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.
“Here they are already!” he said. “They’ve had a good time and plenty
to eat and drink, the dogs! In warm fur coats, arm in arm with their
wives, or even with prostitutes....”
A few passers-by eyed the snow-covered vagabond.
“Drunk or crazy,” remarked one of them. They went on their way. Itsye
cried after them:
“You’re drunk yourself! I’m not drunk, you curs! I’m hungry, you pimps!
I robbed a poor old woman of her supper, you scamps!... I, drunk! You
curs!... I’ve been hunting work for a month, cholera seize you! Not a
bite in my mouth for three days, you dogs!...”
A gendarme heard his voice and approached to discover who was shouting
and cursing.
“What are you screaming for? Move!”
The officer gave him a violent push.
“What are you shoving about?” cried Itsye and he raised his hand
against the officer. He felt that it would be a treat to deliver a
slap,--a fiery slap. He waited for one more push.
The gendarme noticed his gesture.
“Ha, you Jewish ‘phiz’!”
Itsye’s hand descended. The blow resounded loudly. A crowd gathered.
Itsye desired to repeat the act. He was now wild. He wished to strike
about him, strangle persons, bite. But he received a hard blow upon
the head. He grew dizzy and toppled over. Now he could feel feet upon
him. He knew that he was being trampled upon, but he could not open
his eyes, nor could he move a limb. Soon he was lifted and dragged
somewhere. With blows across the back, the head and the stomach, and
with the ugliest oaths. He could not protect himself. He could not even
speak. Only rave and groan horribly.
Softer and weaker became the raving and the groaning, and at last he
lay quiet, motionless. Dense darkness hovered over him, enveloped him,
engulfed him. His eyes were closed, but he felt the darkness. Like a
heavy load it pressed down upon him. He knew, in an obscure way, that
he had struck somebody and had been beaten up badly in return. And now
he was quiet and peaceful, and he wondered at the peaceful feeling.
He began to grope about with his hands, his eyes still closed. He
struck against a hard, dusty floor. Where could he be? The question
flew through his entire being in a most undistinguishable manner. With
a great effort he raised his eyebrows. The dense gloom settled upon
his open eyes. He could see nothing and his eyes shut heavily again.
Once more he began to scrape about with his hands and opened his eyes.
Wider, this time. Something dazzled him. Above, on the ceiling, shone
a small gray light. It entered from the single window, which was built
in high on the wall. Itsye looked first at the strip of light and then
at the little window with the iron bars. He eyed it for a long time. As
one who has awaked from a dream and has not yet come to himself.
Suddenly the blood rushed to his head. He sat up quickly. He recognized
the bars and now realized that he was in jail. They had given him a
good drubbing and had thrown him into a dark hole. He became strangely
warm. In a moment’s time he foresaw everything that awaited him; the
blows that were yet in store,--the trial and the sentence,--prison and
convict labor. He groaned in deep despair. Ah! And now he felt that
his head pained excruciatingly; his face and his whole body, likewise.
He hastened to feel his head and his face. His hat was gone. His hair
was moist and sticky. He touched an open wound. With his fingers he
followed the sticky trail. Blood everywhere. On his head, all over his
face and on his bare chest.
He had a desire to weep at his great misery and boundless despair.
“Father!” he wished to cry, and “Mother, dear!” and “God!” Words that
he had rarely used; beings he had never known. His heart contracted
bitterly and he lay with his face to the floor; his body shook
convulsively with his deep lamentation.
For the first time in his life was he weeping so. His was a bitter
nature, and as often as life had brought him tears he had been
able always to swallow them. He knew that his tears would soften
nobody,--that they would only make him ridiculous. They would mock him
as a soft-hearted fool, and that must never be. With teeth clenched
together this wretched orphan had gone through life in eternal
hostility to all about him. His eyes had been often suffused with
blood, but never with tears.