Itsye had for two days in succession had nothing in his mouth;
in other words, he had been hungering. But on the third day, for
three brass buttons he wheedled the lunch out of a little Hebrew
school pupil that studied in the school of his yard—two little
buttered cakes—and swallowed them eagerly. Then he became angry. The
cakes were a mere morsel to him, but now he had at least a little
strength with which to feel anger, and was seized with an impulse to
accomplish evil. His fingers itched with the desire. First of all he
launched a wicked kick in the direction of Zhutshke, the little dog
which the landlady of his house held dearer than her own children.
Zhutshke ran off yelping with pain, but this was not enough for
Itsye. He tore up a stone that had been frozen to the earth and with
all his strength sent it flying after the dog. It did not strike the
animal, however, but landed on the door of Simkin the lawyer’s house.
It struck with a resounding blow, and Itsye felt satisfied, for he
wouldn’t have cared had the stone struck Simkin or Simkin’s wife on
the head.
But with all this his hunger was not appeased in the slightest,
nor was his seething heart calmed in the smallest degree. He waxed
still angrier, for he felt that these were mere trifles, that he had
accomplished nothing with them. He walked through the gate, glanced
up and down the street, and felt that he was an enemy to every
passer-by, and especially to every one that rode. He cursed them with
bitter oaths and would gladly, with his own hands, have executed all
tortures upon them.
Another little pupil approached the gate; he was wrapped in a broad
scarf and wore the large shoes of a grown-up person. He held his
hands inside the scarf, and either because he was indifferent or
because it was too cold, he did not remove them to wipe his nose,
from which mucus leaked down to his mouth.
Out of his pocket peeped a crust of bread. Itsye was seized with a
longing for it, but the appearance of the poor child restrained him.
He sought, however, to convince himself that he was incensed against
the child, even as he was against the whole world, and that he ought
to give him a hard kick, as he had just done to Zhutshke. He seized
the child by the nose, then struck him on the cap and scowled, “Slob,
it’s running into your mouth!” The child was frightened, brought his
elbow up to his nose and ran off. But soon he turned back, looked at
his unexpected enemy and began to cry, “Wicked Itsye! Itsye the bad
man!” And he disappeared through the gate. Itsye did not even deign
to look at him.
He leaned against the gate. Why? He did not himself know. At any
rate, he was weary. Angry and exhausted. The two cakes had only
excited him. Food, food! He could see before his eyes the piece of
bread in the poor boy’s torn pocket. That would have come in very
handy. He was sorry that he hadn’t taken it away. A whole big piece
of bread——
He leaned more heavily against the gate, not knowing why and not
knowing what was to come or what would result from his standing
there. The cold grew intense, but Itsye did not feel it, for he
was angry and paid no attention to it. Besides, he had no place of
refuge. Up there in his garret it was still colder. Moreover, there
was nobody there, and he would have none upon whom to vent his wrath.
He stood thinking of nothing. It was impossible for him to think. He
no longer knew precisely that he was in a rage; it seemed to him that
to-day he would work a very clever piece of malice. He knew nothing
about dynamite; otherwise he would have thought unceasingly of bombs,
and would have painted himself pictures of the whole city, the whole
country, the world itself, being blown by him into atoms. But he gave
no thought to any definite project. He was certain that he would do
something malicious enough. He felt it.
Two labourers passed by and were conversing about hunting for work.
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 to-day, 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 “to-morrow,”—a dragging, cloudy day,
on which he would be faint with hunger. But he did not care to think
of to-morrow. Only “to-day.”... To-day he must accomplish something;
then he would know what would come to-morrow, 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
paid no attention to whither he went. He lost his bearings, unknown
to himself. He strode on, not knowing 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 walk, only he could not recall when he had thought of
it. It was good that he would now have 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 realised 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 stopped 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 looked 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 to 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, pulling 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 spring within him; 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 arise. 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 there 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 to-day 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-maker,” 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 neighbourhood. 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 snow-flakes. 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 a human being 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 thoughts 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 recognised 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 theatre. 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 hadn’t 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? What are you driving me for? 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
consider what to do.
“I see you! I see you over there!” he heard the watchman shout.
He proceeded further along the street, at 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 here because it was light, because inside sat wealthy,
sated persons enjoying themselves. He recalled that he had never
been to a theatre. He had never been able to spare the price. It
must be very pleasant inside of a theatre, seeing that people were
so enthusiastic about it. Such varieties of entertainment folks
devised for 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?...
They 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 individual.
“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 bit 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 jaw!”
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 grey 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 his blood rushed to his head. He sat up quickly. He
recognised the bars and now realised that he was in jail. They had
given him a good rubbing and had cast 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 the prisoners’ ward work. 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.
Now, however, he neither could nor desired to hold them back. He wept
until the tears refused to come. Then he was overcome by a fainting
sensation, and he thought that death was near. It would come to him
just as he lay there. He stretched himself out, closed his eyes and
waited for death. To lie thus, to fall asleep forever and cease to
be. To be liberated once for all from the desolate days behind him
and from all the misery ahead.
He yearned for death.
“Ah, to die!”
Before his sight there began to float dead bodies that he had seen
during his life. Such he desired now to become. Then he beheld
before him the hanging form of water-carrier Kirillo. All at once
he sat up. A certain thought had raised him: he, too, would hang
himself. This waiting for death would not do. He would not die so
soon, if he waited. He peered into the thick darkness and thought.
The impression of his whole life rose before him. Not a single day
of happiness; not a moment of rest. Years of unceasing care and of
constant struggle, of laborious toil and frequent hunger. And the
future threatened still worse. As black as the dense gloom about him.
Long years of incarceration, in the prisoners’ ranks, and then—hunger
once more.
He raised his eyes to the iron bars of the window and felt the thick
rope by which his trousers were held in place. Then he looked around
and cocked his ear. Was anybody there? He heard no sound. He could
scarcely lift himself up. His legs barely sustained him and he was so
dizzy. He reached out to the wall and leaned for a moment against it.
Then, with soft step, he investigated the room, groping about with
hands outstretched. Nobody was there. He had frightened some mice and
could hear the patter of their retreating paws. He stopped at the
window and stretched his arms upward. He could not reach the bars.
In one of the corners, however, there was a bench, against which he
had stumbled as he groped about the cell. With difficulty he dragged
it over to the window. The effort so weakened him that he was forced
to sit down. Slowly he untied the rope around his trousers. He began
to fashion a noose, lapsing into thought as he did so. Once more he
looked back upon the wretched past and forward into the dark future.
Again he could see not a ray of light neither behind nor before. With
teeth tightly clamped he made the knot and cursed life, and his heart
seethed with bitter hatred for all humankind. With the self-same
noose that he was now making, how gladly would he have encircled the
necks of every human being and strangled the whole world. So, and so,
and so!
The noose had been ready for a long time, yet he still sat
meditating. He cursed and berated humanity, calling down upon it all
manner of misfortune. Ah, how gladly he would revenge himself upon
them!
Gradually one thing became clear to him. His death in itself would be
a good vengeance. When day should come, and they would prepare to
resume their ill-treatment of him, they would find him dead. Ba-a-a!
A plague upon all of them! Good-bye, Itsye! No more Itsye! No more
Itsye to oppress, to persecute, to abandon to starvation! They would
stand before his corpse like whipped curs, crestfallen, and would
vent their intense disappointment in a vile oath. Ah, that was a
precious thought!
He sprang hastily to his feet, jumped upon the chair, reached to the
bars and tied the rope around them. His hands trembled; he shook with
fever. He poked his head into the noose and kicked over the bench.
And as the rope tightened he was seized with a desire to laugh. To
laugh like a conqueror, like a master. But his eyes began to bulge
out, his tongue protruded, and his face turned a pale blue.
But the protruding tongue still mocked.
“Ba-a! Good-bye, Itsye! No more Itsye!...”