The Seventh Night



VENING, when all old heads are lost in shadows, had come. Street after East Side street dissolved fold on fold of ugliness and filth in the soft dimness of the twilight. The streaming people were touched by the witchcraft of the City's white night and were beautiful. About a bench in the Playground Park were gathered nine old men. Some sat, some leaned over the back, some stood in front; a red handkerchief stuck from the pocket of one; another, in shirtsleeves and slippers, had on a plush cap and a pair of steel spectacles, his beard was soft and gray; some carried canes; some showed folds of flesh in the back of their big necks; most of them wore battered old derbies.

They were a noble gathering. In the melting folds of the twilight one could see Walt Whitman and Ruskin, Adam and Moses, Longfellow and Tolstoi, with big broad faces, fat noses and flowing beards, grandly conferring—a peaceful lot, looking as if life were closing upon them very tenderly—their last round being loo deep for noise. These were men full of the human—each brain-cell in the old skulls storing up some face, some street, some pang of love, some dream or deed to be drawn on in rich afternoons of talk with their friends—men who had known all of life—not widely, as one far-traveled, but deeply as one who lives on ten streets and sounds deep down into their twenty thousand souls and their passing generations.

"Walt Whitman"—big broad old god, fat cheeked, fat nosed, a genial peaceful lover of men, women and children—sat in the center, His name was Ben Labor. His mild rich voice was raised continuously; his big face-encircling beard foamed luminously over his open shirt; his big blue eyes were clear and beaming. His sweet strong masculinity was in his face.

Their talk? Old times, the changes that have been on earth, the "I-remembers" of age, the intimate notes on families, the up-swinging of new generations, glories that were, glories to be, and they, sitting a little to one side to watch the ranks tramp by, they, sitting on their harvests and mildly wailing the close of golden Indian Summer, and Sleep.

The lamp-lighter snapped back a little door on the f-shaped electric-light pole, turned a switch and a blue glamour daubed the flowing beards; a crowd circulated about them; the night deepened into a starriness of Heaven and Earth, the City flashing back to the sky a luminous Milky Way; the great City, a zone of glow, busy with black human gnats. Peace lay on the Earth soft as light; the old men talked; the ranks tramped by.

Then a gir1 of eight snaked her way quickly through the man-density, her skinny legs flying, her bright brown-eyed face pale with laughable wonder and terror. She was big with news so important that she had to grin, it being very dramatic to bear it. She edged her way to the old men, she pushed in to the knees of Ben Labor, she disregarded his mild greeting and spoke breathlessly, grinning insanely:

"Say, Grandpa, Martha, she's terrible sick —she's going to die—sure—fell down on the floor and kicked—she's talking crazy, too. Mamma says come quick, Martha's sure dying."

She looked at his face to see the effect, almost laughing with the part she was playing. She was disappointed. The old men, including the old god, shook their heads as if to say: "Such is life: we know: nothing surprises us any more," and old Ben Labor arose:

"So, Hilda-chen (little Hilda dear)," he murmured. "Come: we will go home to Martha."

He took her hand and they walked through the circling crowd. He did not bother the girl with questions, knowing beforehand what answers she could give. He said in Yiddish:

"So, you went to school to-day, little one?"

The child replied in tart English, skipping at his side:

"Sure! Where else should I go?"

"And what does Hilda-chen learn in school?"

"Why, I learns everything teacher learns me. What do you think?"

The reply drove his mind down the Alley of the Years, and he contrasted the children of now and then. Into his deaf ears the girl poured a jargon about the glory of teacher and what she could do and the two went over the busy gutter of Canal Street and down the shop-lit pavement and among the flicker and flash of men and women.

They stopped before a little sunken restaurant, two deep windows of plate-glass either side an open door, and took two steps down. Inside flamed four naked gas-lights above small bare tables and a sawdust floor. A sprinkle of men and women sat at the tables chatting excitedly in the golden radiance. All looked up as the old man and the child entered and gazed at them significantly.

The old man led the child to a back door which he pushed open. They stepped into a weird scene. A tiny gas-light flickered in one corner next an open window through whose iron grating one could see the rear-tenement lights beyond. In a double bed lay a girl of eighteen, flat, hands playing with each other, lips muttering and gasping, and over the bed leaned a wild crying little group, Mrs. Lefcovitz, the Mother, Mr. Lefcovitz, the Father, Jennie, the waitress and Mrs. Khasan, the banker's wife. They all moaned and cried to each other. The Mother tried to draw words from Martha and momently turned, crying:

"She is crazy! She is dying!"

Hilda began to shriek with fright. Ben Labor spoke loudly:

"Minnie—have you sent for the Doctor?"

The Mother turned, bound her arms about Ben Labor's neck and cried hysterically:

"Oh, she dies; they would send her to the hospital, but I said: 'Nicht schicken zum Hospital, da störbt Sie!' (Don't send her to the hospital, she would die there.) Hospital? They cut her throat there. O God, now we have troubles! The Lord punishes! What, Father, shall we do,—we poor Jews?"

And Samuel Lefcovitz raised his voice:

"And she, our pride, Martha! I, too, loved her! Oh, it's terrible— it's terrible— terrible!—"

Ben Labor spoke with authority:

"Be still! You will all kill her with fear and noise; be still! Did you send for the Doctor?"

Mrs. Khasan spoke shrilly:

"Ya! we did send for Dr. Rast. He comes right away."

And even then the door opened and the big dark form of the Doctor hovered through. There was a hush at once.

"Good evening!" he murmured, searching the room with his kindly glance. "Where is our little patient?"

He went to the light and turned it big; he set down his satchel and stepped over to the bed. He leaned close, softly feeling a wrist, In the light his dark hair glistened, his eyes sparkled. His busy, cool, professional manner was reassuring and calming. They stood breathlessly aside, watching him.

At first glance, he was astounded by the beauty of the girl. He had not seen her for a year, and she had matured; her curly hair and her eyes were a shining blue-jet, her face rounded, her neck gracefully curved. There was something of the burning desert, the far-East in that face, mixed with the sorrow of a thousand wander-years and the rush and buoyancy of a new free land. It was a Jewish type. But a moment later, he forgot the face in marking the symptoms. A deep red flush was in the center of each cheek; the expression of the face was weird with a mixture of anxiety and apathy; the eyes were brilliant; the nostrils dilated; the breath came in short expiratory grunts. A barely perceptible pulse beneath his fingers raced at a terrible speed; she was in high fever and all the time she mumbled wild snatches of incoherence. His limbs seemed to get cold; the blood left his cheeks. In a flash he saw what he alone was facing.

He turned quickly to the Mother who stood opened-mouthed.

"How long has she been sick?"

"Och, long!" she moaned. "A whole week."

"Chills?"

"Much, terrible; she wake up all stiff and then shake all the time."

"Did she stay in bed?"

The woman shook her head:

"No,—she? She's got a mind of her own. She walks around, fights, talks, goes out. No one could make her go to bed."

He looked swiftly over the group to see what help he could muster.

"Mr. Lefcovitz," he said sharply, "run to the druggist and get—" he broke off in despair, crazy for lack of time, pulled out a pad and pencil, scribbled: "Tank of oxygen—at once," and handed the sheet to the Father. "Get this," he said sharply. "It's big, like a soda-water tank; you know, big, steel, heavy; bring it as quickly as you can. Run!"

The man hesitated, scratching his head, but finally turned and hurried out. The Doctor spoke to blear-eyed frail twisted Jennie, the waitress:

"Whisky, Jennie, whisky! Run!"

She rushed out in a wild fierce fright that loaded down her legs. The Doctor turned to the others:

"Now—out, all of you—quick!"

The Mother clutched his sleeve:

"Oh, Doktor, liebe Doktor!" she began, "don't let Martha die; I gif you a hundred dollars, güte Doktor"

"Mrs. Lefcovitz," he cried in an agony, "trust me. We can't spare a minute. I'll do everything."

And then, suddenly, a strange face appeared before them, a strange unshaven hairy brown face, an intelligent face with sharp brown eyes and curly brown hair and long jaw. It was young William Wolf, the reporter on the Jewish News, a boy of twenty-three. He looked strangely pale, his lips shut tight, a weird light in his eyes. He stepped to Doctor Rast and seized his coat-lapel.

"Doctor, " he whispered in an intense thrilling tone, "you tell me—the truth! How is she?"

The Doctor, gazing at that soul that stood naked and in agony in the boy's face, understood. He swallowed hard to let words through his throat. He clutched William by both arms:

"William, here's the truth. She has pneumonia; this is the seventh night, the crisis night; it's a fight, a terrible fight—and then, God knows! Brace up, William, help me!"

The boy trembled in the Doctor's hands. A strange sound broke rumbling up his throat and through his lips.

"Martha?" he cried. "Martha?" He broke loose; he flung himself down at the bed-side. "Oh, Martha!"

The terrible sight brought a wild wail from the Mother; Mrs. Khasan coughed in her handkerchief; Hilda sobbed hysterically and Ben Labor looked sad as a god who loves man. The Doctor hesitated a moment.

Then Ben Labor spoke, raising Both hands:

"William, this is acting like a child. This is selfish. Where is it written that she is yours, more than God's? Get up; we need help."

The boy staggered blindly ta his feet and sought the Mother's breast.

"Forgive me," he sobbed, "forgive me. Oh, Mutter, Mutter, my life is her life,—let me die"

"Ach, my boy, my boy!" wailed the Mother. "We have many troubles now."

Dr. Rast spoke again:

"William, keep yourself steady; I need you. And now all—out! I must be alone!"

"Oh, güte Doktor," began the Mother.

Ben Labor took her arm:

"Come, child, we will go out!"

The old god led the distracted women away, but William broke loose, hesitated, turned and waited till they were gone. Then wildly he took two steps to the bed again and suddenly he was Romeo bending above the sheeted body of Juliet in the torch-lit vault of the Capulets. But she lay, her young body heaving under the white cover, her eyes wide and shiningly sightless, her cheeks flushed scarlet, her blue-jet ringlets tossing, her lips uttering mad sounds. The boy stooped and clutched a convulsive hot hand and smothered it at his mouth; he bent nearer and gazed into her eyes, close to her lips.

"Martha!" he whispered. "Martha! Don't you know me, don't you see me? Martha, it's William. You must live for us, us,—Martha"

The Doctor leaned and seized the boy by the arm and slowly drew him up. William broke out wildly:

"She's mine! If she dies to-night, I'll go with her. We'll go on together, married forever. God! see how beautiful she is" "William!" cried the Doctor harshly, "do you want to kill her? Think of her Mother, her Father—of all of us! Come—come"

He led the boy to the door. William turned madly for a last look, cried out and rushed into the restaurant. The Doctor, with hand on knob of the closed door, stood for a moment with that sense of paralysis that comes of being helpless and pushed for time. Then he flung his coat on a chair; he rolled up his sleeves; he ripped off his collar and relieved his neck; he opened his satchel. As he stood for another terrible moment, the door gratingly opened and frightened Jennie shambled in with a glass full of whisky. Poor Jennie! she was watery and dim and thin of face, big ugly teeth. bleary eyes, flat hair, and gnarly thin of body. Tears flowed down hep cheeks.

"Here," she said. "Is it enough?"

Gazing on that big glassful, he smiled and nodded, yes, and she shambled out again, softly closing the creaking door. He held the glass in one hand and stepped to the bed-side. He took a deep breath to brace himself. He faced the fight. He realized all.

Only once before, when the little Grabo girl had died under his hands within half an hour, had be been summoned in to battle pneumonia at so critical a stage. He alone was aware of what he had to face; one of the most terrible, most dangerous, most treacherous diseases. He knew the odds were on the side of Death. He saw vividly that little frail child who had gone out like a flame quenched; he remembered the rising rush of pulse and temperature; the fight to turn the tide; the sudden turn; the drop, and then—heart-failure. It might have been otherwise, though not through any struggle of his. Was this to repeat that pitiful case? At the final moment, after all has been done that can be done, was the body of its own accord to stop dead, or was it to become normal,—was there to be Death or a sudden sweat and sleep? And this was the seventh night; he realized it all.

He glanced a moment at the flushed beautiful face, at the playing feverish hands, the brilliant unseeing eyes. Then, quickly, he pushed an arm under her neck, lifted her bead and forced a swallow of whisky through the lips. At once Martha shrieked in delirium and began to fight and bite. He had to set down the glass and force her arms to her side. The door opened and the Mother, the Father and William wildly staggered in.

The Doctor flew toward them in a blaze of anger.

"Get out!" he cried. "And don't dare to open this door. You are killing her." They drew back, moaning and wailing. Then the Doctor spoke sharply:

"Here, give me the tank, Mr. Lefcovitz. Now get me some cracked ice, a sponge, a towel—water—water! Quick!"

He seized the tank and pushed them out, closing the door. He drew the lank to the bed, put the rubber glass-tipped tube to one of the girl's nostrils and applied the oxygen. She gasped, grunted, breathed heavily and began to cry out again. A moment later the Mother brought ice and sponge, towel and water. And then the routine of the fight was established. Strive as he would, he could not keep the family outside. In characteristic fashion, the wild emotionalism of the race, they kept rushing in to see what changes had taken place and whether the girl were dead or alive. But despite these breaks, the confusion, the worrying cries, he held to his course. It ceased to be a personal matter. The girl on the bed was merely an organism, a mere body. He watched it closely, following heart and pulse action, the flickering of the temperature, the change of expressions. Every ten or fifteen minutes he applied oxygen. He replaced ice-bag with ice-bag. He sponged the face and limbs with cold water. He administered stimulants. Not for a moment was he idle. His face was white and dripped sweat. His back and arms ached unendurably. He flung himself back to the fight time and again, now recoiling exhausted, dazed, nerve nearly lost, now hurling himself back with every ounce and grain of power in him. After a terrible hour, the wild delirium became constant and he fought only as a modern Doctor can fight. He fought with exactness, with mad energy, with heroic purpose. The body of Martha fought back; there were attempts to leap out of bed; there were piercing shrieks; the fevered brain seemed to see strange apparitions and cried out to them; the worried lips held weird conversations with the empty air; the face was staring wild.

But he fought on—and on—and on—at times almost exhausted, almost despairing. At one moment he longed to turn and fly; he hated his profession; he wanted to give in and let the body have its way. At the next he flung back into the fight with terrible intensity. And somewhere, as the time went on, in his mind he could see beyond the moment, see the turning point, the drop—and beyond that the specter of Death. How long would it last? How long would he last? He felt already that he had reached the limit of his power.

And outside in the little restaurant room, as the night deepened and the streets stilled, there was a queer scene. The air of the place became thick with the sleep of the City around it—thick, drowsy, hushed. Everyone moved about in the one dim light with sick-room silence, padded footsteps. Little Hilda lay cuddled up in a corner, asleep. Mrs. Khasan and the customers had gone home. The Mother and Father and Jennie sat about a table near the upper end; the Mother leaning over and sobbing at intervals or raising her head to listen; the Father stupefied and large-eyed; Jennie rocking back and forth in a rhythm of hopeless terror. At the lower end, on either side a small table, with ketchup, pickles and horse-radish between them, sat Ben Labor, large in his chair, and William, head on his outstretched arms. They were a lot of shadowy humans in a deep glassed-in, dim-lit room, little distracted atoms of the race lost to the great thick warm world that slumbered about them. The city always has some such mid-night room.

Now and then there was the rattle of a car in the empty street or the far horn on the foggy river; now and then through the closed door came the noise of the fight—a heart-rending scream, a sound as of wrestling and then, silence. Each time, all looked up, a wail of anguish broke from the Mother, and William gasped as if the audible pain were his. They were a bowed broken group, save that Ben Labor sat upright, very mild and very sad.

There had been a great cry within, the poor soul struggling to get through the flesh.

"Ben Labor," muttered William, "I can't sit still. I can't sit out here while she is in torture—in Hell. I can't! I won't!"

"William," murmured Ben Labor, "you can do nothing—but be wise and patient. You are learning to-night."

"Learning what?" cried, the boy in scorn, "You can say that, you—but I, working so ard to make our little home, worshiping her with my heart and soul—," he deepened his voice and clenched his fist, "loving her—loving her—oh, my God, my God—," he laughed harshly. "God? There isn't any! Or He wouldn't make a creature, an angel like her suffer so!"

"Hush!" Ben Labor raised his hand. "Boy, I have laid away one I loved as you love Martha and three I loved as you cannot dream." He tapped his heart. "Father-love, father-love! Ach! ach! ach! Three, bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, soul of my soul. Ah, what know you of grief, of sorrow, of life, of death, of God? Live back my eighty years with me and—learn!"

He bent near, laying a cool hand on the boy's hot one.

There was a fresh outcry. William lifted his head, gnashed his teeth, almost hissed:

"I don't care for your sorrows. Here am I, living, young, hot-blooded; how can you feel what I feel, how can you know my agony? At my age, were you calm about it? Did you sit still? God! it's so easy to talk! But I—I—I who have worked so, scraped so, dreamed—dreamed so—putting together penny after penny, working night and day, loving her—and she—loving me, waiting for me each night, smiling on me; we in our little world; just us in it, just we two! My God, Ben Labor," he cried out in his moment of agony, "how many nights have I not sat  here, while the city around us was asleep and  she hovered near, waiting on me, stealing up land putting an arm about my neck, touching these my lips—" He flung his head on his bands. "Oh!"

Ben Labor laid a hand on the curly blown head and smiled sadly:

"Peace! peace! This is one of your great nights; my life was full of them; they leave us calm and holy and ripe for God."

The old man slowly arose and spoke so that all heard turn.

"We must have something to eat. To eat in sorrow is to be sane. I will scramble some eggs, no?"

No one spoke and be shuffled across the room and out a side door and they heard him descend, painfully shuffling step by step, down into the kitchen cellar. Then, from beneath them, came the clatter of tins and pans in the drowsy silence.

The inner door creaked very sharply and William with a cry leaped up and rushed over. The Doctor peered out, his face ghastly, he spoke in a broken weak whisper, as if effort were too much:

"More ice, William—damn you, quick!"

William turned frantically, with a cry, and rushed across the room to the cellar-door. His feet thumped down. The clattering stopped. They heard the softened cries of Martha and beneath them the cracking of the ice. It was as the cracking of their hearts.

The cellar-door was flung open again, William burst in, a big bowl in his arm. The staggering, trembling Doctor took it.

"For God's sake," whispered William, "tell me how she is"

"It's—it's—" The Doctor seemed suffocating. "The crisis.

He closed the door. In the little room the light still blazed big; the girl in the bed still struggled. The Doctor applied ice again, and the then as he held and marked the pulse he felt the rapid, terrifying change. Down—down it went; slower and slower and weaker. He could barely feel it flutter. He laid his head softly against the heart, and it barely throbbed, He stood up and waited breathlessly, gazing deeply into the unseeing brilliant eyes. The head tossed weakly now back and forth, showering slowly the blue-jet ringlets; the splendid neck curved slightly; the grunting gasps came horribly. The great moment was at hand.

It was one of the moments he remembered and carried with him like a battle-scar. He realized all that was at stake. He could dimly feel the sweet story of first love, the hopes, the dreams, the work; he could feel then what his wife Nell meant to him; he knew that Martha's family worshiped her, that she was the life and glory of the place; her smile their starriness, her word their authority. And then he felt for the young life throbbing and gasping before him, the young girl with all of life before her; all the glories, the dreams to be unfolded and made real, all the tremendous experiences to be gone through, the wifehood, motherhood, the old age, the love and pain, the joy and toil,—the human round. She was beautiful, beautiful, she was so young, so fresh, so ready to carry on the evolution of the race, so ready to mould the future. And was she to go now? Was this to be the end of all? Who could tell? He had done all that he—all that Science could do; he was torn and shattered, nerveless and broken. He could do no more. The battle was passing out of his hands. He had been a single man holding a mountain pass against an army. His strength and ammunition were spent. His hands were failing him. And now, helpless, breathless, hoping against hope, holding his ground, he waited and waited for the far thunder of reinforcements. He almost looked around the dim room to see if they were coming. They might come or they might not—those invisible forces of Nature, those powers within the Power. It was as if the little room awaited the presence and sweep of God. It was as if the clay lay there waiting for God Himself. The poor human tool was cast aside.

And yet outside were those waiting for his word; there were those who trusted in him. They had given this precious soul into his keeping. Would he return it to them, safe and sweet and living and sound?

He could only stoop and feel the pulse again.

He felt it. He stared hard, keeping his lips tight. His torn heart beat a wild alarm. There was so little pulse, hardly a stir, barely more than cold limp flesh in his hands. In an agony he stooped, and laid his head again upon the heart. There was a faint, a pausing flutter. The eyes were glazed and wide and meaningless.

He staggered back, pressing his hand on his heart. He could not lose this way, he could not let her go. He closed his eyes in horror, alone there in the room, alone in all the world, no human help, no human word, no human comfort. The reinforcements were not coming. He pressed his forehead. He wanted to cry out. He stooped again to look, to bravely, heroically look, to face the last of the fight. Then he would muster up the shreds of his soul and tell those that waited.

He stooped again, so wild of brain, that he could not detect a flutter, a sound. The body was cold, suspended in senselessness. He could not withdraw his hand. He himself now became icy cold from head to foot.

And then suddenly—bursting his heart within him, strangling his throat—under his hand broke a sweet sweat. He leaped back; he looked; the lips began to move; the breath came evenly; the eyes closed; the head turned a little from the light. Martha lay in a sweet deep sleep.

She was safe. He had won. She was healed; she was asleep. His eyes went blind. He did not know what he did but actually he got on his knees and put his head on the bed and he, the big man, sobbed like a little child.

"Oh, God!" he sobbed, "dear God, dear God!"

He arose in a dream; he clattered together his things and put them in his satchel; he covered his hot body with hat and coat; he went staggering, tumbling in a trance to the door. It seemed like twenty minutes before he set it ajar and passed through. There was a wild leaping up, a quick crying and crowding.

He smiled idiotically:

"She's—she's—all right," he half sobbed and laughed. "Martha's all right—she's safe—she's well—she's asleep"

There was a wild outcry from every throat. The Mother girdled him with her arms, emptying her full heart in tears and words of love. The Father gave a groan as if his spine had broken, doubled up in a chair and wailed. William tried to hold his breath, to keep down that hysterical heaving in his breast. Instead, he flung himself on the floor and sobbed—sobbed—as if his heart were broken in two. And the Doctor crazily cried with them all.

Only Ben Labor stood silent. Then he spoke mildly, raising a hand:

"Children, it is the moment of dawn!"

They turned, and lo, in the empty street outside the plate-glass, gray, shimmering, soft, the misty Dawn came trembling through the air.