By Ben Hecht
The sun was shining in the dirty street.
Old women with shapeless bodies waddled along on theirway to market.
Bearded old men who looked like the fathers of Jerusalemwalked flatfooted， nodding back and forth.
“The tread of the processional surviving in Halsted Street，”
thought Moisse， the young dramatist who was moving with thecrowd.
Children sprawled in the refuse-laden alleys. One of themragged and clotted with dirt stood half-dressed on the curbingand urinated into the street.
Wagons rumbled， filled with fruits and iron and rags andvegetables.
Human voices babbled above the noises of the traffic.
Moisse watched the lively scene.
“Every day it’s the same，” he thought； “the same smells， thesame noise and people swarming over the pavements. I am theonly one in the street whose soul is awake. There’s a prettygirl looking at me. She suspects the condition of my soul. Herfingers are dirty. Why doesn’t she buy different shoes？ Shethinks I am lost. In five years she will be fat. In ten years shewill waddle with a shawl over her head.”
The young dramatist smiled.
“Good God，” he thought， “where do they come from？ Whereare they going？ No place to no place. But always moving，shuffling， waddling， crying out. The sun shines on them. Therain pours on them. It burns. It freezes. To-day they are brightwith color. To-morrow they are gray with gloom. But they arealways the same， always in motion.”
The young dramatist stopped on the corner and lookingaround him spied a figure sitting on the sidewalk， leaningagainst the wall of a building.
The figure was an old man.
He had a long white beard.
He had his legs tucked under him and an upturned tatteredhat rested in his lap.
His thin face was raised and the sun beat down on it， but hiseyes were closed.
“Asleep，” mused Moisse.
He moved closer to him.
The man’s head was covered with long silky white hair thathung down to his neck and hid his ears. It was uncombed. Hisface in the sun looked like the face of an ascetic， thin， finelyveined.
He had a long nose and almost colorless lips and the skinon his cheeks was white. It was drawn tight over his bones，leaving few wrinkles.
An expression of peace rested over him—peace and detachment.
Of the noise and babble he heard nothing. His eyes wereclosed to the crowded frantic street.
He sat， his head back， his face bathed in the sun， smilelessand dreaming.
“A beggar，” thought Moisse， “asleep， oblivious. Dead. Allday he sits in the sun like a saint， immobile. Like one of theold Alexandrian ascetics， like a delicately carved image. He isawake in himself but dead to others. The waves cannot touchhim. His thoughts， oh to know his thoughts and his dreams？”
Suddenly the eyes of the young dramatist widened. He waslooking at the beggar’s long hair that hung to his neck.
“It’s moving，” he whispered half aloud. He came closer andstood over the old man and gazed intently at the top of his head.
The hair was swaying faintly， each separate fiber movingalone....
It shifted， rose imperceptibly and fell. It quivered andglided....
“Lice，” murmured Moisse.
He watched.
Silent and asleep the old man sat with his thin face to the sunand his hair moved.
Vermin swarmed through it， creeping， crawling， tiny andinfinitesimal.
Every strand was palpitating， shuddering under their mysteriousenergy.
At first Moisse could hardly make them out， but his eyesgradually grew accustomed to the sight. And as he watched hesaw the hair swell like waves riding over the water， saw it dropand flutter， coil and uncoil of its own accord.
Vermin raised it up， pulled it out， streaming up and downtirelessly in vast armies.
They crawled furiously like dust specks blown thick throughthe white beard.
They streamed and shifted and were never still.
They moved in and out， from no place to no place， butalways moving， frantic and frenzied.
An old woman passed and with a shake of her head droppedtwo pennies into the upturned hat. Moisse hardly saw her. Hesaw only the palpitating swarms that were now facing， easilyvisible， through the gray white hair.
Some ventured down over the white ascetic face， crawling inevery direction， traveling around the lips and over the closedeyes， emerging suddenly in thick streams from behind thecovered ears and losing themselves under the ever movingbeard.
And Moisse， his senses strained， thought he heard a noise—afaint crunching noise.
He listened.
The noise seemed to grow louder. He began to itch but heremained bending over the head. He could hear them， like afaraway murmur， a purring， uncertain sound.
“They’re shouting and groaning， crying out， weeping andlaughing，” he mused. “It is life ... life....”
He looked up and down the crowded burning street with itsfrantic crowd， and smiled.
“Life，” he repeated....
He walked away. Before him floated the hair of the beggarmoving as if stirred by a slow wind， and he itched.
“But who was the old man？” he thought.
A young woman， plump and smiling， jostled him. He felt hersoft hip pressing against him for a moment.
A child running barefoot through the street brushed againsthis legs. He felt its sticky fingers seize him for an instant andthen the child was gone. On he walked.
Three young men confronted him for a second time. Hepassed between two of them， squeezed by their shoulders.
A shapeless old woman bumped him with her back as sheshuffled past.
Two children dodged in and out screaming and seized hisarm to turn on.
The young dramatist stopped and remained standing still，looking about him.
Then he laughed.
“Life，” he murmured again； and
“I am the old man，” he added， “I ... I....”
