His Better Half
From his bed he saw that the streets were still dark and deserted. It was very cold in the room. He felt inclined to remain under the quilt, but he was too restless to sleep, for his mind was busy with a plot for a sketch, and he could not banish it from his thoughts. He rolled out of bed, dressed himself, and drew near the table.
But he thought, Why not heat the room? He could hardly hold the pen firmly, and the words came sluggishly, and if the room were a trifle warmer the children would be more comfortable and probably would not awake for some time. He glanced toward his wife who slept with the children, and remembered that she had said to him the evening before, "Thank God, it is warm now, but what shall we do for a fire to-morrow?" There was not a coal or a piece of wood in the house, the coal-box was empty; and he had no money.
He sighed and prepared to write.
But he could not recall what it was he had intended to write. He dipped his pen in the ink again and again, but not one word came to his relief. He was bound to think of his poverty. How difficult it was for him to provide for his family. "Oh Lord," he murmured, "how can a fellow get along without money? How can children be happy when the room is bleak and cold, very little to eat and no prospects?"
He decided to dun his patrons again, insist that they pay him. It was like
pulling teeth to get anything from them. He actually had to beg, as if he had not earned the money.
He dipped the pen into the ink once more, but it was useless. He could not warm the lost idea to life; there was no inspiration in it.
Suddenly, out of the darkness came a brilliant idea. Why not describe the difficulties of Jewish journalism, its meanness, its grinding poverty, its sordidness, its tyranny. He had lived in it for a number of years, had toiled patiently for recognition and revenue, and now was bound to cry out to the Mistress whom he had passionately loved in his Youth, "A plague take you, dissembler!"
He wrote upon the sheet of paper:
"The street was dark and still deserted. A rickety lamp stood on the table near his bed and it flickered with a faint light. The journalist——"
The child began to cry, and the mother's arm reached out from under the quilt to rock the cradle. But the child would not be quieted and soon cried lustily. The mother moaned and stretched her limbs and muttered, "Oh Master of the World, she gives me not one moment's peace, not even at night!"
The writer's heart beat fast. Would she turn and sleep again and not observe him? He silently continued to trace letters on the paper with his face turned away, hoping that she would not see him.
But she opened her eyes wide and saw