my mother I
send compensation for my dead brother's labor. If I love you, a
stranger, not of my own faith, it is because you remind me of my brother
Kenghus--my dead brother.
"One day this young American lady came to buy a rug. And she seemed to
carry with her the odor of Kizil, and her face was as soft-looking as
Kizil's, and her eyes as warm and her feet as small. And all the modern
clothes she wore could not cover the Orient that was in her. And there
was that tang in her speech which comes only to the Levantine.
"It was the first time in all those years that God permitted me to
forget Kenghus was dead.
"I went to the trunk and took out the carpet I had woven for Kizil. I
feared she might refuse to buy it, so I offered her another rug and gave
her Kizil's rug as a present.
"We shook hands, and at her touch I was young again, living again. As
though the Eternal had in His greatness forgiven me my great sin.
"The following nights I lay awake thinking that her bare feet were
pressing the young wool on the carpet I had given her; that she arose in
the morning and read the stories I had woven for her, my own story
between the wonders of Hafiz and Omar. It was as if I myself had lain
under her feet.
"I hoped to see her again, hoped that she might want to see again the
stranger who gave her such a carpet. And every time the door opened my
heart sank. What would I not have given her to see her again! She had
only to ask, or I only to guess. If I love topazes to-day, it is because
of her eyes. And if you sensed an odor of violets and narcissus, it is
because of her who reminded me so much of Kizil."
Afghian became very nervous. His hands trembled and his thin nostrils
quivered like the wings of a wounded bird. He paced the room for a
while, then putting his hands on my shoulders he cried out:
"Why should a man trade in the things he likes best? For generations the
Afghians have woven rugs. At Pasargrades, in the tomb of Cyrus, lives
the handiwork of one of the Afghians. Rugs and carpets run in our blood.
You don't know what they mean to us when you buy them. We love rugs. We
make them because we love them. Who can't make a rug should not have
one. It takes five and ten years to make one. I remember how my father
worked twenty years for what was to be the crown of his life. He offered
daily prayers to the Eternal to allow him to live long enough to finish
the work. Twenty years from a man's short life! Twenty years continual
thought woven into one long unbroken thread. The limbs grow weaker, the
hair turns gray, kings are unseated, and a man sits and spins and spins.
Can such a thing afterwards be bought by another man?
"And therefore, I, who love rugs, I should trade in shoes and combs, in
grains and sackcloth. How wise that learned man of your faith who made a
living polishing glasses!
"Years passed, and I did not see the young lady again. Then, when I was
least expecting it, her father came to me about a big rug that needed
some repairs. It is long since I have woven myself, but I wanted to see
her who reminded me of Kizil. I wanted to see my carpet. So I said it
was necessary that I should go and see for myself what the damage was.
"Trembling I stood before her. I asked her about my gift to her. She
looked even more like Kizil than when I first saw her. She stared at me
for a few moments--she had forgotten all about it. Then she remembered
something--yes, yes, she remembered that it did not harmonize well with
the colors on the walls of the vestibule----
"I found Kizil's rug used as a doormat at the servants' quarters. A
thousand heavy boots left their rub and dirt on it. On the beard of
Omar, grease spots, and one eye of Hafiz burned out by the fire from a
cigarette, as if done in jest. All my dreams a miserable looking rag--a
few tatters.
"It was a lie! she never resembled Kizil in the least. It was the
beginning of my punishment. Take, friend, those topazes from me, or I
shall throw them into the street."
Youssuf Afghian kneeled down before an icon in the corner of the room
and prayed fervently. Once for himself, and once for the brother he
killed many, many years ago on the shores of the River Atrek.
BABETA'S DOG
She was only a little puppy when she was brought to Babeta's restaurant.
And because Babeta has a literary turn of mind, he renamed her Ophelia
when Sonori, the tenor, who knew more about dogs than about literature,
said she was a Dane.
It was due to Ophelia that Babeta, the anarchist-communist philosopher,
became very much interested in dogdom and learned to distinguish an
Airdale from a Bulldog and a Spaniel from a Dane. They ceased talking
about music and philosophy at Babeta's, and, though the Goyescas almost
created a stir in the musical world and Bergson had delivered a lecture
in Rumfold Hall, Babeta and his artist guests neglected such
transcendental interests because of the change brought about in the
direction of their thoughts by a dog, because of a little puppy they
had named Ophelia.
Sonori discovered that Shakespeare, and not Verdi, was the author of
"The Moor of Venice," and when the talk turned about the Scandinavians,
many another musical celebrity heard for the first time the name of
Ibsen or of Bjornson. And there was even a lonely man in the crowd who
had read a story by Knut Hamsun, that greatest of all Scandinavian
writers, whose tales have no equal in the world's literature.
In what strange surroundings Ophelia was destined to live!
Near Eighth Avenue, before Fortieth Street. The smell of garlic and
tomato sauce warns the passer-by that the inhabitants are from
Piedmonte, but on the street one hears the Irish brogue. The bales of
cotton in front of the warehouses and the smoke from the chimneys reek
after Liverpool, but the smell of rope, tar and fried smelts that comes
from the wharves near by remind one of Fiume and Marseille, as the
swaying masts and the spread-out sails outline themselves against the
glowing sky.
And in such surroundings, back of one of the numerous saloons in which
stale beer is served to drunken sailors and dust-covered longshoremen,
is the celebrated restaurant of Babeta.
I have said already that Babeta is a philosopher, and were I to write
about him and not about his dog, I could tell you some good stories
about the interminable scientific discussions at a certain table in a
corner, and the marvelous feasts at the tables reserved there for the
two thousand dollar a night tenors and three thousand dollar a week
sopranos. A book could be written about the decorations and friezes of
the place, and only ignorance of culinary art would put a stop to what I
could say about the food served at Babeta's. As to the wine--well, it's
Chianti or Lacrima Christi, if that means anything to you.
But I have promised Prosper to tell the story of Ophelia. Prosper knows
a lot about science and still more about art, but, because he is neither
scientist nor artist, he is interested in human beings and dogs.
We all admired Ophelia. She was gliding graciously between the tables,
and as she grew bigger she was frequently a medium of friendship between
old and new guests. Hands met hands stroking her beautiful fur, and
after an "excuse me," or a "pardon, signorina," the new guest asked the
old one the name of the dog--followed an introduction, an invitation to
the other table, after which Ophelia was slightly forgotten and Dante or
Puccini was discussed for a little while. But Ophelia's steady place was
near Babeta's table at the door.
In less than a year Ophelia was the personality of the place. She was
big and stately. Her short morning walk was taken on the leash, one end
of which was in her master's hand. Any casual courtesy paid to her by
another dog during those walks was firmly and instantly checked by
Babeta. She was a Dane, a pure blue Dane, and Babeta, the anarchist, the
enemy of aristocracy, did not allow his dog to meet the common people,
the free, common people of dogdom. Ophelia pulled at the leash once or
twice, but, after severe reprimands, she made a virtue of necessity and
passed haughtily by unobservant of any amorous advances.
It was Prosper who brought the great news. Ophelia was to be mated to a
pure Dane owned by a captain, who promised to bring "Prince" on his next
trip from Europe. And the news spread. People that had neglected the
spaghetti and Chianti for weeks suddenly got a hankering after Babeta's
place. Ere the week was over the unborn puppies were promised to two
hundred people. Babeta had been shown the pedigree of Prince and was
satisfied on this score.
I have already said that Ophelia was the personality of the place, but
after Babeta told the story of her future mate, and promised pups to
all that would listen to him, she became the most venerated personality.
Sopranos with two hemispheres at their feet fed Ophelia the best sweets
of the continent, and a justly celebrated baritone brought her a collar
of pure silver, lined with costly fur. Nothing was too good for Ophelia,
nothing too expensive for her.
From the river, a few hundred feet away, came the fog blasts of
transport ships carrying thousands of men to a vortex of blood in which
millions of men had already been crushed, pulverized and liquified to
check the rule of aristocracy, but back of that saloon near Eighth
Avenue, Babeta, the anarchist-communist philosopher, was expounding the
virtues of pure blood as exemplified in Ophelia and Prince, the Dane to
which she was to be mated.
Many were the bottles of wine drunk to her health and the health of her
offspring. Babeta actually experienced the joys of fatherhood when he
made arrangements with a veterinarian, the best in town, for the great
day. In the most comfortable corner of the kitchen a place was reserved
for Ophelia's litter. A new soft mattress and warm woolen covers were
prepared and only the privileged ones were shown all those preparations.
"I want a male puppy," said Sonori, "because I want to call it Hamlet."
"And I want a female one and I will call it Flora," said Mlle. Marienta,
the great lyric soprano.
Babeta was happy. Thanks to his dog, he had obtained higgedly-piggedly
more flattery than he ever craved for his famous food or for his
philosophical discourses.
"Ophelia, you good girl, come for a walk," and master and dog went early
every morning to breathe fresh air.
But spring was near. As the days went by it seemed to Babeta that
Ophelia was gradually losing her haughtiness towards the common people,
ordinarily along the wharves.
The hundred and one mongrel dogs roving there followed Ophelia and her
master and she pulled at the leash with more insistence from day to day.
Once she allowed one of the dogs to come so near that Babeta felt the
fangs of the mongrel as he drove him away with a kick. And Ophelia stood
meekly by. Homewards she bent her head in shame as the master censored
her.
"Shame, Ophelia."
Ophelia was ashamed. She nestled close to Babeta as he sat down to
bandage his leg and looked up to him and whined. Only when the whining
threatened to turn into a howl did Babeta give a forgiving sign. The
following days the morning walks were taken along the avenue; the leash
was brought up shorter, as a precaution, and all was peaceful again. But
during the day Ophelia showed signs of uneasiness, and Babeta watched
the door because she tried twice to slink out.
"What's the matter with Ophelia? She has refused chocolate!" asked one
of the guests.
"She has probably had enough sweets," answered Babeta offhandedly, but
his heart sunk.
A few days later, a street dog slunk in through the door of the
restaurant. Ophelia got up from her corner to meet the stranger. Her
master sprung up and kicked the intruder so violently the dog's howl
could be heard from the street.
"You treat the common people pretty roughly, Babeta!" observed Prosper.
Babeta was angry with Ophelia.
"Shame," he cried, "shame," and drove her to the kitchen. "Away from me,
away."
In vain Ophelia tried to make up to him. Her eyes begged forgiveness.
But when it was not given she turned about and barked and howled in
righteous indignation as it just occurred to her that she was unjustly
treated.
"Wherein have I sinned?" she seemed to question.
Sonori and others wanted to pat her, but she gave fair warning by
snarling and snapping in the air.
"What's the trouble with Ophelia?" Sonori asked.
"To the kitchen, go, go," and Babeta pushed her away.
That night, after the guests were all gone, the master spoke to the dog.
"I am ashamed of you, Ophelia. You behaved miserably. You a pure Dane to
permit and accept the courtship of a low down street dog!--I am ashamed
of you! Prince will soon come from Europe, and you want to associate
with nondescripts that feed from garbage cans!"
Ophelia cried and whined and begged forgiveness, and was happy again
only when Babeta allowed her to take the nightly piece of sugar from
between his lips.
Yet Ophelia felt the misery of aristocratic loneliness. That streak of
the dark blue sky she saw between the shutters at night and the
snarling, howling and fighting of the dogs at the wharves caused her
sleepless nights. It was early spring; the time when life asserts
itself; when dog and man howls to the moon and snaps at each falling
star.
That dog Babeta had kicked out so violently from the restaurant came
nightly under the window of his belle and called, begged, serenaded and
pleaded in even more heartrending tones than the tenor in Bizet's
"Pecheur des Perles." And it was Prosper again who brought the
astonishing news "Ophelia was stolen!"
It was Babeta's version of what had happened. The lattices of the
shutters were smashed, the window broken and the dog gone. Babeta was
the most disconsolate of men.
"Put in an ad and offer a reward. Announce to the police. Go to the
depot of S. P. C. A."
Such were the advices. But he cared not. He remembered the pulling at
the leash, the meeting on the wharf, the dog he kicked out, and he
despaired. He had promised pure blue puppies. He had been so good to
Ophelia. He had given her the best there was to be had. But she left
him, ran away like a thief in the dead of night.
Babeta could not touch any food the whole day. That night, when the
tenors and sopranos came to eat, they cried and mourned the great loss.
"Dio, mio, oh. Dio, mio!" they all groaned.
Babeta found Ophelia the following morning. He recognized her from a
distance. His attention was drawn to a pack of dogs fighting over
something or other. There were two different groups, and Ophelia, not
definitely attached to either of them, was keeping on the outskirts of
the skirmish, snapping and snarling at individuals of both parties. Oh,
what a glorious free time she had! Her wriggling tail expressed the joy
of life and its mastery. They were all afraid of her. She was stronger
than any of them, and she was so happy--so happy and free!
"Ophelia!" rang Babeta's voice. The dog turned about and, seeing the
master, she started in the opposite direction, tail between hind legs
and head down.
"Ophelia!" he called again. She took a few steps toward him, and as he
approached nearer she laid down in the mud, closed her eyes and turned
her head aside. Babeta had not taken the leash along, but he held on to
the silver collar to bring her home.
Babeta hoped against hope that he would still be able to give pure Dane
pups to his friends, but in a few weeks the shame could no longer be
hidden. He opened his heart to every one and told where he had found her
and in what company. The guests who had patted her and fed her the best
sweets no longer looked at her. She was pushed away from near the table.
With bowed head she nestled close to her master, her sole protector and
friend, but he repulsed her. He did not understand. He did not
sympathize.
"Fui, fui, get away, shameless creature, to the kitchen."
The ones that were promised pups became harsh to her and everybody
scolded. And one of them remarked:
"Look, she is eating from the floor."
It was the most evident sign of her downfall. Before her escapade she
had never eaten but what was given to her in a plate; and never the
rests from the tables, but food especially prepared for her by Babeta
himself.
"Shame," they all yelled, "shame, shame."
When she lifted her pleading head to her master, Babeta, in a fit of
anger, spat at it. "Fui, fui!"
In vain she waited for forgiveness. She longed for the nightly piece of
sugar from the lips of her master. She stretched her neck when he passed
her by in his inspection of the kitchen. But he did not even look at
her. What terrible thing had she done! If he were willing to forgive her
she would feel as guilty as he wanted, but since he was so harsh and
insulting she felt only his cruelty and not her shame.
Outside her friend was serenading again. The door was not even closed.
The master no longer cared with whom she associated. Among humans no
friend was left--she understood that--the door was wide open. She could
do as she pleased. She had lost her master. He will only scold and never
pat again. She understood that, too.
* * * * *
"Where is Ophelia?" Sonori asked the next evening.
"She has run away and committed suicide!" Babeta announced. "Actually
committed suicide. She understood she was disgraced. I called and
called, but she ran away--she surely committed suicide!" and he was
flattered that Ophelia cared enough for him to commit suicide because
she had lost his friendship. Only Prosper knows.
"She has gone to the dogs," he said. "The day of aristocracy is over.
It's the people now. You are either with them; howling, fighting,
getting ruffled and bitten, or you have to isolate yourself on an island
at the mercy of much worse--like that other great aristocrat--and
Ophelia understood and made her choice."
* * * * *
At Babeta's table they talk again about molecular physics, phonolites,
christalloids, music and art.
Dogs and Scandinavian literature are taboo. And every time Prosper
enters the place Babeta feels uneasy, as though he owes him an
explanation.
THE PROFESSOR
Orchard Street beams on Houston Street and ends on Canal Street, near
the Manhattan Bridge. But this street is better known to our foreign
population than any other thoroughfare, not excluding Fifth Avenue or
even Broadway.
The reason for such renown is to be found in the reputation of Orchard
Street as a market for everything under the sun. From before sunrise to
late in the night both sides of the street are lined with double rows of
pushcarts from which all sorts of wares are sold to the passer-by. From
Houston to Rivington Street the space is exclusively reserved for
edibles; meat, fish, vegetables, bread and fruit is sold in the open air
by howling venders to bargaining customers, each one yelling his offer
on the top of his voice; quarreling, disputing, cursing, using what is
most spicy in the gutters of the street lingo.