_A Five-Hundred-Dollar Prize for the Best Love-Story of a Working-Girl_
As she read the magical words, the colour rushed to her cheeks.
Forgotten was the humiliation of the superintendent’s refusal to take
her in, forgotten were the cold, the hunger. Her whole being leaped at
the words:
“Write your own love-story, but if you have never lived love, let it
be your dream of love.”
“Your dream of love.” The words were as wine in her blood. Was there
ever a girl who hungered and dreamed of love as she? It was as though
in the depths of her poverty and want the fates had challenged her to
give substance to her dreams. She stumbled out of the huge building,
her feet in the snow, her mind in the clouds.
“God from the world! the gas is burning again!” cried Hanneh Breineh as
she groped her way back into her cellar-room. “The children are dancing
over the fire like for a holiday. All day they had nothing to warm in
their bellies, and the coffee tastes like wine from heaven.”
“Wine from heaven!” repeated the girl. “What wine but love from
heaven?” and she clutched the magazine more tightly to her shrunken
chest.
In the flicker of the gas-jet the photograph on the wall greeted her
like a living thing. With the feel of the steady gaze upon her, she
re-read the message that was to her an invitation and a challenge;
and as she read, the dingy little room became alive with light. The
understanding eyes seemed to pour vision into her soul. What was the
purpose of all the harsh experiences that had been hers till now but
to make her see just this, that love, and love only, was the one vital
force of life? What was the purpose of all the privation and want she
had endured but to make her see more poignantly this ethereal essence
of love? The walls of her little room dissolved. The longing for love
that lay dumb within her all her years took shape in human form.
More real than life, closer than the beat within her heart, was this
radiant, all-consuming vision that possessed her.
She groped for pencil and paper and wrote, unaware that she was
writing. It was as though a hand stronger than her own was laid upon
hers. Her power seemed to come from some vast, fathomless source.
The starved passions of all the starved ages poured through her in
rhythmic torrent of words--words that flashed and leaped with the
resistless fire of youth burning through generations of suppression.
Not until daylight filtered through the grating of her window did the
writing cease, nor was she aware of any fatigue. An ethereal lightness,
a sense of having escaped from the trammels of her body, lifted her as
on wings. Her radiant face met the responsive glow of understanding
that shone down on her from the wall. “It’s your light shining through
me,” she exulted. “It’s your kind eyes looking into mine that made my
dumbness speak.”
For the moment the contest was forgotten. She was seized by an
irresistible impulse to take her outpourings to the man who had
inspired her. “Let him only see what music he made of me.” Gathering
tightly to her heart the scribbled sheets of paper, she hurried to the
university.
A whole hour she waited at his office door. As she saw him coming, she
could wait no longer, but ran towards him.
“Read it only,” she said, thrusting the manuscript at the bewildered
man. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
“What exotic creature was this, with her scattered pages of scrawling
script and eager eyes?” President Irvine wondered. He concluded she was
one of the immigrant group before which he had lectured.
§ 4
She returned, to find the manuscript still in his hand.
“Tell me,” he asked with an enthusiasm new to him, “where did you get
all this?”
“From the hunger in me. I was born to beat out the meaning of things
out of my own heart.”
Puzzled, he studied her. She was thin, gaunt, with a wasting power of
frustrated passion in young flesh. There was the shadow of blank nights
staring out of her eyes. Here was a personality, he thought, who might
reveal to him those intangible qualities of the immigrant--qualities he
could not grasp, which baffled, fascinated him.
He questioned her, and she poured out her story to him with eager
abandon.
“I couldn’t be an actress or a singer, because you got to be young and
pretty for that; but for a writer nobody cares who or what you are so
long as the thoughts you give out are beautiful.”
He laughed, and it was an appreciative, genial laugh.
“You ain’t at all like a professor, cold and hard like ice. You are a
person so real,” she naïvely said, interrupting the tale of her early
struggles, her ambitions, and the repulse that had been hers in this
very university of his. And then in sudden apprehension she cried out:
“Maybe the dean and the English professor were right. Maybe only those
with a long education get a hearing in America. If you would only fix
this up for me--change the immigrant English.”
“Fix it up?” he protested. “There are things in life bigger than rules
of grammar. The thing that makes art live and stand out throughout the
ages is sincerity. Unfortunately, education robs many of us of the
power to give spontaneously, as mother earth gives, as the child gives.
“You have poured out not a part, but the whole of yourself. That’s why
it can’t be measured by any of the prescribed standards. It’s uniquely
you.”
Her face lighted with joy at his understanding.
“I never knew why I hated to be Americanized. I was always burning to
dig out the thoughts from my own mind.”
“Yes, your power lies in that you are yourself. Your message is that of
your people, and it is all the stronger because you are not a so-called
assimilated immigrant.”
_Ach!_ just to hear him talk! It was like the realization of a power in
life itself to hold her up and carry her to the heights.
“Will you leave this manuscript here, so I can have my secretary type
it for you?” he asked as he took her to the door. “I can have it done
easily. And I shall write you when I’ll have time for another long talk
about your work.”
Only after she had left did she fully realize the wonder of this man’s
kindness.
“That’s America,” she whispered. “Where but in America could something
so beautiful happen? A crazy, choked-in thing like me and him such
a gentleman talking together about art and life like born equals. I
poverty, and he plenty; I ignorance, and he knowledge; I from the
bottom, and he from the top, and yet he making me feel like we were
from always friends.”
A few days later the promised note came. How quick he was with his
help, as if she were his only concern! Bare-headed, uncoated, she ran
to him, this prince of kindness, repeating over and over again the
words of the letter.
Her spirit crashed to the ground when she learned that he had been
suddenly called to a conference at Washington. “He would return in a
fortnight,” said the model-mannered secretary who answered her feverish
questions.
Wait a fortnight? She couldn’t. Why, the contest would be over by
that time. Then it struck her, the next best thing--the professor of
English. With a typewritten manuscript in her hand, he must listen to
her. And just to be admitted to his short-story class for one criticism
was all she would ask.
But small a favour as it seemed to her, it was greater than the
professor was in a position to grant.
“To concede to your request would establish a precedent that would be
at variance with the university regulations,” he vouchsafed.
“University regulations, precedents? What are you talking?” And
clutching at his sleeve, hysterically, she pleaded: “Just this once,
my life hangs on getting this story perfect, and you can save me by
this one criticism.”
Her burning desire knew no barrier, recognized no higher authority.
And the professor, contrary to his reason, contrary to his experienced
judgment, yielded without knowing why to the preposterous demands of
this immigrant girl.
In the end of the last row of the lecture-hall Sophie waited
breathlessly for the professor to get to her story. After a lifetime of
waiting it came. As from a great distance she heard him announce the
title.
“This was not written by a member of the class,” he went on, “but
is the attempt of a very ambitious young person. Its lack of form
demonstrates the importance of the fundamentals of technique in which
we have drilled.”
His reading aloud of the manuscript was followed by a chorus of
criticism--criticism that echoed the professor’s own sentiments:
“It’s not a story; it has no plot”; “feeling without form”; “erotic,
over-emotional.”
She could hardly wait for the hour to be over to get back this living
thing of hers that they were killing. When she left the class all the
air seemed to have gone out of her lungs. She dragged her leaden feet
back to her room and sank on her cot a heap of despair.
All at once she jumped up.
“What do they know, they, with only their book-learning?” If the
president had understood her story, there might be others who would
understand. She must have faith enough in herself to send it forth for
a judgment of a world free from rules of grammar. In a fury of defiance
she mailed the story.
§ 5
Weeks of tortuous waiting for news of the contest followed--weeks when
she dogged the postman’s footsteps and paced the lonely streets in
restless suspense. How could she ever have hoped to win the prize? Why
was she so starving for the golden hills on the sky? If only for one
day she could stop wasting her heart for the impossible!
Exhausted, spent, she lay on her cot when Hanneh Breineh, more than
usually disturbed by the girl’s driven look, opened the door softly.
“Here you got it, a letter. I hope it’s such good luck in it as the
paper is fine.”
“What’s the matter?” cried Hanneh Breineh in alarm at the girl’s
sudden pallor as the empty envelope fluttered from limp fingers.
For answer Sophie held up the cheque.
“Five hundred dollars,” she cried, “and the winner of the first prize!”
Hanneh Breineh felt the cheque. She read it. It was actually true. Five
hundred dollars! In a flurry of excitement she called the neighbours
in the hall-ways, and then hurried to the butcher, pushing through the
babbling women who crowded around the counter. “People listen only! My
_roomerkeh_ got a five-hundred-dollar prize!”
“Five hundred dollars?” The words leaped from lips to lips like fire
in the air. “_Ach!_ only the little bit of luck! Did she win it on the
lotteree?”
“Not from the lottery. Just wrote something from her head. And you
ought to see her, only a dried-up bone of a girl, and yet so smart.”
In a few moments Sophie was mobbed in her cellar by the gesticulating
crowd of women who hurried in to gaze upon the miracle of good luck.
With breathless awe hands felt her, and, reverently, the cheque. Yes,
even mouths watered with an envy that was almost worship. They fell on
her neck and kissed her.
“May we all live to have such luck to get rich quick!” they chorused.
The following day Sophie’s picture was in the Jewish evening paper. The
Ghetto was drunk with pride because one of their number, and “only a
dried-up bone of a girl,” had written a story good enough to be printed
in a magazine of America. Their dreams of romance had found expression
in the overwhelming success of this greenhorn cook.
In one day Sophie was elevated to a position of social importance by
her achievement. When she walked in the street, people pointed at her
with their fingers. She was deluged with requests “to give a taste” of
the neighbours’ cooking.
When she went to the baker for her usual stale bread, the man picked
out the finest loaf.
“Fresh bread for you in honour of your good luck. And here’s yet an
apple _strudel_ for good measure.” Nor would he take the money she
offered. “Only eat it with good health. I’m paid enough with the honour
that somebody with such luck steps into my store.”
“Of course,” explained Hanneh Breineh. “People will give you the last
bite from their mouth when you’re lucky, because you don’t need their
favours. But if you’re poor, they’re afraid to be good to you, so you
should not hang on their necks for help.”
But the greatest surprise that awaited Sophie was the letter from the
professor congratulating her upon her success.
“The students have unanimously voted you to be their guest of honour
at luncheon on Saturday,” it read. “May we hope for the honour of your
company on that occasion?”
The sky is falling to the earth--she a guest of honour of a well-fed,
well-dressed world! She to break bread with those high up in rules of
grammar! Sophie laughed aloud for the first time in months. Lunch at
the hotel! A vision of snowy tablecloths, silver forks, delicate china,
and sparkling glasses dazzled her. Yes, she would go, and go as she
was. The clothes that had been good enough to starve and struggle in
must be good enough to be feasted and congratulated in.
She was surprised at the sense of cold detachment with which she
entered the hotel lobby.
“Maybe it’s my excuse to myself for going that makes me feel that I’m
so above it,” she told herself. The grandeur, the lights, the lustre,
and glamour of the magnificent hotel--she took it all in, her nose in
the air.
At the entrance of the banquet-hall stood the professor, smiling,
smiling. And all these people in silks and furs and broadcloth wanted
to shake hands with her. Again, without knowing why, she longed to
laugh aloud.
Not until Professor ----, smiling more graciously than ever, reached
the close of his speech, not until he referred to her for the third
time as having reached “the stars through difficulties,” did she
realize that she who had looked on, she who had listened, she who had
wanted so to laugh, was a person quite different from the uncouth girl
with the shabby sweater and broken shoes whom the higher-ups were
toasting and flattering.
“I’ve never made a talk yet in my life,” she said in answer to the
calls for “Speech! speech!” “But these are grand words from the
professor, ‘to the stars through difficulties.’” She looked around on
these stars of the college world whom, after all her struggles, she had
reached. “Yes, ‘to the stars through difficulties.’” She nodded with a
queer little smile, and sat down amidst a shower of applause.
§ 6
In a daze Sophie left the heated banquet-hall. She walked blindly,
struggling to get hold of herself, struggling in vain. Every reality,
every human stay, seemed to slip from her. A stifled sense of emptiness
weighed her down like a dead weight.
“What’s the matter with me?” she cried. “Why do the higher-ups crush me
so with nothing? Why is their smiling politeness only a hidden hurt in
my heart?”
The flattering voices, the puppet-like smiles, the congratulations that
sounded like mockery, were now so distant, so unreal as was the girl
with her nose in the air. What cared these people wrapped in furs that
the winter wind pierced through her shabby sweater? What cared they if
her heart died in her from loneliness?
An aching need for human fellowship pressed upon her, a need for
someone who cared for her regardless of failure or success. In a sudden
dimming of vision she saw the only real look of sympathy that had ever
warmed her soul. Of them all, this man with the understanding eyes had
known that what she wanted to say was worth saying before it got into
print. If she could only see him--him himself!
If she could only pass the building where he was she would feel calm
and serene again! All her bitterness and resentment would dissolve, all
her doubts turn to faith. Who knows? Perhaps he had come back already.
Her feet seemed winged as they flew without her will, almost without
her consciousness, towards the place where she thought he might be.
As she ran up the steps she knew he was there without being told. Even
as she sent her name in, the door opened, and he stood there, the
living light of the late afternoon glow.
He wasn’t a bit startled by her sudden appearance. He merely greeted
her, and led her in silence to his inner study. But there was a quality
about the silence that made her feel at ease, as though he had been
expecting her.
“I have things to say to you,” she faltered. “Do you have time?”
For answer he pushed closer to the blazing logs an easy chair, and
motioned her into it.
There no longer seemed any need to say what she had planned. His mere
presence filled her with a healing peace.
“And it was so black for my eyes only a while before!” She spoke aloud
her thought and paused, embarrassed.
“Black for your eyes?” he repeated, leaning towards her with an
inviting interest.
“You know I was first on the table by the hotel?”
His eyebrows lifted whimsically.
“Tell me about it,” he urged.
“All those higher-ups what didn’t care a pinch of salt for me myself
making such a fuss over a little accident of good luck!”
“Accident! You have won your way inch by inch grappling with life.”
His calm, compelling look seemed to flood her with strength. “You have
what our colleges cannot give, the courage to face yourself, the power
to think. And now all your past experiences are so much capital to be
utilized. Do you see the turning-point I mean?”
“The turning-point in my life is to know I got a friend. I owe it
to the world to do something, to be something, after this miracle
of your kindness.” And at his deepening smile, “But you are not
kind in a leaning-down sort of kindness. You got none of that
what-can-I-do-for-you-my-poor-child-look in you.”
Her effusiveness embarrassed him.
“You make too much out of nothing.”
“Nothing?” Her eyes were misty with emotion. “I was something wild up
in the air, and I couldn’t get hold of myself all alone, and you--you
made me for a person.”
“I cannot tell you how it affects me that in some way I do not
understand I have been the means of bringing release to you. Of
course,” he added quickly, “I was only an instrument, not a cause. Just
as a spade which digs the ground is not a cause of the fertility of the
soil or of the lovely flowers which spring forth. I cannot get away
from the poetic, the religious experience which has so unexpectedly
overtaken me.”
She listened to him in silent wonder. How different he was from the
college people she had met at luncheon that day!
“I can’t put it in words,” she fumbled, “but I owe it to you, this
confession. I can’t help it. I used to hate so the educated! ‘Why
should they know everything, and me nothing?’ it cried in me. ‘Here
I’m dying to learn, to be something, and they holding tight all the
learning like misers hiding gold.’”
§ 7
President Irvine did not answer. After a while he began talking in his
calm voice of his dream of democracy in education, of the plans under
way for the founding of the new school.
“I see it all!” She leaped to her feet under the inspiration of his
words. “This new school is not to be only for the higher-ups by the
higher-ups. It’s to be for everybody--the tailor and the fish-pedlar
and the butcher. And the teachers are not to be professors, talking
to us down from their heads, but living people, talking out of their
hearts. It’s to be what there never yet was in this country--a school
for the people.”
President Irvine had the sensation of being swept out of himself
upon strange, sunlit shores. The bleak land of merely intellectual
perception lay behind him. Her ardour, her earnestness broke through
the habitual restraint of the Anglo-Saxon.
“Let me read you part of my lecture on the new school,” he said, the
contagion of her enthusiasm vibrant in his low voice. “Teachers, above
all others, have occasion to be distressed when the earlier idealism
of welcome to the oppressed is treated as a weak sentimentalism,
when sympathy for the unfortunate and those who have not had a fair
chance is regarded as a weak indulgence fatal to efficiency. The new
school must aim to make up to the disinherited masses by conscious
instruction, by the development of personal power for the loss of
external opportunities consequent upon the passing of our pioneer days.
Otherwise, power is likely to pass more and more into the hands of the
wealthy, and we shall end with the same alliance between intellectual
and artistic culture and economic power due to riches which has been
the curse of every civilization in the past, and which our fathers in
their democratic idealism thought this nation was to put an end to.”
“Grand!” she cried, clapping her hands ecstatically. “Your language is
a little too high over my head for me to understand what you’re talking
about, but I feel I know what you mean to say. You mean, in the new
school, America is to be America, after all.” Eyes tense, brilliant,
held his. “I’ll give you an advice,” she went on. “Translate your
lecture in plain words like they translate things from Russian into
English, or English into Russian. If you want your new school to be for
the people, so you got to begin by talking in the plain words of the
people. You got to feel out your thoughts from the heart and not from
the head.”
Her words were like bullets that shot through the static security of
his traditional past.
“Perhaps I can learn from you how to be simple.”
“Sure! I feel I can learn you how to put flesh and blood into your
words so that everybody can feel your thoughts close to the heart.”
The gesticulating hands swam before him like waves of living flame.
“Stand before your eyes the people, the dumb, hungry people--hungry
for knowledge. You got that knowledge. And when you talk in that
high-headed lecture language, it’s like you threw stones to those who
are hungry for bread.”
Then they were both silent, lost in their thoughts. There was a new
light in her eyes, new strength in her arms and fingers, when she rose
to go.
“I shall never see the America which is to be,” he said as he took her
hand in parting; “it will not come in my day. But I have seen its soul
like a free wild bird, beating its wings not against bars, but against
the skies that the light might come through and reveal the earth to be.”
She walked down the corridor and out of the building still under the
spell of his presence. “Like a free wild bird! like a free wild bird!”
sang in her heart.
She had nearly reached home when she became aware that tears were
running down her cheeks, but they were tears of a soul filled to the
brim--tears of vision and revelation. The glow of the setting sun
illuminated the whole earth. She saw the soul beneath the starved,
penny-pinched faces of the Ghetto. The raucous voices of the hucksters,
the haggling women, the shrill cries of the children--all seemed to
blend and fuse into one song of new dawn, of hope, of faith fulfilled.
“After all,” she breathed in prayerful gratitude, “it is ‘to the stars
through difficulties.’ A _meshugeneh_ like me, a cook from Rosinsky’s
Restaurant burning her way up to the president for a friend!”