Part 48 (1/2)

”Will to-morrow this time suit thee?”

”As honey a bear.”

”Good, then!” said Pinchas; ”I shall not fail.”

The door closed upon him. In another moment it reopened a bit and he thrust his grinning face through the aperture.

”Ten per cent. of the receipts!” he said with his cajoling digito-nasal gesture.

”Certainly,” rejoined the actor-manager briskly. ”After paying the expenses--ten per cent. of the receipts.”

”Thou wilt not forget?”

”I shall not forget.”

Pinchas strode forth into the street and lit a new cigar in his exultation. How lucky the play was not yet written! Now he would be able to make it all turn round the axis of the besom. ”It shall be all besom!” His own phrase rang in his ears like voluptuous marriage bells.

Yes, it should, indeed, be all besom. With that besom he would sweep all his enemies--all the foul conspirators--in one clean sweep, down, down to Sheol. He would sweep them along the floor with it--so--and grin; he would beat time to their yells of agony--so--and laugh; he would beat them over the heads--so--and roar; he would lean upon it in statuesque greatness--so--and thrill; he would sweep away their remains with it--so--and weep for joy of countermining and quelling the long persecution.

All night he wrote the play at railway speed, like a night express--puffing out volumes of smoke as he panted along. ”I dip my pen in their blood,” he said from time to time, and threw back his head and laughed aloud in the silence of the small hours.

Pinchas had a good deal to do to explain the next day to the actor-manager where the fun came in. ”Thou dost not grasp all the allusions, the back-handed slaps, the hidden poniards; perhaps not,” the author acknowledged. ”But the great heart of the people--it will understand.”

The actor-manager was unconvinced, but he admitted there was a good deal of besom, and in consideration of the poet bating his terms to five per cent. of the receipts he agreed to give it a chance. The piece was billed widely in several streets under the t.i.tle of ”The Hornet of Judah,” and the name of Melchitsedek Pinchas appeared in letters of the size stipulated by the finger on the nose.

But the leading actress threw up her part at the last moment, disgusted by the poet's amorous advances; Pinchas volunteered to play the part himself and, although his offer was rejected, he attired himself in skirts and streaked his complexion with red and white to replace the promoted second actress, and shaved off his beard.

But in spite of this heroic sacrifice, the G.o.ds were unpropitious. They chaffed the poet in polished Yiddish throughout the first two acts.

There was only a sprinkling of audience (most of it paper) in the dimly-lit hall, for the fame of the great writer had not spread from Berlin, Mogadore, Constantinople and the rest of the universe.

No one could make head or tail of the piece with its incessant play of occult satire against clergymen with four mistresses, Rabbis who sold their daughters, stockbrokers ignorant of Hebrew and dest.i.tute of English, greengrocers blowing Messianic and their own trumpets, labor-leaders embezzling funds, and the like. In vain the actor-manager swept the floor with the besom, beat time with the besom, beat his mother-in-law with the besom, leaned on the besom, swept bits of white paper with the besom. The hall, empty of its usual crowd, was fuller of derisive laughter. At last the spectators tired of laughter and the rafters re-echoed with hoots. At the end of the second act, Melchitsedek Pinchas addressed the audience from the stage, in his ample petticoats, his brow streaming with paint and perspiration. He spoke of the great English conspiracy and expressed his grief and astonishment at finding it had infected the entire Ghetto.

There was no third act. It was the poet's first--and last--appearance on any stage.

CHAPTER XXII.

”FOR AULD LANG SYNE, MY DEAR.”

The learned say that Pa.s.sover was a Spring festival even before it was a.s.sociated with the Redemption from Egypt, but there is not much Nature to wors.h.i.+p in the Ghetto and the historical elements of the Festival swamp all the others. Pa.s.sover still remains the most picturesque of the ”Three Festivals” with its entire transmogrification of things culinary, its thorough taboo of leaven. The audacious archaeologist of the thirtieth century may trace back the origin of the festival to the Spring Cleaning, the annual revel of the English housewife, for it is now that the Ghetto whitewashes itself and scrubs itself and paints itself and pranks itself and purifies its pans in a baptism of fire.

Now, too, the publican gets unto himself a white sheet and suspends it at his door and proclaims that he sells _Kosher rum_ by permission of the Chief Rabbi. Now the confectioner exchanges his ”stuffed monkeys,”

and his bolas and his jam-puffs, and his cheese-cakes for unleavened ”palavas,” and worsted b.a.l.l.s and almond cakes. Time was when the Pa.s.sover dietary was restricted to fruit and meat and vegetables, but year by year the circle is expanding, and it should not be beyond the reach of ingenuity to make bread itself Pa.s.soverian. It is now that the pious shopkeeper whose store is tainted with leaven sells his business to a friendly Christian, buying it back at the conclusion of the festival. Now the Shalotten _Shammos_ is busy from morning to night filling up charity-forms, artistically multiplying the poor man's children and dividing his rooms. Now is holocaust made of a people's bread-crumbs, and now is the national salutation changed to ”How do the _Motsos_ agree with you?” half of the race growing facetious, and the other half finical over the spotted Pa.s.sover cakes.

It was on the evening preceding the opening of Pa.s.sover that Esther Ansell set forth to purchase a s.h.i.+lling's worth of fish in Petticoat Lane, involuntarily storing up in her mind vivid impressions of the bustling scene. It is one of the compensations of poverty that it allows no time for mourning. Daily duty is the poor man's nepenthe.

Esther and her father were the only two members of the family upon whom the death of Benjamin made a deep impression. He had been so long away from home that he was the merest shadow to the rest. But Moses bore the loss with resignation, his emotions discharging themselves in the daily _Kaddish_. Blent with his personal grief was a sorrow for the commentaries lost to Hebrew literature by his boy's premature transference to Paradise. Esther's grief was more bitter and defiant.

All the children were delicate, but it was the first time death had taken one. The meaningless tragedy of Benjamin's end shook the child's soul to its depths. Poor lad! How horrible to be lying cold and ghastly beneath the winter snow! What had been the use of all his long prepay rations to write great novels? The name of Ansell would now become ingloriously extinct. She wondered whether _Our Own_ would collapse and secretly felt it must. And then what of the hopes of worldly wealth she had built on Benjamin's genius? Alas! the emanc.i.p.ation of the Ansells from the yoke of poverty was clearly postponed. To her and her alone must the family now look for deliverance. Well, she would take up the mantle of the dead boy, and fill it as best she might. She clenched her little hands in iron determination. Moses Ansell knew nothing either of her doubts or her ambitions. Work was still plentiful three days a week, and he was unconscious he was not supporting his family in comparative affluence. But even with Esther the incessant grind of school-life and quasi-motherhood speedily rubbed away the sharper edges of sorrow, though the custom prohibiting obvious pleasures during the year of mourning went in no danger of transgression, for poor little Esther gadded neither to children's b.a.l.l.s nor to theatres. Her thoughts were full of the prospects of piscine bargains, as she pushed her way through a crowd so closely wedged, and lit up by such a flare of gas from the shops and such streamers of flame from the barrows that the cold wind of early April lost its sting.