THouGn not comparable in literary skill or power with the
Ghetto studies of Mr. Zangwill, Mr. Lessing's fragmentary sketches, in spite of their sordid surroundings and generally sombre tone, have a directness of appeal—the result of their artless sincerity—that is curiously engrossing. They are almost exclusively concerned with the life of the poor Polish or Russian Jews in the East Side of New York, dwellers in the tenement houses, and working for starvation wages in sweating dens. Many of these little dramas are played to a constant accompaniment of the whirr and roar of sewing machines ; of leisure and the amenities of life, of fresh air and the open country, there is never even a momentary glimpse. But though the brutalising influence of drudgery, want, and oppression is not overlooked, the writer's outlook is essentially romantic. He would never admit the accuracy of the saying—once applied by a Jew to his poor co-religionists —" We have been trodden into the dirt, and dirt we have become." In the lowest depths of squalor and degradation he is always able to discover some unexpected evidence of chivalry, self-sacrifice, or gentleness. Indeed, it may be said that the poorer the Jew the finer the qualities, in Mr. Lessing's view, which he displays. As Mr. Lessing's subjects emerge from poverty his attitude becomes more critical, and at times tinged with a certain satirical raillery. He has little sympathy for the Jew who sacrifices traditions and neglects religious observances when he finds they interfere with social advancement or money-making. Thus there is a touch of the grotesque in the story of the well- to-do storekeeper who, merely to spite his wife for insisting on having one room in her house repapered, determined to get drunk for the first time in his life, but was betrayed by intoxication into various acts of needless and costly extravagance which nearly drove him mad when he regained his sobriety. Purely farcical, again, is the sketch called "A Swallow-Taller for Two," recounting the disastrous experiences of two parsimonious Jews, president of the Montefiore Society and vice-president of the Baron Hirsch Literary Association respectively, who decided to share the hire of one dress suit on the occasion of the two Puiim balls given on the same night by the rival Societies. There is no lack of humour, though of a somewhat primitive sort, in these sketches, nor is Mr. Leasing ever inclined to spare the shortcomings of his race ; but on the whole we prefer him when he is moved by the spirit of sympathy, compassion, or admiration. It is no small proof of his sincerity that within the limits of a few pages, and without reliance on the corroborative effect of circumstantial details, he is able by a few bold yet simple strokes to lend vitality to the outlines of a fantastic plot. In this vein there is nothing finer than the opening tale, " The End of the Task," which tells how a poor workman, to solace the last hours of his dying sweetheart, steals a landscape by Corot from a public exhibition. We may quote the last act of this poignant little drama in its entirety :.—
"‘ There the wicked cease from troubling ; and there the weary be at rest. There the prisoners rest together ; they hear not the voice of the oppressor. The small and the great are there; and the servant is free from his master.' It is written in Israel that the rabbi must give his services at the death-bed of even the lowliest. The coffin rested on two stools in the same room in which she died ; beside it stood the rabbi, clad in sombre gar- ments, reading in a listless, mechanical fashion from the Hebrew text of the Book of Job, interpolating here and there some time- worn commonplace phrase of praise, of exhortation, of consola- tion. He had not known her ; this was merely part of his daily work. The sweatshop had been closed for an hour; for one hour the machines stood silent and deserted; the toilers were gathered around the coffin, listening to the rabbi. They were pale and
• Children of Men. By Bruno Leasing. London : W. Blackwood and Sons, ps. net.]
gaunt, but not from grief. The machines had done that. They had rent their garments at the neck, to the extent of a hand's breadth, but not from grief. It was the law. A figure that they had become accustomed to see bending over one of the machines had finished her last garment. Dry-eyed, in a sort of mild wonder, they had come to the funeral services. And some were still breathing heavily from the morning's work. After all, it was pleasant to sit quiet for one hour. Someone whispered the name of Braun, and they looked around. Braun
was not there. He will not come,' whispered one of the men. 'It is in the newspaper. He was sent to prison for three years. He stole something. A picture, I think. I am not sure.' Those who heard slowly shook their heads. There was no feeling of surprise, no shock. And what was there to say He had been one of them. He had drunk out of the same cup with them. They knew the taste. What mattered the one particular dreg that he found? They had no curiosity. In the case of Nitza, it was her baby who was dying because she could not buy it the proper food. Nitza had told them. And so when Nitza cut her throat they all knew what she had found in the cup. Braun hadn't told—but what mattered it? Probably something more bitter than gall. And three years in prison? Yes. To be sure. He had stolen something. Wherefore is lightt given to him that is in misery,' droned the rabbi, and life unto the bitter in soul : Which long for death, but it conwth not; and dig for it more than for hid treasures ; Which rejoice exceedingly, and are glad, when they can find the grave?' And the rabbi, faithful in the performance of his duty, went on to expound and explain. But his hearers could not tarry much longer. The hour was nearing its end, and the machines would soon have to start again ..... . . It is an old story in the Ghetto, one that lovers tell to their sweethearts, who always cry when they hear it. The machines still roar and whirr, as if a legion of wild spirits were shrieking within them, and many a tear is stitched into the garments, but you never see them, madame—no, gaze as intently upon your jacket as you will, the tear has left no stain. There is an old man at the corner machine, grey-haired and worn, but he works briskly. He is the first to arrive each morning, and the last to leave each night, and all his soul is in his work. His machine is an old one, and roars louder than the rest, but he does not hear it. Day and night, sleeping and waking, there are a hundred thousand machines roaring away in his brain. What cares he for one more or one less ?"
It is only right to add that the note of hopelessness is by no means uniformly sounded in the tragic idylls of which the volume is largely made up. The writer clearly believes that no amount of privation, misfortune, or oppression is able to destroy in the true sons of his race the qualities which make for inner peace and resignation.
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