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5.
Reviews
of
National
Policies
for
Education
Higher
Education
in
Ireland
Higher Education
in Ireland
«Reviewsof National
Policies for Education
The full text of this book is available on line via this link:
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Those with access to all OECD books on line should use this link:
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SourceOECD is the OECD’s online library of books, periodicals and statistical databases. For more
information about this award-winning service and free trials ask your librarian, or write to us at
[email protected].
Ireland was one of the first European countries to grasp the economic importance
of education. But higher education in Ireland is now at a crossroads, with
significant challenges to overcome. How can Ireland meet its stated objective of
“placing its higher education system in the top ranks of OECD member countries
in terms of both quality and levels of participation”? How can it create “a world
class research, development and innovation capacity”?
High levels of investment are needed for a major expansion of postgraduate
studies and capacity for research, development and innovation. Mechanisms
should be established to achieve the right balance between different components
of the tertiary education system, which includes universities, institutes of
technology and colleges that provide post-secondary level instruction. Further,
there is a need to meet the demands of specialisation, competition and
complementarities within the system.
This report addresses the full range of higher education issues and offers
recommendations for action within the framework of the government’s ambitions
for the sector. The examiners propose a new National Council for Tertiary
Education, Research and Innovation and recommend significant modernisation
and adaptation in the governance and management practices of tertiary education
institutions. Finally, the examiners conclude that the government’s ambitions for
the higher education sector – especially its role in sustaining a highly innovative
economy for Ireland – will require considerable further investment, and they
suggest policy approaches to developing these additional sources of funding.
Reviews of National Policies for Education
Higher Education in Ireland
ISBN 92-64-01431-4
91 2006 02 1 P
-:HSTCQE=UVYXVW:
www.oecd.org
912006021cov.indd 1 20-Nov-2006 4:20:40 PM
7.
Reviews of NationalPolicies for Education
Higher Education
in Ireland
ORGANISATION FOR ECONOMIC CO-OPERATION AND DEVELOPMENT
offered her thebest matches in the world, he was hard to please.
Nothing short of a king would have suited his ambition."
As the old shadchen spoke his right arm, hand, and fingers were
busily engaged punctuating his words with a system of the most
intricate and most diversified evolutions in the air.
"And how does she look?" Rouvke again broke in. "Is she still as
pretty as she used to be?"
"That she is," the matchmaker returned grimly. "But all the worse for
her. Would she were plainer looking, for then her father would not
have been so fastidious about a young man for her, and she might
be a mother of three children by this time."
"Oh, she will have no trouble in making a match; such a beauty!"
Rouvke observed.
In the afternoon of the same day, Rouvke lay across his bed with his
legs stretched on a chair, after his wont, and his head lost in
recollections of Hanele. She had recently all but faded away from his
memory, and when he did have occasion to recall her, her portrait
before his mind's eye would be a mere faint-drawn outline. But now,
singularly enough, he could somehow again vividly see her good-
natured, deep, dark eyes, and her rosy lips perpetually exposing the
dazzling whiteness of her teeth and illuminating her pallid face with
inextinguishable good humor; he could hear the rustle of her fresh
calico dress as she friskily ran up to answer her father's solemnly
affectionate "Good Sabbath," on Reb Peretz's return from
synagogue, the last Saturday before Rouvke's departure.
The image did not send a yearning thrill through Rouvke, as it would
have done during his first few months in America; still, on the other
hand, it now had for his wearied soul a quieting, benign charm,
which it had never exercised before, and the more deeply to indulge
in its soothing effect, he shut his eyes. "Suppose I marry her." The
thought flashed through his mind, but was instantly dismissed as an
absurdity too gross to be indulged even for a pastime. But the
57.
thought carried himback to his old days in Kropovetz, and he
wished he could go there in flesh for a visit. What a glorious time it
would be to let them see his stylish American dress, his business-like
manners and general air of prosperity and "echucation"! Ah, how
they would be stupefied to see the once Rouvke Arbel thus elegantly
attired, "like a regula' dood"! For who in all Kropovetz wears a cut-
away, a brown derby, a necktie, and a collar like his? And would it
not be lovely to donate a round sum to the synagogue? Oh, how he
would be sought after and paraded!
"Poor Reb Peretz!" he said to himself, transferring his thoughts to
the news of his old employer's adversity. "Poor Hanele!" Whereat the
Kropovetz girl loomed up, her head lowered and tears trickling down
her cheeks, as he had once seen her when she sat quietly lamenting
her defeated expectation of a new dress. Rouvke conceived the
vague idea of sending Reb Peretz fifty dollars, which would make the
respectable sum of one hundred rubles. But the generous plan was
presently lost in a labyrinth of figures, accounts of his customers,
and reflections upon his prospective store, which the notion of fifty
dollars called forth in his dollar-ridden brain.
He thus lay plunged in meditation until his reverie was broken by the
door flying open.
"Good Sabbath! Good Sabbath!" Reb Feive greeted his young
townsman with his martyr-like features relaxed into a significant
smile, as he squeezed himself through the narrow space between
the half-opened door and the foot of the bedstead. "Do not take ill
my not knocking at the door first. I am not yet used to your customs
here, greenhorn that I am."
"Ah, Reb Feive! Good Sabbath!" Rouvke returned, starting up with
an anxious air and foreboding an appeal for pecuniary assistance.
"Guess what brings me, Rouven."
"How can I tell?" the host rejoined, with a forced simper. "And why
should you not call just for a visit in honor of the Sabbath? You are a
58.
welcome guest. Beseated," he added, indicating his solitary chair
and himself keeping his seat on the bed, which rendered the
additional service of lounge.
"How dare these beggarly greenhorns beset me in this manner?" he
left unsaid. "Indeed, what business have they to come to America at
all?"
"Well, how are things going on in Kropovetz?" he asked, audibly.
"Business is very dull here—very dull, indeed—may I not be
punished for talking business on Sabbath"—
"Well, do leave business alone! You had better hear my errand,
Rouven," the matchmaker said, working his fingers. "Suppose I had
a shidech for you, eh?"
"A shidech?" Rouvke ejaculated, much relieved from his misgivings,
only to become all of a flutter with delicious surprise.
"Yes, a shidech; and what sort of a one! You never dreamed of such
a shidech, I can assure you. Never mind blushing like that. Why, is it
not high time for a young man like you to get married?"
"I am not blushing at all," Rouvke protested, coloring still more
deeply, and missing the sentence by which he had been about to
inform himself of the fair one's name without betraying his feverish
impatience.
"Well," Reb Feive resumed, with a smile, and twisting his sidelock
into a corkscrew, "it would be too cruel to try your patience. Let us
come straight to the point, then. I mean—guess whom—well, I
mean Hanele, Peretz the distiller's Hanele! What do you think of
that?" the shadchen added in a whisper, as he let go of his
corkscrew, and started back in well-acted ecstasy to watch the
produced effect.
Rouvke flushed up to the roots of his hair, while his mouth opened in
one of those embarrassed grins which seem to be especially adapted
to the mouths of Kropovetz horse-drivers,—one which makes the
59.
general expression ofthe face such that you are at a loss whether to
take it for a smile or for the preliminary to a cry.
"You must be joking, Reb Feive. Why I a-a-a-I am not thinking of
getting married as yet; a-a-you had better tell me some news," he
faltered.
The fact is that the shadchen's attack had taken him so unawares
that it gave him no time to analyze his own mind, and although the
subject thrilled his soul with delightful curiosity, he dreaded the risk
of committing himself. But Feive was not the man to let himself be
put off so easily in matters of a professional nature; and so, warming
up to the beloved topic, he launched out in a flood of garrulity,
emphasizing his speech now by striking some figure in space, now
by an energetic twirl of his yellowish gray appendages. He enlarged
with real shadchenlike gusto on the prospective bride's virtues and
accomplishments; on the love which, according to him, she had
always professed for Rouvke; on the frivolity of American girls; on
the honor it would confer upon his listener to marry into the family
of Reb Peretz the distiller.
Rouvke followed Reb Feive with breathless attention, but never
uttered a word or a gesture which might be interpreted into an
encouragement. This, however, mattered but little to the old
matrimonial commission agent, for, carried away with his own
eloquence, he talked himself into the impression that Rouvke "was
willing," if I may be permitted to borrow a phrase from a more
famous horse-driver. At any rate, when Reb Feive suddenly
bethought himself that he came near missing the afternoon service
at the synagogue, and abruptly got up from his seat, Rouvke
seemed anxious to detain him; and as he returned "What is your
hurry, Reb Feive?" to his departing visitor's "Good-pie!—is that the
way you say here on leaving?" he felt for the old man a kind of filial
tenderness.
Choson is a term applied to a Jewish young man, embracing the
period from the time he is placed on the matrimonial market down
60.
to the terminationof the nuptial festivities. There is all the difference
in the world between a choson and a common unmarried mortal of
the male sex, who is left to the bare designation of bocher, the very
sound of the hymeneal title possessing an indefinable charm, an
element of solemnity, which seems to invest its bearer with a
glittering halo.
Reb Feive thus suddenly, as if by a magic wand, converted Rouvke
from a simple bocher into a choson. And so keenly alive was Rouvke
to his unexpected transformation, that for some time after the
wizard's departure his face was wreathed in bashful smiles, as if his
new self, by its dazzling presence, embarrassed him. He felt the
change in himself in a general way, however, and quite apart from
the idea of Hanele. As to Peretz's daughter, the notion of her
assenting to marry him again seemed preposterous. Besides,
admitting for argument's sake, as the phrase goes, that she would
accept him, Rouvke reflected that he would then not be fool enough
to enter into wedlock with a portionless girl; that if he waited a year
or two longer (although it seemed much too long to wait), that is,
until he was a prospering storekeeper, he could get for a wife the
daughter of some Division Street merchant with two or three
thousand dollars into the bargain.
So he relinquished the thought of Hanele as a thing out of the
question and proceeded to picture himself the choson of some
American girl. But as he was making that effort, the image of the
Kropovetz maiden kept intruding upon his imagination, interfering
with the mental process, and his heart seemed all the while to be
longing after the dismissed subject and filled with the desire that he
might have both matches to choose from. Finally, he yielded and
resumed the discussion of Reb Feive's project. The idea of a Division
Street business man for a father-in-law, beside the assumption of
becoming the son-in-law of Reb Peretz, appeared prosaic and vulgar.
Those New York merchants had risen from the mire, like himself,
while his old master looked at the world from the lofty height of
distinguished birth, added to Talmudical learning and exceeding
61.
social importance. Andhere the ties of traditional reverence and
adoration which bound Rouvke to his former employer made
themselves keenly felt in his heart. Ah, for the privilege of calling
Reb Peretz father-in-law! To think of the stir the news would make
among his townsfolk, both in Kropovetz and here in New York!
Besides, the American-born or "nearly American-born" girls inspire
him with fear. These young ladies are brought up at picnics and
balls, while to him the very thought of inviting a lady for a dance is
embarrassing. What are they good for, anyway? They look more
Christian than Jewish, and are only great hands at squandering their
husbands' money on candy, dresses, and theatres. A woman like
that would domineer over him, treat him haughtily, and generally
make life a burden to him. Hanele, dear Hanele, on the other hand,
is a true daughter of Israel. She would make a good housekeeper;
would occasionally also mind the store; would accompany him to
synagogue every Saturday; and that is just what a man like him
wants in a wife. An English-speaking Mrs. Friedman he would have
to call "darling," a word barren of any charm or meaning for his
heart, whereas Hanele he would address in the melodious terms of
"Kreinele meine! Gold meine!"[14]
Ah, the very music of these sounds
would make him cry with happiness!
The thought of a walk to synagogue with Hanele, dressed in a plush
cloak and an enormous hat, by his side, and of whispering these
words of endearment in her ear was enchanting enough; but then,
enchantment-like, the spectacle soon faded away before the hard,
retrospective fact of Rouvke, the horse-driver, in top-boots, serving
tea to Hanele, the only daughter of Reb Peretz the distiller. "Oh, it
cannot be! Feive is a greener to take such a match into his head!" he
mentally exclaimed in black despair. And forthwith he once more
sought consolation in the prospect of a marriage portion which a
New York wife would bring him, and fell to adding the probable
amount to his own future capital. Hanele will reject him? Why, so
much the better! That makes it impossible for him to commit the
folly of sacrificing at least two thousand dollars. And his spirits rose
at the narrow escape he was having from a ruinous temptation. Still,
62.
lurking in adeeper corner of his heart, there lingered something
which wounded his pride and made him feel as if he would much
rather have that means of escape cut off from him and the
temptation left for himself to grapple with.
Feive, the melamed, had another talk with Rouvke; but although he
did not hesitate to speak authoritatively of Reb Peretz's and Hanele's
assent, he utterly failed to elicit from his interlocutor any positive
hint. Nothing daunted, however, the shadchen despatched a lengthy
epistle to Reb Peretz. He went off in raptures over Rouvke's wealth,
social rank in America, and religious habits, and gave him credit for
newly acquired education. "It is not the Rouvke of yore," read at
least one line on each of the ten pages of the letter. The installment
peddling business was elevated to the dignity of a combination of
large concerns in furniture, jewelry, and clothing. The owner of this
thriving establishment was depicted as panting with love for Hanele,
and this again was pointed out as proof that the match had been
foreordained by Providence.
Reb Peretz's answer had not reached its destination when in New
York there occurred two events which came to the daring
matchmaker's assistance.
The daughter of a Seventh Ward landlord had been betrothed to a
successful custom peddler, her father promising one thousand dollars
in cash, in addition to a complete household outfit, as her marriage
portion. As the fixed wedding-day drew near, the choson was one
day shocked to receive from his would-be father-in-law the
intimation that his girl and the household outfit were good enough
on their own merits, and that the thousand dollars would have to be
dispensed with. The young man immediately cut short his visits to
the landlord's daughter; but a fortnight had hardly elapsed before he
found himself behind prison bars on an action brought in the name
of his brokenhearted sweetheart. How the matter was compromised
does not concern our story; but the news, which for several days
was the main topic of gossip in the peddler stores, reached Rouvke;
and the effect it had on him the reader may well imagine: it riddled
63.
to pieces theonly unfavorable argument in his discussion of Feive's
offer.
A still more powerful element in reaching a conclusion was with
Rouvke the following incident:—
One day he went to see the shadchen, who had his lodging in the
house of a fellow townsman. While he stood behind the door
adjusting his necktie, as he now invariably did before entering a
house, he overheard a loud dialogue between the housewife and her
boarder. Catching his own name, Rouvke paused with bated breath
to listen.
"Pray, don't be talking nonsense, Reb Feive," came to the ears of our
eavesdropper. "Peretz the distiller give his Hanele in marriage to
Rouvke Arbel!—That pock-pitted bugbear and Hanele! Such a
beauty, such a pampered child! Why, anybody would be glad to
marry her, penniless as she may be. She marry that horrid thing,
slop-tub, cholera that he is!"
Rouvke was cut to the quick; and shivering before the prospect of
hearing some further uncomplimentary allusions to himself, he was
on the point of beating retreat; but the very thought of those
epithets continuing to be uttered at his expense, even though
beyond his hearing, was too painful to bear; and so he put a stop to
them by a knock at the door.
"But are you really sure, Reb Feive, that Reb Peretz will have me?"
he queried, after a little, all of a flutter, in a private conversation with
the shadchen, in the bedroom.
"Leave it to me," the marriage-broker replied. "I have managed
greater things in my lifetime. It is as good as settled."
"See if I do not marry Hanele after all, if only to spite you, grudging
witch that you are!" Rouvke, in his heart, addressed to his
townswoman, on emerging from the pitchy darkness of the little
bedroom.
64.
"Good-by, Mrs. Kohen!"his tongue then said, as his eyes looked
daggers at her.
Reb Peretz concluded the reading of Reb Feive's letter by good
naturedly calling him "foolish melamed." Little by little, however, the
very fact that the shadchen could now dare conceive such a match
at all began to mortify him. It took him back to the time when
Rouvke used to sit behind his mare, and when he, Reb Peretz, was
the most prosperous Jew for miles around, and it wrung his heart
with pity both for himself and for Hanele. He became aware that it
was over a year since a young man had come to offer himself, and
instead of becoming irritated with his daughter, as had latterly been
frequently the case with him, he was overpowered by an acute
twinge of hurt pride, as well as by compunction for the splendid
matrimonial opportunities which he had brushed aside from her. It
occurred to Reb Peretz that Hanele was now in her twenty-fifth year,
whereupon his fancy reproachfully pointed at his cherished child in
the form of a gray-haired old maid. A shudder ran through his veins
at the vision, and he began to seek refuge in commercial air castles,
but the aërial structures were presently blown away, only to leave
him face to face with the wretched ramshackle edifice of his actual
affairs. His attention reverted to the American letter, but the
collocation of Rouvke Arbel with Hanele sickened Reb Peretz. His
self-respect suddenly rushed back upon him, and he felt like "tearing
out the beard and sidelocks" of the impudent shadchen.
Nevertheless, he took up the letter once more. This time the
matchmaker's eulogies of Rouvke's flourishing business made a
deeper impression on him, and brought the indistinct reflection that
in course of time he might have to emigrate to America himself with
his whole family.
"Pooh, nonsense!" he ultimately concluded, after a third or fourth
reading of Reb Feive's missive. "America makes a new man of every
young fellow. There had not been a more miserable wretch than
Tevke, the watchman; and yet when he recently came back from
America for a visit, he looked like a prince. Let her go and be a
65.
mother of children,as behooves a daughter of Israel. We must trust
to God. The match does look like a Providential affair."
Reb Peretz was a whole day in mustering courage for an explanation
with Hanele. But when he had at last broached the subject to her, by
means of rendering Feive's Hebrew letter into Yiddish, his
undertaking proved easier of achievement than he had anticipated.
Hanele was really a "true daughter of Israel," and this implies that
her education was limited to the reading of a Yiddish version of the
Five Books of Moses, and that her knowledge of the world did not
extend beyond "Kropovetz and its goats," as the phrase runs in her
native town. She was a taciturn, good-natured, and tractable girl,
and her greatest pleasure was to be knitting fancy tablecloths and
brooding over day-dreams. Moreover, the repeated appearance and
disappearance of chosons, by recurrently unsettling her hitherto
calm and easy heart, had left it in a state of perpetual unrest. She
had not fallen in love with any of the young men who had sought
her hand and her marriage portion, for, according to a rigid old rule
of propriety to which her father clung, she never had been allowed
the chance of interchanging a word with any of them, even while the
suit was pending. Still, when a month passed without a shadchen
putting in an appearance, she would often, when the latch gave a
click, raise her eyes to the door in the eager hope that it would
admit a member of that profession. In her reveries she now
frequently dwelt on her girl friends who had married out of
Kropovetz, and then her soul would be yearning and longing, she
knew not after what. With all the tender affection which tied her to
her family, with all her attachment to her native surroundings, her
father's house became dreary and lonely to her; she grew tired of
her home and homesick after the rest of the world.
To be sure, the first intimation as to her marrying Rouvke Arbel
shocked her, and on realizing the full meaning of the offer she
dropped her head on her father's shoulder and burst into tears. But
as Reb Peretz stroked her hair, while he presented the matter in an
aspect which was even an improvement on Feive's plea, he gradually
66.
hypnotized her intoa lighter mood, and she recalled Rouvke's
photograph, which his mother had on several occasions flaunted
before her. The match now assumed a somewhat romantic phase.
She let her jaded imagination waft her away to an unknown far-off
land, where she saw herself glittering with gold and pearls and
nestling up to a masculine figure in sumptuous attire. It was a
bewitching, thrilling scene only slightly marred by the dim outline of
Rouvke in top-boots and sheepskin rising in the background. Ah, it
was such a pity to have that taint on the otherwise fascinating
picture! And, in order to remove the sickly blotch, Hanele essayed to
rig Rouvke out in a "cut-away," stand-up collar, and necktie after the
model of the photograph. But then her effort produced a total
stranger with features she could not make out, while Rouvke Arbel,
top-boots, sheepskin and all, seemed to have dodged the elegant
attire and to remain aloof both from the stranger and the
photograph. Well, it is not Rouvke, then, who is proposed to her, she
settled, with the three images crowding each other in her mind. It is
an entirely new man. Besides, who can tell what may transpire? Let
her first get to America and then—who knows, but she may in truth
marry another man, a nice young fellow who had never been her
father's servant? And Hanele felt that such would be the case. At all
events, did not Baske David, the flour merchant's daughter, marry a
former blacksmith in America, and is she not happy? Ah, the letters
she writes to her!
"Say yes or no. Speak out, my little dove," Reb Peretz insisted, in
conclusion of a second conversation on the same subject. "It is not
my destiny which is to be decided. It is for you to say," he added,
feeling that Hanele had no business to render any but an affirmative
decision.
"Yes," she at last whispered, drooping her head and bursting into a
cry.
The shadchen gave himself no rest, and letters sailed over the
Atlantic by the dozen. In his first reply Reb Peretz took care to
appear oscillating. His second contained a hint as to the attachment
67.
which Hanele hadalways felt for Rouvke, whom they had treated
like one of the family. There were also letters with remote allusions
to money which Hanele would want for some dresses and to pay her
way. And thus, with every message he penned, the conviction
gained on Reb Peretz that his daughter would be happy in America,
and that the match was really of Providential origin.
These letters operated on Rouvke's heart as an ointment does on a
wound, to cite his own illustration; and in spite of the money hints,
which constituted the fly in this ointment, he felt happy. He thought
of Hanele; he dreamed of her; and, above all, he thought and
dreamed of the sensation which her departure from home would
create at Kropovetz, and of his glory on her arrival in New York.
"Good luck to you, Robert!" the peddlers repeatedly congratulated
him. "Have you ever dreamed of becoming the son-in-law of Peretz
the distiller? There should be no end to the treats which you ought
to stand now." And Robert stood treat and was wreathed in
chosonlike smiles.
It was a busy day at Castle Garden. Several transatlantic steamers
had arrived, and the railed inclosure within the vast shed was alive
with a motley crowd of freshly landed steerage passengers. Outside,
there was a cluster of empty merchandise trucks waiting for their
human loads, while at a haughty distance from these stood a pair of
highly polished carriages—quite a rare sight in front of the immigrant
landing station. It was Rouvke who had engaged these superior
vehicles. He had come in them with Reb Feive, and with two or three
others of his fellow countrymen and brothers in business, to meet
Hanele. He was dressed in his Saturday clothes and in a brand-new
brown derby hat, and even wore a huge red rose which one of the
party, a gallant custom peddler, had stuck into the lapel of his "cut-
away" before starting.
68.
The atmosphere ofthe barn-like garden was laden with nauseating
odors of steerage and of carbolic acid, and reeking with human
wretchedness. Leaning against the railing or sitting on their
baggage, there were bevies of unkempt men and women in shabby
dress of every cut and color, holding on to ragged, bulging parcels,
baskets, or sacks, and staring at space with a look of forlorn,
stupefied, and cowed resignation. The cry of children in their
mothers' arms, blending in jarring discord with the gruff yells of the
uniformed officers, jostling their way through the crowd, and with
the general hum and buzz inside and outside the inclosure, made
the scene as painful to the ear as it was to the eye and nostrils, and
completed the impression of misery and desolation.
Rouvke and his companions, among a swarm of other residents of
the East Side, who, like themselves, had come to meet newly landed
friends, stood gazing through the railing. Rouvke was nervously
biting his finger-nails, and now and then brushing his new derby
with his coat-sleeve or adjusting his necktie. Reb Feive was winding
his sidelock about his finger, while the young peddlers were vying
with each other in pleasantries appropriate to the situation. Our
choson was lost in a tumult of emotions. He made repeated
attempts at collecting his wits and devising a befitting form of
welcome; he tried to figure to himself Hanele's present appearance
and to forecast her conduct on first catching sight of him; he also
essayed to analyze the whole situation and to think out a plan for
the immediate future. But all his efforts fell flat. His thoughts were
fragmentary, and no sooner had he laid hold of an idea or an image
than it would flee from his mind again and his attention would, for
spite, as it were, occupy itself with the merest trifle, such as the size
of the whiskers of one of the officers or the sea-biscuit at which an
immigrant urchin was nibbling.
At last Rouvke's heart gave a leap. His eyes had fallen on Hanele.
She was still more beautiful and charming than before. Instead of
the spare and childish-looking girl whom he had left at Kropovetz,
69.
there stood beforehim a stately, well-formed young woman of
twenty-five.
"Ha—Ha—Hanele!" he gasped out, all but melting away with
emotion, and suddenly feeling, not like Robert Friedman, but like
Rouvke Arbel.
Hanele turned her head toward him, but she did not see him. So at
least it seemed, for instead of pushing her way to the part of the
railing where he stood, she started back and obliterated herself in
the crowd.
Presently her name was called, together with other names, and she
emerged from a stream of fellow immigrants. More dead than alive,
Rouvke ran forward to meet her; but he had advanced two steps
when his legs refused to proceed, and his face became blank with
amazement. For, behold, snugly supporting Hanele's arm, there was
a young man in spectacles and in a seedy gray uniform overcoat of a
Russian collegian, with its brass buttons superseded by new ones of
black celluloid.
The pair marched up to Rouvke, she with her eyes fixed at the floor,
as she clung to her companion, and the collegian with his head
raised in timid defiance.
"How do you do, Rouven?" she began. "This is Gospodin[15]
Levinsky
—my choson. Do not take it ill, Rouven. I am not to blame, as true
as I am a child of Israel. You see, it is my Providential match, and I
could not help it," she rattled off in a trembling voice and like an
embarrassed schoolboy reciting a lesson which he has gotten well by
heart.
"I'll pay you every copeck, you can rest assured," the collegian
interposed, turning as white as a sheet. "I have a rich brother in
Buffalo."
Hanele had met the young man in the steerage of the Dutch vessel
which brought them across the ocean; and they passed a fortnight
70.
there, walking orsitting together on deck, and sharing the weird
overawing whispers of the waves, the stern thumping of the engine,
and the soothing smiles of the moon—that skillfulest of shadchens in
general, and on ship's deck in particular. The long and short of it is
that the matchmaking luminary had cut Reb Feive out of his job.
Hanele's explanation at first stunned Rouvke, and he stood for some
time eyeing her with a grin of stupid distraction. But presently, upon
recovering his senses, he turned as red as fire, and making a face
like that of a child when suddenly robbed of its toy, he wailed out in
a husky voice:
"I want my hundred and fifty dollars back!" And then in English:—
"I call a politzman. I vant my hoondered an' fifty dollar!"
"Ai, ai—murderess! murderess!" Reb Feive burst out at Hanele. "I
am going to get your father to come over here, ai, ai!" he lamented,
all but bursting into tears with rage. And presently, in caressing
tones:—
"Listen to me, Hanele! I know you are a good and God-fearing
Jewish girl. Fie! drop that abominable beggar. Leave that gentile-like
shaven mug, I tell you. Rouven is your Providential match. Look at
him, the prince that he is! You will live like a queen with him, you
will roll in gold and jewels, Hanele!"
But Hanele only clung to the collegian's arm the faster, and the two
were about to leave the Garden, when Rouvke grasped his
successful rival by the lapels of his overcoat, crying as he did so:
"Politzman! Politzman!"
The young couple looked a picture of helplessness. But at this
juncture a burly shaven-faced "runner" of an immigrant hotel, who
had been watching the scene, sprang to their rescue. Brushing
Rouvke aside with a thrust of his mighty arm, accompanied by a
rasping "Git out, or I'll punch your pockmarked nose, ye monkey!"
he marched Hanele and her choson away, leaving Rouvke staring as
71.
if he wereat a loss to realize the situation, while Reb Feive, violently
wringing his hands, gasped, "Ai! ai! ai!" and the young peddlers
bandied whispered jokes.
72.
A SWEAT-SHOP ROMANCE
LeizerLipman was one of those contract tailors who are classed by
their hands under the head of "cockroaches," which—translating the
term into lay English—means that he ran a very small shop, giving
employment to a single team of one sewing-machine operator, one
baster, one finisher, and one presser.
The shop was one of a suite of three rooms on the third floor of a
rickety old tenement house on Essex Street, and did the additional
duty of the family's kitchen and dining-room. It faced a dingy little
courtyard, and was connected by a windowless bedroom with the
parlor, which commanded the very heart of the Jewish markets.
Bundles of cloth, cut to be made into coats, littered the floor, lay in
chaotic piles by one of the walls, cumbered Mrs. Lipman's kitchen
table and one or two chairs, and formed, in a corner, an improvised
bed upon which a dirty two-year-old boy, Leizer's heir apparent, was
enjoying his siesta.
Dangling against the door or scattered among the bundles, there
were cooking utensils, dirty linen, Lipman's velvet skull-cap, hats,
shoes, shears, cotton-spools, and whatnot. A red-hot kitchen stove
and a blazing grate full of glowing flat-irons combined to keep up the
overpowering temperature of the room, and helped to justify its
nickname of sweat-shop in the literal sense of the epithet.
Work was rather scarce, but the designer of the Broadway clothing
firm, of whose army of contractors Lipman was a member, was a
second cousin to the latter's wife, and he saw to it that his relative's
husband was kept busy. And so operations in Leizer's shop were in
full swing. Heyman, the operator, with his bared brawny arms,
73.
pushed away atan unfinished coat, over which his head, presenting
to view a wealth of curly brown hair, hung like an eagle bent on his
prey. He swayed in unison to the rhythmic whirr of his machine,
whose music, supported by the energetic thumps of Meyer's press-
iron, formed an orchestral accompaniment to the sonorous and
plaintive strains of a vocal duet performed by Beile, the finisher girl,
and David, the baster.
Leizer was gone to the Broadway firm's offices, while Zlate, his wife,
was out on a prolonged haggling expedition among the
tradeswomen of Hester Street. This circumstance gave the hands a
respite from the restrictions usually placed on their liberties by the
presence of the "boss" and the "Missis," and they freely beguiled the
tedium and fatigue of their work, now by singing, now by a
bantering match at the expense of their employer and his wife, or of
each other.
"Well, I suppose you might as well quit," said Meyer, a chubby, red-
haired, freckled fellow of forty, emphasizing his remark by an angry
stroke of his iron. "You have been over that song now fifty times
without taking breath. You make me tired."
"Don't you like it? Stuff up your ears, then," Beile retorted, without
lifting her head from the coat in her lap.
"Why, I do like it, first-rate and a half," Meyer returned, "but when
you keep your mouth shut I like it better still, see?"
The silvery tinkle of Beile's voice, as she was singing, thrilled
Heyman with delicious melancholy, gave him fresh relish for his
work, and infused additional activity into his limbs: and as her
singing was interrupted by the presser's gibe, he involuntarily
stopped his machine with that annoying feeling which is experienced
by dancers when brought to an unexpected standstill by an abrupt
pause of the music.
"And you?"—he addressed himself to Meyer, facing about on his
chair with an irritated countenance. "It's all right enough when you
74.
speak, but itis much better when you hold your tongue. Don't mind
him, Beile. Sing away!" he then said to the girl, his dazzlingly fair
face relaxing and his little eyes shutting into a sweet smile of self-
confident gallantry.
"You had better stick to your work, Heyman. Why, you might have
made half a cent the while," Meyer fired back, with an ironical look,
which had reference to the operator's reputation of being a niggardly
fellow, who overworked himself, denied himself every pleasure, and
grew fat by feasting his eyes on his savings-bank book.
A sharp altercation ensued, which drifted to the subject of Heyman's
servile conduct toward his employer.
"It was you, wasn't it," Meyer said, "who started that collection for a
birthday present for the boss? Of course, we couldn't help chipping
in. Why is David independent?"
"Did I compel you?" Heyman rejoined. "And am I to blame that it
was to me that the boss threw out the hint about that present? It is
so slack everywhere, and you ought to thank God for the steady job
you have here," he concluded, pouncing down upon the coat on his
machine.
David, who had also cut short his singing, kept silently plying his
needle upon pieces of stuff which lay stretched on his master's
dining-table. Presently he paused to adjust his disheveled jet-black
hair, with his fingers for a comb, and to wipe the perspiration from
his swarthy, beardless and typically Israelitic face with his shirt-
sleeve.
While this was in progress, his languid hazel eyes were fixed on the
finisher girl. She instinctively became conscious of his gaze, and
raised her head from the needle. Her fresh buxom face, flushed with
the heat of the room and with exertion, shone full upon the young
baster. Their eyes met. David colored, and, to conceal his
embarrassment, he asked: "Well, is he going to raise your wages?"
75.
Beile nodded affirmatively,and again plunged her head into her
work.
"He is? So you will now get five dollars a week. I am afraid you will
be putting on airs now, won't you?"
"Do you begrudge me? Then I am willing to swap wages with you.
I'll let you have my five dollars, and I'll take your twelve dollars
every week."
Lipman's was a task shop, and, according to the signification which
the term has in the political economy of the sweating world, his
operator, baster, and finisher, while nominally engaged at so much a
week, were in reality paid by the piece, the economical week being
determined by a stipulated quantity of made-up coats rather than by
a fixed number of the earth's revolutions around its axis; for the
sweat-shop day will not coincide with the solar day unless a given
amount of work be accomplished in its course. As to the presser, he
is invariably a piece-worker, pure and simple.
For a more lucid account of the task system in the tailoring branch, I
beg to refer the reader to David, although his exposition happens to
be presented rather in the form of a satire on the subject. Indeed,
David, while rather inclined to taciturnity, was an inveterate jester,
and what few remarks he indulged in during his work would often
cause boisterous merriment among his shop-mates, although he
delivered them with a nonchalant manner and with the same look of
good-humored irony, mingled in strange harmony with a general
expression of gruffness, which his face usually wore.
"My twelve dollars every week?" David echoed. "Oh, I see; you
mean a week of twelve days!" And his needle resumed its duck-like
sport in the cloth.
"How do you make it out?" Meyer demanded, in order to elicit a joke
from the witty young man by his side.
76.
"Of course, youdon't know how to make that out. But ask Heyman
or Beile. The three of us do."
"Tell him, then, and he will know too," Beile urged, laughing in
advance at the expected fun.
A request coming from the finisher was—yet unknown to herself—
resistless with David, and in the present instance it loosened his
tongue.
"Well, I get twelve dollars a week, and Heyman fourteen. Now a
working week has six days, but—hem—that 'but' gets stuck in my
throat—but a day is neither a Sunday nor a Monday nor anything
unless we make twelve coats. The calendars are a lot of liars."
"What do you mean?"
"They say a day has twenty-four hours. That's a bluff. A day has
twelve coats."
Beile's rapturous chuckle whetted his appetite for persiflage, and he
went on:—
"They read the Tuesday Psalm in the synagogue this morning, but I
should have read the Monday one."
"Why?"
"You see, Meyer's wife will soon come up with his dinner, and here I
have still two coats to make of the twelve that I got yesterday. So
it's still Monday with me. My Tuesday won't begin before about two
o'clock this afternoon."
"How much will you make this week?" Meyer questioned.
"I don't expect to finish more than four days' work by the end of the
week, and will only get eight dollars on Friday—that is, provided the
Missis has not spent our wages by that time. So when it's Friday I'll
call it Wednesday, see?"
77.
"When I ammarried," he added, after a pause, "and the old woman
asks me for Sabbath expenses, I'll tell her it is only Wednesday—it
isn't yet Friday—and I have no money to give her."
David relapsed into silence, but mutely continued his burlesque,
hopping from subject to subject.
David thought himself a very queer fellow. He often wondered at the
pranks which his own imagination was in the habit of playing, and at
the grotesque combinations it frequently evolved. As he now stood,
leaning forward over his work, he was striving to make out how it
was that Meyer reminded him of the figure "7."
"What nonsense!" he inwardly exclaimed, branding himself for a
crank. "And what does Heyman look like?" his mind queried, as
though for spite. He contemplated the operator askance, and ran
over all the digits of the Arabic system, and even the whole Hebrew
alphabet, in quest of a counterpart to the young man, but failed to
find anything suitable. "His face would much better become a girl,"
he at last decided, and mentally proceeded to envelop Heyman's
head in Beile's shawl. But the proceeding somehow stung him, and
he went on to meditate upon the operator's chunky nose. "No, that
nose is too ugly for a girl. It wants a little planing. It's an unfinished
job, as it were. But for that nose Heyman would really be the nice
fellow they say he is. His snow-white skin—his elegant heavy
mustache—yes, if he did not have that nose he would be all right,"
he maliciously joked in his heart. "And I, too, would be all right if
Heyman were noseless," he added, transferring his thoughts to
Beile, and wondering why she looked so sweet. "Why, her nose is
not much of a beauty, either. Entirely too straight, and too—too
foolish. Her eyes look old and as if constantly on the point of
bursting into tears. Ah, but then her lips—that kindly smile of theirs,
coming out of one corner of her mouth!" And a strong impulse
seized him to throw himself on those lips and to kiss them, which he
did mentally, and which shot an electric current through his whole
frame. And at this Beile's old-looking eyes both charmed and pierced
him to the heart, and her nose, far from looking foolish, seemed to
78.
contemplate him contemptuously,triumphantly, and knowingly, as if
it had read his thoughts.
While this was going on in David's brain and heart, Beile was taken
up with Heyman and with their mutual relations. His attentions to
her were an open secret. He did not go out of his way to conceal
them. On the contrary, he regularly escorted her home after work,
and took her out to balls and picnics—a thing involving great
sacrifices to a fellow who trembled over every cent he spent, and
who was sure to make up for these losses to his pocket-book by
foregoing his meals. While alone with her in the hallway of her
mother's residence, his voice would become so tender, so tremulous,
and on several occasions he even addressed her by the endearing
form of Beilinke. And yet all this had been going on now for over
three months, and he had not as much as alluded to marriage, nor
even bought her the most trifling present.
Her mother made life a burden to her, and urged the point-blank
declaration of the alternative between a formal engagement and an
arrest for breach of promise. Beile would have died rather than make
herself the heroine of such a sensation; and, besides, the idea of
Heyman handcuffed to a police detective was too terrible to
entertain even for a moment.
She loved him. She liked his blooming face, his gentleman-like
mustache, the quaint jerk of his head, as he walked; she was fond of
his company; she was sure she was in love with him: her confidant,
her fellow country girl and playmate, who had recently married
Meyer, the presser, had told her so.
But somehow she felt disappointed. She had imagined love to be a
much sweeter thing. She had thought that a girl in love admired
everything in the object of her affections, and was blind to all his
faults. She had heard that love was something like a perpetual
blissful fluttering of the heart.
79.
"I feel asif something was melting here," a girl friend who was
about to be married once confided to her, pointing to her heart. "You
see, it aches and yet it is so sweet at the same time." And here she
never feels anything melting, nor can she help disliking some things
about Heyman. His smile sometimes appears to her fulsome. Ah, if
he did not shut his eyes as he does when smiling! That he is so slow
to spend money is rather one of the things she likes in him. If he
ever marries her she will be sure to get every cent of his wages. But
then when they are together at a ball he never goes up to the bar to
treat her to a glass of soda, as the other fellows do to their girls, and
all he offers her is an apple or a pear, which he generally stops to
buy on the street on their way to the dancing-hall. Is she in love at
all? Maybe she is mistaken? But no! he is after all so dear to her. She
must have herself to blame. It is not in vain that her mother calls
her a whimpering, nagging thing, who gives no peace to herself nor
to anybody around her. But why does he not come out with his
declaration? Is it because he is too stingy to wish to support a wife?
Has he been making a fool of her? What does he take her for, then?
In fairness to Heyman, it must be stated that on the point of his
intentions, at least, her judgment of him was without foundation,
and her misgivings gratuitous. Pecuniary considerations had nothing
to do with his slowness in proposing to her. And if she could have
watched him and penetrated his mind at the moments when he
examined his bank-book,—which he did quite often,—she would
have ascertained that little images of herself kept hovering before
his eyes between the figures of its credit columns, and that the sum
total conjured up to him a picture of prospective felicity with her for
a central figure.
Poor thing; she did not know that when he lingeringly fondled her
hand, on taking his leave in the hallway, the proposal lay on the tip
of his tongue, and that lacking the strength to relieve himself of its
burden he every time left her, consoling himself that the moment
was inopportune, and that "to-morrow he would surely settle it." She
did not know that only two days ago the idea had occurred to him to
80.
have recourse tothe aid of a messenger in the form of a lady's
watch, and that while she now sat worrying lest she was being made
a fool of, the golden emissary lay in Heyman's vest-pocket, throbbing
in company with his heart with impatient expectation of the evening
hour, which had been fixed for the delivery of its message.
"I shall let mother speak to him," Beile resolved, in her musings over
her needle. She went on to picture the scene, but at this point her
meditations were suddenly broken by something clutching and
pulling at her hair. It was her employer's boy. He had just got up
from his after-dinner nap, and, for want of any other occupation, he
passed his dirty little hand into her raven locks.
"He is practicing to be a boss," observed David, whose attention was
attracted to the spectacle by the finisher's shriek.
Beile's voice brought Heyman to his feet, and disentangling the little
fellow's fingers from the girl's hair, he fell to "plastering his nasty
cheeks for him," as he put it. At this juncture the door opened to
admit the little culprit's father. Heyman skulked away to his seat,
and, burying his head in his work, he proceeded to drown, in the
whir-r, whir-r of his machine, the screams of the boy, who would
have struck a much higher key had his mamma happened on the
spot.
Lipman took off his coat, substituted his greasy velvet skull-cap for
his derby, and lighting a cigar with an air of good-natured business-
like importance, he advanced to Meyer's corner and fell to examining
a coat.
"And what does he look like?" David asked himself, scrutinizing his
task-master. "Like a broom with its stick downward," he concluded to
his own satisfaction. "And his snuff-box?"—meaning Lipman's huge
nose—"A perfect fiddle!—And his mouth? Deaf-mutes usually have
such mouths. And his beard? He has entirely too much of it, and it's
too pretty for his face. It must have got there by mistake."
81.
Presently the dooragain flew open, and Mrs. Lipman, heavily loaded
with parcels and panting for breath, came waddling in with an
elderly couple in tow.
"Greenhorns," Meyer remarked. "Must be fellow townspeople of hers
—lately arrived."
"She looks like a tea-kettle, and she is puffing like one, too," David
thought, after an indifferent gaze at the newcomers, looking askance
at his stout, dowdyish little "Missis." "No," he then corrected himself,
"she rather resembles a broom with its stick out. That's it! And
wouldn't it be a treat to tie a stick to her head and to sweep the
floor with the horrid thing! And her mouth? Why, it makes me think
she does nothing but sneeze."
"Here is Leizer! Leizer, look at the guests I have brought you!" Zlate
exclaimed, as she threw down her bundles. "Be seated, Reb Avrom;
be seated, Basse. This is our factory," she went on, with a smile of
mixed welcome and triumph, after the demonstrative greetings were
over. "It is rather too small, isn't it? but we are going to move into
larger and better quarters."
Meyer was not mistaken. Zlate's visitors had recently arrived from
her birthplace, a poor town in Western Russia, where they had
occupied a much higher social position than their present hostess,
and Mrs. Lipman, coming upon them on Hester Street, lost no time
in inviting them to her house, in order to overwhelm them with her
American achievements.
"Come, I want to show you my parlor," Mrs. Lipman said, beckoning
to her country people, and before they were given an opportunity to
avail themselves of the chairs which she had offered them, they
were towed into the front room.
When the procession returned, Leizer, in obedience to an order from
his wife, took Reb Avrom in charge and proceeded to initiate him
into the secrets of the "American style of tailoring."
82.
"Oh, my!" Zlatesuddenly ejaculated, with a smile. "I came near
forgetting to treat. Beilke!" she then addressed herself to the finisher
girl in a tone of imperious nonchalance, "here is a nickel. Fetch two
bottles of soda from the grocery."
"Don't go, Beile!" David whispered across his table, perceiving the
girl's reluctance.
It was not unusual for Beile to go on an errand for the wife of her
employer, though she always did it unwillingly, and merely for fear of
losing her place; but then Zlate generally exacted these services as a
favor. In the present instance, however, Beile felt mortally offended
by her commanding tone, and the idea of being paraded before the
strangers as a domestic cut her to the quick, as a stream of color
rushing into her face indicated. Nevertheless the prospect of having
to look for a job again persuaded her to avoid trouble with Zlate,
and she was about to reach out her hand for the coin, when David's
exhortation piqued her sense of self-esteem, and she went on with
her sewing. Heyman, who, being interrupted in his work by the
visitor's inspection, was a witness of the scene, at this point turned
his face from it, and cringing by his machine, he made a pretense of
busying himself with the shuttle. His heart shrank with the
awkwardness of his situation, and he nervously grated his teeth and
shut his eyes, awaiting still more painful developments. His veins
tingled with pity for his sweetheart and with deadly hatred for David.
What could he do? he apologized to himself. Isn't it foolish to risk
losing a steady job at this slack season on account of such a trifle as
fetching up a bottle of soda? What business has David to interfere?
"You are not deaf, are you? I say go and bring some soda, quick!"
Mrs. Lipman screamed, fearing lest she was going too far.
"Don't budge, Beile!" the baster prompted, with fire in his eyes.
Beile did not.
"I say go!" Zlate thundered, reddening like a beet, to use a phrase in
vogue with herself.
83.
"Never mind, Zlate,"Basse interposed, to relieve the embarrassing
situation. "We just had tea."
"Never mind. It is not worth the trouble," Avrom chimed in.
But this only served to lash Zlate into a greater fury, and unmindful
of consequences, she strode up to the cause of her predicament,
and tearing the coat out of her hands, she squeaked out:—
"Either fetch the soda, or leave my shop at once!"
Heyman was about to say, to do something, he knew not exactly
what, but his tongue seemed seized with palsy, the blood turned
chill in his veins, and he could neither speak nor stir.
Leizer, who was of a quiet, peaceful disposition, and very much
under the thumb of his wife, stood nervously smiling and toying with
his beard.
David grew ashen pale, and trembling with rage he said aloud and in
deliberate accents:—
"Don't mind her, Beile, and never worry. Come along. I'll find you a
better job. This racket won't work, Missis. Your friends see through
it, anyhow, don't you?" he addressed himself to the newcomers.
"She wanted to brag to you. That's what she troubled you for. She
showed off her parlor carpet to you, didn't she? But did she tell you
that it had been bought on the installment plan, and that the
custom-peddler threatened to take it away unless she paid more
regularly?"
"Leizer! are you—are you drunk?" Mrs. Lipman gasped, her face
distorted with rage and desperation.
"Get out of here!" Leizer said, in a tone which would have been
better suited to a cordial invitation.
The command was unnecessary, however, for by this time David was
buttoning up his overcoat, and had his hat on. Involuntarily following
84.
his example, Beilealso dressed to go. And as she stood in her new
beaver cloak and freshly trimmed large old hat by the side of her
discomfited commander, Basse reflected that it was the finisher girl
who looked like a lady, with Zlate for her servant, rather than the
reverse.
"See that you have our wages ready for Friday, and all the arrears,
too!" was David's parting shot as the two left the room with a
defiant slam of the door.
"That's like America!" Zlate remarked, with an attempt at a scornful
smile. "The meanest beggar girl will put on airs."
"Why should one be ordered about like that? She is no servant, is
she?" Heyman murmured, addressing the corner of the room, and
fell to at his machine to smother his misery.
When his day's work was over, Heyman's heart failed him to face
Beile, and although he was panting to see her, he did not call at her
house. On the following morning he awoke with a headache, and
this he used as a pretext to himself for going to bed right after
supper.
On the next evening he did betake himself to the Division Street
tenement house, where his sweetheart lived with her mother on the
top floor, but on coming in front of the building his courage melted
away. Added to his cowardly part in the memorable scene of two
days before, there now was his apparent indifference to the finisher,
as manifested by his two evenings' absence at such a critical time.
He armed himself with a fib to explain his conduct. But all in vain; he
could not nerve himself up to the terrible meeting. And so day after
day passed, each day increasing the barrier to the coveted visit.
At last, one evening, about a fortnight after the date of Mrs.
Lipman's fiasco, Heyman, forgetting to lose courage, as it were,
85.
briskly mounted thefour flights of stairs of the Division Street
tenement. As he was about to rap for admission he was greeted by a
sharp noise within of something, like a china plate or a bowl, being
dashed to pieces against the very door which he was going to open.
The noise was followed by merry voices: "Good luck! Good luck!"
and there was no mistaking its meaning. There was evidently an
engagement party inside. The Rabbi had just read the writ of
betrothment, and it was the mutual pledges of the contracting
parties which were emphasized by the "breaking of the plate."
Presently Heyman heard exclamations which dissipated his every
doubt as to the identity of the chief actors in the ceremony which
had just been completed within.
"Good luck to you, David! Good luck to you, Beile! May you live to a
happy old age together!" "Feige, why don't you take some cake?
Don't be so bashful!" "Here is luck!" came through the door, piercing
a muffled hum inside.
Heyman was dumbfounded, and with his head swimming, he made
a hasty retreat.
Ever since the tragi-comical incident at Lipman's shop, Heyman was
not present to Beile's thoughts except in the pitiful, cowering
attitude in which he had sat through that awful scene by his
machine. She was sure she hated him now. And yet her heart was,
during the first few days, constantly throbbing with the expectation
of his visit; and as she settled in her mind that even if he came she
would have nothing to do with him, her deeper consciousness
seemed to say, with a smile of conviction: "Oh no, you know you
would not refuse him. You wouldn't risk to remain an old maid,
would you?" The idea of his jilting her harrowed her day and night.
Did he avail himself of her leaving Lipman's shop to back out of the
proposal which was naturally expected of him, but which he never
perhaps contemplated? Did he make game of her?
86.
When a weekhad elapsed without Heyman's putting in an
appearance, she determined to let her mother see a lawyer about
breach-of-promise proceedings. But an image, whose outlines had
kept defining themselves in her heart for several days past,
overruled this decision. It was the image of a pluckier fellow than
Heyman—of one with whom there was more protection in store for a
wife, who inspired her with more respect and confidence, and, what
is more, who seemed on the point of proposing to her.
It was the image of David. The young baster pursued his courtship
with a quiet persistency and a suppressed fervor which was not long
in winning the girl's heart. He found work for her and for himself in
the same shop; saw her home every evening; regularly came after
supper to take her out for a walk, in the course of which he would
treat her to candy and invite her to a coffee saloon,—a thing which
Heyman had never done;—kept her chuckling over his jokes; and at
the end of ten days, while sitting by her side in Central Park, one
night, he said, in reply to her remark that it was so dark that she
knew not where she was:—
"I'll tell you where you are—guess."
"Where?"
"Here, in my heart, and keeping me awake nights, too. Say, Beile,
what have I ever done to you to have my rest disturbed by you in
that manner?"
Her heart was beating like a sledge-hammer. She tried to laugh, as
she returned:—
"I don't know—You can never stop making fun, can you?"
"Fun? Do you want me to cry? I will, gladly, if I only know that you
will agree to have an engagement party," he rejoined, deeply
blushing under cover of the darkness.
"When?" she questioned, the word crossing her lips before she knew
it.
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