Part 8

Of course Joseph was not to be compared with some of the young fellows she knew. There was young Reisin, who played the violin so beautifully; and that long-haired, almond-eyed Berger boy, who had several poems printed in newspapers--all the girls were after him. Joseph had no such qualities. He was not artistic. But she admired his spirit--in an abstract sense. It was so manly of him not to submit to the will of his father. He was an American, lord and master of his own actions, and not a slave or hireling.

Then one day Joseph disappeared from the house. The whole night the police of the Bronx and Manhattan were kept busy trying to find the sixteen-year-old boy. The next day his picture was in all the papers. On the third day he was brought back from Philadelphia, still an unrepentant sinner.

Did he get a beating? No, but on the next day his father took him to the store.

"No more school. You will help serve the customers."

Joseph was strong and willing, and was soon managing the business. But there was no day in which his name was not in some way linked up with Fanny's. For so many years Hirsh Roth had considered the matter of his son's marriage settled, that the unsettling of this plan was a calamity--as if a sure deal for a corner lot had fizzled out, or as if the very Bronx had failed in some way. The more he insisted the more the boy was steeled in his decision. He wouldn't even sit near the girl at table. He never even smiled to her; he snarled.

One day they were alone.

"Fanny," he told her, "they want to force me to marry you, and I don't want to--you hear, I don't want to, Fanny. I was never asked at all whether I want to marry you or not!"

"You are perfectly right, Joseph. They have no right to do that. We are in America. We are not in Russia. I like you, we will stick to our guns." And Fanny put out a warm little hand.

This short interview made Joseph happy. He had at least one ally; he could stand his father's importunities much more easily, though the parent presented the same stubborn opposition to his plans.

Then suddenly, Hirsh Roth told his son, "We are moving out from the Feldmans'. To do what he did to me, after all I did for him in all these years! I never again want to see a Feldman in my life," moaned the old man disconsolately.

That very night father and son moved in to Mrs. Josephson's.

For the first time Joseph did not feel at home. The Josephsons were very friendly people; Josephson never forgot he owed his fortune to Hirsh Roth's advice. But they were strangers. They called Joseph "Mr." Roth. Even the hot soup lacked warmth after that.

Hirsh Roth went to a meeting of his lodge. Joseph went out for a walk. He saw Fanny on the opposite side of the street. She was strolling leisurely with the young poet Berger.

He saluted her, but as he did so he remembered his father's moanings about the Feldmans. It made him feel very sinful.

The next few days Joseph surprised himself frequently thinking of Fanny; how she had shaken hands with him and become his ally on a certain proposition. The following evenings his father kept him busy in the store till late in the night. For a full month Hirsh managed to keep his son under his eye. He even took him to a lodge meeting. Joseph began to suspect he did it purposely to keep him away from Fanny.

He met her on the Elevated one afternoon as he had to go downtown on business.

"Hello, Miss Feldman."

"Oh! Mr. Roth, glad to see you again," she responded cheerily.

And they shook hands like old friends that have not met in a long time. They traveled together. He even went with her to a department store where she bought some notions. They talked about many things, and she managed to sell him a ticket for the next musicale of the synagogue.

"Will you be there, Miss Feldman?"

"Of course."

All through the winter they met here and there, and every time they learned to know each other better. It was enough that she should look friendly-like at another young man for his heart to beat faster and the blood to rise and rush.

Hirsh Roth never relaxed his vigilance over his son. Many an appointment with Fanny could not be kept on account of the older man. He wanted to know where his son went and from whence he came. From time to time he spoke about Feldman as of one who had betrayed him in the most rascally way.

Every meeting with Fanny now necessitated diplomacy, and was frequently espaced by weeks. The elder Roth grew thin and irritable as the spring approached. Joseph Roth planned many a time to ask details about Feldman's betrayal, hoping to patch up the quarrel. But he was afraid to complicate matters, to arouse suspicion.

One evening, late, as Joseph entered his room at the Josephson's he found his father waiting for him. The old man abused the boy in the most vehement way. It had been brought to his ears that Joseph had danced with Fanny Feldman at the last musicale.

"My son, my own son, danced with Feldman's daughter!"

It was more than Joseph could stand. How long was he to be bossed like that? His father had once chosen who was to be his wife, and now he was abusing him for dancing with whom he pleased. To his mind Miss Feldman was not at all the Fanny of a few months ago. Miss Feldman was the woman he loved, admired--the one he had chosen himself. Why should his father's dislike of her father interfere with his plans?

And it did not. He eloped with her a week later--eloped to Philadelphia on a paltry twenty-dollar bill, a week before the Easter holiday season began.

"We are married, Fanny and Joseph," he wired to his father two days later.

"Come home immediately, Mazel Tow," was the answer returned as fast as the wires could take it.

At the Josephsons' the young couple were told Hirsh Roth had again gone to live with the Feldmans. There Joseph found his father in the highest possible spirits.

"But why didn't you do it sooner, you silly boy? I almost ruined my stomach eating at the Josephsons. The thought of missing the good things Mrs. Feldman cooks during the Holy days almost drove me mad."

And turning to the beaming Feldman:

"Well, did I win a hat? Free choice, old friend, we have to give free choice to the world. But I almost died of a sick stomach waiting for the theory to work."

THE TRAGEDY OF AFGHIAN'S LIVING RUG

Somewhere between Madison and Fifth Avenues, close to the hubbub of Forty-second Street--the thoroughfare which is like a river flowing in many directions at the same time--you will find the store of Afghian, Mestre Afghian, the rug dealer and Oriental art collector.

Afghian would surely take offense at having his place called a "store," the chief objection to this word being his aversion to Occidental business methods--the system by which things are appraised in their dollar-and-cents value.

Afghian also is a business man. But to him rugs and topazes are rugs and topazes first, and do not represent so many gold pieces. He thinks and feels in terms of rugs, as did his ancestors hundreds of years ago on the plains of Afghanistan and Turkestan when they exchanged the product of their labor and love for the pearls brought to them by the poachers of Bahrein.

In the dimly lit square room hang beautiful examples of the work of the Tadjiks and Chiites, some in riotous colors suggestive and voluptuous, and others as though woven by hands of saints who had banished all earthly joy from their hearts.

And for every rug Afghian has a story, a story which he reads out of the web and colors, deducing the strangest possible details from the feel of the wool in a certain spot, and embroidering upon it till one thinks of the fabric as a living thing, freighted with a thousand passions and burdened with hatreds and prejudices as we all are--each one of us a stitch in the web of the universe woven by the great master on the loom of eternity.

On an afternoon I found Afghian seated in a corner and fingering some topazes. He was not alone. A portly man and a young lady were looking at the rugs displayed on the four walls.

I heard the two Americans speak about room measurements and color harmony with the furniture they possessed. They looked like sure buyers, and their appearance left no doubt of their ability to pay for what they wanted. As I looked at them I remembered the powerful car waiting outside--the liveried chauffeur and the footman in their gold bespangled coats fairly shouting the riches of their master.

Yet why was Afghian so cold? Why was he not at the elbows of his rich customers, persuading them, telling them stories, explaining values, demonstrating, cajoling?

He sat in a corner polishing some green-blue stones on the sleeves of his coat--his small eyes ablaze, the thin dry lips drawn inside, coiling himself like a serpent before the spring.

A few minutes after I had come in, the gentleman pointed with his cane to a large rug on the wall and said:

"What's the price of this one?"

"It's sold," answered Afghian, without lifting his eyes. And he continued to polish the topazes on his sleeve.

"And what's the price of this one?" the lady asked, pointing her white-gloved hand to a rug that I hoped to possess some day.

"Sold, also--belongs to this gentleman," he answered, pointing at me.

The two looked me over for an instant and left the store without the usual murmured apology from the dealer.

"Why did you say that the rug they wanted was sold? and why did you tell them that the other one belonged to me?"

"Because I don't want to sell them any rugs," he answered sharply.

"Why, have they not the money to pay?"

"Oh, yes, they have. They have gold enough to pave all the Avenue. I know how rich he is. But I would not sell him any of my rugs, for the same reason that you would not sell your work to serve as reading matter for a herring advertisement. As to the Turkestan rug, I was not lying. Some day, some day we will talk more about it."

I knew Afghian too well to press for further information. But it turned out he was willing himself to go on and talk without my having to urge him.

"Several years ago this young lady came to buy a rug. She was so beautiful that I could not think of anything good enough to lay under her feet.

"I have loved once; Yousouf Afghian has loved once, many, many years ago when I still bathed in the River Atrek in summer and climbed the mountains in winter. I loved a Circassian girl, and for her I had woven myself, of the best silk and young wool, a little carpet. The Afghians have woven carpets ere the rest of the world knew that there was such an art as carpet weaving; and of all the Afghians, I, it was said, could weave the finest.

"And in the carpet for my maiden I embroidered stories from Hafiz and Omar, the like of which have never reached the rest of the world. I hoped to see my work sanctified by the touch of Kizil's bare feet. But it was not to be so.

"God had willed that I should shed the blood of my own brother for her. God had willed that the curse of my mother should rest on my head. God had willed that I should flee my parental home and fields.

"When Kizil begged that she should follow me, I refused. My sins were too great. Should God choose to visit upon me His punishment, I meant to be alone to suffer.

"Every day I feed another man beside myself. And from this man I exact no labor and no thanks. And because I have deprived the Just One of his due I say the prayers for my brother twice a day. And to my mother I send compensation for my dead brother's labor. If I love you, a stranger, not of my own faith, it is because you remind me of my brother Kenghus--my dead brother.

"One day this young American lady came to buy a rug. And she seemed to carry with her the odor of Kizil, and her face was as soft-looking as Kizil's, and her eyes as warm and her feet as small. And all the modern clothes she wore could not cover the Orient that was in her. And there was that tang in her speech which comes only to the Levantine.

"It was the first time in all those years that God permitted me to forget Kenghus was dead.

"I went to the trunk and took out the carpet I had woven for Kizil. I feared she might refuse to buy it, so I offered her another rug and gave her Kizil's rug as a present.

"We shook hands, and at her touch I was young again, living again. As though the Eternal had in His greatness forgiven me my great sin.

"The following nights I lay awake thinking that her bare feet were pressing the young wool on the carpet I had given her; that she arose in the morning and read the stories I had woven for her, my own story between the wonders of Hafiz and Omar. It was as if I myself had lain under her feet.

"I hoped to see her again, hoped that she might want to see again the stranger who gave her such a carpet. And every time the door opened my heart sank. What would I not have given her to see her again! She had only to ask, or I only to guess. If I love topazes to-day, it is because of her eyes. And if you sensed an odor of violets and narcissus, it is because of her who reminded me so much of Kizil."

Afghian became very nervous. His hands trembled and his thin nostrils quivered like the wings of a wounded bird. He paced the room for a while, then putting his hands on my shoulders he cried out:

"Why should a man trade in the things he likes best? For generations the Afghians have woven rugs. At Pasargrades, in the tomb of Cyrus, lives the handiwork of one of the Afghians. Rugs and carpets run in our blood. You don't know what they mean to us when you buy them. We love rugs. We make them because we love them. Who can't make a rug should not have one. It takes five and ten years to make one. I remember how my father worked twenty years for what was to be the crown of his life. He offered daily prayers to the Eternal to allow him to live long enough to finish the work. Twenty years from a man's short life! Twenty years continual thought woven into one long unbroken thread. The limbs grow weaker, the hair turns gray, kings are unseated, and a man sits and spins and spins. Can such a thing afterwards be bought by another man?

"And therefore, I, who love rugs, I should trade in shoes and combs, in grains and sackcloth. How wise that learned man of your faith who made a living polishing glasses!

"Years passed, and I did not see the young lady again. Then, when I was least expecting it, her father came to me about a big rug that needed some repairs. It is long since I have woven myself, but I wanted to see her who reminded me of Kizil. I wanted to see my carpet. So I said it was necessary that I should go and see for myself what the damage was.

"Trembling I stood before her. I asked her about my gift to her. She looked even more like Kizil than when I first saw her. She stared at me for a few moments--she had forgotten all about it. Then she remembered something--yes, yes, she remembered that it did not harmonize well with the colors on the walls of the vestibule----

"I found Kizil's rug used as a doormat at the servants' quarters. A thousand heavy boots left their rub and dirt on it. On the beard of Omar, grease spots, and one eye of Hafiz burned out by the fire from a cigarette, as if done in jest. All my dreams a miserable looking rag--a few tatters.

"It was a lie! she never resembled Kizil in the least. It was the beginning of my punishment. Take, friend, those topazes from me, or I shall throw them into the street."

Youssuf Afghian kneeled down before an icon in the corner of the room and prayed fervently. Once for himself, and once for the brother he killed many, many years ago on the shores of the River Atrek.

BABETA'S DOG

She was only a little puppy when she was brought to Babeta's restaurant. And because Babeta has a literary turn of mind, he renamed her Ophelia when Sonori, the tenor, who knew more about dogs than about literature, said she was a Dane.

It was due to Ophelia that Babeta, the anarchist-communist philosopher, became very much interested in dogdom and learned to distinguish an Airdale from a Bulldog and a Spaniel from a Dane. They ceased talking about music and philosophy at Babeta's, and, though the Goyescas almost created a stir in the musical world and Bergson had delivered a lecture in Rumfold Hall, Babeta and his artist guests neglected such transcendental interests because of the change brought about in the direction of their thoughts by a dog, because of a little puppy they had named Ophelia.

Sonori discovered that Shakespeare, and not Verdi, was the author of "The Moor of Venice," and when the talk turned about the Scandinavians, many another musical celebrity heard for the first time the name of Ibsen or of Bjornson. And there was even a lonely man in the crowd who had read a story by Knut Hamsun, that greatest of all Scandinavian writers, whose tales have no equal in the world's literature.

In what strange surroundings Ophelia was destined to live!

Near Eighth Avenue, before Fortieth Street. The smell of garlic and tomato sauce warns the passer-by that the inhabitants are from Piedmonte, but on the street one hears the Irish brogue. The bales of cotton in front of the warehouses and the smoke from the chimneys reek after Liverpool, but the smell of rope, tar and fried smelts that comes from the wharves near by remind one of Fiume and Marseille, as the swaying masts and the spread-out sails outline themselves against the glowing sky.

And in such surroundings, back of one of the numerous saloons in which stale beer is served to drunken sailors and dust-covered longshoremen, is the celebrated restaurant of Babeta.

I have said already that Babeta is a philosopher, and were I to write about him and not about his dog, I could tell you some good stories about the interminable scientific discussions at a certain table in a corner, and the marvelous feasts at the tables reserved there for the two thousand dollar a night tenors and three thousand dollar a week sopranos. A book could be written about the decorations and friezes of the place, and only ignorance of culinary art would put a stop to what I could say about the food served at Babeta's. As to the wine--well, it's Chianti or Lacrima Christi, if that means anything to you.

But I have promised Prosper to tell the story of Ophelia. Prosper knows a lot about science and still more about art, but, because he is neither scientist nor artist, he is interested in human beings and dogs.

We all admired Ophelia. She was gliding graciously between the tables, and as she grew bigger she was frequently a medium of friendship between old and new guests. Hands met hands stroking her beautiful fur, and after an "excuse me," or a "pardon, signorina," the new guest asked the old one the name of the dog--followed an introduction, an invitation to the other table, after which Ophelia was slightly forgotten and Dante or Puccini was discussed for a little while. But Ophelia's steady place was near Babeta's table at the door.

In less than a year Ophelia was the personality of the place. She was big and stately. Her short morning walk was taken on the leash, one end of which was in her master's hand. Any casual courtesy paid to her by another dog during those walks was firmly and instantly checked by Babeta. She was a Dane, a pure blue Dane, and Babeta, the anarchist, the enemy of aristocracy, did not allow his dog to meet the common people, the free, common people of dogdom. Ophelia pulled at the leash once or twice, but, after severe reprimands, she made a virtue of necessity and passed haughtily by unobservant of any amorous advances.

It was Prosper who brought the great news. Ophelia was to be mated to a pure Dane owned by a captain, who promised to bring "Prince" on his next trip from Europe. And the news spread. People that had neglected the spaghetti and Chianti for weeks suddenly got a hankering after Babeta's place. Ere the week was over the unborn puppies were promised to two hundred people. Babeta had been shown the pedigree of Prince and was satisfied on this score.

I have already said that Ophelia was the personality of the place, but after Babeta told the story of her future mate, and promised pups to all that would listen to him, she became the most venerated personality. Sopranos with two hemispheres at their feet fed Ophelia the best sweets of the continent, and a justly celebrated baritone brought her a collar of pure silver, lined with costly fur. Nothing was too good for Ophelia, nothing too expensive for her.

From the river, a few hundred feet away, came the fog blasts of transport ships carrying thousands of men to a vortex of blood in which millions of men had already been crushed, pulverized and liquified to check the rule of aristocracy, but back of that saloon near Eighth Avenue, Babeta, the anarchist-communist philosopher, was expounding the virtues of pure blood as exemplified in Ophelia and Prince, the Dane to which she was to be mated.

Many were the bottles of wine drunk to her health and the health of her offspring. Babeta actually experienced the joys of fatherhood when he made arrangements with a veterinarian, the best in town, for the great day. In the most comfortable corner of the kitchen a place was reserved for Ophelia's litter. A new soft mattress and warm woolen covers were prepared and only the privileged ones were shown all those preparations.

"I want a male puppy," said Sonori, "because I want to call it Hamlet."

"And I want a female one and I will call it Flora," said Mlle. Marienta, the great lyric soprano.

Babeta was happy. Thanks to his dog, he had obtained higgedly-piggedly more flattery than he ever craved for his famous food or for his philosophical discourses.

"Ophelia, you good girl, come for a walk," and master and dog went early every morning to breathe fresh air.

But spring was near. As the days went by it seemed to Babeta that Ophelia was gradually losing her haughtiness towards the common people, ordinarily along the wharves.

The hundred and one mongrel dogs roving there followed Ophelia and her master and she pulled at the leash with more insistence from day to day. Once she allowed one of the dogs to come so near that Babeta felt the fangs of the mongrel as he drove him away with a kick. And Ophelia stood meekly by. Homewards she bent her head in shame as the master censored her.

"Shame, Ophelia."

Ophelia was ashamed. She nestled close to Babeta as he sat down to bandage his leg and looked up to him and whined. Only when the whining threatened to turn into a howl did Babeta give a forgiving sign. The following days the morning walks were taken along the avenue; the leash was brought up shorter, as a precaution, and all was peaceful again. But during the day Ophelia showed signs of uneasiness, and Babeta watched the door because she tried twice to slink out.

"What's the matter with Ophelia? She has refused chocolate!" asked one of the guests.

"She has probably had enough sweets," answered Babeta offhandedly, but his heart sunk.

A few days later, a street dog slunk in through the door of the restaurant. Ophelia got up from her corner to meet the stranger. Her master sprung up and kicked the intruder so violently the dog's howl could be heard from the street.

"You treat the common people pretty roughly, Babeta!" observed Prosper.

Babeta was angry with Ophelia.

"Shame," he cried, "shame," and drove her to the kitchen. "Away from me, away."

In vain Ophelia tried to make up to him. Her eyes begged forgiveness. But when it was not given she turned about and barked and howled in righteous indignation as it just occurred to her that she was unjustly treated.

"Wherein have I sinned?" she seemed to question.

Sonori and others wanted to pat her, but she gave fair warning by snarling and snapping in the air.

"What's the trouble with Ophelia?" Sonori asked.

"To the kitchen, go, go," and Babeta pushed her away.