Prince Isaac

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLVII, Issue 23, 5 June 1912, Page 42

Prince Isaac

By

IT was Itzik, the aged waiter of Shinkman's coffee-house, who first told me of Prince Isaac. I was destined, shortly afterward, not only to meet Prince Isaac himself, but to become very intimate with him, and 1 found him one of the most remarkable characters that ever lived on the East Side. But that night at Shinkman’s was the first time I had ever heard of him. The place was deserted, ami we were discussing whether or not great wealth brings happiness. “■it- must be i» wonderful sensation for a < ‘roes us to play providence with people’s Jives,” I remarked. “It isn’t always necessary to be a Croesus in order to do that. ’ said Itzik. And,, after a moment’s pause, he added: "1 don’t think much of the idea of playing providence*, either. Have you ever heard of Prince Isaac?” He then told me the story which I here relate. In the happy slang of the East Side the frock coat or “Prince Albert”—the first nonces'don which the newly landed Russian immigrant makes to his new surroundings is frequently called a “Prime Isaac.” On Shabbas you see thousands of them on every street east of the Bowery, from (‘anal to Houston, and. the moment you hoar the appellation. you can hardly keep from smiling. rin> Reb or Rabbi Isaac Zoline always wore one of these garments, ami. whether it was <lue to the accident of his name or the dignity <*’. his appearance <o his great rabbin’e.-al learning or even the fart that his garment was- less shiny and less frowzy Ilian the average frock ed it ‘displayed ’in the Ghetto, 1 the younger generation of philistines had fastened upon him the nivkname of Prince Isaac, by which; in the course <»f time, he became known throughout the neighbourhood. The older folks frowned upon such levity, but the name stuck to him. In fart, you had only to mention Prime Isaac and every man, woman, ami child in the Ghetto knew whom you meant —with the exception of the lb b Zoline himself. Yet in this familiar sobriquet there wars no intention of disrespect. You had but to look into the rabbi’s eyes to realise that, despite the twinkle that lurked there, his was a personal dignity far removed from the familiarity that his nickname implied. I wish you could >ee Prince Isaac as lie now stands before my mind’s eye, because the best that I can do in the way of describing him falls so far below’ the true picture. At first sight you would see nothing extraordinary in his appearance. The type, in fact, is quite eirmmon on the East -Side, where most of the old. gray-bearded Jews that you meet look as if they had just steppe*l from the pages of Leviticus, ami remind you ot \braham and the prophets ami the flight from Egypt. Rut there was something gentle about hi pi, something kindly in the light of his -blue eyes, that made you like him instantly, made you feel that here was a strong man, »ip< in wisdom ami yet guileless ae a chihl. and made you open your heart to him. I ’or many years he had lived alone with an old -crxaiit in one of those little brick houses that wen* built when Ihe Pa-f Side was a fashionable neighbourhood. \\ heii <• he derived hifi income no oiu -(‘(‘med to know. He lived frugally, to be sure, but despite every precaution upon his p.ir; it leaked out, from time ♦ o lime, that he had given large sums of money Io --hoob and charitable institutions. I elides alleviating, in a thou sand pra ; ii'.il way.-, the conditions of si • h of his ||oi k .is were in dire need. Wb* n David Horowitz lay dying he called Prime Isaac to bis bedside. “Will you take are of my little boy.?”. h« asked. Ihe rabbi looked .it him and waited for him to sav more. ‘ I have no other relative in the world cither here or in Ru*.*i;i,“ Horowitz went • r n, "‘I have some money. It will pav ior his keep and more lavides. His mother was not a goo I woman. I have ’•ecu both father and mother to him. I have tried to bring him up carefully. I; want him to lie good and happy. You are

BRUNO LESSING.

the only man I know in all the world to whom I would trust him. He is a lovable child, and he ran be brought up to be a tine, good man. Will you do this and Jet me die in peace?” The rabbi had known Horowitz for years. He knew his life’s .story — had even consoled him when his wife had blasted all his happiness. “I will take him.” he said. “Swear it! Swear it on the ’Corah,” cried the poor man excitedly. The rabbi swore on •the Torah to cherish the lad as he would his own son, and Horowitz died contented. ’Thus to the many duties that had devolved upon Prince Isaac during many years was added the bringing up of a boy. If, as the good people tell irs, then* is a meeting in the hereafter where each of us accounts for his stewardship, the Rabbi Zoline, with head erect and unclouded eye, can give satisfactory account of his trust. Yet wait! Did I say satisfactory ? I would rather use another word—he did his best. Tie love.l the boy as he would have loved his

only son had one been vouchsafed to him, and in all that pertained to the young man’s welfare he exercised all flu* wisdom that he possessed in forming judgment. To err. however, is human—whether or not the rabbi erred you must .judge for yourself. Marcus Horowitz was twenty-live. He had received excellent schooling, had, under his guardian’s guidance covered a mir.'h wider range of reading than falls to the lot of most young men. and had been trained in as strict an.l ’clean a . code of morality’ ao the most conscientious parent could ask. In temperament In* was somewhat idealistic. Since childhood he had lived in a dreamer’s realm, preferring solitude to the companionship of boys of his own age amt devoid of all interest in the practical affairs of life. When the time camo tor him to choose a vocation the rabid was at his wits' end. “What would you like .most to do, Marcus?” he asked. “I think I’d rather write poetry than anything else,” was the young man’s answer. His guardian's brow puckered. ‘‘That isn't very practical, you know.” he said. Ma reqs smiled. “I know it. But. to he serious, the kind of work l‘d like best is the kind that would allow me tin* greatest opportunity to write poetry.” In the end Marcus became a writer upon a Yiddish newspaper, where he not only gave a good account of himself, but and this somewhat amazed his guardian—wrote poetry’ which was printed and highly commended. For the rest, he continued to Jive in his dreamworld. as visionary and as impractical as ever. He had few* companions, and when he was not working he 'either road or listened to the homilies of the rabbi. It was a winter’s night. It had been snowing during the day, but a thaw had

set in, leaving the streets running with water and slush. There was a light fog, the air was damp and raw, as though rain were imminent—as disagreeable a night, all in all, as any human being would cafe to travel'in. A call from » sick-bed had come to Prince Isaac late that night, and l he was returning homeward when, out of the darkness, came a how, moaning sound as of a human being in dire distress. Prince Isaac stood still. He peered around him, but there was not a soul in sight. The sound, however, grew louder, and presently he espied a figure emerging from the. gloom ai<d approaching (him. As the figure passed a lamp post he saw that it was a woman, walking fast. He could not see her face, but the light from the lamp-post fell upon a tawdry hat, a eheap hat such as. had the night been fair, a man might have expected to find upon the streets at that hour. As she passed him, he heard that moaning sound again as though her soul were in agony, and he saw' that her hands were tightly clenched.

“Are you in distress?” he asked. The woman did not turn her head, did not • ven appear to have heard him, but continued to walk rapidly down the street. The rabbi slowly followed her and, at the first corner, was about to turn oft* in the direction of his home when pity of her apparent distress, or curiosity to learn what could 'cause such despair, or one of those unaccountable impulses that come to all men at certain times —the rabbi himself could never afterward tell

just what feeling it was that impelled him—caused him to quicken his step and follow the woman. As soon as he caught sight of her again he called to her to stop. She did not even turn her head. The rabbi was a brisk walker, and after a few moments he observed that he was gaining upon her. At the same time he noticed that they had come to the eml of the residential portion of the street and were passing the factories am! warehouses that stand near the water-front. A few minutes more, ami it was apparent that,, the woman was making for the wharf at the end of the street. Then the significance of it all flashed upon the rabbi’s mind. He walked as rapidly as he could—he almost ran. Tin* woman’s steps were upon the first boards of the pier w hen he came abreast of her. She looked up then and saw him. apparently for the first time. She uttered a low.cry. The rabbi seized her arm ami halted her. Both were panting. ‘‘What is it?” ho asked’. “What is the trouble?” “I want to die! I want to die!” the woman cried, in Yiddish. “If you have a heart in your bosom, go away am! let me die in peace.” The rabbi took both her hands in one of his and began to stroke them. They wore icy cold. “ that is a foolish thing to say,” he said. ‘•Nevertheless I want to see if | can help you in any way. Tell me what the trouble is. If 1 can see no. way out of it for you I promise you I shall not interfere. You may jump into the river.” The woman gazed at him, startled. Then, in a sort of gasp, she exclaimed, ♦‘The Kcb! ” “t'omc over here to the lamppost,” said the rabbi. As the woman followed him he felt a violent shudder pass through her frame, and when, under the*’ dim

light, he turned to look at her. he found that she was* weeping. > “Lieber Gott!” he exclaimed. “you are only a child! How old are you?” “Nineteen,” the woman sobbedi want to die. I cannot live any longer; Please go away and leave me.” “Nineteen!” repeated the rabbi in ail inaudible whisper. Then he laid hirf hand on the woman’s shoulder. “You have no relatives? No friends? Nq home?” rhe woman’s sobs grew louder, but there came no answer. “If 1 find a nice home for you—» somewhere in the country, far away front New York —where no one knows ami where you can begin all over again, would* you still want to die?” With great, staring eyes. the girllooked at him. “No one would have roejj It is too late!” she moaned.

For a moment the rabbi stood stroking his l>eard. Then, “Come,” he said sternly. “We w ill have no more about your dying. Come with* me.” The girl’s lips parted as if she were about to speak. For a moment she stoo<£ still. But the rabbi had already begun to walk oil*, and after that moment’s? hesitation she followed him in silence. When he arrived at his home, instead of opening the door with his key. he rang the bell. An old woman came- to the door.

“Marna,” said Prince Isaac, •'this young ladfy has had a great deal of trouble/ and we must take care of her. Give her a room ami everything that she needs.”

“You see,” he explained smilingly to the girl. “I keep a regular hotel here fo£ all my friends ami my friends’ friends. Ko make yourself thoroughly at home. It will take a few days for me to settle that affair, and if you get lonesome at any time you can amuse yourself helping Mama with the housework/’. Through all her bewilderment the girl understood that the rabbi was protecting her, ami she looked at him wouderingly. Marna was kind hearted ami old ami had no curiosity. A week went by. and the girl was still in Prince Isaac's house. The change that had come over her was amazing. Iler youth and rest, added to the wonderful faculty that all women possess of adapting themselves to new environments, had transformed her into a ne.v. being. For two days she had followed Marna all over the house as if she were afraid to be left aloue. During those two days she saw no one else. Then Marna set her to work about the house, cleaning the rooms and, finally, waiting upon the table. When Marcus saw’ her for the first time ho turned to the rabbi. “A new servant?” ho asked. The rabbi answered loud enough for the girl to hear, “She was out of work, and I gave her a place until J can find something for her to do.” Iler name was Malvina Rosen. Ami when the light of life ami hope returned to her < 4 yes. as it did within a week, she was pleasant to look upon. Then fate played one of its viiriom? pranks. Manus became ill one morning after the rabbi had left the house, and sent for a physician. It was Malvina who admitted the physician and it was -he who hoard bis diagnosis. “It’s the strangest thing in the world,” ho said, “but I'm absolutely certain that he has smallpox. We haven't had it in this neighbourhood for years. I shall have to notify the Board of Health, ami nobody who is in the house will be allowed to go out. He had better have a nurse.” Malvina hesitated a moment and then, timidly. “I nursed my mother a long time,’ she said. “Can I nurse him?” “You might catch the disease,” sail the doctor. “My sisters both had smallpox, and l didn't catch if.” said the- girl. “If a nurse comes in she might catch it. I won’t.” “Very well.” said the doctor. “It you’ve escaped it before I guess there isn’t much danger. Particularly after you've been vaccinated.” Malvina was promptly vaccinated, the house was quarantined, and for four weeks no one but the. patient, the physician, Malvina, and the old servant was within its walls. The rabbi came to the door several times a day to inquire after Marcus’s condition, but his many affairs made it' impossible for him to remain in the house. During those four weeks the inevitable happened. A young man. fancy free, who had in all his life known but little of women, was hero tied to his bed with no one but an attractive girl to minister to him. In the beginning he was too

jweak to do aught- but fotlow her with Jiia eyes. As he grew stronger he began to talk to her.

“The doctor says your sisters had smallpox and you nursed them,” Ik* said, one day. Malvina coloured, hesitated a moment, and then, in a low voice, said: “1 never had any sisters. I told a lie.” Marcus looked at her curiously. “I’d like to know' why,” he said finally, ‘‘but J. don’t want you to tell me unless you feel like it.” The girF’s eyes met his frankly. ‘‘The rabbi was so* good to me that I wanted

to do something. The doctor would not have let me nurse you if I hadn t told him a lie.” Tty degrees he learned the story of her life—all but the darkness —and, by his soud awoke. And when, slowly, it dawned upon Malvina, and she tlivtned the meaning of the light that came into his eyes when he looked at her, (the greatest joy of Fife ca-me into her heart—and the greatest dread. ‘•To-morrow'.’’ said Marcus, “the doctor pay. I’ll be able to go to the country. Then the house will be disinfected ami the dear rabbi can com?, home again. Tin dying to see him.” He was sitting up. and Malvina was bending over him to give him his medicine, lie saw a tear slowly roll down her check. She turned away to hide it. but he seized her wrist and held her. “What are you thinking of?” he asked. Malvina smiled. but another tear came following after the lust.. “Y on vori’l need a nurse any more.” she sard. His arm went slowly around her neck, and her head, unresisting, was drawn lower ami lower until she felt his breath upon her lip*. “Malvina!” he whispered. Then their lips met. Prince Isaac came to the door in a carriage the next morning to take Marcus to the country. As they drove oil" Marcus kept looking at the windows of the house with an expression of disappointment upon hirt face. “What is it ?” asked the rabbi. ‘'What are you looking at?” “I expected that Malvina would be at the window.” said Marcus. And then Marcus told Prince Isaac that lie loved the girl. Slowly ami hesitatingly l>c l»ogan his confession, but the very recital of it aroused his ardor until his •whole being kindled with the passion of his avowal. Several times the rabbi attempted to speak, but each time Marcus held up his hand for indulgence to finish his story. “What do I care whether she is a servant or not? She ceases to Ik* a servant when she is my wife. What do i earc whether she is educated or not? I >vill educate her. 'She risked her life for me. She is the sweetest, purest, noblest woman in the world.” He paused a moment and laughed. “I used to think how' terrible it would ibe to marry and become tied down for the rest of my life. For thejast twentyfour hours I have been thinking how terrible it would 'be if I lost her. I think I’d jump into the river.” Thon he looked at his companion. “Y ou’ve been good to me and have listened to all my foolishness, and' now I’ll listen to you.” But the rabbi’s face had turned slightly pale. “I have nothing to say Dow,’ he said in a strained voice. “1 “Waul to think it all over.”

‘•’The more f think it over," said Mar cus laughingly, “the more 1 adore her."

Prince Isaac took Marcus to a small farm on Long Island where he had arranged for him to stay and. to the latter’s great surprise, immediately left him.

“I have some important business to look after. I will conic out to-morrow,” ■he said.

He did not go straight home. He went to a private room that was reserved for him in the Beth Hamedrash, or House of iStudy. of the synagogue, and there, alone, sat down to grapple with his pro-

blem. And even as- he began to ponder over it his instinct told him that there was no solution—at least, no satisfactory solution. He realised his utter helplessness. He felt that the outcome of it all would be unhappiness.

“(tod forbid,’’ he murmured, “that I should choose upon whom the unhappiness is to fall !" He reviewed all tlie circumstances and. when lie had finished, found himself reviewing them over again. “f do not Know what to do.” he exclaimed. “I do not know what is right.’’ He determined to talk with Malvina. He had not the faintest idea wliat tie would say to her or what he hoped she would say to him. He went home. Hit found her in Marcus's room, alone.

quite |*ale and dry eyed. She smiled when he entered, a wan, pathetic smile. “I was waiting for you,” she said. “Have you told him ?” “No,” .said the rabbi bluntly. He seated himself and looked at her sternly but her gaze never faltered, and slowly the sternness died but of his. A sudden I bought came to tier, and she leaned forward eagerly. “Did he say be loved tne ? Did he ? Did he ? Tell me that—anyway !” The eagerness in her voice and the pleading went- to the rabbi’s heart. He nodded silently, and her eyes shone with joy. Hut the joy quickly died out of them, and they l»ecame dull again. “Why didn't you tell him ?” she asked. The rabbi gave no answer. He was keenly distressed and could only look al her. She laughed lightly. “You thought I would tell him ?” she asked. Still he gave no answer. She rose wearily and walked toward the door. “lie said he loved me because I was pretty and lie loved me because I hail saved his IFfc, but lie loved me most of all because he knew I was a good woman. ‘Y t>u could no more do evil,’ he said, ' than the sky could grow dark when the sun is shining.” She repeated the words mediaideally and suddenly stopped with her hand upon her breast and looked al the rabbi. “Where arc you going ? ’ she asked. She continued to look ad him as if sin* had never seen him before. Then she laughed. “I’m going to gel my hat and make myself as pretty as I can, and then I’m going out to see him and tell him everything.” She smiled, quite gaily, and left the room. The rabbi remained sealed where he was, unhappy, helpless to grapple with the tragedy Iliad he felt was being enacted almost before his eyes. How long he sal there lie did not know. He heard the front door open ami shut. And. after that, all was silent for an hour or two or three he had no idea of the Hight of time. Tlrm he liearj the door-bell ring, and presently Mama brought him a letter that had arrived by messenger. He had never seen the handwriting before. “Do you think I could tell him io bis face ?” it began abruptly. “Do you think I could bear to see the look of love in hi,< eyes turn to ashes ? 4 hive written -him a letter. lie will iievir show it t<v.you. so I will tell you what 1 said, [ said I was a had woman and that if it hadn’t been for you I would bp dead. I know how good lie is. and I know he will never tell: \Oii wil d I

wrote. But I also know his love will die. What he loved most in me was my goodness. And I have none. “I do not blame you. I cannot blame anybody lie is so good that I could not have married him under a lie. And 1 cannot bear to see his love for me d e. J hav.e not Hie courage. “I can almost laugh. Don't you remember that I told you it was too late ? Do not worry. I shall not kill myself. I was sick and weak that time. My health is good now'. “I am sitting in a coffee-house writ iug this and writing to Marcus. Then I am going where’you will never find me. I shall change my name and begin over again. I am going on the railroad so you cannot look, for me. I will try to be good. I will try my . best. If I fail - what difference will it make ? “Only, every night I will pray for you because you are so good. And I will pray for Marcus because I love him more than my own life.” The rabbi read the letter again an I again and again, never moving from his chair. 'l’he tears rolled down h s cheek into his long beard. Such was the story that llzik, the old waiter, told me. It was a long lime before I spoke. “And Marcus ?” I finally asked. “H<* died -of a broken heart, they said.” “And ” “No one ever heard of Malvina again.” A customer came into the place, and llzik rose to wait upon him. He lingered, for an instant, to reply (o any further question that I might ask. But what was there to ask ? I smiled at •Hzik, but my eyes were blurred.