dreamers; people who are free because they own nothing. Poets,
philosophers, novelists, dramatists, artists, editors, agitators and
other idle and useless beings, they form a great galaxy in the New York
Ghetto. For several years, ever since I left New York, I had been
receiving instruction and inspiration from them through the medium of
the Yiddish and the Socialist press, where my own things often appeared
beside their spirited outpourings, and now I was overcome by an
overpowering desire to meet them again, talk matters over and fight it
all out. There is no sham about the East Side branch of the ancient and
most honorable order of Bohemians--the little changing, moving world
that is flowing with the milk of human kindness and the honey of
fraternal affections, where those who live may die and those who die may
live. Here among the East Side Bohemians people feel freely, act
independently, speak as they think and are not at all ashamed of their
feelings. They have courage. They wear their convictions in public. They
do as they please, whether that pleases everybody else or not. They
talk with the purpose of saying something. They write with the object of
expressing their ideas. They tell the truth and shame those who do not.
Hearts are warm because they own their souls. Those who really own their
souls will never lose them. As Joseph Bovshover, the fine poet of the
East Side has sung:
'_Beauty hideth,_
_Nature chideth,_
_When the heart is cold;_
_Fame is galling,_
_Gold's enthralling,_
_When the mind is sold._'
"They all assemble in the cafés, those universities of the East Side,
and in these places of judgment all things are determined. Is there a
great world problem that puzzles and vexes all mankind? The debaters at
one of these tea-houses take it up at their earliest discussion and soon
the problem is solved and the way of human progress is clear again. Is
there a question that has troubled the ages? Come and spend fifteen
minutes on the East Side, and the salvation of humanity will be assured
to you. There is so much squalor and suffering and sorrow here that
nothing can overcome the optimism of these chosen people. Their
incurable faith cannot be shaken even by their religious leaders, and
when they become atheists they are the most pious atheists in all the
world. But in the cafés the great issues given up in despair by famous
statesmen are met and decided upon. The trusts? Are they not paving the
way for the realization of Socialism? Not until all the industries have
been concentrated by the trusts will the people through the government
be able to take possession of them. Otherwise, how in the world will the
new régime, for instance, ever organize and take hold of all the peanut
stands of the land? You do not understand the question thoroughly if you
have not read the articles of I. A. Hurwitz in the 'Vorwarts.' The
future of war? There will be no war in the future. The workingmen of all
countries are uniting and so are the capitalists. The international
movement is not laboring in vain. Socialism is spreading in the European
armies. Every government will have enough trouble in its own land.
Others come here and say that every government will have to fight for
its own life and will not be able to do anything else. People will take
Tolstoy's advice and cease to pay taxes and withdraw their support from
the powers that rule. Tolstoy, say some, is a masterful artist, but
puerile as a philosopher, a curious mixture of genius and
narrow-mindedness, a man, who once having erred, now sins against
mankind by denying it the right of erring. The red-haired ragged orator
with blue eye-glasses and the face of a Hebrew Beethoven quotes
Ingersoll. 'Tolstoy,' said the agnostic, 'stands with his back to the
rising sun.' And did not Edward Carpenter say of Tolstoy's book, 'that
strange jumble of real acumen and bad logic, large-heartedness and
fanaticism--What is art?'
"Ibsen is somber because he is almost alone in seeing the most tragic
phases of life, because he feels compelled to treat what all other
artists have neglected. Many of his plays are too much like life to be
acted, and we go to the theatre only to see plays. One of the listeners
speaks of the appreciation of Ibsen in 'The New Spirit,' by Havellock
Ellis, and of the analogy that he finds between Ibsen and Whitman.
Zangwill places Ibsen above Shakespeare, and more recently he has
bestowed great praise upon Hauptmann. Rather strange of Zangwill, who is
himself not a realist and has gone in for Zionism, to like Ibsen so
much. And who is greater than Ibsen? some one asks. 'Perhaps it is I.
Zangwill,' says the cynical, frowzy and frowning little journalist. G.
Bernard Shaw is mentioned as a candidate, and his great little book on
Ibsenism comes in for a heated discussion. Brandes is quoted, and
several of his admirers present go into ecstasies over his works and
almost forget the writers whom he has treated. The pale-faced,
wistful-eyed poet with the Christlike face rises high on the wings of
his eloquence in praise of the Danish critic's appreciation of Heine,
and Brandes is declared to be one of the greatest Jews in the world.
What was it Brandes said about Zionism? Zionism, Socialism and Anarchism
come up in turn, and so many trenchant and vital things are said on
these subjects. Will the novel pass away? The dramatist--bulky and
bearded, impressive and strong-looking, with wonderful piercing
eyes--the dramatist is inclined to think that it will. The short story
is the story of the future. Long novels give one a glimpse of eternity.
By the time you come to the last chapter, conditions have so changed in
the world that you do not know whether the story is true to life or not.
It is the necessarily historical, the long novel is. Old Jules Verne has
won the East Side over with the fine words he has said on Guy De
Maupassant. Some admirers of Z. Libin say that the Frenchman is too
romantic, but on the whole he is the favorite story-writer. 'Yes,' says
the Jewish actor, 'De Maupassant writes for all the Yiddish papers'; and
in fact all the East Side dailies have for years been treating their
readers to his charming tales. He may be imagined to be a constant
contributor. Did not an old Israelite walk into the office of the
'Jewish Cry' and ask to see Friedrich Nietzsche? And then the problem of
Nietzsche comes up; whether he was, or was not a reaction against, or
the opposite extreme from, the meekness of Christianity, the weakness of
his time. Wagner's music, Stephen Phillips's poetry, Zola's essay on
realism, Maeterlinck's transcendentalism, Gorky's rise in letters, the
Anglo-Saxon isolation in literature, Ludwig Fuldas's latest play, all
these things are decided upon by people who understand them, more or
less.
"I cannot tell you more, but these meetings and these talks at various
times and in various places made my vacation on the East Side
delightful. Then there were lectures and meetings and social gatherings
of the comrades. The sun of new ideas rises on the East Side. Everywhere
you meet people who are ready to fight for what they believe in and who
do not believe in fighting. For a complete change and for pure air you
must go among the people who think about something, have faith in
something. Katz, Cahan, Gordin, Yanofsky, Zolotaroff, Harkavy, Frumkin,
Krantz, Zametkin, Zeifert, Lessin, Elisovitz, Winchevsky, Jeff,
Leontief, Lipsky, Freidus, Frominson, Selikowitch, Palay, Barondess, and
many other intellectual leaders, come into the cafés to pour out wisdom
and drink tea, and here comes also Hutchins Hapgood to get his
education. Each man bears his own particular lantern, it is true, but
each one carries a light and every one brings a man with him.
"There was that memorial mass-meeting in honor of Hirsh Leckert, the
Jewish shoemaker, who shot at the governor of Wilna, who took his life
in hand to avenge a hideous outrage perpetrated upon his fellow-workers
by a despicable despot. The Jewish working-people of Wilna organized a
peaceful procession, and at the behest of the governor hundreds of them
were mercilessly flogged--flogged until they fainted, and when revived,
flogged again. Then came this lowly hero, Leckert, and made a glorious
ascent on the scaffold. In the afternoon news reached the East Side
that Leckert was hanged. The same evening the working-people, just out
of their factories and sweat-shops, in overwhelming numbers assembled in
New Irving Hall, and the fervor and enthusiasm, the sobbing and the
sighing, the tear-stained faces and love-lit eyes--the soul-stirring
eulogies delivered--I shall never forget it. I tell you no man ever saw
anything greater or more inspiring on his vacation.
"Mr. Jacob Gordin gave me a memorable treat, took me to see his latest
and one of his best plays, 'Gott, Mensch, und der Teufel.' I have seen
many of his works and it is hard to decide which is the best because
they are nearly all so good. But this strange story of a Jewish Faust,
the pious, saintly Jew who, tempted by Satan's gold, step by step loses
his soul and cannot live without it; this wonderful blending of modern
realism and supernatural symbolism, this superb summary of man and the
new problem of life, the beauty and the strength of the work, is
remarkable, to say the least. 'As in times of yore,' says Satan, 'the
sons of Adam are divided into Abels and Cains. The former are constantly
murdered and the latter are the constant murderers. Gracious Lord, in
the new man there dwells the old savage Adam.' Sorry I cannot tell you
more about it now, but the last words of the play have been ringing
through my mind ever since I saw it.
'_All must die, all that is and lives;_
_Life alone is immortal._
_That only is mortal that desires and strives,_
_The striving and the desire immortal._'
"Why," added Keidansky, as a final thunderbolt, "I have gained enough
ideas on the East Side to last me here in Boston for ten years."
XXIII
Our Rivals in Fiction
"After all, what is man when compared to the hero of romance?" asked
Keidansky. "Beside the dashing, dauntless, duelling cavalier that now
moves through the popular novel and struts our stage," he said, "the
ordinary, mortal man of mere flesh and blood pales into insignificance.
Beside the extraordinary exploits of the storied hero, the doings of the
every-day man are like the foolish games of little children, only not
half so graceful. Beside the strange adventures of the leading
character, the simple efforts of earthly man are accounted as naught. It
would not be so bad if no one ever made comparisons, but women do, and
so men are always found wanting, and have a harrowing time of it.
"In the epic, the drama, the novel, the hero has nothing else to do but
to make love, to deliver pretty speeches, perform remarkable feats and
look graceful, and so he is ever so attractive. He plays upon the
hearts, takes hold of the minds, fastens himself upon the imaginations
of the gentle fair and fanciful. He knows just what to say, just what to
do, and just where to go, just when to return, and is always so
punctual--appears just in the nick of time to save as many lives as are
in danger. He becomes a model, a type, that the lady fair goes in quest
of, when the play is over, or the novel is ended. She turns to life for
the realization.
"In real life the young man has other things to do than making love,
posing prettily, whispering sweet somethings, framing compliments and
acting the gallant and defender of the fair and perfectly safe. He has
other things to do than wearing fine clothes and winning smiles. In real
life he has a real battle to fight. In real life he cannot always look
neat, act aptly, prate loudly, and say the improper thing at the proper
time. The improper thing at the proper time--that is the secret of
genius. Things are not so smooth in life. The guidance of Providence is
not so clear as are the directions of the playwright and novelist. Hard
to tell just what to do, just what to say, just where to go, and just
when to swear with impunity. Human beings are clumsy, awkward, uncouth.
Life is an embarrassing affair. To observe all the niceties is madness,
not to observe them is to be sent to a madhouse. What can a man do
against his all-powerful rival in fiction and the drama. His course is
clear, but we walk in darkness. The ways of God are mysterious, the ways
of men are crooked, and then--we are told to find the way. No matter how
much you stand on ceremony you are likely to slip and fall anyway. Life
is a labyrinth for which there is no specific geography.
"To state the matter more definitely, the problem is this: A young man
spends a half of his week's wages, takes the lady of his heart's desire
to the theatre--and she falls in love with the hero of the play--the
omnipresent, omnipotent hero. His every look, every word, every gesture,
every step, every venture--it is just too lovely for anything. Oh, it is
adorable, entrancing! And the young man who took her to the theatre, the
young man who really exists, what does he amount to? What a puny dwarf
he becomes beside the great giant of the drama. Who can say things so
sweetly, so smoothly, so sonorously, as the leading character or
characters in a play? Who can do things so neatly, so masterfully, and
surmount such overwhelming difficulties in the twinkling of an eye? Such
magnetic, magnanimous, majestic figures! It was after a pretty love
scene on the stage that I once heard a lady sitting near me say to her
companion, 'Oh, if some one would say "my dear" to me in that manner!'
And perhaps the young lady will go all through life without finding the
man, who will know enough to imitate that actor.
"A young man buys the latest and most loudly advertised historical novel
and sends it to the lady of his dreams. On the next evening when he
calls she is so absorbed, so immersed in the book that she hardly has
anytime to speak to him. When she does look up from the tome she tells
him all about the hair-raising hero, Count de Mar. 'He is a man,' she
says, and so goes on to relate about his mighty exploits. There is
nothing worth while in all the world except a man like Count de Mar.
Imagine, if you can, how the young man feels. And the lady chases the
phantom of Count de Mar in real life until she becomes a shadow of her
former self, and the young man goes through existence cursing the
historical novel in general and Count de Mar in particular. What else
but misery should there be for mere man of mere reality? What is he
beside such lords of creation as Count de Mar, Richard Carvel, Ralph
Percy, Ralph Marlow, Stephen Brice, Clayton Halowell, Charley Steele,
Jean Hugon, Marmaduke Howard, Count Karobke, Boris Godofsky, Louis De
Lamoy, General Kapzen, Prince Meturof--what is he beside these?
Everything is so small in life, in books things are so big. The world is
already created, but fiction is still being written. If Adam were
created by a novelist he would have fared much better. The story would
never have ended happily. These wonderful heroes, what fine means they
have, what splendid opportunities, what glorious achievements, what
great accomplishments are theirs. They can do just as they please, have
fortunes to squander, and riot in luxuries. They are all born rich, or
their rich relatives die early, and in good will.
"In reality it is so different. We have to work for a living and poverty
is our reward. In real life we have to write historical novels for a
living. We have to write popular plays and pretty poems and sugarcoated
stories. Yes, such is life, and there is poverty and the misery of the
masses, and there are social problems and political evils--things
unknown in the average novel, and in popular art generally. We must do
so much that is irksome in order to have a pleasurable moment.
"When Richard Mansfield was delivering those sumptuous stump speeches in
Shakespeare's spectacular melodrama of 'Henry V.' and the soldiers were
stirred up to the highest pitch of enthusiasm, the fair fraulein in
front of me constantly kept saying, 'Who wouldn't fight for Harry?' Who
wouldn't fight for Harry? A tremendous artist with superb words put into
his mouth by Shakespeare, with a beautiful scenic background behind him,
with gorgeous costumes and gleaming armor, with glowing electric lights,
with an army of well-drilled, well-paid supers, with all the pomp and
power of a king on the stage--who wouldn't fight for Harry? But the
poor, obscure, unknown Harry of real life, who faithfully fights against
poverty, disease, despair, who battles for the right, for his honor and
salvation, without scenic effects, without any art, or author's
directions, without any light or armor, without any aid or guides,
without any one to show the way--this Harry, who will fight for him? Who
does not fight against him? What fair damosel will deign to smile on him
and shed some sunshine into his life?
"This was on a street car, and I overheard a young woman say to her
escort, 'Ah, if you would only put your gloves on as Mansfield does in
"Beaucaire"!' So this was the great thing in the play--the manner in
which 'Beaucaire' donned his gloves. And yet--fool that I was--I had
wondered why an actor of Mansfield's surpassing talent should put on
the stage such a trivial, trashy affair. And I had gone without gloves
all winter in order that I might be able to see Mansfield. Heavens! But
see, how the little niceties, the small delicacies and the petty graces
on the stage and in books eclipse all our drudging and trudging, moiling
and toiling in real life. We are expected to observe them whatever else
we do. Failing in these we fail to win affections and are voted dead
failures. Beside these we are expected to do things that can only be
done in books and on the stage, under the auspices of Alexandre Dumas
the elder and Victor Sardou, for instance. We are expected to equal
those magic creatures of the imagination, the heroes with their opulent
supplies of good looks, words and wealth, and their strange power to do
aught on earth.
"James--we will call him that--is red-headed, freckled, plain, and
generally not at all dudish. He is, however, true, loyal, devoted and
determined to do some good in the world. He tries to meet her every day
after work. He often brings a flower with him, tucked up in his sleeve.
Once we saw him press it to his lips, for soon the bloom will be hers.
But she is reading an historical novel, and even the flower fails to
deliver his message and fades without fulfilling its mission. Of course,
James has this advantage over the ideal hero in the novel: that he
really exists; but what is reality to the glowing fancy of a youthful
maiden? And in spite of his existence, where does James come in?
"These are local and popular incidents I have mentioned, but in a
measure all literature, all art has created impossible dreams,
unattainable ideals. This is probably the reason why so many aspirations
have failed. They were not founded on reality. There are in life
considerations 'without which the noblest dreams are a form of opium
eating.' Who knows how many have gone grieving through life because they
have followed the phantoms conjured up by the false standards of art?
With all that is great and grand, heroic and epic in real life there is
still such a thing as
'_The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard,_
_The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky._'
"Anyway, it is about time to protest against the false heroes of paper
and ink, who cut us out of our earthly paradise, to give our rivals in
fiction the death stab; about time to remember that that which is not
cannot be great, and that all the beauty of this universe is in real
life. It is about time to deny the existence of that which does not
exist.
"This demand for the superhuman is inhuman. We are not what we are not.
We cannot do what we cannot do, and these platitudes are as profound as
they are obvious. The weakness of the world is pointed out by its
heromania. That we look for our heroes not in life but in artificial
creations shows how blind we are. The most striking sign of our
imperfection is our longing for impossible perfection. Life has a great
grudge against art. It has been slighted, disregarded, abused. With its
misleading models it has set up an unjust competition against life. The
hope is that the artists to come will give life a hearing and adjust
matters. As for the novelists, every time the good Mr. Howells
horsewhips the swashbucklers I heartily applaud him. But I am not going
to lay down any principles. I don't feel like it to-day. Perhaps things
as they were were for the best. Perhaps it is for the dreams of women
that there are real men in the world to-day. Perhaps it is their longing
for the impossible that made the best that is possible to-day. I
sometimes think that a woman's reason is the very acme of all wisdom.
But I am going to treat this thing more fully in my volume of essays--if
I ever get around to writing them."
XXIV
On Enjoying One's Own Writings
I was alone, ensconced in a corner of the noisy, smoky café, perusing
the pages of a valued volume. Keidansky walked in hastily, took up my
book and looked at it.
"How can you read anything that you have not written yourself?" he
asked, with surprising solemnity. "Why, I don't mind it any longer; I am
used to it now," I mumbled in astonishment. But conversations with
Keidansky are one-sided. Before I had formed half a thought he was all
ready with speech.
"You are coming down, dear fellow," he said; "you are compromising and
becoming reconciled to everything. You cannot supply your own demand, so
you are going elsewhere for your literature--spending on others your
days and your nights that you may devote to the excavations of the
things that lie deep and dormant within thyself. I wager that before
long you will even be reading the classics. You will abdicate from the
sovereignty of your own genius, and measure life by the enjoyment that
you derive from the things that other people do.
"Aliens, foreigners, strangers as far away from you as different
individuals are, millions of miles of impassable icebergs impeding any
possible approach. They were not born as you were born, they have not
lived as you have lived, they have not loved as you have loved, they
have not hated as you have hated, they have not grappled with the
agonies as you have, they have not died as you have over and over again,
and yet--you read their books and pretend to enjoy them."
I asked my friend to be seated, but he preferred to stand up, and with a
characteristic wave of the hand, showed his annoyance at being
interrupted. "If you have not felt what I have felt," he said, "it is
useless for me to speak to you, and for you to enjoy what I write is
hard and tedious labor. You cannot get behind the things others say, and
all that remains for you to do is to read the meaning in so many words;
and no meaning is ever absolutely uttered in so many words. There is
almost always something unsaid behind the thing that is said. There is
as much in as there is out. Thought is an endless chain of which we only
see separate rings. We are fortunate to see that in the case of other
persons. Most often you only hear and read their talk. But when you read
your own thought, you read so vastly more than you have written, and you
read the history of your thoughts, their far-away causes, their
prehistoric origins, and their subterranean sources--and you enjoy it.
You enjoy it, if you are intimately concerned in one near and dear
personality, in the greatest study in all mankind--yourself. Also, if
you are interested in the evolution of human thought, and can see it
through the operations of your own mind.