A CHILD'S PARADISE
All this while that I was studying and exploring in the borderland
between the old life and the new; leaping at conclusions, and
sometimes slipping; finding inspiration in common things, and
interpretations in dumb things; eagerly scaling the ladder of
learning, my eyes on star-diademmed peaks of ambition; building up
friendships that should support my youth and enrich my womanhood;
learning to think much of myself, and much more of my world,--while I
was steadily gathering in my heritage, sowed in the dim past, and
ripened in the sun of my own day, what was my sister doing?
Why, what she had always done: keeping close to my mother's side on
the dreary marches of a humdrum life; sensing sweet gardens of
forbidden joy, but never turning from the path of duty. I cannot
believe but that her sacrifices tasted as dust and ashes to her at
times; for Frieda was a mere girl, whose childhood, on the whole, had
been gray, while her appetite for happy things was as great as any
normal girl's. She had a fine sense for what was best in the life
about her, though she could not articulate her appreciation. She
longed to possess the good things, but her position in the family
forbidding possession, she developed a talent for vicarious enjoyment
which I never in this life hope to imitate. And her simple mind did
not busy itself with self-analysis. She did not even know why she was
happy; she thought life was good to her. Still, there must have been
moments when she perceived that the finer things were not in
themselves unattainable, but were kept from her by a social tyranny.
This I can only surmise, as in our daily intercourse she never gave a
sign of discontent.
We continued to have part of our life in common for some time after
she went to work. We formed ourselves into an evening school, she and
I and the two youngsters, for the study of English and arithmetic. As
soon as the supper dishes were put away, we gathered around the
kitchen table, with books borrowed from school, and pencils supplied
by my father with eager willingness. I was the teacher, the others the
diligent pupils; and the earnestness with which we labored was worthy
of the great things we meant to achieve. Whether the results were
commensurate with our efforts I cannot say. I only know that Frieda's
cheeks flamed with the excitement of reading English monosyllables;
and her eyes shone like stars on a moonless night when I explained to
her how she and I and George Washington were Fellow Citizens together.
Inspired by our studious evenings, what Frieda Antin would not be glad
to sit all day bent over the needle, that the family should keep on
its feet, and Mary continue at school? The morning ride on the
ferryboat, when spring winds dimpled the river, may have stirred her
heart with nameless longings, but when she took her place at the
machine her lot was glorified to her, and she wanted to sing; for the
girls, the foreman, the boss, all talked about Mary Antin, whose poems
were printed in an American newspaper. Wherever she went on her humble
business, she was sure to hear her sister's name. For, with
characteristic loyalty, the whole Jewish community claimed kinship
with me, simply because I was a Jew; and they made much of my small
triumphs, and pointed to me with pride, just as they always do when a
Jew distinguishes himself in any worthy way. Frieda, going home from
work at sunset, when rosy buds beaded the shining stems, may have felt
the weariness of those who toil for bread; but when we opened our
books after supper, her spirit revived afresh, and it was only when
the lamp began to smoke that she thought of taking rest.
At bedtime she and I chatted as we used to do when we were little
girls in Polotzk; only now, instead of closing our eyes to see
imaginary wonders, according to a bedtime game of ours, we exchanged
anecdotes about the marvellous adventures of our American life. My
contributions on these occasions were boastful accounts, I have no
doubt, of what I did at school, and in the company of school-committee
men, editors, and other notables; and Frieda's delight in my
achievements was the very flower of her fine sympathy. As formerly,
when I had been naughty and I invited her to share in my repentance,
she used to join me in spiritual humility and solemnly dedicate
herself to a better life; so now, when I was full of pride and
ambition, she, too, felt the crown on her brows, and heard the
applause of future generations murmuring in her ear. And so partaking
of her sister's glory, what Frieda Antin would not say that her
portion was sufficient reward for a youth of toil?
I did not, like my sister, earn my bread in those days; but let us say
that I earned my salt, by sweeping, scrubbing, and scouring, on
Saturdays, when there was no school. My mother's housekeeping was
necessarily irregular, as she was pretty constantly occupied in the
store; so there was enough for us children to do to keep the bare
rooms shining. Even here Frieda did the lion's share; it used to take
me all Saturday to accomplish what Frieda would do with half a dozen
turns of her capable hands. I did not like housework, but I loved
order; so I polished windows with a will, and even got some fun out of
scrubbing, by laying out the floor in patterns and tracing them all
around the room in a lively flurry of soapsuds.
There is a joy that comes from doing common things well, especially if
they seem hard to us. When I faced a day's housework I was half
paralyzed with a sense of inability, and I wasted precious minutes
walking around it, to see what a very hard task I had. But having
pitched in and conquered, it gave me an exquisite pleasure to survey
my work. My hair tousled and my dress tucked up, streaked arms bare to
the elbow, I would step on my heels over the damp, clean boards, and
pass my hand over chair rounds and table legs, to prove that no dust
was left. I could not wait to put my dress in order before running out
into the street to see how my windows shone. Every workman who carries
a dinner pail has these moments of keen delight in the product of his
drudgery. Men of genius, likewise, in their hours of relaxation from
their loftier tasks, prove this universal rule. I know a man who fills
a chair at a great university. I have seen him hold a roomful of
otherwise restless youths spellbound for an hour, while he discoursed
about the respective inhabitants of the earth and sea at a time when
nothing walked on fewer than four legs. And I have seen this scholar,
his ponderous tomes shelved for a space, turning over and over with
cherishing hands a letter-box that he had made out of card-board and
paste, and exhibiting it proudly to his friends. For the hand was the
first instrument of labor, that distinctive accomplishment by which
man finally raised himself above his cousins, the lower animals; and a
respect for the work of the hand survives as an instinct in all of us.
The stretch of weeks from June to September, when the schools were
closed, would have been hard to fill in had it not been for the public
library. At first I made myself a calendar of the vacation months, and
every morning I tore off a day, and comforted myself with the
decreasing number of vacation days. But after I discovered the public
library I was not impatient for the reopening of school. The library
did not open till one o'clock in the afternoon, and each reader was
allowed to take out only one book at a time. Long before one o'clock I
was to be seen on the library steps, waiting for the door of paradise
to open. I spent hours in the reading-room, pleased with the
atmosphere of books, with the order and quiet of the place, so unlike
anything on Arlington Street. The sense of these things permeated my
consciousness even when I was absorbed in a book, just as the rustle
of pages turned and the tiptoe tread of the librarian reached my ear,
without distracting my attention. Anything so wonderful as a library
had never been in my life. It was even better than school in some
ways. One could read and read, and learn and learn, as fast as one
knew how, without being obliged to stop for stupid little girls and
inattentive little boys to catch up with the lesson. When I went home
from the library I had a book under my arm; and I would finish it
before the library opened next day, no matter till what hours of the
night I burned my little lamp.
What books did I read so diligently? Pretty nearly everything that
came to my hand. I dare say the librarian helped me select my books,
but, curiously enough, I do not remember. Something must have directed
me, for I read a great many of the books that are written for
children. Of these I remember with the greatest delight Louisa
Alcott's stories. A less attractive series of books was of the Sunday
School type. In volume after volume a very naughty little girl by the
name of Lulu was always going into tempers, that her father might have
opportunity to lecture her and point to her angelic little sister,
Gracie, as an example of what she should be; after which they all felt
better and prayed. Next to Louisa Alcott's books in my esteem were
boys' books of adventure, many of them by Horatio Alger; and I read
all, I suppose, of the Rollo books, by Jacob Abbott.
But that was not all. I read every kind of printed rubbish that came
into the house, by design or accident. A weekly story paper of a worse
than worthless character, that circulated widely in our neighborhood
because subscribers were rewarded with a premium of a diamond ring,
warranted I don't know how many karats, occupied me for hours. The
stories in this paper resembled, in breathlessness of plot, abundance
of horrors, and improbability of characters, the things I used to read
in Vitebsk. The text was illustrated by frequent pictures, in which
the villain generally had his hands on the heroine's throat, while the
hero was bursting in through a graceful drapery to the rescue of his
beloved. If a bundle came into the house wrapped in a stained old
newspaper, I laboriously smoothed out the paper and read it through. I
enjoyed it all, and found fault with nothing that I read. And, as in
the case of the Vitebsk readings, I cannot find that I suffered any
harm. Of course, reading so many better books, there came a time when
the diamond-ring story paper disgusted me; but in the beginning my
appetite for print was so enormous that I could let nothing pass
through my hands unread, while my taste was so crude that nothing
printed could offend me.
Good reading matter came into the house from one other source besides
the library. The Yiddish newspapers of the day were excellent, and my
father subscribed to the best of them. Since that time Yiddish
journalism has sadly degenerated, through imitation of the vicious
"yellow journals" of the American press.
There was one book in the library over which I pored very often, and
that was the encyclopædia. I turned usually to the names of famous
people, beginning, of course, with George Washington. Oftenest of all
I read the biographical sketches of my favorite authors, and felt that
the worthies must have been glad to die just to have their names and
histories printed out in the book of fame. It seemed to me the
apotheosis of glory to be even briefly mentioned in an encyclopædia.
And there grew in me an enormous ambition that devoured all my other
ambitions, which was no less than this: that I should live to know
that after my death my name would surely be printed in the
encyclopædia. It was such a prodigious thing to expect that I kept the
idea a secret even from myself, just letting it lie where it sprouted,
in an unexplored corner of my busy brain. But it grew on me in spite
of myself, till finally I could not resist the temptation to study out
the exact place in the encyclopædia where my name would belong. I saw
that it would come not far from "Alcott, Louisa M."; and I covered my
face with my hands, to hide the silly, baseless joy in it. I practised
saying my name in the encyclopædic form, "Antin, Mary"; and I realized
that it sounded chopped off, and wondered if I might not annex a
middle initial. I wanted to ask my teacher about it, but I was afraid
I might betray my reasons. For, infatuated though I was with the idea
of the greatness I might live to attain, I knew very well that thus
far my claims to posthumous fame were ridiculously unfounded, and I
did not want to be laughed at for my vanity.
Spirit of all childhood! Forgive me, forgive me, for so lightly
betraying a child's dream-secrets. I that smile so scoffingly to-day
at the unsophisticated child that was myself, have I found any nobler
thing in life than my own longing to be noble? Would I not rather be
consumed by ambitions that can never be realized than live in stupid
acceptance of my neighbor's opinion of me? The statue in the public
square is less a portrait of a mortal individual than a symbol of the
immortal aspiration of humanity. So do not laugh at the little boy
playing at soldiers, if he tells you he is going to hew the world into
good behavior when he gets to be a man. And do, by all means, write my
name in the book of fame, saying, She was one who aspired. For that,
in condensed form, is the story of the lives of the great.
* * * * *
Summer days are long, and the evenings, we know, are as long as the
lamp-wick. So, with all my reading, I had time to play; and, with all
my studiousness, I had the will to play. My favorite playmates were
boys. It was but mild fun to play theatre in Bessie Finklestein's
back yard, even if I had leading parts, which I made impressive by
recitations in Russian, no word of which was intelligible to my
audience. It was far better sport to play hide-and-seek with the boys,
for I enjoyed the use of my limbs--what there was of them. I was so
often reproached and teased for being little, that it gave me great
satisfaction to beat a five-foot boy to the goal.
Once a great, hulky colored boy, who was the torment of the
neighborhood, treated me roughly while I was playing on the street. My
father, determined to teach the rascal a lesson for once, had him
arrested and brought to court. The boy was locked up overnight, and he
emerged from his brief imprisonment with a respect for the rights and
persons of his neighbors. But the moral of this incident lies not
herein. What interested me more than my revenge on a bully was what I
saw of the way in which justice was actually administered in the
United States. Here we were gathered in the little courtroom, bearded
Arlington Street against wool-headed Arlington Street; accused and
accuser, witnesses, sympathizers, sight-seers, and all. Nobody
cringed, nobody was bullied, nobody lied who didn't want to. We were
all free, and all treated equally, just as it said in the
Constitution! The evil-doer was actually punished, and not the victim,
as might very easily happen in a similar case in Russia. "Liberty and
justice for all." Three cheers for the Red, White, and Blue!
There was one occasion in the week when I was ever willing to put away
my book, no matter how entrancing were its pages. That was on Saturday
night, when Bessie Finklestein called for me; and Bessie and I, with
arms entwined, called for Sadie Rabinowitch; and Bessie and Sadie and
I, still further entwined, called for Annie Reilly; and Bessie, etc.,
etc., inextricably wound up, marched up Broadway, and took possession
of all we saw, heard, guessed, or desired, from end to end of that
main thoroughfare of Chelsea.
Parading all abreast, as many as we were, only breaking ranks to let
people pass; leaving the imprints of our noses and fingers on
plate-glass windows ablaze with electric lights and alluring with
display; inspecting tons of cheap candy, to find a few pennies' worth
of the most enduring kind, the same to be sucked and chewed by the
company, turn and turn about, as we continued our promenade; loitering
wherever a crowd gathered, or running for a block or so to cheer on
the fire-engine or police ambulance; getting into everybody's way, and
just keeping clear of serious mischief,--we were only girls,--we
enjoyed ourselves as only children can whose fathers keep a basement
grocery store, whose mothers do their own washing, and whose sisters
operate a machine for five dollars a week. Had we been boys, I suppose
Bessie and Sadie and the rest of us would have been a "gang," and
would have popped into the Chinese laundry to tease "Chinky Chinaman,"
and been chased by the "cops" from comfortable doorsteps, and had a
"bully" time of it. Being what we were, we called ourselves a "set,"
and we had a "lovely" time, as people who passed us on Broadway could
not fail to see. And hear. For we were at the giggling age, and
Broadway on Saturday night was full of giggles for us. We stayed out
till all hours, too; for Arlington Street had no strict domestic
programme, not even in the nursery, the inmates of which were as
likely to be found in the gutter as in their cots, at any time this
side of one o'clock in the morning.
There was an element in my enjoyment that was yielded neither by the
sights, the adventures, nor the chewing-candy. I had a keen feeling
for the sociability of the crowd. All plebeian Chelsea was abroad, and
a bourgeois population is nowhere unneighborly. Women shapeless with
bundles, their hats awry over thin, eager faces, gathered in knots on
the edge of the curb, boasting of their bargains. Little girls in
curlpapers and little boys in brimless hats clung to their skirts,
whining for pennies, only to be silenced by absent-minded cuffs. A few
disconsolate fathers strayed behind these family groups, the rest
being distributed between the barber shops and the corner lamp-posts.
I understood these people, being one of them, and I liked them, and I
found it all delightfully sociable.
Saturday night is the workman's wife's night, but that does not
entirely prevent my lady from going abroad, if only to leave an order
at the florist's. So it happened that Bellingham Hill and Washington
Avenue, the aristocratic sections of Chelsea, mingled with Arlington
Street on Broadway, to the further enhancement of my enjoyment of the
occasion. For I always loved a mixed crowd. I loved the contrasts, the
high lights and deep shadows, and the gradations that connect the two,
and make all life one. I saw many, many things that I was not aware of
seeing at the time. I only found out afterwards what treasures my
brain had stored up, when, coming to the puzzling places in life,
light and meaning would suddenly burst on me, the hidden fruit of some
experience that had not impressed me at the time.
How many times, I wonder, did I brush past my destiny on Broadway,
foolishly staring after it, instead of going home to pray? I wonder
did a stranger collide with me, and put me patiently out of his way,
wondering why such a mite was not at home and abed at ten o'clock in
the evening, and never dreaming that one day he might have to reckon
with me? Did some one smile down on my childish glee, I wonder,
unwarned of a day when we should weep together? I wonder--I wonder. A
million threads of life and love and sorrow was the common street; and
whether we would or not, we entangled ourselves in a common maze,
without paying the homage of a second glance to those who would some
day master us; too dull to pick that face from out the crowd which one
day would bend over us in love or pity or remorse. What company of
skipping, laughing little girls is to be reproached for careless
hours, when men and women on every side stepped heedlessly into the
traps of fate? Small sin it was to annoy my neighbor by getting in his
way, as I stared over my shoulder, if a grown man knew no better than
to drop a word in passing that might turn the course of another's
life, as a boulder rolled down from the mountain-side deflects the
current of a brook.