Part 3

And Moskowitz himself presides over his instrument, the cimbalon, and striking the tense wires with two little wooden sticks he draws out from them the weirdest sounds, the saddest chords, dissolving into the wildest dances. Of course Moskowitz plays regular stuff also; hits and misses of the popular repertoire of the vaudeville, etc., but he does this only when his guests are eating--orders from Mrs. Moskowitz, you know, who does not want food compared with her husband's Roumanian music.

Marco, the young Roumanian painter, was in love with Fay Roberts, a gifted American girl from up-State, who had made Greenwich Village her abode. She was so gifted in many directions that she was a failure at everything--except being loved. In this she had succeeded very well. A dozen artists and two dozen business men were in love with this possessor of a beautiful head from which brains mirrored through two blue eyes.

Of all the men Marco loved her best and most truly. She knew it. She liked him. But he was dull. He cut no figure anywhere. He took no part in discussions. He never cited Dostoiewsky. He never tiraded against the lack of understanding of the people. He once angered everybody by saying that the people, the plain common ordinary people, were the creators of everything worth while. She hated him for saying that. He had a way of his, of burying his bushy head in his pipe and looking from underneath his eyebrows, that angered her very much.

He loved her, he adored her, and as time went by, he became more dull. Some people's tongues are loosened by love as by wine, and others are stricken dumb.

Marco lost speech whenever he faced Fay, lost it more and more as his love for the girl grew.

"What's the matter with your Roumanian savage?" friends asked the girl.

"I don't know. He is getting duller every day," the girl answered.

Then, one day, as Fay and a party of friends planned a merry evening, Marco flared up enthusiastically.

"Come with me, somewhere."

"Where?" they all asked.

"With me, to a place I know."

And thus it was that a dozen American young men and women descended the stairs of Moskowitz's cellar.

It was too early; Moskowitz was not yet playing. Fay did not like the food, and her grumbling became contagious. They all mocked and derided Marco. Thompson and Carlisle, both in love with Fay, and Mary and Lucy, both in love with the two men, never ceased for a moment to taunt poor Marco. And though he ordered the best wine, Fay declared that "this Roumanian monstrosity was the worst ever."

The painter's eyes became moist; he pleaded, but Fay's eyes were as cold as steel.

"You are dull, you are stupid," she cried.

Then the music started. A thousand tripping feet descending lightly from Heaven--a million voices lifting themselves to the gods, the wedding of everything earthly to everything celestial, the whole universe dancing--man, woman and beast, mountains, oceans and stars--singing the joy of creation.

It was music, the kind of which Fay never heard before--interlaced songs, each one grown out of the hearts of millions of people through thousands of years, songs breathing life, as different from the music she had heard to then as a photograph is to the object it tends to portray. The water going down hill, the trees of the forest spreading their wings, the wheat actually swaying like golden waves.

Her own life passed before her as she heard the music; from early childhood to the very minute of her thought. How had she ever dared to insult Marco?

How had she dared bunch him together with her other admirers? She looked at him and her eyes pleaded forgiveness, but Marco was oblivious to everything.

And as the music continued Fay saw Marco's eyes brighten. Every line of his face became full with an inner life she had never seen before in any one.

Suddenly he started to sing a song as sad as the world's woes.

From the cimbalon rose chords that spoke of understanding. No one dared even move, lest it might disturb the perfect communion between singer and accompanist. Little by little another soul was carried in.

How dull the others were, sitting at the table disputing the quality of the food. How was she ever so blind and stupid as not to see!

Marco now got up from the table, put both his hands on the musician's shoulders, and sang on--and as he sang he grew bigger and bigger.

The place went wild when he finished. Moskowitz kissed him, and Fay could plainly see that at least fifty pairs of lips longed to do likewise.

"Marco, Marco, why have you never brought me here before?" cried Fay in joy, as she kissed the happy man.

And now, nightly at Moskowitz's, a bushy Roumanian is drinking his bottle in company of a pretty American girl, who dreams of the day when she will see the country from which such songs, and such men, come.

EXPENSIVE POVERTY

It is no longer permitted to be poor; still less to appear poor. It is not yet a legal crime but a social one. It is comparatively easy to evade punishment for legal crimes, but punishment for a social crime is as swift as it is merciless. No defense is possible because the prosecutor and judge is invisible. There is no defense and no appeal. No higher court to reverse judgment on technical or constitutional grounds. Accusation alone is equivalent to condemnation.

"There was a time when the poor of the land were an institution, as respectable as they were part of the scheme which recognized them. The poor did not have to dress like the rich, did not have to live like the rich, act like the rich, and be buried like the rich.

"But those times are gone. A fifteen dollar a week clerk is supposed to dress in clothes as expensive as his superior who receives four times the amount. He is not considered "ambitious" if he does not starve himself to appear spick and span every day of the week. Sinkers and coffee for lunch after a breakfast-less breakfast, to buy a neat silk necktie. No lunch at all to have a suit pressed. Dinnerless dinners to buy new shoes or a new hat. The shoemakers have forgotten how to put patches on shoes. The mothers have forgotten how to patch up a worn-out seat or a threaded elbow. It is no longer done."

The above is the beginning of an essay on poverty I found among the papers of the deceased Italian poet Gagliano. Where the impetus of thought of such a beginning would have led him is difficult to follow. He never finished the essay. I am inclined to think that Gagliano did not have the heart, though he had the mind, to pursue the logical sequence of thoughts of his theory. He was a poet, a sweet singer, and he hated and avoided what was engendered by bitterness.

He had been poor so many years that it was becoming to him. Poverty fitted him as well as his worn coat and greenish sombrero. Should Gagliano have suddenly exhibited signs of prosperity it would have scandalized every one.

Daily, for years his long, thin legs kicked open the door of the spaghetti joint at noon. Until food was brought by the old waiter, he wiped his eyeglasses, stroked his beard and brushed back his long hair with the flat of his hand. While eating he read a book or a magazine. His skilled fork wound the long paste round itself and carried it automatically to the mouth without the slightest splurging generally attending the eating of the Italian national dish. But it is not of Gagliano's skilled spaghetti eating that I want to speak. I want to tell how Gagliano lost his job with Rinaldini the banker. It had kept him alive for years. He had counted pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters until his finger tips were calloused. He had written rhymed advertisements and jingles to pay for the little food and the few books in which better things were written by more fortunate though not more talented brothers of the pen. He starved with clock-like regularity, although his poems appeared in the "better" magazines of his language.

Rinaldini the banker, his employer, was a bluff, ignorant man who had won the confidence of his countrymen. It was his only stock and capital. He payed interest to one, from the capital of another. He had done that for years. He loaned money to pay the expense of Christenings, and great festive weddings. Most of the pompous burials of the district were financed by Signor Rinaldini on a ten per cent weekly payment after a generous interest was charged on the total. From these things and commissions from undertakers, music leaders and confectioners, Rinaldini made a living. What other expenses he incurred was from capital deposited in his bank by the credulous customers. Rinaldini liked Gagliano. He was proud to have such a man in his employ. Whenever some one was pleased with some of Gagliano's rhymes in the papers the banker accepted the praise good-naturedly; and the "fratellis" of the different lodges and societies to which he belonged, of most of which he was the founder and treasurer, never knew that another one wrote the "Poesia" they liked so much.

When Italy entered the war a hundred different Italian charities were trumpeted over the city. Several bankers were in line competing for the treasureships. Rinaldini then started a campaign of his own. He started the work by giving to all charities lavishly. If Postarnelli, another banker, had given hundred dollars, he gave thousand. When Pallorie, one of the richest bankers in the district, gave thousand dollars to a charity fund, Rinaldini strained himself to double the amount. It impressed everybody and drew customers. Rinaldini moved out of the Mulberry district into a more fashionable one and began to entertain lavishly. He fitted out his home with costly furniture and even became a patron of the arts. A celebrated Italian sculptor received the commission for the banker's bust and a painter did him in lively colors.

At those entertainments, Gagliano's presence was frequently requested. He wrote out the speeches which the banker delivered. Many of the "notabiles" were astounded by the exhibition of so much learning. Petrarc, D'Anunzio and Negri furnished the best lines. They were like written for the occasion. So much learning and so high a patriotism was never expected from Rinaldini. A movement was soon on foot to call the attention of the Italian King to Rinaldini's great devotion. The banker anticipated being ennobled and became even more fastidious and luxurious. The old bachelor began seriously to think of wedding bells with some lady of nobility. He became an authority on art and literature and his opinions were quoted by newspapers.

Gagliano, the poet, was worked harder and harder. He grew bitter and frequently made caustic remarks. He also grew thinner and thinner. He made real contributions, money from his own pocket, to the innumerable war charities. The prices of food advanced in the restaurants.

On an evening as the whole cream of the colony was assembled at Rinaldini's, the banker, to make an impression on his guests, began to brag about his possessions.

"That chandelier in the vestibule cost me a thousand dollars. Yonder carved table costs five hundred. Some of the bric-a-brac on the mantelpiece costs thousands." And, pointing to a guitar standing in a corner of the room, he remarked: "For that guitar I paid a hundred dollars."

"That is not so much! Mine comes much higher than that!" interrupted Gagliano lightly. Every one turned and looked at him. Every one knew how poor he was.

"You see," Gagliano explained, "originally I paid for it only twenty dollars. But in the six years I worked for Signor Rinaldini, I have pawned it every Tuesday and redeemed it every Saturday so as to have it for Sunday, and the interest and the fixed charge of twenty-five cents, the usurer from the pawnshop forces me to pay, has brought up the cost of the guitar to way beyond a hundred dollars."

Gagliano's words iced the enthusiasm and admiration for Rinaldini. The poet lost his job. Rinaldini never received the coveted medal. Treasureship of many societies was withdrawn. In six months he was bankrupt. Gagliano died some months later.

WHY HER NAME IS MARGUERITE V. L. F. CLEMENT

Voila! Here is France--France in New York and the France of to-day. One could forgive the Boche all the crimes he has committed but the one that he has robbed the French of their gayety, of their lightness of heart. Dark gray has taken the place of happy rose and green. Sparkling eyes have been dulled and the gay ribbons pleated in the hair of women have disappeared. A small black band on the sleeve tells the reason why. One hears laughter no longer from the open windows and on the street.

Voila! American and Canadian soldiers pass on the street and are cheered. Little boys and girls shake their hands. A young woman drops her marketing bag, claps her hands and cries "Vive l'Amerique," to which one gallant boy in khaki answers with "Vive la France!" Windows and doors open. Women and children bend over the sills as much as they dare. A hundred, a thousand hands applaud, a hundred, a thousand voices cheer, from a dozen phonographs "The Marseillaise" is heard.

Voila! you are in New York, in the French quarter, on Eighth Avenue between Twenty-eighth and Thirty-sixth Streets.

In the evenings the neighborhood still gathers at Clement's. Papa Baviele still holds the floor, only he no longer tells the stories of the Commune, while Blanchard and Clero are discussing the merits of a Packard engine or of a Bleriot versus a Curtiss airplane.

The war is the topic and Clement speaks with authority, for he has been in it, in 1870.

"We would have beaten them then, only we had a sleepy Emperor and a coward or a traitor--in the end it amounts to the same--as a general."

"Père Clement is right," said old Bideaux. "Foch was born fifty years too late. Look here, how many of us are missing? Bernard, Duval, Chuffot, Denure, Carreaux, Henry--all the young ones gone to France. La Vielle Mamma Clement, a little more wine--to forget."

"Where is Marguerite?" Papa Clement asked his wife.

Marguerite, the young wife of Clement's son, Bernard, had been living with them since her husband returned to France to do his duty. Six months after she had come over to this country with her widowed father, Bideaux, the mechanician, the war broke out. But in these six months she had loved and married Bernard.

"Ma petite," he said to her on the second day of August, "I shall go and see my consul." And when he came back he told her, "I am going to fight the Boches."

And he went.

She went to work. Her nimble fingers and developed sense for beauty of line found employment in a dress shop. And each week she sent something to her Bernard, somewhere in France, to supplement the four sous a day the Government was paying him. Every evening, returning from work, she asked, "Any news?"

Bernard wrote frequently and well. Twice they had had bad news. Wounded at the Aisne. Wounded on the Verdun front. "But Marguerite's husband won't die before he has again kissed her and told her all about the savage Boche. Tell papa I don't want ever to see Hans Seidel at our table again. His Socialism was only masquerade. I can swear I saw him in one of the Aisne attacks. We must learn not to forget our wounds even after they have healed."

Hans Seidel had never left New York, and was still a frequent guest at Clement's, where his Alsatian French amused everybody. But after Bernard's letter he was gently told his company was no longer desired.

"Marguerite will soon be here, père."

There was a ring at the door. Mamma Clement ran to open.

"Marguerite Clement?" a voice asked, and a uniformed boy stepped into the room.

"She not here--but I am ze father."

And Clement's shaking hands stretched for the envelope the boy held between his fingers.

"Ne pleure pas, don't cry. A million sons of other mothers have paid the price. Be brave."

He did not cry. "Be French, quoi!"

But the mother cried. Clement seemed to have aged ten years in ten minutes. The other men present withdrew to the remotest corners of the room. Only old Bideaux emptied his glass, muttering a terrible oath.

"He has sold his life dearly--friends. The letter says we shall soon receive his Croix de Guerre and his Legion d'Honneur medal. What a son I had! What a son we had!"

"A brave son," they all said.

Mamma Clement was in the other room crying softly. The men tried to console the father.

Suddenly they all stopped talking. Steps were heard on the stairway. They looked one at the other.

"That's Marguerite's step," said her father.

The crying of the mother ceased. Was it because she realized the other woman's pain? Was it because she wanted to be brave, or because she wanted to postpone the news?

The men regrouped themselves around the table. A key was turned in the latch. The door opened wide and radiantly Marguerite floated into the room.

"Bonsoir, papa, Bonsoir, mes amis. Good news! Very good news!"

She kissed every one present as she spread a newspaper on the table.

"Yesterday the Bulgars asked for peace, to-day St. Quentin is French again."

She took her father's hand and started to dance.

"What's the matter, quoi? Why don't you dance? Come quick, the Marseillaise--Allons enfants de la patrie----"

But no one moved. Mamma Clement came out from her room. "Oh, Marguerite!" she wanted to cry, but checked herself in presence of so much exuberance.

"We can't dance, Marguerite; it's--after ten o'clock--it's New York. People want to sleep."

"Ah! voila! you are old, all of you, that's the reason."

A group of boys passed in the street, singing. Marguerite threw open the window, applauded and yelled at the top of her voice "Bravo!" And the gayer she grew the sadder the men looked. It made their situation ever so harder.

"Sure, you drink wine all alone--give me some, too--and who gives me a glass? Oh, I want to be happy--the war will soon end. The Boche gets his due. Why do you sit like undertakers?"

She had one look at all of them. It sobered her.

"It is about Bernard. What is it? Come, tell me, what it is."

None present dared say a word. They all stood up. Her thin voice had changed to a deep alto. Her frivolous little head suddenly became as stern as the image of vengeance.

Her father, old Bideaux, was the first to recover.

"Give her the letter, Clement."

In a glance she took in all the contents. Bernard was dead. The rest was not important.

Her eyes closed. Her muscles stiffened as she gripped the edge of the table. It looked as though she was going to faint. She remained so for a few minutes, then she threw her head back and with all her strength she yelled at the top of her voice:

"Vive la France! Vive la France! Vive la France!"

And the mother and the father of the dead soldier repeated the cry with tears in their eyes, as loudly as they could, to dull the edge of their cutting pain, to drown their sorrow.

"You said, Bideaux, I had a brave son. But how much braver is your daughter!"

* * * * *

"What is your name, please?" Mr. Lauders asked the young Frenchwoman in mourning applying for the position of designer in his dressmaking shop.

"My name is Marguerite V. L. F. Clement."

"Full name, please?"

"Marguerite Vive la France Clement----"

And every time Marguerite's pain is too sharp to bear she cries out: "Vive la France!"

It's now more than four years since the Boche invaded New York through the French quarter. Gray and black are the dominant colors of what was the most joyous district of our city.

LULEIKA, THE RICH WIDOW

You hear people talk about the disadvantages of living in New York. Personally, I cannot think of greater happiness than being in this great metropolis, if only for the reason that I can be all over Europe in one night. Five cents carfare lands you in the French district. Five more minutes reading of the "Subway Sun" lands you in Hungary; from whence you can tramp in fifteen minutes to Italy or Greece or Turkey, as the spirit moves you or inclination dictates. You can eat your breakfast in a Russian restaurant on East Fifth Street, have caviar and Bolshevik talk; go for lunch in China, on Mott Street, where they will serve you tea grown on the highest mountain of Asia; for dinner you can have your choice between Persian, French, Hindu or Greek menus, and still have the cuisines of a dozen other foreign nationalities to choose from if you are alive the next morning.

And now, in case you ever intend going down to the Syrian Quarter for supper and atmosphere, I will acquaint you with the story of Luleika, as it was told to me by Malouf the jeweler, who is a Mohammedan gentleman, born in Constantinople. Malouf believes in the glory of Allah. His face is as dry as smoked parchment, and he touches the ground with his forehead twice a day, at sunrise and sundown, as it is commanded in the Koran. Malouf lives on Washington Street, which is at a stone's throw from the Statue of Liberty in the Bay of New York.

* * * * *

"And it is written in the Koran: 'For whosoever sells his soul for gain, shall suffer in his flesh, and whosoever sells his flesh for gain shall suffer in his soul.'

"But you, my listener, are either a Christian Giaour or a Yehudi Kepek, and know nothing about the Koran.

"And Luleika was young then, in her twenty-fifth year, and the Koran was only a name to her and not the fountain of wisdom which it really is.

"She was young and beautiful when her brother, Ali, who was a rich dealer in rugs, brought her here, to this pork-eating country. Her brother was very proud of her. Not one woman in a thousand could wear a diamond-studded comb in her hair as well as Luleika could; not one in a million could carmine her nails as well; and not another in the whole world could make the lines of her mouth harmonize so well with the curves of her eyebrows.

"I loved Luleika. But I was poor and her brother was rich, and richer yet were the friends he had. So Ali set up a store, not far from the Christian church around the corner, in which he sold rugs to the rich of this country. And in the store he put up a little cage in which sat Luleika like an imprisoned bird. Men came to buy rugs and smile at the girl. Ali became richer every day. As his gold piled up he forgot the good teachings of the holy book and ate pork and drank wine. And Luleika did as he did.

"Then my mother sent word through Mustapha Hogea, the priest, that I should come home that she might see me before joining her father in Allah. And I answered: 'I have bread here a-plenty, and there is a woman my heart holds my eyes on, and you may die in peace, for I shall follow the words of the Koran and end my daily prayers with Allah il Allah, Mohammed rassul Allah.'

"She must have died peacefully.

"Daily, under some excuse or other, I went to see Luleika. She changed her dress little by little as she learned the language of this country. Her beautifully woven bournous was replaced with a white waist which looked as if made out of tissue paper, and her heavy pantaloons, cut from goods brought on a camel's back from Damascus, were exchanged for a flimsy skirt, the like of which is worn by the women of the land of the Francs.

"And one day, when I no longer could wait, I spoke to her of my love. She listened to the end and then she said: 'Thou art young and strong. A woman could love thee. But thou art poor, and I am afraid of poverty. I shall therefore marry Kurguz Mehmed, the partner of my brother Ali.'

"'But Mehmed is dreadfully old!' I cried.

"'I wish he were older,' she told me.

"Luleika married Kurguz Mehmed. He was so old he could not walk without a cane. Kurguz had become very rich in this country, rich and dissolute. He was the shame of his people.

"Ali knew, Luleika knew, yet she married him, because he was rich.