remarked my companion. "They who led the strikes among the sweat-shop
workers in the course of time became heartless capitalist bosses; and
there were Anarchists, who wanted to abolish all laws, who became
lawyers and went into politics. One by one many of the promising young
men of the Ghetto broke their promises and left the uplifting movements
they brought into existence. Some died, some married for love of money,
some took wives unto themselves, some became lawyers and doctors, some
dentists, some wire-pullers, some went into politics, and some moved to
Brooklyn. Compromise? They all hated that word and then--they
compromised.
"Recently I have been thinking of three particular stages of the
game--this grim and gruesome little game called life," said Keidansky.
"The first is when we sternly demand the truth, the second when we ask
for justice, and the third--when we beg for mercy--
"There you are with your eternal questions. It was Zolotkoff who once
called the Jew, bent and bowed by his sorrows and fearful of the
future--it was he who called the Jew a living interrogation point. You
just reminded me of the simile. But no; I cannot tell you at which of
the three stages I have arrived. I am at all and at none. What I really
want I never ask for, because I hardly know what it is, and cannot
formulate the demand. If I knew just what they were, perhaps I wouldn't
want these things. Yet sometimes I think if I could play, if I could
play the violin, I would express these starved longings and stifled
yearnings. I could not only tell, but in the expression perhaps find
what I want. In words I cannot do it; they are so formal, definite,
rough. The other day my friend, the violinist, came and played for me.
'I'll tell you a story,' he said, and he took his violin and played--a
beautiful, thrilling story. The Unknowable was revealed for a moment;
and it occurred to me then that if I could play, I, too, might perform
the miracle of expression, which proves the divinity of music. As it is,
I cannot tell my desires; and yet I want but little here below and I
don't want anything up above--"
"You don't mean to renounce your part of the world to come?" I asked.
"I don't know that it is coming to me," said Keidansky. "Besides I am a
little bit 'shy' on the world to come. I am afraid it is fashioned too
much on the style of this one, and down here, you know, I am sometimes
tired of everything. The entire panorama is so farcical, the whole game
so monotonous, and our heroics are so ludicrous. The valetudinarians
make me sick. I am weary of 'The Book of Jade,' and clever people are
awful bores. Yes, I am somewhat afraid of the second story they call the
other world, for it may really come, and history might repeat itself,
even up there.
"The mortal fear of oblivion makes one crave for immortality; but,
perhaps, one life is enough. No matter how sinful, or how saintly, a
human being has been, one world is sufficient of a punishment. Virtue is
its only reward; evil is its own punishment. The life beyond--is beyond.
Let it stay there.
"Promises of Heaven and threats of the Midway do not move me so much
now, for the chances are that they are one and the same thing, and this
is the only place we are sure of and ought to make the most of. There is
some good down here in spite of the reformers. The good is right beside
the evil, and we can seldom tell the difference. The saint and the
sinner often exchange pulpits and each proves the imperfection of the
other. Paradise is right next door to Purgatory; in fact, you want to
be careful when you are around that way lest you enter the place you
weren't sent to. We ought to make the most of it, I say, and I know I am
right, because I have been condemned by a number of orthodox rabbis."
"You contradict yourself," I said.
"I do it to be consistent," said Keidansky.
"But I have digressed and transgressed, and all because of your useless
question. As I was saying, when we are young, ignorant, innocent and
inexperienced, we sternly demand the truth, the whole truth, and nothing
but the truth. We come to enlighten this dominion of darkness, to right
a world gone wrong and to guide a poor and deluded mankind to the
eternal verities. Iconoclasticism becomes our creed, infidelity our
religion. We are to repeal the world's laws, to shatter its idols, to
demolish its traditions, and we at once reject its standards and ideals
because they are not founded on truth.
"We question, investigate, analyze, and the imagination of youth works
wonders. We are all gods in our dreams. The re-creation of the world is
but an easy task. With all the modern improvements, it can be done in
less than seven days, it seems. Glorious quest of truth and the golden
goal, enchanting castles in the air, of which youth is the architect!
Have you ever been young? I was born old, yet I know something about it.
And for the rest, you know what happens. Most of the things in the
world end sadly, because in the ending of a thing there is sadness. We
find, at last, that what we wanted cannot be had for the asking; that we
must pay for it with our lives; that the truth is--there is no
truth--that as much of it as we find is often more than we want; that
illusion is a necessary element in the composition of the world; that
everything is relative and the quest of truth is a relative virtue. I
hate the compromiser and deserter and I have nothing to say in their
defence, but change is in the very nature of things, and sooner or later
we must recognize that absolute truth does not exist, and we must accept
the old foundation for building whatever we can in the world, and
realize that perfection is a long and laborious process of becoming.
"Later on we really see that all is for the best, that the pessimists
are here as an object lesson, and we conclude that it is folly to be too
wise. We cannot repeal the world's laws all at once, but we can break
them gradually. There is much wisdom in folly and some truth in
falsehood, too. The stupidity of the world is an absolute necessity: the
world's work has to be done. So, at least, we decide, and we abandon the
impossible quest after the absolute truth and become satisfied with
justice, mere justice. We only ask for fair play. At this stage of the
game we are already hardened and inured to things, and we manage to get
along with justice, such as it is when we get it or buy it in court. At
this time, if we are prosperous, we read and relish Omar Khayyam, the
philosophy of whom is well expressed by the street urchin when he says,
'I don't give a hang.' And we also laugh at the poor fools who seek
after the truth. Later on still, when we grow weary and weak and cannot
have justice--are not crafty or strong enough--we come down a little
lower and beg for mercy. Thus we reach the third stage of the game."
The speaker paused for a moment, watching a little boy who was trying to
float his little boat on the pond--for we were lucubrating in the Park,
where we met by accident.
"That's all very well," I said, "but what have you to suggest?"
"Why, nothing that would make a sensation in a newspaper," he said, "but
something that by chance or miracle may have some reason in it. It is
this: Let the youth continue his noble, heroic, if melodramatic, quest
of truth, that those who grow wiser and weaker may get justice. Let the
young strive for the impossible and the possible will be attained, and
those who ask for justice will really have it. Let them question and
analyze and shatter idols and become bombastic and hysterical and build
castles, and dream and disturb the order of the world--and let us admire
their _heilige dumheit_--that some day those who have grown feeble may
find at least fair play. The more the world will tolerate the
extravagances of youth, the more it will benefit by its achievements.
Let the wildest imaginations have free play and things will grow fairer
and more fair. Let them dream. To be disillusioned is a trifle; but
never to have dreamed is terrible. Finally, this earth will be turned
into a heaven by all those who have failed to do it.
"And those who have grown older and sadder and merely ask for justice,
let them really demand it with all their might, and so shall their
efforts not be in vain, and so shall those who beg for mercy receive
it--or none beg for mercy. If those who ask for justice would only be
just to those who are in the other stages of the game, and if those who
beg for mercy would only be merciful! No matter at what stage, let all
play fairly and honestly and be tolerant of others, and all things will
tend towards ultimate decency. Again, were there more demanding truth,
there would be fewer satisfied with mere justice, and none would beg for
mercy. At any rate, more truth, more justice; more justice, more mercy,
or no need of it at all. If only every one would want something, mean
something, _do_ something. Personally I cannot do very much, for you see
I am somewhat of a preacher myself. Going on the 'elevated,' are you?
Sorry for you. Good-bye."
VI
"The Badness of a Good Man"
I was looking for Keidansky, but he was nowhere to be found. He was not
at home, and my visits to a few of his favorite resorts were also in
vain. Then they told me over at Schur's bookshop on Canal street, that
there was an entertainment being given by the Alliance on that evening,
and Keidansky was to contribute an essay to the literary programme, a
paper on "The Badness of a Good Man." "It serves them right," I said,
and I forthwith betook myself to the dreary quarters of the Alliance,
which formed the intellectual centre of our Ghetto. The exercises were
already in progress. The hall was packed; hardly any standing-room left.
The pictures of Karl Marx and Michael Bakounin--the respective fathers
of Socialism and Anarchism--looked down upon a pious and picturesque
congregation of people who swore by their names; the same studious,
serious, troubled, yet occasionally smiling faces of young men and young
women of the Jewish quarter--seekers after light among the people that
walk in darkness. The hall was brightly illuminated. The people were in
their best. It was Sunday evening. Even Keidansky had condescended, or
compromised, and paid some attention to "external appearances," this
time. He brushed his clothes "for the occasion," as he once remarked.
At any rate, there was some change in his attire differing from his
usual negligent appearance. This was an entertainment. There were
several readings and they were all teeming with trouble, and propt with
problems. The recitations, well given by several young women, were
compositions like Hood's "Song of the Shirt," William Morris's Socialist
chants; the songs of suffering and joyless toil, sung in Yiddish, were
by Edelstatt, Rosenfeld and Goldstein. The people over here enjoy their
sorrows, it seems.
Keidansky was already on the platform when I came in; in fact, he was
already reading his paper. His paper was a typical utterance of the
iconoclast that he is, and craving the indulgence of the reader, I quote
here as much of it as I copied then and there, ere we come to the
conversation. I do not know what he said before I entered, but after
that he hastily and nervously read somewhat as follows:
"He is a good man and a worthy, and a useful member of society. All his
neighbors say so, and he stands well in the entire community. His
friends are legion. He is always ready to do them a good turn, and they
are in turn ever ready to reciprocate. He lives, acts, thinks and speaks
like all other good men; and he is exceedingly popular and highly
respected. He is tolerant. He agrees with everybody on almost every
conceivable subject. He is a good man. This is a free country, and every
man has a right to his honest opinion--provided he is not a crank, or
eccentric, and does not make himself obnoxious by differing with
everybody. In that case, of course, the man is beyond recovery; he is
lost to all shame and to the good old political parties and principles.
"He respects every honest opinion and sentiment, and when he does meet a
man who differs from him, why, he gently and adroitly changes the
subject and smiles irresistibly and talks pleasantly, anyway. Oh, well,
we are bound to differ on some things--but what is the difference so
long as we both vote the same ticket? Have a cigar? When the man does
not vote the same ticket it is really too bad, you know; but there is
still a smile and a pleasant word.
"His generous contributions to the charities of the city are well known.
The newspapers frequently have paragraphs in praise of his philanthropic
deeds. The press is one of our greatest institutions. It is the
palladium of our liberties, and a great medium of advertising. There are
always good words, cigars and drinks for the newspaper 'boys.' They are
a lot of fine, clever, noble fellows--according to the press, and he
believes it. He is a good man.
"He travels through life in the good old-fashioned way. He is guided by
the morality of our common ancestors, abides by their time-honored
customs and reveres their sacred traditions. He thinks as his fathers
thought, whose fathers thought as their fathers thought, and whose
fathers--never thought anything. He is a good man, and he is agreeable.
He once almost agreed with a Christian Scientist--he sold him a parcel
of property. Christian Scientists have faith. It is good to do business
with people who have faith. There is always much truth in what other
people tell him, only we are bound to differ on some things, as he
always says.
"He is a patriot and his lungs are ever at the service of his country.
It is my country, whatever it does or does not do. Let us give three
cheers for the stars and stripes, and hang the social reformers. The
people are always right and they know it. He believes in the people, and
they have faith in him. They have already sent him to the Board of
Aldermen, and there are many other places they may send him to. There is
a Congress at Washington, and many good men are sent there. He is
persistently honest. His honesty has been brought to the notice of many.
'Honesty is the best policy' is a line ever on his lips. His reputation
for veracity is enviable. It pays to tell the truth, he says. He tells
the truth as he sees it, and he sees it as everybody else does.
"He is the most active member of the largest congregation in his
district, and is considered a strong pillar of the church--even of
society at large. He gives aid and succour to the weak and the failures;
but he is always on the side of the strong and the successful. It is the
largest movement in his community, social, political, or religious, that
receives his staunch support. And it so happens that he is ever in
accord with the tendencies of the largest movement.
"He is a good man. He is eminently practical, and he harbors a horror
for visionaries and their Utopias. He loathes agitators and rebels,
disturbers of peace and order. Peace, order, accuracy, submission,
obedience, duty--and uniformity is a good word, too. Children, you must
always abide by the powers that be, and obey your parents; they know
better what is best for you. They have buried many children. Gentlemen,
respect the flag. This is a free country, and the Government can do as
it pleases with the people.
"Vague, unexpressed longings of a new time, hungry desires of the age,
wistful heart-whispers for a freer, higher life, muffled music of
far-off seas, stifled and half-drowned voices of the submerged Ego
crying 'I'--these do not disturb his dreams. He has no dreams. Far be it
from him to be touched by the shapeless, new-born aspirations which are
suspended in the air waiting for some one to give them form. He is a man
of facts, and lends no credence to far-away fictions. His health is so
good that he is not easily affected by theories and books.
"He is consistent and hardly ever changes his mind; at least not more
often than do those who draw up the platform of his political party. His
intrepid loyalty to his party cannot be forgotten as long as he lives;
he stands as solidly within its ranks as a mortared-in brick within a
wall. When he says a thing it is said, and he keeps every promise he
makes, good or bad. He prizes highly and is keenly jealous of his
reputation, and believes in living up to it. He will not differ from you
on matters of art or literature, because, well, because, as he says, he
is not well up in these things, and besides, it is all a matter of
taste, is it not? But he likes a good old-fashioned melodrama; don't
you?
"He is a good man. Fathers point him out to their sons as a paragon of
virtue. He never swerves nor deviates from the path of duty and
righteousness, as he sees it. He is indissolubly linked in the great
chain of real, practical, daily events of the world, and he never chases
any phantoms--not he. He never fights with fate. He takes things as they
come, and many things come his way. Providence seems to be on his side.
He never complains of the powers that be in heaven or on earth. God made
the world, and no man can ever change it. All that is, is well for the
industrious and the successful. There is always room on the top for
those who can crawl up. He adapts himself to all circumstances, and
profits by most of them. He moves along the lines of least resistance;
is ever drifting into his proper niche. He will 'get there.' Where he
cannot be aggressive, he is agreeable, and usually gains his end. He
never falters, nor fails to fall in line with the rest. It is always
safest to be on the safe side. He positively believes in the benefits
that accrue to those who are negative.
"He possesses all the negative virtues of his honored ancestors, who now
slumber beneath their eulogistically inscribed tombstones. He meekly
follows their present example of abstaining from most of the vicious
pleasures of life. He is a good and respectable man, and he never lets
his desires run loose; they must abide by certain laws.
"He is deeply interested in all matters concerning public improvements.
Why? The motive of a man's interest in public affairs is often a private
matter; but the impeccable reputation of a good man should be a
sufficient shield against the scrutiny of the inquisitive. The
inquisitive will never go to heaven, and they will 'get it' here on
earth.
"He is modest. He frequently complains of the credit and the honors that
are given him by the community--lest his hearers should not know that he
bears the burden of demonstrative public admiration. He is profusely
grateful for all he receives, which, he constantly protests, is so much
more than he deserves. He only tries to do his duty in his humble way.
He is effusively cordial and friendly. He has a pervasive,
confidence-inspiring smile for all who pass him, known or unknown. He
clasps your hand firmly and shakes it long. He is congenial even to the
congealing.
"He is a self-made, self-advertised man. He has affluence; he has
influence. His exemplary character is worthy of emulation, as the
newspaper and his political friends say; and his emoluments are not few
nor far between. He is intensely, surprisingly religious. The creed of
his fathers is good enough for him. He questions not, nor doubts--not
he. A good, devoted churchman, he is a regular attendant; and he never
sleeps nor slumbers, no matter how long and how old the sermon be. He
is a brave man. The good souls of his district are most lavish in praise
of his piety.
"Alas, it is not possible to enumerate all his splendid deeds, his
high-classed qualities and his standard virtues. But, then, that is
hardly necessary. They speak for themselves, or for their owner. He is a
good husband and father, and his word is law unto his wife and children.
He is an excellent citizen, a loud-mouthed patriot. He is a good man. He
is going to heaven. And, oh, I do wish he would go there soon!"
After I had listened to this scandalous screed and other sombre and
shadowy things that were on the programme of the entertainment, I
finally overtook the offender, and shook hands with Keidansky. "I've
been looking for you," I explained, "and they told me you would be here,
so I came, and caught you in the act."
"Glad you showed up," he said; "but I am rather afraid. Do be lenient. I
cannot defend nor explain everything."
"Well," I began, leniently, "according to this harangue of yours, we
would have to change our conception of goodness and morality, and--"
"No, we don't have to," he answered impatiently; "but we can't help it;
it is always, always changing. The good man of one age is the dead man
of another. Between vice and virtue there is often no more than a change
of mind. Goodness is only a point of view, and morality ceases to be
moral after awhile. What's a good thing to do to-day will, in all
probability, be the best thing to avoid to-morrow. It's all a question
of time; no standard stands forever. Why, the coat of tar and feathers
is going out of fashion, and even in New England, it's no longer a crime
to be happy. Morality is but an arbitrary agreement, subject to change.
It is a catalogue of certain accepted virtues, which should be edited,
revised, and reprinted, from time to time; for many of the articles in
this booklet go out of fashion, and otherwise become stale, obsolete,
and even obnoxious. At best, the goods are not what they are represented
to be by the drummers, that is, the preachers, when it comes to their
delivery--when it comes down or up to real life. What do you think of
virtues that consist either of doing nothing, or of doing things for no
other reason than that they have bored other people to death. The
catalogue is full of them, and just now we have come to a time when our
current conventional morality is a kind of mortality--dead and
deadening. It holds us down to outworn, oppressive systems, customs,
regulations, and the uniformity of things is stifling.
"It prevents growth, it impedes progress. We cannot live as free,
untrammelled individuals. We must be citizens, members of society; we
must be what other people call respectable.
"Everybody owns everybody else. Everybody follows, no one leads his own
life. No one has any initiative. Everybody examines your moral conduct,
and dictates the term of your existence. How can one have a religion, if
he must live up to the faith of everybody else? How can we live if we
must follow the dull and noble examples of those who are dead and never
knew any better? Everybody listens to what the people say, and no one
hears his own voice. This is an age of machinery. There are no more
individuals; there are automatic walking and working machines which have
been wound up by public opinion to run so many hours according to a
well-approved system of regulations. 'What's the use of common-sense?'
says a character in one of Jacob Gordin's plays. 'What's the use of
common-sense when we have a Constitution?' Thousands of fools are
kneeling before the fetish of public opinion. 'What will the people
say?' they all ask. Nothing, I say, nothing. The people never say
anything. They only talk. Individuals say it all. Those who depend upon
others, who see strength in union are weaklings. United we fall, divided
we stand. Those who dare to tread in the path of freedom, who dare to do
things and say things, who own their bodies and never raise any
mortgages on their souls, who make their own morality--they are the
people who advance the world's progress and help to civilize our
civilization. They have nearly always been called bad by their
contemptible contemporaries--yet they represented all the goodness worth
having. God give us the men who have virtue enough to do as they
please, and courage enough to shock their neighbors.
"But it's all system and monotony and imitation with the majorities, and
a lot of slavish, knavish, puny and pious little beings, afraid of their
own voices and not daring to draw their breath any more often than their
neighbors do, and with whom morality and sanity is a matter of majority
rule--beings like these are called the good people.
"This idea must be reversed. We must come to realize the utter badness
of the conventional, crawling, yours-truly-for-a-consideration, good
people. Also we must come to realize the supreme goodness of so-called
bad people--people who are too religious to go to church--to whom
tyranny of any kind is the height of immorality, and slavery the depth
of it. We must have more bad people to save this wicked world. And
heaven save us from most of the good people of to-day.