Part 14 (2/2)

He had a kindly sense of human frailty. Jews are very fond of telling stories against themselves--for their sense of humor is too strong not to be aware of their own foibles--but they tell them with closed doors, and resent them from the outside. They chastise themselves because they love themselves, as members of the same family insult one another. The secret is, that insiders understand the limitations of the criticism, which outsiders are apt to take in bulk. No race in the world possesses a richer anecdotal lore than the Jews--such pawky, even blasphemous humor, not understandable of the heathen, and to a suspicious mind Pinchas's overflowing cornucopia of such would have suggested a prior period of Continental wandering from town to town, like the _Minnesingers_ of the middle ages, repaying the hospitality of his Jewish entertainers with a budget of good stories and gossip from the scenes of his pilgrimages.

”Do you know the story?” he went on, encouraged by Simcha's smiling face, ”of the old Reb and the _Havdolah_? His wife left town for a few days and when she returned the Reb took out a bottle of wine, poured some into the consecration cup and began to recite the blessing. 'What art thou doing?' demanded his wife in amaze.' I am making _Havdolah_,'

replied the Reb. 'But it is not the conclusion of a festival to-night,'

she said. 'Oh, yes, it is,' he answered. 'My Festival's over. You've come back.'”

The Reb laughed so much over this story that Simcha's brow grew as the solid Egyptian darkness, and Pinchas perceived he had made a mistake.

”But listen to the end,” he said with a creditable impromptu. ”The wife said--'No, you're mistaken. Your Festival's only beginning. You get no supper. It's the commencement of the Day of Atonement.'”

Simcha's brow cleared and the Reb laughed heartily.

”But I don't seethe point, father,” said Levi.

”Point! Listen, my son. First of all he was to have a Day of Atonement, beginning with no supper, for his sin of rudeness to his faithful wife.

Secondly, dost thou not know that with us the Day of Atonement is called a festival, because we rejoice at the Creator's goodness in giving us the privilege of fasting? That's it, Pinchas, isn't it?”

”Yes, that's the point of the story, and I think the Rebbitzin had the best of it, eh?”

”Rebbitzins always have the last word,” said the Reb. ”But did I tell you the story of the woman who asked me a question the other day? She brought me a fowl in the morning and said that in cutting open the gizzard she had found a rusty pin which the fowl must have swallowed.

She wanted to know whether the fowl might be eaten. It was a very difficult point, for how could you tell whether the pin had in any way contributed to the fowl's death? I searched the _Sha.s.s_ and a heap of _Shaalotku-Tshuvos_. I went and consulted the _Maggid_ and Sugarman the _Shadchan_ and Mr. Karlkammer, and at last we decided that the fowl was _tripha_ and could not be eaten. So the same evening I sent for the woman, and when I told her of our decision she burst into tears and wrung her hands. 'Do not grieve so,' I said, taking compa.s.sion upon her, 'I will buy thee another fowl.' But she wept on, uncomforted. 'O woe!

woe!' she cried. 'We ate it all up yesterday.'”

Pinchas was convulsed with laughter. Recovering himself, he lit his half-smoked cigar without asking leave.

”I thought it would turn out differently,” he said. ”Like that story of the peac.o.c.k. A man had one presented to him, and as this is such rare diet he went to the Reb to ask if it was _kosher_. The Rabbi said 'no'

and confiscated the peac.o.c.k. Later on the man heard that the Rabbi had given a banquet at which his peac.o.c.k was the crowning dish. He went to his Rabbi and reproached him. '_I_ may eat it,' replied the Rabbi, 'because my father considers it permitted and we may always go by what some eminent Son of the Law decides. But you unfortunately came to _me_ for an opinion, and the permissibility of peac.o.c.k is a point on which I have always disagreed with my father.'”

Hannah seemed to find peculiar enjoyment in the story.

”Anyhow,” concluded Pinchas, ”you have a more pious flock than the Rabbi of my native place, who, one day, announced to his congregation that he was going to resign. Startled, they sent to him a delegate, who asked, in the name of the congregation, why he was leaving them. 'Because,'

answered the Rabbi, 'this is the first question any one has ever asked me!'”

”Tell Mr. Pinchas your repartee about the donkey,” said Hannah, smiling.

”Oh, no, it's not worth while,” said the Reb.

”Thou art always so backward with thine own,” cried the Rebbitzin warmly. ”Last Purim an impudent of face sent my husband a donkey made of sugar. My husband had a Rabbi baked in gingerbread and sent it in exchange to the donor, with the inscription 'A Rabbi sends a Rabbi.'”

Reb Shemuel laughed heartily, hearing this afresh at the lips of his wife. But Pinchas was bent double like a convulsive note of interrogation.

The clock on the mantelshelf began to strike nine. Levi jumped to his feet.

”I shall be late for school!” he cried, making for the door.

”Stop! stop!” shouted his father. ”Thou hast not yet said grace.”

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