The husband dead and she left with four small children, the woman had to apply to charity. An investigator was sent and she found the family on the verge of starvation. As she was speaking to the applicant an old man, with grey beard and bent shoulders, came in.
"Who is he?"
"My father," the widow answered.
Further questions brought out the fact that the old man had lived in his daughter's house since his wife died; that he was too weak and old to earn his living and consequently fed on his daughter's fare. The investigator insinuated that the old man would have to be placed in a "Home." The widow cried and vowed that she would never part with her father, and the children surrounded their grandfather as though he was in actual danger of his life. The result was to be foreseen. A week's hunger brought the widow to the office, where she agreed to part with her father, so that her children might live.
The old man took no active part in the controversy concerning his future. Apathetic, he wouldsit near the open window and read the Psalms. He said no word when his daughter announced to him what the outcome was. A few minutes later he asked: "When am I to go?" Then he packed his belongings, the "Tefilin" prayer books, and was ready.
Thus are the people of woe ready to wander. He has been in many lands and many a time he has had to leave his abode, go from east to west, north to south.
That very night he slept in the "Home."
Home! the most horrible word for the poor. Home! The whole world calls home the place where one lives. For the poor, the old ones who cannot work any longer, "the Home" is the place where they die. It's the place that stamps them, brands them as eternal paupers. It's the crowning glory of a life of work, manual work. I know you will say: "What else could we do with the poor, incapable of earning their living?" But now come with me down to a few "homes." Don't become ecstatic over the beauty of the lawn in front of the house, nor admire the cleanliness of the kitchen. Come down to look at the men. Do you see this old man there? The one with flowing white beard and bushy eyebrows? That old Jew has made chairs and tables all his life, has made your chair, too, and his neighbour there—the one with trembling hands—he has workedon coats and overcoats, enough for thousands. Look at his hands now. They tremble. Look at your coat. The seam is straight, you want a straight seam. He is here now, in a Home. Look at them all. They have worked all their lives long.
"Come here, old man. What is your trade?"
"A furrier."
"Old man, what is your trade?"
"A tinsmith."
"And yours? and yours? and yours?"
"Tailor, dressmaker, machinist"—every trade is represented.
The veterans of industry. The temple of Invalids.
The widow's father lived there only two months. I saw him buried in the cold ground. An old man from the Home stood near the grave.
"I wish to be buried right here," he said.
"Why?"
"I got used to him—we were neighbours. His bed was next to mine."
"What was the matter with the old Baruch?" I asked.
"The servants did not like him," he answered.
"Was he ill? I mean old Baruch."
"No, the servants did not like him."
"But that's no reason for a man to die!"
The old man looked at me from under hisbushy eyebrows. His look said plainly: "You stupid ass." Then he turned away from me and mingled with the other people. He avoided me when I approached him.
On the next day I visited the Home again. It was meal time. They all sat around a big table, much like the one I had seen at the orphanage. In the orphanage are fatherless children, in the Homes childless fathers. They sat around the table and tried to chew what was on their plates. Their toothless mouths worked in vain. When the superintendent remarked to me that most of them have stomach ailments and I suggested that a dentist examine their teeth the lady could not stifle her laughter. She was herself a woman of sixty and her mouth was in perfect condition—it was the dentist's work of course.
After the meal was over I tried very hard to get some of the old men to talk. They had nothing to say—this was the answer I got from a few.
"Are you satisfied here?" I asked, to which one fine looking old fellow replied:
"It all depends what one expects, you know. In the Talmud is a story how a man, once very rich, was not satisfied with a supper that three poor men together would have been satisfied about."
I humoured the old fellow and got him to walkwith me about the grounds. When out of hearing of the others he told me how the attendants beat every one of them for the slightest infraction of the rules of the house.
"Why don't you complain to the superintendent?" I suggested.
"The ones that do so shorten their lives."
"You mean?"
"Don't ask any further." A man understands closed lips.
In a rolling chair, at the further end of the garden, sat a paralysed old man.
"How are you feeling, Uncle?" I greeted him.
"Fine, fine," he answered. "I am all right, now."
"He is a lucky dog," remarked my companion, the old man of the Talmud story. "He is paralysed all over."
"Do you call that lucky?—man, it's the greatest misfortune."
"Not in a Home," he answered. "The paralysed are like the dead—they don't feel when they are hurt." Once his tongue was loosened the old man went on. "There is an attendant here, a brute. When he gets mad he runs around to find fault with some one, to hit him. Then we all get out of his way. This fellow here, he has a bad stomach. He would always be the scapegoat. My, how he would suffer. Only his legsgot paralysed at first and he had to be turned over in his bed. When that drunkard would get through with him the poor fellow's body was black and blue from pinches and punches. Now he does not feel anything. He punches him and hits and pinches and gets mad to see that the fellow does not feel pain at all."
"Is that true?" I turned to the old man in the rolling chair.
"You bet it's true, and I have my revenge now, to see him get wild. 'Hullo, Harry! Why don't you pinch me a bit. Come on, Harry, have a pinch,' and he gets mad—like a savage."
I see you shake your head. Fiction! Fiction! Then read the letter sent by a young man and a young woman who worked at a "Home" in New York. The letter was printed in "Our Health" of January, 1913. The Institution did not even offer an excuse. Deny, it could not.
"The patients are mistreated, beaten, kicked, insulted," runs the letter. It has two signatures, the man's and the woman's. If this be not true, why did not the Montefiore Home sue the calumniators? But it is true. They keep quiet. They are afraid of revelations. Some old man or old woman might take his last days into his own hands and come out with the truth.
Another old man was punished by the attendant with two days' fast. He sat at the table but wasforbidden to eat. The cause of the punishment was that the old man had soiled the tablecloth.
When visitors come the lawn is shown, the clean kitchen, the beautiful dining room, the spacious rooms. Nothing of the inhuman treatment to which the inmates are subject comes to light. The gross insults: "Beggar, schnorrer, pauper, liar," are not heard then.
One "Home" is under the same roof with an orphan house. Upstairs the children, downstairs the old people, as though it were a prophecy: "Here you start, there you finish."
The callousness of this shows the sentiment of the people supporting the institutions. An old woman, while peeling potatoes, remarked: "All they miss is a dressmaking shop between the floors and a cemetery in the yard and their whole life would stretch before them."
Amongst the people in the Home were two chums of olden days. Moise Hertz and "Bismarck." They knew one another from childhood, were born in the same village in Russia, had gone to the same school (cheder) and were both, later on, with their wives and children, driven from home. Once across the border they drifted apart. Moise Hertz with his family went to Germany and "Bismarck" with his wife and children went to England. Both men were tailors. Moise Hertz's two sons returned to Russia during the revolution. One was hanged; the other is in Sachalin (Siberia). His wife died in New York.
"Bismarck's" son is in Denver, trying to cure himself of tuberculosis. His daughter is blind. His wife is in a Home for women.
The two men had not met for fifteen years, though they both lived in New York a good deal of this time. (When they told one another the stories of their lives they found out that they even worked for a time in the same shop, on different floors.) Then one day, as Moise Hertz filledhis pipe he felt some one looking at him intently. The years are not so kind to the poor as to the rich, especially to poor Jews, but Moise Hertz's eyes were keen and the two old chums embraced and called one another by their first names. "Moise—Abe!" In their joy they even blessed the place where they met. Moise Hertz's loneliness was over. He had somebody to talk to of his younger days. They told one another their misfortunes. All hope for a better to-morrow was gone. They only had the past—a rich past, rich in suffering. Once a week Bassie, Bismarck's wife, would come to visit her husband. The trio would then sit together and figure out how their old friends' children were getting along. "He was born during the second cholera." "No, during the Ritual blood accusation of 'Thisza Esler.'" "No, that's impossible!" Bassie would explain. "My Baruch was three years old then and she married during the Pogrom in Kiev." They would quarrel on such subjects and their parting words would still contain an assurance from Bassie that she knew the right year of Leah's birth.
So passed a full year. The insults of the servants bothered them little. Then one morning Abe Schmenovitz (at that time he was not nicknamed Bismarck) complained to his friend that his armspained him. Moise led his friend to the doctor's room. The man of science had a look and prescribed something. In spite of the medicine the old man's arms became paralysed. From that day on he was attended to by his chum. Moise Hertz would dress and wash him and at meal times he would feed the old cripple like a mother does her baby. Moise never ate before his friend was through with his meal. When the old fellow complained about his lost arms his chum consoled him:
"What's the difference how one does, whether with usable arms or not? I have arms for you—better tell me how you got on in London—a big town?" So he would make his friend forget the sorrows of his actual state by forcing him to recall other sufferings.
For two days Moise Hertz was too ill to attend to his friend. When mealtime arrived the cripple sat before his plate and looked at the food—there was no one to help him. He was very hungry. He dared not ask the attendant to help him, so he bent his head and got hold of a piece of meat with his mouth and while he tried to eat it fell out of his toothless mouth several times. He had to get it again—shook his head and reached further—bespattered himself, his face was coloured with the sauce from the plate. The otherinmates howled and cursed. But the attendant called the whole servantdom to see the show, and they all laughed and laughed.
The institution had a dog called "Bismarck," and Abe Schmenovitz got this nickname from the chambermaid that day. It stuck to him to his last day. For several days the attendants forbade Moise Hertz to feed his friend. They wanted to see the show—a man eating like a dog. The old fellow forgot his real name in the course of time.
When he died the servant announced his death to the superintendent in the following way:
"Bismarck died."
"The dog?" The gentleman sprang from his chair.
"No, the man—sir."
An old couple who had once seen better days and whose only son died of caisson disease after working two months on the laying of the pillars which support the Williamsburg Bridge between New York City and Brooklyn, was supported by organised charity. Rent, coal and three dollars a week for food. For two years they lived on this scant pension, when all at once they were told to give up the flat; two rooms in a basement.
"You will be placed in Homes," was the explanation given. For fifty years these two old people lived together, shared joys and sorrows. They protested, cried, explained—all in vain. Their fate was decided in the office and after the usual test to recalcitrant paupers the two victims submitted. Bed, chairs and table were sold to the secondhand dealer for a few cents, then each of the two took a bundle in one hand, the picture of the dead son in another; one took the car for the north and the other for the east side of the city. The fifty years old bond was broken.
The cause of this act was the desire on the partof the charities to economise. The difference between keeping the old people in their own home and placing them in different Homes was eighty-five cents a month—twenty-one and one-quarter of a cent a week.
It did not take very long before the old man went on that journey whence no man has yet returned, and a few weeks after his wife followed him. There is no doubt that the separation had hastened their deaths. They had been together for fifty years, each growing accustomed to the other's habits and ways. Then, of a sudden, they were torn apart.
Speaking to an official of organised charity I drew his attention to the ridiculous economy realised through separating the old couple. The man looked at me for awhile and as an answer he said: "You are a baby."
A few months later he announced to me: "You know the old fellow—Sig—died, and his wife also."
I wanted to tell him that death was hastened by the criminal stupidity of organised charity, but he went on exulting in his own wisdom.
"Now I hope you will understand that the economy was greater than eighty-five cents a month."
What did he mean? Was it purposely done to hasten their death and save the pension? I cansee no other meaning in his words. But have you ever seen in the papers an advertisement displayed in a prominent place, reading somewhat as follows:
"You are giving to charity; a hundred, a thousand or ten thousand dollars a year. Why not give it to organised charity and then send all the deserving to us? Not a cent is given before a thorough investigation is made by people trained to do the work and who know how. Contribute a regular sum yearly to organised charity. It will save you the annoyance of the outstretched hand and at the same time you will feel that you have done your duty towards the poor of the land."
All the homes I visited, more than twenty, here and abroad, impressed me with the terrible gloom that pervades their walls. It is the misery of a city housed under one roof. It is the pay of a life of toil, wearisome and ill-paid. The inhabitants know that the only issue is to the grave. They are not prisoners. They are free. But in their very freedom is the utter hopelessness of their existence.
"I forgot my name since I am here," an old woman told me. "You see nobody ishimselfhere. You are to be just like the other one. Not one of us to be different. I was an actress once. This here was the audience. Each of us had his place, his work. Now it's all alike."
Another man told me that he did not think the sun ever rose since he was in the institution. By the thousands and thousands, these, our fathers and grandfathers, mothers and grandmothers, whose blood flows in our veins, whose toil we still enjoy, the makers of houses and bridges and machines—they all rot in some prison—a Home—under the pretence of humanity and pity. We don't want them to beg on the street, is the general excuse. Why? At least they would be free. They would not depend on a man or a set of men. They would not be referred to by number and catalogued as cases and treated like dogs. In his "Decay of Beggars," Charles Lamb says:
"Above all, those old blind Tobits that used to line the wall of Lincoln's Inn Garden, before modern fastidiousness had expelled them, casting up their ruined orbs to catch a ray of pity, and (if possible) of light, with their faithful dog guide at their feet—whither are they fled? or into what corners, blind as themselves, have they been driven, out of the wholesome air and sun-warmth? immersed between four walls, in what withering poor-house do they endure the penalty of double darkness, where the chink of the dropped halfpenny no more consoles their forlorn bereavement, far from the sound of the cheerful and hope-stirring tread of the passenger? Where hang their useless staves? and who will farm their dogs? Have the overseers of St. L—— caused them to be shot? or were they tied up in sacks and dropped intothe Thames, at the suggestion of B——, the mild rector of ——?"These dim eyes have in vain explored for some months past a well-known figure, or part of the figure, of a man, who used to glide his comely upper half over the pavements of London, wheeling along with most ingenious celerity upon a machine of wood, a spectacle to natives, to foreigners and to children. He was of a robust make, with a florid sailor-like complexion, and his head was bare to the storm and sunshine. He was a natural curiosity, a speculation to the scientific, a prodigy to the simple. The infant would stare at the mighty man brought down to his own level. The common cripple would despise his own pusillanimity, viewing the hale stoutness and hearty heart of this half-limbed giant. Few but must have noticed him, for the accident which brought him low took place during the riots of 1780, and he has been a groundling so long. He seemed earth-born, an Antaeus, and to suck in fresh vigour from the soil which he neighboured. He was a grand fragment; as good as an Elgin marble. The nature, which should have recruited his left legs and thighs, was not lost, but only retired into his upper parts, and he was half a Hercules. I heard a tremendous voice thundering and growling, as before an earthquake, and casting down my eyes, it was this mandrake reviling a steed that had started at his portentous appearance. He seemed to want but his just stature to have rent the offending quadruped in shivers. He was as the man-part of a centaur, from which the horse-half had been cloven in some dire Lapithan controversy. He moved on, as if he could have made shiftwith yet half of the body portion which was left him. Theos sublimewas not wanting, and he threw out yet a jolly countenance upon the heavens. Forty-and-two years had he driven this out-of-door trade, and now that his hair is grizzled in the service, but his good spirits no way impaired, because he is not content to exchange free air and exercise for the restraints of a poor-house, he is expiating his contumacy in one of those houses (ironically christened) of correction."Was a daily spectacle like this to be deemed a nuisance, which called for legal interference to remove? or not rather a salutary and a touching object to the passers-by in a great city? Among her shoes, her museums, and supplies for ever-gaping curiosity (and what else but an accumulation of sights—endless sights—is a great city? or for what else is it desirable?) was there not room for oneLusus(notNaturae, indeed, butAccidentium?) What if in forty-and-two-years' going about the man had scraped together enough to give a portion to his child (as the rumour ran) of a few hundreds—whom had he injured?—whom had he imposed upon? The contributors had enjoyed their sight for their pennies. What if after being exposed all day to the heats, the rains, and the frosts of heaven—shuffling his ungainly trunk along in an elaborate and painful motion—he was enabled to retire at night to enjoy himself at a club of his fellow cripples over a dish of hot meat and vegetables, as the charge was gravely brought against him by a clergyman deposing before a House of Commons' Committee—was this, or was his truly paternal consideration, which (if a fact) deserved a statue ratherthan a whipping-post, and is inconsistent, at least, with the exaggeration of nocturnal orgies which he has been slandered with—a reason that he should be deprived of his chosen, harmless, nay, edifying way of life, and be committed in hoary age for a sturdy vagabond?"There was a Yorick once whom it would not have shamed to have sat down at the cripples' feast, and to have thrown in his benediction, ay, and his mite too, for a companionable symbol. 'Age, thou hast lost thy breed.'"Half of these stories about the prodigious fortunes made by begging are (I verily believe) misers' calumnies. One was much talked of in the public papers some time since, and the usual charitable inferences deduced. A clerk in the bank was surprised with the announcement of a five-hundred-pound legacy left him by a person whose name he was a stranger to. It seems that in his daily morning walks from Peckham (or some village thereabouts) where he lived, to his office, it had been his practice for the last twenty years to drop his halfpenny duly into the hat of some blind Bartimeus that sat begging alms by the wayside in the borough. The good old beggar recognised his daily benefactor by the voice only, and when he died left all the amassings of his alms (that had been half a century, perhaps, in the accumulating) to his old bank friend. Was this a story to purse up people's hearts and pennies against giving an alms to the blind? or not rather a beautiful moral of well-directed charity on one part, and noble gratitude upon the other?"I sometimes wish I had been that bank clerk."I seem to remember a poor old grateful kind ofcreature, blinking and looking up with his no eyes in the sun."Is it possible that I could have steeled my purse against him?"Perhaps I had no small change."Reader, do not be frightened at the hard word imposition, imposture—give, and ask no questions. Cast thy bread upon the waters. Some have unawares (like this bank clerk) entertained angels."Shut not thy purse-strings against painted distress. Act a charity sometimes. When a poor creature (outwardly and visibly such) comes before thee, do not stay to inquire whether the 'seven small children' in whose name he implores thy assistance, have a veritable existence. Rake not into the bowels of unwelcome truth to save a halfpenny. It is good to believe him. If he be not all that he pretendeth, give, and under a personate father of a family, think (if thou pleasest) that thou hast relieved an indigent bachelor. When they come with their counterfeit looks, and mumping tones, think them players. You pay your money to see a comedian feign these things, which, concerning these poor people, thou canst not certainly tell whether they are feigned or not."
"Above all, those old blind Tobits that used to line the wall of Lincoln's Inn Garden, before modern fastidiousness had expelled them, casting up their ruined orbs to catch a ray of pity, and (if possible) of light, with their faithful dog guide at their feet—whither are they fled? or into what corners, blind as themselves, have they been driven, out of the wholesome air and sun-warmth? immersed between four walls, in what withering poor-house do they endure the penalty of double darkness, where the chink of the dropped halfpenny no more consoles their forlorn bereavement, far from the sound of the cheerful and hope-stirring tread of the passenger? Where hang their useless staves? and who will farm their dogs? Have the overseers of St. L—— caused them to be shot? or were they tied up in sacks and dropped intothe Thames, at the suggestion of B——, the mild rector of ——?
"These dim eyes have in vain explored for some months past a well-known figure, or part of the figure, of a man, who used to glide his comely upper half over the pavements of London, wheeling along with most ingenious celerity upon a machine of wood, a spectacle to natives, to foreigners and to children. He was of a robust make, with a florid sailor-like complexion, and his head was bare to the storm and sunshine. He was a natural curiosity, a speculation to the scientific, a prodigy to the simple. The infant would stare at the mighty man brought down to his own level. The common cripple would despise his own pusillanimity, viewing the hale stoutness and hearty heart of this half-limbed giant. Few but must have noticed him, for the accident which brought him low took place during the riots of 1780, and he has been a groundling so long. He seemed earth-born, an Antaeus, and to suck in fresh vigour from the soil which he neighboured. He was a grand fragment; as good as an Elgin marble. The nature, which should have recruited his left legs and thighs, was not lost, but only retired into his upper parts, and he was half a Hercules. I heard a tremendous voice thundering and growling, as before an earthquake, and casting down my eyes, it was this mandrake reviling a steed that had started at his portentous appearance. He seemed to want but his just stature to have rent the offending quadruped in shivers. He was as the man-part of a centaur, from which the horse-half had been cloven in some dire Lapithan controversy. He moved on, as if he could have made shiftwith yet half of the body portion which was left him. Theos sublimewas not wanting, and he threw out yet a jolly countenance upon the heavens. Forty-and-two years had he driven this out-of-door trade, and now that his hair is grizzled in the service, but his good spirits no way impaired, because he is not content to exchange free air and exercise for the restraints of a poor-house, he is expiating his contumacy in one of those houses (ironically christened) of correction.
"Was a daily spectacle like this to be deemed a nuisance, which called for legal interference to remove? or not rather a salutary and a touching object to the passers-by in a great city? Among her shoes, her museums, and supplies for ever-gaping curiosity (and what else but an accumulation of sights—endless sights—is a great city? or for what else is it desirable?) was there not room for oneLusus(notNaturae, indeed, butAccidentium?) What if in forty-and-two-years' going about the man had scraped together enough to give a portion to his child (as the rumour ran) of a few hundreds—whom had he injured?—whom had he imposed upon? The contributors had enjoyed their sight for their pennies. What if after being exposed all day to the heats, the rains, and the frosts of heaven—shuffling his ungainly trunk along in an elaborate and painful motion—he was enabled to retire at night to enjoy himself at a club of his fellow cripples over a dish of hot meat and vegetables, as the charge was gravely brought against him by a clergyman deposing before a House of Commons' Committee—was this, or was his truly paternal consideration, which (if a fact) deserved a statue ratherthan a whipping-post, and is inconsistent, at least, with the exaggeration of nocturnal orgies which he has been slandered with—a reason that he should be deprived of his chosen, harmless, nay, edifying way of life, and be committed in hoary age for a sturdy vagabond?
"There was a Yorick once whom it would not have shamed to have sat down at the cripples' feast, and to have thrown in his benediction, ay, and his mite too, for a companionable symbol. 'Age, thou hast lost thy breed.'
"Half of these stories about the prodigious fortunes made by begging are (I verily believe) misers' calumnies. One was much talked of in the public papers some time since, and the usual charitable inferences deduced. A clerk in the bank was surprised with the announcement of a five-hundred-pound legacy left him by a person whose name he was a stranger to. It seems that in his daily morning walks from Peckham (or some village thereabouts) where he lived, to his office, it had been his practice for the last twenty years to drop his halfpenny duly into the hat of some blind Bartimeus that sat begging alms by the wayside in the borough. The good old beggar recognised his daily benefactor by the voice only, and when he died left all the amassings of his alms (that had been half a century, perhaps, in the accumulating) to his old bank friend. Was this a story to purse up people's hearts and pennies against giving an alms to the blind? or not rather a beautiful moral of well-directed charity on one part, and noble gratitude upon the other?
"I sometimes wish I had been that bank clerk.
"I seem to remember a poor old grateful kind ofcreature, blinking and looking up with his no eyes in the sun.
"Is it possible that I could have steeled my purse against him?
"Perhaps I had no small change.
"Reader, do not be frightened at the hard word imposition, imposture—give, and ask no questions. Cast thy bread upon the waters. Some have unawares (like this bank clerk) entertained angels.
"Shut not thy purse-strings against painted distress. Act a charity sometimes. When a poor creature (outwardly and visibly such) comes before thee, do not stay to inquire whether the 'seven small children' in whose name he implores thy assistance, have a veritable existence. Rake not into the bowels of unwelcome truth to save a halfpenny. It is good to believe him. If he be not all that he pretendeth, give, and under a personate father of a family, think (if thou pleasest) that thou hast relieved an indigent bachelor. When they come with their counterfeit looks, and mumping tones, think them players. You pay your money to see a comedian feign these things, which, concerning these poor people, thou canst not certainly tell whether they are feigned or not."
The Superintendent, a man of about forty, of good appearance and strong physique, had just assumed his duties. Previously he had been manager of a department store. What recommended him to his new position was his reputation as a stern disciplinarian and strict economist. The first thing he did was to take anexact inventory of the property of the institution, then an approximation of what was necessary for the subsistence of each individual—so much flour, so much salt, so much meat—everything measured and weighed exactly. Instead of saying "so many people" the Superintendent would say "so many mouths." This done he proceeded to deliver to the cook the exact quantity necessary every day—the washerwoman received every week an exact quantity of soap—everything in order, strictly, soldierlike. The old people were compelled to get out and into bed at certain hours, compelled to report on certain days. Everything was very orderly, only the mortality of the inmates increased that year. The auditing committee saw no connection between the regularity and orderly keeping of accounts and the death of the old people. There was another item that did not interest them, namely, what was saved on food was spent on additional help. Not to attend the old people, oh, no! but to keep the lawn and garden in order. The Superintendent was praised. His keeping the things in such fine condition augmented the list of donors. The fund grew. It was invested in real estate, of course! To what other purpose could it be invested! Still another expense was not considered. But it was really a very small one. A few boards of white pine—a grave in Potter's field. A mouthis closed—a name is erased. The cook receives less flour, less sugar.
Ah, the poor, the poor! When they are young they are called "Hands." When they get old they are labelled "Mouths."
If you want to see the product of modern society all at once, have, so to say, a bird's-eye view of centralised misery, go to see a "Home" on visiting day. Look at the expectant faces of the inmates; the ones that have somebody "outside." Cripples, consumptives, idiots, diseased of all kinds pour in one after another. Some bring little bags of fruit and cakes. One interchange was especially interesting to me. In a greasy old newspaper a boy of twelve brought butts of cigarettes and cigars to his old grandfather. In exchange he received a boiled potato and a few lumps of sugar. The transaction over, the young one went his way and the old fellow retired to his room to dry up the remnants of other men's pleasures. This old fellow was held in great esteem by the others. Not every old grandfather could obtain the weed from his grandson. To an old man news was brought that his daughter had died. "When?" he asked quietly. "Yesterday." "Why did you not let me know immediately?" he inquired. "I was very anxious to know. As for us, the sooner we die the better it is."
Those who come to visit "their people" at the Homes depend partially or wholly on charity. No appearances are kept up. Information is given, advice received. What to say, how to behave, where to go. Each class has its wisdom. The paupers have theirs. If the supporters of organised charity could hear what is thought and said about them and their good deeds! Perhaps we would have a few homes less, but also the number of people needing homes would be reduced.
As long as you need "hands," you will produce "mouths."
In previous chapters I have spoken of the "Bureau," and how they procure "help" in time of trouble. The employment department of the charities procure help in time of peace, industrial peace, also. When a man or woman has applied for charity and the investigator judges the applicant fit for work, he is immediately sent upstairs to the Manager of the Bureau, who is telephonically notified about the "customer" and his peculiarities.
"Mr. Gordon—Hello—give him a squeeze about his relations and how long he is out of work—also don't forget to ask him again about his oldest son. He told me that the boy is in the army—of course he is lying. Lazy? Sure."
Thus he is introduced to the Manager of the Bureau. Once upstairs the applicant is taken in hand by this gentleman and "given a squeeze" to see whether all he says tallies with what he had previously told the investigator.
The language used, the insults heaped upon him would stir the blood of any man—prompt him to violence, perhaps, but the applicants have noblood. Overwork, illness, hunger and lastly, the investigator, have turned it into water. Humbly, meekly, the man or woman stands it all; then he is told to come to-morrow at 8A. M.The office only opens to the public at 10. "Why do you have them wait two hours?" I asked the Manager. "Just to get them trained to get up early," he answered. "You know the proverb 'Early to bed and early to rise.'"
Meanwhile they crowd the waiting room and the "real" visitors, the committee, think the Manager very, very busy. The employers that apply for "help" from the charities are the worst ones. Long hours, low wages and the meanest working conditions imaginable.
To learn the situation exactly, I myself applied for a job at a "charity" office. I passed the examination of the Manager and was given a slip with name and address of the employer, a cut glass manufacturer in West 116th Street, and a postal card stamped and addressed to the office. I was to put the missive in a letter box if I were accepted.
The next morning at 7, as per instructions from the Manager, I knocked at the door and gave the office boy the piece of paper from the charities. I had waited a half hour when the foreman, a big, strong brute, measured me up from head to toe, then shook his head, dissatisfied as to my physicalcondition probably, and I was ushered into the office. Another wait, hat in hand. Then the employer wheeled around on his chair, and a new examination started. He was especially anxious to know the time of my arrival in New York. I pretended to be a newcomer, because I knew that he would not employ me were he to know that I was longer than three months in New York. They only want "greenhorns." They hunt for them around "Castle Garden" and in the charities. I satisfied him, and he announced to me the glad news that I was to receive twenty francs a week. He did not say four dollars—he said twenty francs because I told him I was a Frenchman.
The foreman was instructed to put me in the galvanising room. When I entered the shop the fumes of vitriol, ammonia, sulphur and other chemical stuff almost choked me. The foreman had a good laugh at my face, then he placed me in a corner where lay a box of saw-dust. From another corner strips of galvanised metal were thrown to me and I had to dry them up with the saw-dust and pile them in another box which was taken away every time it was full. The fumes and the smoke were so dense that I could not see any of my co-workers until noontime. Then I saw them all, about forty men and women, all "greenhorns," Jews, Italians, Poles, pale, hungry,dirty, ragged, worn out, and all of them coughing—coughing so that the whole street echoed with the thunder of the musketry of the soldiers of modern industry. A half hour for lunch and back to the shop. We worked until 6.30P. M.
I was discharged because I was reported to have spoken English to the caretaker, who pushed me roughly away with his broom when cleaning. Paying me 63 cents for my day's labour the boss called me liar and tramp. I had committed a crime. I spoke English. I was longer than three months in America.
That the working conditions were worse in that factory than elsewhere, where "regular" workingmen are employed, goes without saying. Sixty-three hours a week for pay ranging from three dollars to seven dollars and fifty cents for men and two dollars to four dollars for women. The people working there dare not look at one another, dare not speak, dare not question. They know they are spied upon and reported to the charity office from where they are all helped. And this employer is mentioned very flatteringly for his cooperation with the employment office to "redeem" the sunken poor. In reality, he is plying his murderous trade under the protection of charity. His work would cost him three times as much if he performed it with "regular" men under usual conditions. As a matter of fact, the man startedout with nothing and amassed a fortune in a few years. When a man has reached the top, seven dollars and fifty cents per week, he is discharged as "lazy," and another one at four dollars is started in.
This is not the only factory of the kind. Scores of them grow and thrive under the kind protection of organised charity, to the glory of God and the humane century we live in.
"Dear Sir—You employ a number of men and women in your factory. Labour is very floating nowadays and we know the difficulty employers have to secure the right sort of help. When in need of help, why not ring us up? We always have a number of men and women who would not only be willing to accept any work at all, but who would feel extremely thankful to the one giving them a chance."When you get help from us you know you get the right kind. In addition to that, you assist us in our work of redeeming the poor."Respectfully yours,"————,"Manager of Employment Bureau."P. S.—Right now we have some excellent help for your line."
"Dear Sir—You employ a number of men and women in your factory. Labour is very floating nowadays and we know the difficulty employers have to secure the right sort of help. When in need of help, why not ring us up? We always have a number of men and women who would not only be willing to accept any work at all, but who would feel extremely thankful to the one giving them a chance.
"When you get help from us you know you get the right kind. In addition to that, you assist us in our work of redeeming the poor.
"Respectfully yours,"————,"Manager of Employment Bureau.
"P. S.—Right now we have some excellent help for your line."
This is a copy of a circular letter sent by the employment bureau of an organised charity to the manufacturers. Just think of this fact. One of these little sweatshop owners receiving such aletter when Samuel Gordon, who was getting six dollars a week, takes heart and demands a raise in his wages. Read that letter twice and carefully and see what it means. The employer is actually committing a good deed when he fires one of these men getting seven dollars or eight dollars a week and takes on one sent by the charities. Think of the P. S. "Right now we have a number of excellent help for your line." Tempting! is it not? "And be sure the men we send you are not going to make any trouble—an hour or so more every day and a dollar or so less every week does not stand in the way of the onewilling to work."—This over the phone.
Monday.
When the door is opened more than a hundred people stream in. They have all been waiting outside, some sitting on the stairs, others walking to and fro. Of course, every passer-by notices them and knows who they are, "Applicants for charity."
I have heard that remark many a time when passing by. Fearing I might be taken for one of them I have decided always to wear a flower in the lapel of my coat. They will know that no man who applies for charity wears flowers. I also whistle and sing when I ascend the stairs. The other people, the investigators and office workers don't seem to take precautions in this respect. They take it for granted that no one will think this of them.
Mrs. B., the investigator, calls me aside and tells me of the wonderful play she has seen last night. She is stage struck and is even dreaming of her lost career. Meanwhile, the people, the applicants, crowd the room. I know that severalof them are there to see Mrs. B. and I want to cut our conversation short, but she has buttonholed me and pours out her whole soul. Other investigators arrive and each one goes to her desk to finish up a report. Some of them want to see the manager and report personally on matters of importance. When I got through with Mrs. B. the waiting room is overcrowded. More than fifty women and men are walking around the room, pacing up and down the floor. There are not enough chairs. A young woman sits in a corner, in the darkest spot. She has a black shawl over her head and has drawn it so far over the face that only her eyes are seen. She is ashamed. She does not want to be seen by the others. I would like to know who it is!—would like to see her face—yet every time I pass her she draws the shawl more over her face—what beautiful, lustrous eyes! Where have I seen them? Where? She is in mourning.
It's remarkably quiet to-day. It's so warm. The investigators loll around and tell one another where and how they have passed the week-end, Saturday and Sunday. Mr. Cram comes up and makes an inspection. "We've got some new customers," he remarks to the office boy. "Plenty," the boy answers. I can't help thinking, what will become of that boy? He is so cynical, so stony-hearted, so cruel. Nothing astonishes him,nothing softens him. He makes fun of the most pitiful situation. As he walks to and fro calling the ones wanted by the Manager or bringing the records from the safe, he sneers at all the people in the waiting room. If a woman is in his way, he bows mockingly and hisses out, "My lady is in my way!" Purposely he jolts the men and then he demands excuses.
Of late he has practised spitting at a distance. He takes a good aim at an old man or woman and from a distance of ten to twelve feet he hits his target. When successful he exults—champion of the world—greatest marksman. Of course, he does it secretly. Suddenly you see a man drying his face or cleaning his beard.
The office is in love with the boy. He is the pet. But still, what will become of him? How will he be father, husband, friend? I once asked him: "Say, Sam, what do you like best? What do you do in your free time?" "Oh, nothing in particular," was his answer, while he bit into a fresh piece of chewing gum. "Theatre, base-ball, ice cream?" "No, nothing in particular," he again answered. He is dead to everything. He is blasé. "Yes, Sam, but what do you intend to be when you grow up?" "I will work up here—work up to the top—you understand?" "Yes, but suppose a time comes when there will not be any poor." "Well, Ihope the time will never come," and Sam walks away.
There is a commotion at the door. A woman wants to enter the waiting room without a letter of invitation. She wants to see the Manager. She cries and curses. The janitor puts her out.
The "derelicts" become restless and nervous. It's 10 o'clock. A woman seated near the one with the shawl over her face wants to start a conversation. She answers her very curtly and turns her back. The office boy makes his appearance again. Sam announces that the "Boss" has come and work starts immediately. "Martha Blum"—"Joe Crane"—"Rita Somers"—and every time a name is called the people raise their heads at once. The lucky ones go into the other room to be questioned. Work has started.
In the factories wheels go round, clothes and shoes, and tables and chairs are made—consumptives and unfortunates also. Here, souls are torn, men and women degraded, insulted—that's their work. It's a bedlam. Accusations from one side and cries and appeals for pity from the other. They don't remain long. Still crying they are put out—and others are called in: "George Hand," "Carl Wender," "Gib Ralph," "Margaret Cy"—and others, others wend their way towards the other room.
"The terror" has come. Seeing such a bigcrop, she gets ready the threshing machine. From her room the cries are louder than from any two put together. The applicants also stay longer; she takes delight in their torture. Monday and Friday are her days. A woman has taken a fit. The janitor is called. He drags her out and lays her down in the hall. An old man tries to read the engraved letters above the door. They were once gilded, the gold has partly fallen off and it is difficult to read them. Slowly he reads them out, "Whosoever stretches a begging hand, give and don't question." He shakes his head doubtfully and tries to read the inscription on the other door, "For the poor of the land shall never cease." From the "terror's" room comes a young woman. Her eyes are red and tears run down her pale cheeks. She hurries out as though some one was running after her. What has the "terror" done to her? Look how she runs! I open the door and look after her. How she runs—how she runs. I turn round. The "terror" is near me. She is hurrying—ah! She triumphs. "What happened?" I ask. "She got her medicine—a good strong dose, too." She looks around the waiting room, searching for a victim. She notices the woman with the covered face.
"What is your name?" I don't hear the answer, but the "terror" bids her follow her intothe other room. I listen. The woman has awakened my interest. It's very quiet. The investigator raises her voice a few times but is met with such a quiet, calm answer that it goes on in the ordinary conversational tone for a few minutes. Then I hear the woman cry.
But my attention is called elsewhere. An applicant does not want to get out of the investigator's room. She yells, cries and screams. "I want to see the Manager—I want to see the Manager—I have been put out of my rooms—my children are on the streets." The investigator, Mrs. B., uses force, but the woman holds on at the door. "I want to see the Manager. You can't torture me that way. I want to see the Manager." She screams yet louder. The janitor is called and he does his duty. Takes hold of the woman and puts her out. The woman screams in the street. A policeman is called and the officer gives the woman notice that he will arrest her if she does not desist. She still screams and refuses to go. The door opens and she sees the Manager as he orders her arrest for disturbing the peace. The test is applied. Of course she will be immediately released. The Manager telephones to the station at once that they should release the woman. Mrs. B., the investigator, is walking nervously from one desk to the other.
"That pest—that pest—she would not get out. I will give her a lesson. She will not forget as long as she lives."
"What is the matter?" I inquire.
"For the last six months she bothered me that she wants to move out from where she lives. The rooms are too dark, the walls are damp and all that sort of thing. All she wanted of course was to get out of my district. You know, I keep them pretty well together, in a few blocks. You want to move—well! I gave her the chance of her life. Let her be on the street a few days, then she will know how to appreciate her house."
That old fellow who tried to read the inscription comes up to me, "How long will I have to wait? I have been called for nineA. M.It's half past eleven now."
"I don't know, old man. You just have to wait." He shakes his head and goes back to his place on the bench, and again reads the inscription.
"The terror" has released her victim. Coming out the woman leaves her face uncovered. She has gone one step lower, robbed of the sense of shame. She is young and beautiful. Pale, very pale. Her eyes are red. She cried. She has got to see the Manager. Before entering the sanctum she fixes her stray hair and dries her eyes. "She is green," remarks the office boy."Doesn't know the trade." "Who?" I ask. "The lady in black." He looks around: "Gee—they done quick work."
The investigators are in a hurry to-day. Noon. Only a few employés remain. All the others go to lunch. About forty applicants still in the waiting room. Their names have not been called. The janitor orders them out. Again they throng the street. He drives them off the stairs. They tramp the sidewalk, up and down, and it's so very hot, 96 degrees. I lunch with the others. Mrs. H. still talking about yesterday's show and about that woman that did not want to obey her and get out. They talk shop during lunch. Sam's prowess as a spitting marksman is highly praised. "Champion spitter of the world," Cram proclaims him. "A clever boy." "A sensible boy." "Gay." "Clever, very clever." "He will be a man." "Oh, yes, oh, yes. He will rise high."
Their admiration for Sam is boundless. They recall his repartees on different occasions and how he once cynically remarked to the Manager: "A woman died in the waiting room, sir. Shall I bring you her record? P. B. 9761 is the number." He got his raise not long after that. The Manager was struck by the boy's efficiency and his splendid memory.
"Why," said Mrs. B., "he knows all the records by heart. G. D. 7851 has four children,husband dead, three dollars r. c. cl. Just ask him when you want to know. He will tell it off before you can say a word or consider."
Then from the boy the discussion drifted to the new Manager and his peculiarities and how he compared with the former occupant of his office. "He is too lenient with the people," says Mrs. H. "Wait until he gets fooled good and hard," intervened Cram. "Wait, when he gets fooled a few times and the committee grumble there will be something doing, I tell you."
The lunch finished, only Cram and I returned to the office; the others went to do outside work, investigating. On the way Cram expounded a new theory: The charities to buy an island somewhere and send all the applicants there—women and children separated from men—all to live in one huge building—a big home for the poor. It would cost less, he figured.
"But they would not go—they would not go, the scoundrels!" he lamented. "We are too easy on them. We are really doing bad work. We are encouraging paupers, our rule should be: don't give a cent until the applicant has no other alternative, 'charity or suicide.' But we are all weaklings, sentimental trash!" Thus speaking we arrived at the door of the office. Cram turned his head and pointing to the people walking in front of the building he made a broad sweep withhis hand: "This whole damned pack is the degenerate fringe of our century. We should do away with them and not help them live." These are the sentiments of a superior officer of organised charity. "Say, Cram, why don't you resign your position? You don't like the poor. You don't believe in charity—resign!" "Neither do I like pig iron and I don't believe in love," he answered in bad mood.
What does it mean? I had a smoke with him in his office in the basement. He was very talkative. Spoke about his past and future. He too hopes to reach the top. A good man for the job.
At two o'clock the doors are again thrown open so that I have to go to the waiting room. They must again give up their letters to the janitor. A scuffle again. One fellow wanted to enter without invitation. The janitor insisted that the man go down stairs to Cram's office, while the man wanted to go in. Of course the janitor won out. All the others, the applicants helped him. It's to their interest that there should be one less, they get more quickly through the mill. To-day is committee day. The big room is prepared. The office boy reads roll call to see if all those summoned are present. Then he looks up all the records and places them on the table at the place reserved for the Manager. The people waiting for the investigators are told to go home and cometo-morrow. How they cry! How they cry! They know what that to-morrow means. It may mean a week and more. Meanwhile the pension is suspended, the children are hungry. "To-morrow at nineA. M.big sale of ladies' underwear," Sam announces. The ones with letters for the committee remain in the room. Not very long, though. Automobiles stop before the door and the gentlemen are immediately at work.
One after another the applicants are called in. Their records and the investigators' are read and a new cross-examination starts. "What is the matter with you, Erikson? A young woman like you to apply for charity. It's a shame."
"But, sir, I have been ill." The Manager stops her impatiently.
"What about your children, Erikson?" One of the gentlemen says: "Hadn't you better give them to a Home and then be free and go to work, as a servant or something. We could easily get you a place, you know."
"I would not separate from the children, they are too small." The mother, a young Scotch woman, defends her offspring. The gentlemen look at one another a few seconds, then Mr. R., the chairman, gets up and yells at her:
"You would not? Hein, you would not? We too, would not. How do you like it? What do you want with your three small kids? Hereis a special place for them. The Orphan House. That settles it."
And he sits down again and looks into another record. The mother wants to speak, argue, beg. "That settles it." She is shown the door. I follow her outside. She remains at the door for a few minutes thinking hard. Then she braces up, stamps her feet, and says very loud, "No, I won't, I won't, I won't give them up." She goes away.
Another man is called. He is a consumptive and very weak. He is even offered a chair and asked to sit down. He wants to go to Colorado. They are not very brutal to him. He gets the fare and a few dollars extra. "Good luck." "Thank you."
A few more are expedited very rapidly. Most of them are denied any help, but the chairman is very "soft" to-day. It's very hot and he perspires heavily. The boy calls out a name and an old woman comes in. She has a very dignified appearance and takes exception when she is not politely addressed by the chairman. He always takes delight in insulting those who are of better appearance.
"Sir," the woman says, "in a moment of distress I have applied for charity and I am given insults. I have been called three times here andwhat have you done for me? Nothing. Is that charity?"
"Nothing! Nothing!" screams the chairman, and wipes the perspiration from his brow, "and what is that? Here we sit and sweat ourselves to death for you. Do we get anything for that?"
"Neither did I," the woman retorts. But the Manager is on his feet in a second, he tears the application, opens the door and pushes her out. "Get out, get out, and quick," and though the woman is going out, the janitor helps her descend the stairs.
The Manager returns to the committee room. "Yes, that's what we have to put up with!"
"What impudence," says one. "That's what it has come to," says another. "Pretty soon they will request upholstered chairs."
"I would have had her arrested," pipes out a stupid old degenerate who never says a word. They keep on talking that way.
"Shall we continue?" the manager asks.
"Not to-day," the chairman says, "it's too hot. Not until next week. They say that they don't get anything from our work, see how they will get along without it." He again wipes off his brow and goes out first. The others follow him. The Manager accompanies them to the stairs. The automobiles disappear.
Is there no way to finish it all? It's noon time now, and since nine o'clock this morning I have heard cries and screams and curses. I have seen tears, tears, tears. The investigators are worse than tigers to-day. They are all taking revenge on the poor for yesterday's occurrence, and Sam is surpassing himself. He spits again at one. I wish it happened that his "greeting" fell on me. I would beat him to within an inch of his life. Why does not one of the applicants twist that boy's neck! They are finished. They have no blood. Water flows in their veins.
No sooner did the doors open than one of the applicants had a fit. Mrs. H., pretending the woman faked, began to curse her.
Mrs. H. jumped at one of the women and called out loudly: "What do you want here? You will not get a cent. Get out or I will have you arrested." The woman began to cry and tear her hair, but Mrs. H. yelled, "Get out, get out," and called the janitor to do his charitable work. As though Mrs. H.'s temper wascontagious, all the other investigators were horrible. Mrs. B. and Mrs. D. and Cram and Sam, and even that slip of a girl, that cripple with short arms like a kangaroo, treated the poor as though they had all committed the worst of crimes. That girl is only six weeks on the job. She is a brute now. No wonder! with such good teachers. The women sat on the benches and moaned and cried and tore their hair. That woman who had a fit came back to her senses. She got three dollars and was sent home. Mrs. H. protested. She still insists that it is all a fake. "Almost every applicant could throw a fit," she said; "one, two, three and they are down on the floor." Sam said that he has a new business plan: a school of epilepsy, ten dollars for the complete course. They could earn money with such a trade. It was the worst half-day I remember, and it was very hot.
Really it could be called the "Garden of Tears." All the eyes are red and cold sweat covers the face of every applicant. As Mrs. B. passed by the woman in black who had her face covered with her shawl she tore it down and yelled: "We want to see your sweet face, madame. If you are ashamed to show yourself there is no need to come here at all."
All the colour was gone from the woman's face. She looked more like a ghost than a human being.Her face and lips white. Her sunken eyes black, her mourning clothes accentuated the picture. She sat motionless for a few minutes then she covered her face again and went out slowly. I followed her to the door. She hesitated about which direction to take. Several times she retraced her steps as if she wanted to return to the waiting room, but she finally decided to go toward Fourteenth Street. I saw her stop before a window and dry her eyes with her handkerchief. She then disappeared down Fourteenth Street. "What will become of her?" I thought. "She has two small children, two small girls. If the mother is in the street what will become of the children?" Why did that brute force her to show her face? That's what she always does. When I once asked her why she goes around to the neighbours of an applicant and announces that "So and so belong to the charities," she answered me, "Whoever is ashamed should not beg." She would brand them on the forehead with a hot iron.
I don't see why the Anti-Trust Law could not be applied to organised charity! They have made a "trust in pity," and are now treating the producers and consumers as they like.
That woman Erikson, who said yesterday, "I won't, I won't give them up," stood at the door more than an hour. She was not let in. Her letter was taken away yesterday. Now she willhave to make out another application and wait for an answer. The committee only meets next week. I went out and asked her whether she had decided to give the children to an orphan home.
"No, I won't," she answered, "but I wanted to see these gentlemen and see whether I could not soften their hearts. We could live on so little—on so little," she pleaded.
"It's of no use," I told her. "You can't soften their hearts. They are made of rock."
"Then what can I do?" she asked, crying.
"Anything you want, or you don't want, but don't come around here. The less you show yourself here the better for you."
She looked at me in a funny way. What did she think of me anyhow? Who knows what sense she gave to my words! God knows. I don't know what people will think when they read this. If they only knew what I know. There is no place on earth to duplicate this one. Nowhere can you hear and see what you hear and see here. The walls and pictures and benches and floors, everything is soaked in tears.
The Erikson woman got hold of the Manager on the stairs while he was going to his lunch. She cried. He listened to her very attentively, then he answered in that silky voice of his, "You put the chairman in a very bad temper yesterday, but I will do my best for you. Call next week." Shewanted to say something but he strode away with such majesty! It's of no use, I foresee. She will give her children and they will place her somewhere as a servant. There is a great demand for domestic help. The domestic help problem is filling the columns of the daily papers. The office will do its best to solve the problem.
I had a conversation with the janitor. He told me that the job disgusts him and if times were better he would throw it up. I thought for a moment that he meant the brutality of the investigators, but no. He says that these scoundrels, paupers, are yelping too much. He can't eat his dinner in peace. He lives with his wife and children in the building. What will become of his children? The sights they see every day! They understand it all. His little girl, a child of seven, calls the people "delelicts." "Papa, quick, adelelictthrew a fit," she called out yesterday when coming from school for lunch. The father was upstairs. There is an old man coming every Tuesday for his two dollar pension. Sam announced him as the "dean." It can't be Sam's expression. He must have heard it from some one else of the staff. The cashier, perhaps! She is the daughter of the "terror." A true child, no mistake possible. She never pays out a cent without a remark. If it's five dollars she says, "One hundred times for the movies." If it's tendollars, "Sale at Wanamaker's, latest style French hats $9.98." "If it were in my power," she once told me, "they would never get cash. Bread, and meat and vegetables, but not a cent of cash."
Strange they are always afraid lest the poor have too much joy! They would like to see them always crying, kneeling, begging. Before going for lunch, Cram had a long chat with the cashier. They are on very good terms. Mrs. B. even hinted at a secret engagement between the two. What a difference in their voices when they speak to one another and when they speak to applicants! It seems to me very strange to see them smile or laugh. I never thought them capable of that. I would like to see them cry once. Some spiritual pain, or a brick to hit them, and then to see them cry. Why not? They have drawn enough from the fountain of suffering—the eyes of the poor.
After the lunch hour I was given the address of Mrs. Erikson and told to reinvestigate her case. She has made an impression on the manager. He is not quite so brutal as his subordinates. He knows that charity is not solving the question of poverty and he doubts all the investigators. But he can't help it. The current of the old established system is too strong for him. As a matter of fact they are all working against him. Not openly, of course. They are continuallyintriguing and plotting one against the other. The women are Machiavellis in petticoats. Every move is spied, reported. They even investigate privately.
I visited Mrs. Erikson. The usual thing. Have I grown callous? I don't seem to notice the difference between one case of poverty and any other. Even their talk does not interest me as before. I anticipate everything: two months back rent; owe eight dollars to grocer; one dollar and fifty cents to the coalman; gas bill, etc. They all owe back rent and the grocer and the coalman, the gas bill. Their rooms are all alike. Beds, table and chairs. They even look alike. Their original features are stamped out by the seal of charity. Their voices are alike, speaking in a subdued minor key of the same pitch and the same pleading inflection.
Her husband had been a longshoreman. He must have been a beautiful specimen of manhood. She showed me his picture, a blond giant. He died of Bright's disease. The two little girls resemble their father very much. I remember that Mrs. H. doubted the morality of an applicant because the child did not resemble his father. The woman probably likes to read good books, I saw Bjoernson Bjornson's novels on the mantelpiece. She gets her books from the library in Grand Street; I saw the stamp. I don't knowwhat to write in my report. The woman can't go out to work. She has to attend to the children. She does not want to separate from them. She even hinted at suicide. I know she will not do it. There was no bread in the house. I left her a few cents. The neighbours help her out, but they are all poor people. I am sure that the chairman will not allow her any pension. She will have to give her children to the orphan home. I even tried to convince her that it is the best she could do. But she cried so much!
It is terrible. No escape. However, I make my report; it will not help her in the way she wants. She has antagonised the chairman and he is not a forgiving man. And to think that he represents Christ on earth! He is Charity! I know that he is one of the worst employers. He crushes every strike with an iron fist. He has stopped at nothing yet. He contributes an enormous sum to organised charity. Is that payment for the pleasure they give him of torturing the poor?
I cannot eat, nor sleep. The cries of the day echo in my ears. When I try to close my eyes I see a woman throwing a fit or how they force one out. I always fear that Sam is aiming a "greeting" at me. The whole day long the image of the woman in black directing herself towards Fourteenth Street pursued me. How pale shewas! Where is she now? Drunk in some back room of a saloon, a few men around her; and she laughs and cries. Early in the morning she will return to the children and buy bread and milk with the price of a night's degradation. How that brute tore the shawl from her face! "Show your sweet face, madame. If you are ashamed to show yourself there is no need to come here at all." When a young woman has lost her shame why should she beg? It's midnight now. I can't sleep. Where is she now? Where are they all? All those organised charity has driven to the street. Come out! Show your accusing finger. And the ones driven to an early grave. Come and show yourselves. Line up before the building. When the morning comes and the sun shines let the people see you in broad daylight. From your fleshless mouths cry "Murderers"! and let the whole world echo with your cry.