carpenter at once brought him back. He speedily demonstrated his ability
in his trade and was retained, his employer impressing upon him that it
was the intercession of the little girl which had given him his
opportunity. Isaac bowed low before the child with reverential gratitude
and imprinted upon her tiny hand a grateful kiss. Thus began their
friendship, and it became very warm and sincere indeed. Alice took
naturally to the broadshouldered, pleasant-faced young foreigner; and
Isaac, who was not only deeply grateful to the child for having steered
the almost shipwrecked vessel of his life into the safe harbor of
employment and bread, but was also thoroughly social and companionable
by disposition, did all in his power to amuse and entertain his young
benefactor. They were not allowed to meet during work hours, for Father
Jones, though a loving and indulgent parent, was a strict and
uncompromising task-master, and would tolerate no unbusiness-like
interruptions during the time allotted to work; but during the noonday
intermission for meals, when Alice would seek Isaac in whatever part of
the town he happened to be employed after the close of work in the late
afternoon, when Isaac returned to his master’s house where was his home,
they were sure to be together, and would romp and “carry on” to their
heart’s content. Nothing pleased them better than a “horsey-back” ride,
when Isaac would act as the fiery though remarkably docile steed, and
Alice rode her mount in greater security than the most practised
equestrienne. Isaac would trot and gallop, and pace and paw, and prance
and snort, and whinny and neigh, like the very war-horse of Job, all the
time holding his little rider in a firm and loving grasp; while Alice,
with streaming locks and flashing eyes, would cry “Gee-up!” and “Whoa!”
and pull his hair for reins and belabor his shoulders with her tiny
fists, according to the most approved rules of the equestrian art. There
were plenty of other forms of amusement as well. Sometimes they would
play “blind-man’s buff,” when Isaac would begin the game by permitting
himself to be tightly bandaged across the eyes, and would then grope
around the room in an endeavor to catch Alice. But somehow or other he
was always very clumsy in this game; and Alice never had the least
trouble to avoid his aimless reachings out, and would enjoy herself
highly, slipping in and out right in front of his very face and touching
him on all sides. And when finally his hand would land on Alice,
apparently by accident, and capture her, and it would be her turn to
submit to be bandaged and to try to capture him, he seemed even clumsier
in his movements. He never seemed to know how to evade the “blind man,”
but was continually getting in the way; and in two or three minutes at
the utmost, Alice’s tiny hands would seize him in their firm grasp, and
her shrill cry of triumph would proclaim that he was a prisoner. He also
taught Alice some queer Russian games, which were a source of
never-failing amazement and amusement (about equally divided) to all the
boys and girls in the neighborhood. Then sometimes on a holiday, or when
work happened to be slack, they would go out together berrying, and
would come home with big canfuls of blackberries, or blueberries, or
huckleberries, or raspberries, or some of the other sorts of berries
which grew at the roadsides or in the fields, Alice looking very happy,
and Isaac rather tired and scratched about the hands; for it was an open
secret that while Alice had most of the fun, Isaac had most of the
trouble, and worked his very hardest to fill the can with the ripest and
finest berries that could be found, so that the expedition should be
properly fruitful of results. In these and a hundred other ways Isaac
endeavored to please his employer’s little daughter, and his efforts
were highly successful, so successful, indeed, that the child grew to
look upon him with warm affection, and was never so happy as when in his
company.
Nor was Alice the only one who regarded Isaac with affection. Her
parents were almost equally warm in their sentiments. Thomas Jones
thought much of him because he was a thorough master of his trade,
tremendously strong, and absolutely faithful and reliable. Any task
assigned to him, however arduous, was always performed with scrupulous
exactness and conscientiousness, and no complaint or objection ever
escaped his lips. Mrs. Jones liked him because he was sober, polite, and
cleanly in his habits, and because he took such pains to please and
amuse her little daughter. To be sure, there were some points about him
which they did not exactly like, but his many good qualities
counterbalanced these defects. One of these points was that he would not
labor on the Sabbath or Jewish holidays. This difficulty had arisen the
very first week of his employment, but the superior character of his
work had induced Mr. Jones then to retain him, and afterward he had
grown accustomed to dispensing with the services of Isaac on Saturdays
or on any other day when he declared the rules of his religion required
abstention from labor. Another matter which seemed very peculiar to both
Mr. and Mrs. Jones was that, although Isaac boarded with them, he never
ate flesh in any form and refused to partake of many other dishes which
appeared on their table. But, as the Joneses were kind-hearted and
tolerant people, and had besides a genuine liking for Isaac, they
overlooked these matters, and, if they reflected on them at all, merely
thought them the natural result of his religious views.
Many were the arguments which the Joneses had with some of their
neighbors on account of Isaac and the peculiar position which he
occupied in their household. Bigotry and narrow-mindedness are not
unknown even in free America, where, theoretically, a man’s race and
religion should have no influence, favorable or unfavorable, upon the
opinion which is held concerning him, and where, if anywhere, the
principle enunciated by the rabbis in the Talmud should prevail—“Thy
deeds shall recommend thee, thy deeds shall condemn thee.” Some of the
good Christian people of Atbury, who thought, like Sancho Panza, that
the most essential characteristic of a Christian was a sound hatred of
the Jews, could not conceal their amazement, nay, their righteous
indignation, that a Jew should be a favored member of a Christian
household, and, worse yet, the trusted friend and companion of a little
Christian maiden.
“How can you permit an unbeliever to dwell in your home?” they would
say, with much show of holy horror. “Aren’t you afraid that in course of
time he may seduce you or your little daughter, with specious reasoning,
away from the true faith, and lead you into the error of Judaism?” But
the Joneses would only laugh at these pious apprehensions and answer
that Isaac never spoke to them on religious subjects; that, while he was
undoubtedly sincerely religious in his own way, he never obtruded his
views on others; and that, in fact, it would not have been a bad thing
if some people whom they knew would have imitated him in this
particular.
The neighbors would then try another tack, in which they hoped to be
more successful. “How can you trust Alice to such a person?” they would
ask, with the solemn air of those who warn friends against impending
dangers which they are rashly incurring. “Aren’t you afraid that he may
do her some harm? You never can tell what such a Jew might do. Why, in
some parts of Europe they even accuse them of slaying Christian children
in order to use their blood for the Passover. It isn’t safe to leave
Alice in his charge.”
But when they came with this argument they received a fitting response,
which was not lacking either in clearness or emphasis. The Joneses,
particularly Mrs. Jones, told them that they might be at better business
than calumniating one of whom they knew no evil; that Isaac was the
kindest, best-hearted, most devoted fellow in the world; that he was
deeply grateful to Alice because she had been the means of saving him
from starvation, and, as for her being in any danger at his hands, why
they, the Joneses, were convinced that he would at any time be ready to
give his life rather than see a hair of her head harmed.
Sooner than any one anticipated the opportunity came which demonstrated
that Isaac was indeed ready to lay down his life to save his little
friend from harm. A few days after an unusually warm debate of the kind
outlined above between Thomas Jones and an especially zealous neighbor,
who had warned Isaac’s employer that all kinds of dreadful things would
certainly happen if this unholy friendship were permitted to continue,
Jones summoned Isaac to him. “Come here, you Jew!” he said half
jocularly, half angrily, for the remembrance of the uncharitable words
of his officious neighbor was still strong in him. “I want to show you
what I think of you.” Isaac at once advanced and waited with deferential
air for the further words of his employer. “I’ve got a job in the
outskirts of the town,” continued Jones, gazing with satisfaction at the
brawny figure and submissive attitude of his most reliable workman,
“and, as I can’t spare any men from the other work, I’m going to put the
whole thing in your hands. There’s a little cottage on the Prentice
place that’s got to be jacked up to make room for the masons to build a
new foundation, and then all the board work and carpentering generally
must be renovated and fixed up. I’ve sent up all the necessary wood
already, so you can go right up and attend to the whole job alone. When
you get there you can see for yourself what is to be done, and if you
don’t understand anything, why, just ask old man Prentice, and he’ll
tell you what to do.”
Isaac picked up his box of tools and was about to depart when little
Alice, who had been listening to the words of her father, skipped up
and, laying her hand on Isaac’s arm, asked eagerly: “Won’t you take me
along, Isaac? I want to be with you when you’re doing the work.”
“Ask your papa, Alice,” said Isaac, smiling pleasantly at his little
friend. “If he will let you go, then I’ll be glad to take you.”
Alice did not need to ask her father, for the latter, without giving her
the opportunity to speak, at once gave her the desired permission. “Yes,
indeed, you can go with Isaac,” he said, with rather more emphasis than
was apparently necessary. “I’ll just show those numbskull bigot
neighbors of mine what I think of their fanatical suspicions and
insinuations. Just trot along, little one, and I wish you lots of
pleasure seeing Isaac at work.”
Thus duly authorized and permitted, Isaac and Alice went off together to
the scene of his solitary task, which they reached in about half an
hour. The Prentice place was a little farm of two or three acres, in the
centre of which stood the cottage. It was not a very large structure,
but Isaac’s practised eye at once perceived that his employer had set
him a task sufficient to try the strength of three men. Old man Prentice
was of the same opinion, and very emphatically expressed his
dissatisfaction that Jones had sent only one man to do the work of
three. Nothing daunted, however, Isaac at once set about the performance
of his task. The first thing to do was to lift the structure, which was
done by means of appliances called jacks. Isaac inserted one of the
jacks under each of the four corners of the house and screwed it up
until that part of the building was elevated to the desired height. In
the mean while Alice stood near her favorite and watched him at his
arduous task, chatting and prattling all the while with the careless
innocence of childhood; and Isaac, though engrossed in his labor, did
not fail to answer her childish queries, and kept his little friend
interested and amused. All went well until Isaac came to the fourth and
last corner and proceeded to jack it up as he had done the others. Here,
by some miscalculation, he raised the corner a foot or so more than was
necessary. At once the frame structure began to careen. Isaac instantly
perceived that the building would certainly topple to the ground, and a
pang of agony shot through his heart as he thought of the loss which his
mistake, unaccountable even to himself, would cause. His next thought
was to save himself from harm; but, as he turned to flee from under the
falling structure, what horrible sight met his eyes! Little Alice,
petrified apparently by fright, was standing motionless under the
tottering building. A sickening picture flashed up instantly before his
mental retina of her little body lying crushed and bleeding under the
ruins of the building, its life crushed out by the overwhelming weight.
How could he save her? She was too far away for him to seize her and
flee with her to safety, neither would it avail aught to shout to her to
flee. Before she could have recovered control of her faculties and
impelled her limbs to motion, the blow would have fallen and all would
be over. There was but one way to save Alice, and, though Isaac knew it
meant almost certain death for himself, he instantly determined to do
it. Placing his powerful shoulders under the tilting woodwork, he
shouted in a great and terrible voice to Alice to run—run for her life.
For a minute or so he stood, like fabled Atlas upholding the world,
supporting with his tremendous strength the falling structure, while his
muscles stood out like whipcords and the sweat of agony poured all over
his body. In that minute Alice recovered herself and toddled out of
harm’s way. A second later the heavy framework crushed out the man’s
strength and bore him to the ground with a sickening thud, while the
harsh crackling of the beams and boards as they were torn from their
fastenings mingled with his awful shriek. He did not need to lie there
long. Poor little Alice, with an intelligence beyond her years, ran to
seek help from the neighbors; but her frenzied efforts were not
necessary. The frightful crash of the falling building and the fierce,
agonized shriek of the stricken victim had aroused all the neighborhood,
and from all sides assistance speedily came. The united efforts of old
man Prentice and a number of laborers who hastened from a neighboring
field speedily succeeded in removing the mass of beams and boards and
odds and ends of woodwork from the body of Isaac, and tenderly they laid
him upon a temporary couch formed of their coats. He was crushed and
maimed and bloody, every limb broken, and his features disfigured almost
beyond recognition, but he was conscious and a happy smile played upon
his face when he saw that Alice had escaped all injury and was safe and
sound.
“Come to me, little darling,” he said, in barely audible tones, gazing
wistfully at the child-friend for whom he had given his life; “come and
bid me good-bye, for I feel that I must go. I do not complain because
God is calling me away, but I am glad your young life is spared to be a
joy to yourself and your dear parents for many years to come.” And his
young friend, with strangely grave and solemn face, went to her dying
protector and clasped his hand and kissed his blood-stained and
distorted features, and called him her own dear Isaac, and begged him
not to die, while the strong men who stood around bowed their heads in
reverent sorrow and silently wept. Then they bore him home, and Alice’s
parents, when they heard the story of what he had done, knew not of
which feeling their hearts were fuller—of gratitude that their darling
daughter was safe or of admiration for the pure and self-sacrificing
friendship which Isaac had so heroically displayed and sorrow for his
untimely end. He had relapsed into semi-consciousness and lay for
several hours without speaking on his couch. Then he stirred uneasily
and feebly beckoned to his employer, indicating that he desired to
communicate something to him. Thomas Jones, who had not left the room
since first Isaac had been brought home, at once went to the bedside,
and putting his ear to the mouth of the dying man, heard him say in a
feeble voice: “Dear master, promise me one favor. I die a Jew. Have me
laid away among my people.”
And Thomas Jones answered: “Isaac, I promise.”
A look of infinite content and gratitude lit up Isaac’s face. Then,
rising slightly on his side, he recited in Hebrew, in a clear though
feeble voice, the words of the Jewish ritual for the dying: “Hear, O
Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one. Blessed be the glorious name
of Thy kingdom for ever and ever. Into Thy hands I deliver my spirit.
Thou hast redeemed me, O Lord, God of truth.” And so he passed away.
Every year, on the anniversary of Isaac’s death, Alice, now a maiden
ripening into womanhood, visits Isaac’s grave in the Jewish cemetery in
Boston in which he rests; and if sincere tears and true sorrow are
acceptable in the sight of God, then is her offering indeed acceptable
and holy.
THE SCISSORS-GRINDER
“Scissors to grind! Knives, axes, or saws to sharpen! Everything made as
sharp as new!” This is the cry, uttered in a clear and cheerful voice,
which is frequently heard in the alleys and back yards as well as the
streets and avenues of that vast and densely populated section of the
American metropolis known as the great East Side. The man who utters it
is an unusually agreeable, as well as active and energetic,
representative of the classic trade of scissors-grinding. He is a
pleasant-faced, good-humored young fellow, with light-brown hair and
rounded, open countenance, from which a pair of bright blue eyes gaze at
you with a frank and sympathetic expression. His shabby clothes hang
most gracefully on his lithe and erect, not over tall figure; his
motions have a sort of trained elegance about them, and when he stands
before you with his grinding machine on his back, he seems not so much
an humble sharpener of domestic utensils, but rather some strange sort
of soldier, and the machine upon his back some peculiar and unusual
engine of warfare. He is very well liked in the entire district, and his
popularity brings in sufficient trade to insure him a very fair living.
When his clear and musical cry is heard anywhere in the neighborhood,
the customers pour forth from the many-storied tenements, the cellar
dwellings (I had almost written cave dwellings, which term would hardly
have rendered me liable to a suit for libel if I had used it), and the
little shops and stalls which abound everywhere in the vicinity. Soon he
is surrounded by a motley throng—Jews, Italians, Poles, Bohemians, men,
women, and children, all sorts and conditions of mankind—who bring him a
miscellaneous collection of invalid table knives, dilapidated carving
knives, superannuated scissors, and antediluvian saws, all of which he
is expected to heal and to restore to their pristine brightness and
sharpness.
[Illustration:
THE SCISSORS GRINDER
_Page 186_]
But, though our friend is well known and popular in the district, he is
nevertheless unknown. By this paradoxical statement is meant that,
although the scissors-grinder is personally a familiar and well-esteemed
figure, nothing is known by the vast bulk of his constituents and
customers of his connections, his history, or his antecedents. This is
nothing strange or unusual in that section. People are not, as a rule,
curious concerning each other on the East Side. The inhabitants are
mostly not native to the soil, but are a chance aggregation from all the
countries of the civilized world, driven from their native habitats by
the storm and stress of harsh experiences and brought together in the
New World by the glittering attractions of the Golden Land. It is not
always advisable under such circumstances to be over-inquisitive
concerning the past history of one’s neighbors and friends, and
therefore the dwellers on the East Side are discreetly devoid of
curiosity, and are quite content if the people with whom they associate
are, in their present stage of life, decent and well behaved. That is
why no one knows (or knew until recently) anything about the
scissors-grinder—his history, his family, or even his name. Nevertheless
his story came out some time ago, and it proved to be, what no one would
have anticipated from the scissors-grinder’s blithe and pleasant
appearance, a real moral tragedy, a tale of blind, mediæval oppression,
of high ambition suddenly blasted, of strange and sublime heroism. It
came out through Mendel Greenberger.
Mendel, who keeps a little optician shop in Orchard Street near Grand,
is considerable of a character himself, and, unlike the majority of the
denizens of the region, is gifted with a lively curiosity concerning the
persons with whom he comes in contact. Mendel has travelled pretty much
all over the world, and has acquired in the course of his wanderings the
knowledge of a dozen or more languages and of at least three trades. But
what he most prides himself on is his _menschenkenntniss_, that is, his
ability to recognize at a glance the origin of strangers whom he sees
for the first time, and to classify them according to the racial,
religious, and social elements or subdivisions thereof to which they
belong. This he infers from the appearance, conduct, and speech of the
individuals concerned, and, in particularly interesting cases, he
manages to have them reveal their names and other personal details of
interest, but without asking direct questions, which he thinks
impertinent.
When the scissors-grinder began to come into the neighborhood and Mendel
began to give him employment in his vocation, he at once recognized that
here was an interesting and extremely puzzling personality. It was a
real problem of the kind Mendel Greenberger loved to solve, but it
defied his powers of analysis and classification. For the life of him he
could not make out who or what the handsome, pleasant-spoken young man,
with the lowly trade apparently so unsuited for him, was. His type was
absolutely non-distinctive. As far as appearance went there was no
telling whether he was Jew or Gentile, and no reason to assign him to
any one European nation rather than another. His conduct and manner were
just as little guide, for, though polite and manifestly well-bred, he
had no mannerisms of any kind. Baffled by his inability to “locate” his
new acquaintance by these usually infallible indications, Mendel
resorted to the expedient of addressing him in various languages. But
here Mendel “tripped up,” so to speak, even more emphatically than
before. The scissors-grinder spoke, with one exception, every European
language which Mendel did, but with superior accent and correcter
grammar. His English was that of one to the manner born, though devoid
of either Cockney accent or Yankee twang; his French would have done
credit to any _boulevardier_; his German was as faultlessly exact in
construction and pronunciation as that of any compatriot of Goethe or
Schiller; and as for Italian, Spanish, Russian, Polish, and Hungarian,
to say nothing of the minor tongues, Bohemian, Roumanian, Servian,
Greek, Turkish, he spoke them all with perfect ease and fluency. It
mattered not in what tongue the puzzled Mendel addressed him, the
scissors-grinder always answered in the same, but without betraying any
surprise and as though it were the natural and to-be-expected thing to
speak any and every idiom in existence. But, as already stated, there
was one exception to the polyglot ability of the scissors-grinder. He
did not know Yiddish, for when Mendel addressed him in that tongue, he
did not understand him well and answered in German, the tongue most
nearly related to the dialect of the Jews of the Slavonic lands, and
without using any Hebrew words or phrases with which even the German
Jews habitually interlard their speech. Mendel had to confess to himself
that the scissors-grinder was an enigma, which even he, with his great
knowledge of human beings, could not solve. Of two things, however, he
felt certain: first, that the scissors-grinder was originally of far
higher social station than his humble vocation would suggest, for his
manners and bearing, and, above all, his extraordinary linguistic
attainments, were only explainable on the ground of refined surroundings
and the best of education; secondly, that he was no Jew, for his
ignorance of Yiddish and Hebrew and his manifest unfamiliarity with
Jewish ideas and usages showed conclusively that he had had no Jewish
bringing up nor had ever associated intimately with Jewish circles.
Mendel at first conjectured that the scissors-grinder was a nobleman of
some European nation, who had been compelled to leave his native land
for a political or other reason, and was obliged to support himself by
his own labor in exile. Noblemen in exile do not, however, usually
select a vocation requiring as much skill and industry and withal so low
in the social scale as scissors-grinding, so on second thought Mendel
abandoned this conjecture as untenable, and, not being able to set up
any more satisfactory one, found himself, as far as this question was
concerned, _vis à vis de rien_. Not feeling able to remain in this
condition, he cast about for other means of solving the problem and
gratifying his curiosity. He determined to ask the scissors-grinder’s
name. Names, it is true, may be assumed, but Mendel thought that even an
assumed name would be some sort of clew to its bearer’s identity, for it
would, at least, indicate to what nation or class the bearer considered
himself and desired to have others consider him as belonging.
Accordingly when next the scissors-grinder appeared in the neighborhood
of Mendel’s shop and was bringing back finely renovated the penknife
which Mendel had given him to sharpen, the latter remarked: “Fine
weather we are having to-day, Mr. ——!” and paused with expectant air.
“My name,” said the scissors-grinder quietly, “is Eliezer Schwartzfeld.”
Mendel gazed at him in undisguised astonishment. “That sounds extremely
Jewish,” he said. “You are not one of the chosen people, are you?”
“Yes, I am a Jew,” answered the scissors-grinder, with just a suggestion
of a smile at Mendel’s evident surprise; “a Russian Jew at that, too.”