Part 42 (2/2)

”Thou art not angry with me, father?”

”No, Hannah. But thou shouldst have told me from the first.”

”I always meant to, father. But I feared to grieve thee.”

”Wherefore? The man is a Jew. And thou lovest him, dost thou not?”

”As my life, father.”

He kissed her lips.

”It is enough, my Hannah. With thee to love him, he will become pious.

When a man has a good Jewish wife like my beloved daughter, who will keep a good Jewish house, he cannot be long among the sinners. The light of a true Jewish home will lead his footsteps back to G.o.d.”

Hannah pressed her face to his in silence. She could not speak. She had not strength to undeceive him further, to tell him she had no care for trivial forms. Besides, in the flush of grat.i.tude and surprise at her father's tolerance, she felt stirrings of responsive tolerance to his religion. It was not the moment to a.n.a.lyze her feelings or to enunciate her state of mind regarding religion. She simply let herself sink in the sweet sense of restored confidence and love, her head resting against his.

Presently Reb Shemuel put his hands on her head and murmured again: ”May G.o.d make thee as Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah.”

Then he added: ”Go now, my daughter, and make glad the heart of thy mother.”

Hannah suspected a shade of satire in the words, but was not sure.

The roaring Sambatyon of life was at rest in the Ghetto; on thousands of squalid homes the light of Sinai shone. The Sabbath Angels whispered words of hope and comfort to the foot-sore hawker and the aching machinist, and refreshed their parched souls with celestial anodyne and made them kings of the hour, with leisure to dream of the golden chairs that awaited them in Paradise.

The Ghetto welcomed the Bride with proud song and humble feast, and sped her parting with optimistic symbolisms of fire and wine, of spice and light and shadow. All around their neighbors sought distraction in the blazing public-houses, and their tipsy bellowings resounded through the streets and mingled with the Hebrew hymns. Here and there the voice of a beaten woman rose on the air. But no Son of the Covenant was among the revellers or the wife-beaters; the Jews remained a chosen race, a peculiar people, faulty enough, but redeemed at least from the grosser vices, a little human islet won from the waters of animalism by the genius of ancient engineers. For while the genius of the Greek or the Roman, the Egyptian or the Phoenician, survives but in word and stone, the Hebrew word alone was made flesh.

CHAPTER XIX.

WITH THE STRIKERS.

”Ignorant donkey-heads!” cried Pinchas next Friday morning. ”Him they make a Rabbi and give him the right of answering questions, and he know no more of Judaism,” the patriotic poet paused to take a bite out of his ham-sandwich, ”than a cow of Sunday. I lof his daughter and I tell him so and he tells me she lof another. But I haf held him up on the point of my pen to the contempt of posterity. I haf written an acrostic on him; it is terrible. Her vill I shoot.”

”Ah, they are a bad lot, these Rabbis,” said Simon Wolf, sipping his sherry. The conversation took place in English and the two men were seated in a small private room in a public-house, awaiting the advent of the Strike Committee.

”Dey are like de rest of de Community. I vash my hands of dem,” said the poet, waving his cigar in a fiery crescent.

”I have long since washed my hands of them,” said Simon Wolf, though the fact was not obvious. ”We can trust neither our Rabbis nor our philanthropists. The Rabbis engrossed in the hypocritical endeavor to galvanize the corpse of Judaism into a vitality that shall last at least their own lifetime, have neither time nor thought for the great labor question. Our philanthropists do but scratch the surface. They give the working-man with their right hand what they have stolen from him with the left.”

Simon Wolf was the great Jewish labor leader. Most of his cronies were rampant atheists, disgusted with the commercialism of the believers.

They were clever young artisans from Russia and Poland with a smattering of education, a feverish receptiveness for all the iconoclastic ideas that were in the London air, a hatred of capitalism and strong social sympathies. They wrote vigorous jargon for the _Friend of Labor_ and compa.s.sed the extreme proverbial limits of impiety by ”eating pork on the Day of Atonement.” This was done partly to vindicate their religious opinions whose correctness was demonstrated by the non-appearance of thunderbolts, partly to show that nothing one way or the other was to be expected from Providence or its professors.

”The only way for our poor brethren to be saved from their slavery,”

went on Simon Wolf, ”is for them to combine against the sweaters and to let the West-End Jews go and hang themselves.”

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