Part 27 (1/2)
The Shalotten _Shammos_ sceptically pa.s.sed a pear to his son. Old Gabriel Hamburg, the scholar, came compa.s.sionately to the raconteur's a.s.sistance.
”Rabbi Solomon Maimon,” he said, ”has left it on record that he witnessed a similar funeral in Posen.”
”It was well she buried it,” said Karlkammer. ”It was an atonement for a child, and saved its life.”
The Shalotten _Shammos_ laughed outright.
”Ah, laugh not,” said Mrs. Belcovitch. ”Or you might laugh with blood.
It isn't for my own sins that I was born with ill-matched legs.”
”I must laugh when I hear of G.o.d's fools burying fish anywhere but in their stomach,” said the Shalotten _Shammos_, transporting a Brazil nut to the rear, where it was quickly annexed by Solomon Ansell, who had sneaked in uninvited and ousted the other boy from his coign of vantage.
The conversation was becoming heated; Breckeloff turned the topic.
”My sister has married a man who can't play cards,” he said lugubriously.
”How lucky for her,” answered several voices.
”No, it's just her black luck,” he rejoined. ”For he _will_ play.”
There was a burst of laughter and then the company remembered that Breckeloff was a _Badchan_ or jester.
”Why, your sister's husband is a splendid player,” said Sugarman with a flash of memory, and the company laughed afresh.
”Yes,” said Breckeloff. ”But he doesn't give me the chance of losing to him now, he's got such a stuck-up _Kotzon_. He belongs to Duke's Plaizer _Shool_ and comes there very late, and when you ask him his birthplace he forgets he was a _Pullack_ and says becomes from 'behind Berlin.'”
These strokes of true satire occasioned more merriment and were worth a biscuit to Solomon Ansell _vice_ the son of the Shalotten _Shammos_.
Among the inoffensive guests were old Gabriel Hamburg, the scholar, and young Joseph Strelitski, the student, who sat together. On the left of the somewhat seedy Strelitski pretty Bessie in blue silk presided over the coffee-pot. n.o.body knew whence Bessie had stolen her good looks: probably some remote ancestress! Bessie was in every way the most agreeable member of the family, inheriting some of her father's brains, but wisely going for the rest of herself to that remote ancestress.
Gabriel Hamburg and Joseph Strelitski had both had relations with No. 1 Royal Street for some time, yet they had hardly exchanged a word and their meeting at this breakfast table found them as great strangers as though they had never seen each other. Strelitski came because he boarded with the Sugarmans, and Hamburg came because he sometimes consulted Jonathan Sugarman about a Talmudical pa.s.sage. Sugarman was charged with the oral traditions of a chain of Rabbis, like an actor who knows all the ”business” elaborated by his predecessors, and even a scientific scholar like Hamburg found him occasionally and fortuitously illuminating. Even so Karlkammer's red hair was a pillar of fire in the trackless wilderness of Hebrew literature. Gabriel Hamburg was a mighty savant who endured all things for the love of knowledge and the sake of six men in Europe who followed his work and profited by its results.
Verily, fit audience though few. But such is the fate of great scholars whose readers are sown throughout the lands more spa.r.s.ely than monarchs.
One by one Hamburg grappled with the countless problems of Jewish literary history, settling dates and authors, disintegrating the Books of the Bible into their const.i.tuent parts, now inserting a gap of centuries between two halves of the same chapter, now flas.h.i.+ng the light of new theories upon the development of Jewish theology. He lived at Royal Street and the British Museum, for he spent most of his time groping among the folios and ma.n.u.scripts, and had no need for more than the little back bedroom, behind the Ansells, stuffed with mouldy books.
n.o.body (who was anybody) had heard of him in England, and he worked on, unenc.u.mbered by patronage or a full stomach. The Ghetto, itself, knew little of him, for there were but few with whom he found intercourse satisfying. He was not ”orthodox” in belief though eminently so in practice--which is all the Ghetto demands--not from hypocrisy but from ancient prejudice. Scholars.h.i.+p had not shrivelled up his humanity, for he had a genial fund of humor and a gentle play of satire and loved his neighbors for their folly and narrowmindedness. Unlike Spinoza, too, he did not go out of his way to inform them of his heterodox views, content to comprehend the crowd rather than be misunderstood by it. He knew that the bigger soul includes the smaller and that the smaller can never circ.u.mscribe the bigger. Such money as was indispensable for the endowment of research he earned by copying texts and hunting out references for the numerous scholars and clergymen who infest the Museum and prevent the general reader from having elbow room. In person he was small and bent and snuffy. Superficially more intelligible, Joseph Strelitski was really a deeper mystery than Gabriel Hamburg. He was known to be a recent arrival on English soil, yet he spoke English fluently. He studied at Jews' College by day and was preparing for the examinations at the London University. None of the other students knew where he lived nor a bit of his past history. There was a vague idea afloat that he was an only child whose parents had been hounded to penury and death by Russian persecution, but who launched it n.o.body knew. His eyes were sad and earnest, a curl of raven hair fell forwards on his high brow; his clothing was shabby and darned in places by his own hand. Beyond accepting the gift of education at the hands of dead men he would take no help. On several distinct occasions, the magic name, Rothschild, was appealed to on his behalf by well-wishers, and through its avenue of almoners it responded with its eternal quenchless unquestioning generosity to students. But Joseph Strelitski always quietly sent back these bounties. He made enough to exist upon by touting for a cigar-firm in the evenings. In the streets he walked with tight-pursed lips, dreaming no one knew what.
And yet there were times when his tight-pursed lips unclenched themselves and he drew in great breaths even of Ghetto air with the huge contentment of one who has known suffocation. ”One can breathe here,”
he seemed to be saying. The atmosphere, untainted by spies, venal officials, and jeering soldiery, seemed fresh and sweet. Here the ground was stable, not mined in all directions; no arbitrary ukase--veritable sword of Damocles--hung over the head and darkened the suns.h.i.+ne. In such a country, where faith was free and action untrammelled, mere living was an ecstasy when remembrance came over one, and so Joseph Strelitski sometimes threw back his head and breathed in liberty. The voluptuousness of the sensation cannot be known by born freemen.
When Joseph Strelitski's father was sent to Siberia, he took his nine-year old boy with him in infringement of the law which prohibits exiles from taking children above five years of age. The police authorities, however, raised no objection, and they permitted Joseph to attend the public school at Kansk, Yeniseisk province, where the Strelitski family resided. A year or so afterwards the Yeniseisk authorities accorded the family permission to reside in Yeniseisk, and Joseph, having given proof of brilliant abilities, was placed in the Yeniseisk gymnasium. For nigh three years the boy studied here, astonis.h.i.+ng the gymnasium with his extraordinary ability, when suddenly the Government authorities ordered the boy to return at once ”to the place where he was born.” In vain the directors of the gymnasium, won over by the poor boy's talent and enthusiasm for study, pet.i.tioned the Government. The Yeniseisk authorities were again ordered to expel him.
No respite was granted and the thirteen-year old lad was sent to Sokolk in the Government of Grodno at the other extreme of European Russia, where he was quite alone in the world. Before he was sixteen, he escaped to England, his soul branded by terrible memories, and steeled by solitude to a stern strength.
At Sugarman's he spoke little and then mainly with the father on scholastic points. After meals he retired quickly to his business or his sleeping-den, which was across the road. Bessie loved Daniel Hyams, but she was a woman and Strelitski's neutrality piqued her. Even to-day it is possible he might not have spoken to Gabriel Hamburg if his other neighbor had not been Bessie. Gabriel Hamburg was glad to talk to the youth, the outlines of whose English history were known to him.
Strelitski seemed to expand under the suns.h.i.+ne of a congenial spirit; he answered Hamburg's sympathetic inquiries about his work without reluctance and even made some remarks on his own initiative.
And as they spoke, an undercurrent of pensive thought was flowing in the old scholar's soul and his tones grew tenderer and tenderer. The echoes of Ebenezer's effusive speech were in his ears and the artificial notes rang strangely genuine. All round him sat happy fathers of happy children, men who warmed their hands at the home-fire of life, men who lived while he was thinking. Yet he, too, had had his chance far back in the dim and dusty years, his chance of love and money with it. He had let it slip away for poverty and learning, and only six men in Europe cared whether he lived or died. The sense of his own loneliness smote him with a sudden aching desolation. His gaze grew humid; the face of the young student was covered with a veil of mist and seemed to s.h.i.+ne with the radiance of an unstained soul. If he had been as other men he might have had such a son. At this moment Gabriel Hamburg was speaking of paragoge in Hebrew grammar, but his voice faltered and in imagination he was laying hands of paternal benediction on Joseph Strelitski's head.
Swayed by an overmastering impulse he burst out at last.
”An idea strikes me!”