 The King of Snorahs by Israel Zanguil, read by Adrian Predzellus, Santa Rosa, California, April 2007. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The King of Snorahs by Israel Zanguil. This epigraph proceeds Chapter 1. That all men are beggars, it is very plain to see, though some are of lowly and some of high degree. Your ministers of state will say they never will allow that kings from subjects beg. But that, you know, is all bow-wow, bow-wow-wow, followl, etc. Chapter 1. Showing how the wicked philanthropist was turned into a fish-border. In the days when Lord George Gordon became a Jew and was suspected of insanity, when, out of respect for the prophecies, England denied her Jews every civil right except that of paying taxes, when the Gentleman's magazine had ill words for the infiddle alien, when Jewish marriages were invalid and requests for Hebrew colleges void, when a prophet prophesying Primrose Day would have been set in the stocks, though Pitt inclined his private ear to Benjamin Goldsmith's views on the foreign loans, in those days when Tevella Schiff was Rabbi in Israel and Dr. de Faulck, the master of the tetragrammaton, saint in cabalistic conjurer, flourished in well-clothed square, and the composer of the Death of Nelson was a choir boy in the great synagogue. Joseph Grobstock, pillar of the same, emerged one afternoon into the spring sunshine at the fag end of the departing stream of worshipers. In his hand was a large canvas bag, and in his eye a twinkle. There had been a special service of prayer and thanksgiving for the happy restoration of His Majesty's health, and the canter had interceded tunefully with Providence on behalf of Royal George and our most amiable Queen Charlotte. The congregation was large and fashionable, far more so than when only a heavenly sovereign was concerned, and so the courtyard was thronged with a string of snorers, beggars, awaiting the exit of the audience much like the vestibule of the opera house is lined by footmen. They were a motley crew, with tangled beards and long hair that fell in curls, if not the curls of the period, but the gabardines of the German ghettos had been in most cases exchanged for the knee-bridges and many-buttoned jacket of the Londoner. When the clothes one has brought from the continent wear out, one must need to adopt the attire of one's superiors or be reduced to buying. Many bore staves and had their loins girded with coloured handkerchiefs as though ready at any moment to return from the captivity. Their woe-begone air was achieved almost entirely by not washing. It owed little to nature, to adventitious aids in the shape of deformities. The mere sprinkling boasted of physical afflictions, and none exposed soars like the lasers of Italy or contortions like the cripples of Constantinople. Such crude methods are eschewed in the fine art of snoring. A green shade might denote a weakness of sight, but the stone-blind man bore no braggart placard. His infirmity was an old, established concern well known to the public, and conferring upon the proprietor a definite status in the community. He was no anonymous atom such as drifts blindly through Christendom, vagrant and apologetic. Rarist of all sights in this pageantry of Jewish pauperatum was the hollow trouser leg or the empty sleeve or the wooden limb fulfilling either and pushing out a proclamatory peg. When the pack of snorers caught sight of Joseph Grobstock, they fell upon him full cry blessing him. He, nothing surprise, brushed pompously through the Benedictines, though the twinkle in his eye became a roguish gleam. Outside the iron gates where the throne was thickest and where some elegant chariots that had brought worshippers from distant Hackney were preparing to start, he came to a standstill surrounded by the clamouring snorers and dipped his hand slowly and ceremoniously into the bag. There was a moment of breathless expectation among the beggars and Joseph Grobstock had a moment of exquisite consciousness of importance as he stood there swelling in the sunshine. There was no middle class to speak of in the 18th century Jewry. The world was divided into rich and poor and the rich were very very rich and the poor very very poor so that everyone knew his station. Joseph Grobstock was satisfied with that in which it had pleased God to place him. He was a jovial heavy jowl creature whose clean shaven chin was doubling and he was habituated like the person of the first respectability in a beautiful blue body coat with a row of big yellow buttons. The frilled shirt front high collar of the very newest fashion and copious white neckerchief showed off the massive flashiness of the red throat. His hat was of the Quaker pattern and his head did not fail of the periwig and the pigtail, the latter being heretical in name only. What Joseph Grobstock drew from the bag was a small white paper packet and his sense of humour led him to place it on the hand farthest from his nose. For it was a broad humour, not a subtle. It enabled him to extract pleasure from seeing a fellow mortals hat rollick in the wind but did little to alleviate the chase for his own. His jokes clapped you on the back. They did not tickle delicately. Such was the man who now became the complacent signage seer of all eyes even of those that had no appeal in them as soon as the principle of his elli-moscenary operations had broken on the crowd. The first schnurrer feverishly tearing open his package had found a florin and, as by electricity, all except the blind beggar was aware that Joseph Grobstock was distributing florins. The distributor partook of the general consciousness and his lips twitched. Silently he dipped again into the bag and, selecting the hand nearest, put a second white package into it. A wave of joy brightened the grimy face to change instantly to one of horror. You've made a mistake. You've given me a penny, cried the beggar. Keep it for your honesty, replied Joseph Grobstock, imperturbably and affected not to enjoy the laughter of the rest. The third mendicant ceased laughing when he discovered that the fold on fold of paper sheltered a tiny sixpence. It was now obvious that the great man was distributing prize packets and the excitement of the piebald crowd grew momentally. Grobstock went on, dipping Link's eye against second applications. One of the few pieces of gold in the lucky bag fell to the solitary layman who danced his joy on his sound leg while the poor blind man pocketed his half-penny unconscious of ill fortune and merely wondering why the coin came swirled in paper. By this time Grobstock could control his face no longer and the last episodes of the lottery were played to the accompaniment of a broad grin. Keen and complex was his enjoyment. There was not only the general surprise at this novel feat of arms, there were the special surprises of detail written on face after face as it flashed or fell or frowned in congruity with the contents of the envelope and, for undercurrent, a delicious hubbub of interjections and benedictions, a stretching and withdrawing of palms, and a swift shifting of figures that made the scene a ferago of excitements so that the broad grin was one of gratification as well as amusement and part of the gratification sprang from a real kindliness of heart for Grobstock was an easygoing man with whom the world had gone easy. The Schnurras were exhausted before the packets, but the philanthropist was in no anxiety to be rid of the remnant. Closing the mouth of the considerably lightened bag and clutching it tightly by the throat and recomposing his face to gravity, he moved slowly down the street like a stately treasure ship, flecked by the sunlight. His way led towards Goodman's Fields, where his mansion was situate, and he knew that the fine weather would bring out Schnurras enough, and indeed he had not gone many paces before he met a figure he did not remember having seen before. Leaning against a post at the head of the narrow passage which led to Bevis Marks was a tall, black-bearded, turbaned personage, a first glance of whom showed him to be of the true tribe. Mechanically, Joseph Grobstock's hand went to the lucky bag, and he drew out a neatly folded packet and tended it to the stranger. The stranger received the grift graciously and opened it gravely. The philanthropist loitering awkwardly to mark the issue. Suddenly the dark face became a thunder-cloud, the eyes flashed lightning. An evil spirit in your ancestors' bones! hissed the stranger from between his flashing teeth. Did you come here to insult me? Pardon a thousand pardons! stammered the magnate wholly taken back. I fancied you were a poor man, and therefore you came to insult me. No, I thought to help you! murmured Grobstock, turning from red to scarlet. Was it possible he had feisted his charity on an undeserving millionaire? No. Through all the clowns of his own confusion and the recipient's anger, the figure of a schnarrer loomed too plain from a stake. None but a schnarrer would wear a homemade turban, issue of a black cap crossed with a white kerchief. None but a schnarrer would unbutton the first nine buttons of his waistcoat, or, if this relaxation were due to the warmth of the weather, counteract it by wearing an overgarment, especially one as heavy as a blanket, with buttons the size of compasses and flaps reaching nearly to his shoe-buckles, even though its length were only congruous with that of his undercoat, which had already reached the bottoms of his knee-breaches. Finally, who but a schnarrer would wear this overcoat cloakwise with dangling sleeves full of armless suggestion from a side view? Quite apart from the shabbiness of the snuff-coloured fabric, it was amply evident that the wearer did not dress by rule or measure. Yet the disproportion of his attire did but enhance the picturesqueness of a personality that would be striking even in a bath, though it was not likely to be seen there. The beard was jet-black, sweeping and unkempt, and ran up his cheeks to meet the raven hair so that the vivid face was framed in black. It was a long tapering face with sanguine lips, gleaming at the hearts of a black bush. The eyes were large and lampent, set in deep sockets under black arching eyebrows. The nose was long and coptic, the brow low but broad, with strangling wisps of hair protruding from beneath the turban. His right hand grasped a plain ashen staff. Worthy Joseph Grobstock found the figure of the mendicant only too impressive. He shrank uneasily before the indignant eyes. I meant only to help you, he repeated. And this is how one helps a brother in Israel, said the snorer, throwing the paper contemptuously into the philanthropist's face. It struck him on the bridge of the nose, but impinged so mildly that he felt at once what was the matter. The packet was empty. The snorer had drawn a blank, the only one the good-natured man had put into the bag. The snorer's audacity sobered Joseph Grobstock completely. It might have angered him to chastise the fellow, but it did not. His better nature prevailed. He began to feel shame-faced, fumbled sheepishly in his pocket for a crown, then hesitated as fearing this peace offering would not altogether suffice with so rare a spirit, and that he owed the stranger more than silver. An apology to it. He proceeded honestly to pay it, but with a maladroit manner as one unaccustomed to the currency. You are an impertinent rascal," he said, but I daresay you feel hurt. Let me assure you I did not know there was nothing in the packet. I did not indeed. Then your steward has robbed me," exclaimed the snorer excitedly. You let him make up the packets, and he has stolen my money. The thief, the transgressor, thrice cursed who robbed the poor. You don't understand," interrupted the magnate meekly. I made up the package myself. Then why did you say you did not know what was in them? Go, you muck, my misery! Nay, hear me out," urged Grobstock desperately. In some I placed gold in the greater number silver, in a few copper, in one alone nothing. That is the one you have drawn. It is your misfortune. My misfortune? Echoed the snorer scornfully. It is your misfortune. I did not even draw it. The holy one, blessed be he, has punished you for your heartless jesting with the poor, making a sport for yourself of their misfortunes, even as the Philistines sported with Samson. The good deed you might have put to your account by a gratuity to me God has taken from you. He has declared you unworthy of achieving righteousness through me. Go your way, murderer! Murderer! repeated the philanthropist, bewelded by this harsh view of his actions. Yes, murderer! Stands it not in the Talmud that he who shames another is as one who spills his blood? Have you not put me to shame? If anyone had witnessed your arms giving, would he not have laughed in my beard? The pillar of the synagogue felt as if his porch was shrinking. But the others! he murmured deprecatingly. I have not shed their blood. Have I not given freely of my hard-earned gold? For your own diversion! reported the snorer implacably. But what says the Midrash? There is a wheel rolling in the world. Not he who is rich to-day is rich to-morrow. But that one he brings up, and this one he brings down as it is said in the Seventy-fifth Psalm. Therefore lift not up your horn on high, nor speak with a stiff neck. He towered above the unhappy capitalist, like an ancient prophet denouncing a swollen monarch. The poor man put his hand involuntarily to his high collar, as if to explain away his apparent arrogance. But in reality, because he was not breathing easily under the snorer's attack. You are an uncharitable man! he pouted hotly, driven to a line of defence he had not anticipated. I did it not from wantonness, but for faith in heaven. I know well that God sits turning a wheel. Therefore I did not presume to turn it by myself. Did I not let providence select who should have the silver and who the gold and who the copper and who the emptiness? Besides, God alone knows who really needs my assistance. I have made him my armorer. I have cast my burden on the Lord. Epicurean! shrieked the snorer. Blasphemer! Is it thus you would poulter with sacred texts? Do you forget what the next verse says? Bloodthirsty and deceitful men shall not live out half their days. Shame on you! You a gabbi of the great synagogue! You see, I know you, Joseph Grubstock. Has not the beetle of your synagogue boasted to me that you would have given him a guinea for brushing your splatter-dashes? Would you think of offering him a packet? Nay, it is the poor that are trodden upon. They whose merits are in excess of those of beetles. But the Lord will find others to take up his loans. For he who hath pity on the poor lendeth to the Lord, you are no true son of Israel. The snorer's tirade was long enough to allow Grubstock to recover his dignity and his breath. If you really knew me, you would know that the Lord is considerably in my debt, he rejoined quietly. When you next would discuss me, speak with the psalmsmen, not the beetle. Never have I rejected the needy. Even now, though you have been insolent and uncharitable, I am ready to befriend you if you are in want. If I am in want, repeated the snorer scornfully, is there anything I do not want? You are married? You correct me. Wife and children are the only things I do not lack. No pauper does, quote Grubstock, with a twinkle of restored humour. No, asserted the snorer sternly. The poor man has the fear of heaven. He obeys the law and the commandments. He marries while he is young, and his spouse is not cursed with barrenness. It is the rich man who transgresses the judgment, who delays to come under the canopy. Well, here is a guinea in the name of my wife, broke in Grubstock, laughingly, or stay, since you do not brush splatter-dashes. Here is another. In the name of my wife, rejoin the snorer with dignity, I thank you. Thank me in your own name, said Grubstock. I mean, tell it to me. I am Manasseh Bueno Barzillai Azevedo da Costa, he answered simply. What safari? exclaimed the philanthropist. Is it not written on my face, even as it is written on yours, that you are a tedusco? This is the first time I have taken gold from one of your lineage. Oh, indeed! murmured Grubstock, beginning to feel small again. Yes, are we not far richer than your community? What need have I to take the good deeds away from my own people? Too few opportunities for beneficence as it is, being so many of them wealthy, brokers and West India merchants, and... But I, too, am a financier and an East India director, Grubstock reminded him. Maybe, but your community is yet yarn and struggling. Your rich men are as the good men in Sodom for multitude. You are the immigrants of yesterday, the refugees from the ghettos of Russia and Poland and Germany. But we, as you are aware, have been established here for generations. In the peninsula our ancestors graced the courts of kings and controlled the purse-strings of princes. In Holland we held the emperor of trade. Ours have been the poets and scholars in Israel. You cannot expect that we should recognize your ramble, which prejudices us in the eyes of England. We made the name of Jew Honourable. You degrade it. You are as the mixed multitude which came up with our forefathers out of Egypt. Nonsense! said Grubstock sharply. All Israel are brethren. Esau was the brother of Israel, answered Manasseh, senticiously. But you will excuse me if I go on marketing. It is such a pleasure to handle gold. There was a note of wistful pathos in the latter remark which took off from the edge of the former and touched Joseph with compunction for bandying words with a hungry man whose loved ones were probably starving patiently at home. Certainly! Haste away! he said kindly. I shall see you again! said Manasseh with a valedictory wave of his hand and digging his staff into the cobblestones he journeyed forward without bestowing a single backward glance upon his benefactor. Grubstock's road took him to Petticoat Lane in the wake of Manasseh. He had no intention of following him but did not see why he should change his route for fear of the Shnara, more especially as Manasseh did not look back. By this time he had become conscious again of the bag he carried, but he had no heart to proceed with the fun. He felt conscious stricken and had recourse to his pockets instead of his progress through the narrow jostling market street where he scarcely ever bought anything personally save fish and good deeds. He was a connoisseur in both. Today he picked up many a good deed cheap, paying pennies for articles he did not take away, shoe latches and cane strings, barley sugar and butter cakes. Suddenly through a chink in an opaque mass of human beings he caught sight of a small attractive salmon on a fishmonger's slab. His eye glittered, his chops watered. He ever bowed his way to the vendor whose eye caught a corresponding gleam and whose finger went to his hat in respectful greeting. "'Good afternoon, Jonathan,' said Grubstock Joe Veely. "'I'll take that salmon there. How much?' "'Pardon me,' said a voice in the crowd. "'I am just bargaining for it.' Grubstock started. It was the voice of Manasseh. "'Stop that nonsense, D'Costa,' responded the fishmonger. "'You know you won't give me my price. It's the only one I have left,' he added. "'Half for the benefit of Grubstock?' "'I wouldn't let it go for under a couple of guineas.' "'Here's your money,' cried Manasseh, with patient contempt, and sent two gold coins spinning musically upon the slab. In the crowd sensation, in Grubstock's breast astonishment, indignation and bitterness, he was struck momentarily dumb. His face purpled. The scales of the salmon shone like a celestial vision that was fading from him by his own stupidity. "'I'll take that salmon, Jonathan,' he repeated, spluttering, three guineas. "'Pardon me,' repeated Manasseh. "'It is too late. This is not an auction.' He seized the fish by the tail. Grubstock turned upon him, goaded to the point of apoplexy. "'You,' he cried, "'you rogue! How dare you buy salmon?' "'Rogue yourself,' reported Manasseh. "'Would you have me steal salmon?' "'You have stolen my money, nave, rascal!' "'Murderer! Shedder of blood! Did you not give me the money as a free will offering for the good of your wife's soul? I call upon you before all these witnesses to confess yourself a slanderer.' "'Slanderer, indeed! I repeat, you are a nave and a jack-a-nape, you a pauper, a beggar with a wife and children. How can you have the face to go and spend two guineas, two whole guineas, all you have in the world on a mere luxury like salmon?' Manasseh elevated his arched eyebrows. "'If I do not buy salmon when I have two guineas,' he answered quietly, "'when shall I buy salmon?' As you say, it is a luxury, very dear. It is only on rare occasions like this that my means run to it.' There was a dignified pathos about the rebuke that mollified the magnate. He felt that there was reason in the beggar's point of view, though it was a point to which he would never let himself have risen unaided. But righteous Anger still simmered in him. He felt vaguely that there was something to be said in reply, though he also felt that even if he knew what it was, it would have to be said in a lower key to correspond with Manasseh's transition from the high pitch of the opening passages. Not finding the requisite repartee, he was silent. "'In the name of my wife,' went on Manasseh, swinging the salmon by the tail, I ask you to clear my good name which you have bespattered in the presence of my very tradesmen. Again I call upon you to confess before these witnesses that you gave me the money yourself in charity. Come, do you deny it?' "'No, I don't deny it,' murmured Grobstock, unable to understand why he appeared to himself like a whipped cur, or how what should have been a boast had been transformed into an apology to a beggar. "'In the name of my wife, I thank you,' said Manasseh. "'She loves salmon and fries with unction, and now, since you have no further use for that bag of yours, I will relieve you of its burden by taking my salmon home in it.' He took the canvas bag from the limp grasp of the astonished Tedusco and dropped the fish in. The head protruded, surveying the scene with the cold, glassy, ironical eye. "'Good afternoon all,' said the snorrer, courteously. "'One moment,' called out the philanthropist when he found his tongue, the bag is not empty, there are a number of packets still left in it.' "'So much the better,' said Manasseh soothingly. "'You will be saved from the temptation to continue shedding the blood of the poor, and I shall be saved from spending all your bounty on salmon, an extravagance you will write to deplore.' "'But—but!' began Grobstock. "'No buts,' protested Manasseh, waving his bag deprecatingly. "'You were right, you admitted you were wrong before. "'Shall I be less magnanimous now? In the presence of all these witnesses I acknowledge the justice of your rebuke. I will not have wasted two guineas on one fish. It was not worth it. I will be here, and I will tell you something.' He walked out of earshot of the bystanders, turning down a side alley opposite the stall, and beckoned with his salmon-bag. The East India director had no course but to obey. He would probably have followed him in any case to have it out with him, but now he had a humiliating sense of being at the snorrer's beck and call. "'Well, what more have you got to say?' he demanded gruffly. "'I wish to save you money in future,' said the beggar in the low, confidential tones. "'That, Jonathan, is a son of the separation. The salmon is not worth two guineas. No on my soul. If you had not come up, I should have got it for twenty-five shillings.' Jonathan struck on the price when he thought you should buy it. I trust you will not let me be the loser by your arrival, and that if I should find less than seventeen shillings you will make it up to me.' The bewildered financier felt his grievance disappearing as by slight of hand. Manasse added, winningly, "'I know you're our gentleman, capable of behaving as finely as any safari.' This handsome compliment completed the snorrer's victory, which was sealed by his saying, and so I should not like you to have it on your soul that you had done a poor man out of a few shillings.' Grobstock could only remark meekly, "'You will find more than seventeen shillings in that bag.' "'Ah, why were you born at Tidusco?' cried Manasse ecstatically. "'Do you know what I have a mind to do? To come and be your Sabbath guest? Yes, I will take supper with you next Friday, and we will welcome the bride, the holy Sabbath, together. Never before have I sat at the table of a Tidusco, but you, you're a man after my own heart. Your soul is a son of Spain. Next Friday at six, do not forget. But I do not have Sabbath guests,' faulted Grobstock. "'Not have Sabbath guests? No, no, I will not believe you are of the sons of Belial, whose table is spread only for the rich, who do not proclaim your equality with the poor even once a week. It is your fine nature that would hide its benefactions. Do not I, Manasse, Bueno, Barzil, I, Arzevedo, Dacosta, have at my Sabbath table every week, Yankala, Ben Yitzoch, a pole, and if I have a Tidusco of my table, why should I draw the line there? Why should I now permit you, a Tidusco, to return the hospitality to me, a safari? At six, then, I know your house well. There is an elegant building that does credit to your tastes. Do not be uneasy. I shall not fail to be punctual. Adios!' This time he waved his stick fraternally and stalked down a turning. For an instant Grobstock stood glued to the spot, crushed by a sense of the inevitable. Then a horrible thought occurred to him. Easygoing man as he was, he might put up with a visitation of Manasse. He had a wife, and what was worse, a livery-servant. How could he expect a livery-servant to tolerate such a guest? He might fly from the town on Friday evening, but that would necessitate troublesome explanations, and Manasse would come again the next Friday. That was certain. Manasse would be like grim death. His coming, though it might be postponed, was inevitable. That was too terrible. At all costs, he must revoke the invitation. Placed between Silla and Charibdis, between Manasse and his man-servant, he felt he could sooner face the former. D'Costa! he called out in agony. D'Costa! the snora turned, and then Grobstock found he was mistaken in imagining he preferred to face D'Costa. You called me? Yes, faltered the East India director, and stood paralysed. What can I do for you? said Manasse graciously. Would you mind very much if I asked you? Not to come was in his throat, but stuck there. If you asked me, said Manasse encouragingly, to accept some of my clothes, flashed Grobstock with a sudden inspiration. After all, Manasse was a fine figure of a man. If he could get him to doth those musty garments of his, he might almost pass him off as a prince of the blood, foreign by his beard. But any rate, he could be certain of making him acceptable to the livery-servant. He breathed freely again at this happy solution of the situation. Your cast-off clothes? asked Manasse. Grobstock was not sure whether the tone was supercilious or eager. He hastened to explain. No, no, not quite that. Second-hand things that I'm still wearing. My old clothes were already given away at Passover to Simeon the psalm's man. These are comparatively new. Then I would beg you to excuse me, said Manasse with a stately wave of the bag. Oh, but why not? murmured Grobstock, his blood running cold again. I cannot, said Manasse, shaking his head. But they will just about fit you, pleaded the philanthropist. That makes it all the more absurd for you to give them to Simeon the psalm's man, said Manasse sternly. Still, since he is your clothes-receiver, I could not think of interfering with his office. It is not etiquette. I am surprised you should ask me if I should mind. Of course I should mind. I should mind very much. But he is not my clothes-receiver," protested Grobstock. Last Passover was the very first time I gave them to him because my cousin, Hyman Rothstein, who used to have them, has died. But surely you considers himself your cousin's heir, said Manasse. He expects all your old clothes henceforth. No, I gave him no such promise. Manasse hesitated. Well, in that case— In that case, repeated Grobstock breathlessly, on the condition that I am to have the appointment permanently, of course. Of course, echoed Grobstock eagerly. Because, you see, Manasse condescended to explain, it hurts one's reputation to lose a client. Yes, yes, naturally, said Grobstock soothingly. I quite understand. Then, feeling himself slipping into further embarrassments, he added timidly. Of course, they were not always be so good as the first lot, because— Say no more! Manasse interrupted reassuringly. I will come at once and fetch them. No, no, I will send them! cried Grobstock horrified afresh. I should not dream of permitting it. What shall I put you to all that trouble which should rightly be mine? I will go at once. The matter shall be settled without delay. I promise you, as it is written, I made haste and delayed not. Follow me!" Grobstock suppressed a groan. Here had all his maneuvering landed him in a worse plight than ever. He would have to present Manasse to the livery-servant without even that clean face which might unreasonably have been expected for the Sabbath. Despite the text quoted by the erudite snorer, he strove to put off that evil hour. Had you not better take the salmon home to your wife first? said he. My duty is to enable you to complete your good deed at once. My wife is unaware of the salmon. She is in no suspense. Even as the snorer spake, it flashed upon Grobstock that Manasse was more presentable with the salmon than without it. In fact, the salmon was the salvation of the situation. When Grobstock brought fish, he often hired a man to carry home the spoil. Manasse would have all the air of such a loafer. Who would suspect that the fish and even the bag belonged to the porter, though purchased with the gentleman's money? Grobstock silently thanked Providence for the ingenious way in which it had contrived to save his self-respect. As a mere fish carrier, Manasse would attract no second glance from the household. Once safely in, it would be comparatively easy to smuggle him out, and when he did come on Friday night, it would be in the metamorphosing glories of a bodycoat, and with his unspeakable undergarment tucked into a shirt and his turban knotted into a cock-hat. They emerged into Allgate, and then turned down Lehman Street, a fashionable quarter, and so into Great Prescott Street. At the critical street corner, Grobstock's composure began to desert him. He took out his handsomely ornamented snuff-box and administered himself a mighty pinch. It did him good, and he walked on and was well nigh arrived at his own door when Manasse suddenly caught him by a coat-button. "'Stand still a second,' he cried imperatively. "'What is it?' murmured Grobstock in alarm. "'You have spilt snuff all down your coat-front,' Manasse replied severely. "'Hold the bag a minute while I brush it off.'" Joseph obeyed, and Manasse scrupulously removed every particle with such patience that Grobstock's was exhausted. "'Thank you,' he said at last, as politely as he could. "'That will do.' "'No, it will not do,' replied Manasse. "'I cannot have my coat spoiled. By the time it comes down to me, it will be a mass of stains if you don't look after it.' "'Oh, is that why you took so much trouble?' said Grobstock with an uneasy laugh. "'Why else do you take me for a beetle, a brush of gaiters?' inquired Manasse, hortingly. "'There now. That is the cleanest I can get it. "'You would escape those droppings if you held your snuff-box so.' Manasse gently took the snuff-box and began to explain, walking on a few paces. "'Ah, we are at home,' he cried, breaking off the object less than suddenly. He pushed open the gate, ran up the steps of the mansion, and knocked thunderously, then snuffed himself magnificently from the bejeweled snuff-box. Behind came Joseph Grobstock, slouching limply, and carrying Manasse de Custer's fish. End of Chapter 1. The King of Schnorrers by Israel Zangwill, read by Adrian Prezellus. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The King of Schnorrers by Israel Zangwill, Chapter 2. Showing How the King Reigned When he realised that he had been turned into a fish-porter, the financier hastened up the steps so as to be at the Schnorrers' side when the door opened. The Libri servant was visibly taken aback by the spectacle of their juxtaposition. "'This salmon to the cook,' cried Grobstock desperately, handing him the bag. De Custer looked thunders and was about to speak, but Grobstock's eye sought his infantic appeal. "'Wait a minute, I will settle with you,' he cried, congratulating himself on a phrase that would carry another meaning to Wilkinson's ears. He drew a breath of relief when the flunky disappeared and left them standing in the spacious hall with its statues and plants. "'Is this the way you steal my salmon after all?' demanded De Custer hotly. "'Hush, hush! I didn't mean to steal it. I will pay you for it.' "'I refused to sell. You coveted it from the first. You have broken the tenth commandment, even as these stone figures violate the second. Your invitation to me to accompany you here at once was a mere trick. Now I understand why you were so eager.' "'No, no, De Custer. Seeing that you placed the fish in my hands, I had no option but to give it to Wilkinson, because—because!' Grobstock would have had some difficulty in explaining, but Manasse saved him the pain. "'You had to give my fish to Wilkinson,' he interrupted. "'Sir, I thought you were a fine man, a man of honour. I admit that I placed my fish in your hands, but because I had no hesitation in allowing you to carry it, this is how you repay my confidence.' In the whirl of his thoughts Grobstock grasped at the word Repay as a swimmer in a whirlpool grasps at a straw. "'I will repay your money,' he cried. "'Here are your two guineas. I will get another salmon, and more cheaply, as you pointed out you could have got this for twenty-five shillings.' "'Two guineas?' ejaculated Manasse contemptuously. "'Why, you offered Jonathan the Freshmonger three!' Grobstock was astounded, but it was beneath him to bargain, and he remembered that after all he would enjoy the salmon. "'Well, ah, here are the three guineas,' he said pacifically, offering them. "'Three guineas?' echoed Manasse, spurning them. "'And what of my profit?' "'Profit?' gasped Grobstock. "'Since you have made me a middleman, since you have forced me into the fish-trade, I must have my profits like anybody else. "'Ah, here is a crown extra.' "'And my compensation?' "'What do you mean?' inquired Grobstock, exasperated. "'Compensation for what?' "'For what? For at least two things in the very least?' Manasse said unswervingly. "'In the first place?' "'And as he began his logically divided reply, "'his tone assumed the sing-song sacred to Talmudic dialectics. "'Compensation for not eating the salmon myself? "'For is it not as if I offered it to you? "'I merely entrusted it to you, and as it was ordained in Exodus, "'if a man shall deliver unto his neighbour an ass, or an ox, "'or a sheep, or any beast, to keep them for any manner of trespass, "'whether it be for an ox, or for an ass, or for a sheep, "'or for raiment, or for any manner of lost thing, "'the man shall receive double, "'and therefore you should pay me six guineas. "'And secondly?' "'Not another farthing,' sputtered Grobstock, "'read as a turkey-cock. "'Very well,' said the snorer, imperturbably, "'and lifting up his voice he called, "'Wilkinson!' "'Hush!' commanded Grobstock. "'What are you doing?' "'I will tell Wilkinson to bring back my property. "'Wilkinson will not obey you.' "'Not obey me?' "'A servant? Why? "'He is not even black. "'All Safadi, my visit, have black pages "'much grander than Wilkinson, "'and they tremble at my nod. "'At Baron de Aguilar's mansion in Broad Street buildings "'there is a retinue of twenty-four servants, "'and they?' "'And what is your second claim?' "'Compensation for being degraded to fishmongering. "'I am not of those who sell things in the street. "'I am a son of the law, a student of the Talmud. "'If a crown-piece will satisfy each of these claims, "'I am not a blood-sucker, "'as it is said in the Talmud, tractate Pesach. "'God loves the man who gives not way to wrath "'nor stickles for his rites. "'That makes altogether three guineas and three crowns.' "'Yes, ah, here they are.' Wilkinson reappeared. "'You called me, sir?' he said. "'No, I called you,' said Manasseh. "'I wish to give you a crown.' And he handed him one of the three. Wilkinson took it, stupefied, and retired. "'Did I not get rid of him cleverly?' said Manasseh. "'You see how he obeys me.' "'Yes.' "'I shall not ask you for more than the bear-crown "'I gave him to save your honour.' "'To save my honour?' "'Would you have had me tell him the real reason I called him "'was that his master was a thief?' "'No, sir. "'I was careful not to shed your blood in public, "'though you had no such care for mine.' "'Here is the crown,' said Grobstock savagely. "'Nay, here are three.' He turned out his breeches-pockets to exhibit their absolute nudity. "'No, no,' said Manasseh mildly. "'I shall take but two. "'You would best keep the other. "'You may want a little silver.' He pressed it into the magnate's hand. "'You should not be so prodigal in future,' he added, "'in a kindly reproach. "'It is bad to be left with nothing in one's pocket. "'I know the feeling and can sympathise with you.' Grobstock stood speechless, clasping the crown of charity. Standing thus at the hall door he had the air of Wilkinson surprised by a too generous veil. De Coster cut short the crisis by offering his hosts a pinch from the jewel-encrusted snuff-box. Grobstock greedily took the whole box, the beggar resigning it to him without protest. In his gratitude for this unexpected favour, Grobstock pocketed the silver insult without further ado, and led the way toward the second-hand clothes. He walked gingerly, so as not to awaken his wife, who was a great amateur of the siesta, and might issue suddenly from her apartment like a spider, but Manassar stolidly thumped on the stairs with his staff. Happily the carpet was thick. The clothes hung in a mahogany wardrobe with a plate-glass front in Grobstock's elegantly appointed bed-chamber. Grobstock rummaged among them while Manassar, parting the white Persian curtains lined with pale pink, gazed out of the window toward the tenter-ground that stretched in the rear of the mansion. He watched the couples promenading among the sunlit parters and amid the shrubberies in the cool freshness of declining day. Here and there the vivid face of a dark-eyed beauty gleamed like a passion-flower. Manassar surveyed the scene with bland benevolence, at peace with God and man. He did not deign to bestow a glance upon the garments till Grobstock observed, there are I think that's all I can spare. Then he turned leisurely and regarded with the same benign aspect. The litter Grobstock had spread upon the bed. A medley of articles in excellent condition, gorgeous necker-chiefs piled in three-cornered hats, and buckled shoes trampling on white waistcoats. But his eye had scarcely rested on them a quarter of a minute when a sudden flash came into it and a spasm crossed his face. Excuse me! he cried and hastened toward the door. Ah, what's the matter? exclaimed Grobstock in astonished apprehension. Was his gift to be flouted thus? I'll be back in a moment, said Manassar, and hurried down the stairs. Relieved on one point, Grobstock was still full of vague alarms. He ran out on the landing. What do you want? he called out as loudly as he dared. My money! said Manassar. Imagining that the schnurrer had left the proceeds of the sale of the salmon in the hall, Joseph Grobstock returned to his room and occupied him half mechanically in sorting the garments he had thrown higgledy-piggledy upon the bed. In so doing he aspired, amid the heap, a pair of pantaloons entirely new and unworn, which he had carelessly thrown in. It was while replacing this in the wardrobe that he heard sounds of objugation. The cook's voice, hibernian and high-pitched, travelled unmistakably to his ears and brought fresh trepidation to his heart. He repaired to the landing again and craned his neck over the balustrade. Happily the sounds were effervescent. In another minute Manassar's head reappeared, mounting. When his left hand came in sight, Grobstock perceived it was grasping the lucky bag with which a certain philanthropist had started out so joyously that afternoon, the unlucky bag he felt inclined to dub it now. I have recovered it, observed the schnurrer cheerfully. As it is written, and David recovered, all that the Amalekites had taken. You see, in the excitement of the moment I did not notice that you had stolen my packets of silver as well as my salmon. Luckily your cook had not yet removed the fish from the bag. I cheered her all the same for neglecting to put it in water, and she opened her mouth not in wisdom. If she had not been a heathen I should have suspected her of trickery, for I know nothing of the amount of money in the bag, saving your assurance, that it did not fall below seventeen shillings, and it would have been easy for her to replace the fish. Therefore, in the words of David, will I give thanks unto thee, O Lord, among the heathen. The mental vision of the eruption of Manasseh into the kitchen was not pleasant to grobstock. However, he only murmured, How come you came to think of it so suddenly? Looking at your clothes reminded me. I was wondering if you had left anything in the pockets. The donor started. He knew himself a careless rascal and made as if he would overhaul his garments. The glitter in Manasseh's eye petrified him. Do you mind my looking? He stammered apologetically. Am I a dog? Quoted the schnurrer with dignity. Am I a thief that you should go over my pockets? If, when I get home, he conceded, commencing to draw distinctions with his thumb, I should find anything in my pockets that it is of no value to any one but you, do you fear I will not return it? If, on the other hand, I find anything that is of value to me, do you fear I will not keep it? Ah, no, but, but— grobstock broke down, scarcely grasping the argumentation despite his own clarity of financial insight. He only felt vaguely that the schnurrer was professionally enough begging the question. But what, inquired Manasseh? Surely you need not me to teach you your duty. You cannot be ignorant of the law of Moses on that point. The law of Moses says nothing on the point. Indeed! What says Deuteronomy? When thou repest thine harvest on thy field and hast forgot a sheaf in the field, thou shalt not go again to fetch it. It shall be for the stranger, for the fatherless and for the widow. Is it not further forbidden to go over the boughs of thy olive tree again or to gather the fallen fruit of thy vineyard? You will admit that Moses would have added a prohibition against searching minutely the pockets of cast-off garments? Were it not for forty years our ancestors had to wander in the wilderness in the same clothes which miraculously waxed with their growth? No. I feel sure you will respect the spirit of the law. For when I went down to your kitchen and examined the doorpost to see if you had nailed up a mazuza upon it, knowing that many Jews only flaunt mazuza's on doorposts visible to visitors, it rejoiced me to find one below stairs. Grobstock's magnanimity responded to the appeal. It would be indeed petty to scrutinize his pockets or to feel the linings for odd coins. After all, he had Manasseh's promise to restore papers and everything of no value. Well, well, he said pleasantly, consoled by the thought his troubles had now come to an end, for that day at least. Take them away as they are. It is all very well to say, take them away," replied Manasseh with a touch of resentment. But what am I to take them in? Ah, yes. There must be a sack somewhere. And do you think I would carry them away in a sack? Would you have me look like an old clowman? I must have a box. I see several in the box-room. Very well," said Grobstock resignedly, if there's an empty one you may have it. Manasseh laid his stick in the dressing-table and carefully examined the boxes, some of which were carelessly open, while every lock had a key sticking in it. They had travelled far and wide with Grobstock, who invariably combined pleasure with business. There is none quite empty," announced the Schnorah. But in this one there are only a few trifles, a pair of Galagaskins and such like, so that if you will make me a present of them the box will be empty so far as you are concerned. All right," said Grobstock, and actually laughed. The nearer the departure of the Schnorah the higher his spirits rose. Manasseh dragged the box toward the bed, and then for the first time since his return from the under-regions surveyed the medley of garments upon it. The light-hearted philanthropist, watching his face, saw it instantly changed to darkness like a tropical landscape. His own face grew white. The Schnorah uttered an inarticulate cry and turned a strange questioning glance upon his patron. What is it now? faltered Grobstock. I miss a pair of pantaloons. Grobstock grew whiter. Nonsense, nonsense! he muttered. I miss a pair of pantaloons! reiterated the Schnorah deliberately. Oh, no! you have all I can spare! said Grobstock uneasily. The Schnorah hastily turned over the heap. Then his eye flashed fire. He looked at his fist on the dressing table to accompany each staccato syllable. I miss a pair of pantaloons! he shrieked. The weak and ductile donor had a bad quarter of a minute. Ah, perhaps, he stammered at last. You mean the new pair I found had got accidentally mixed up with them. Of course I mean the new pair. I looked them away, and just because I wasn't looking I left the room thinking I had to do with a man of honour. If you had taken an old pair I shouldn't have minded so much, but to rob a poor man of his brand new breeches. I must have them! cried Grobstock irassably. I have to go to a reception tomorrow, and they are the only pair I shall have to wear. You see, I— Oh, very well! He interrupted the Schnurra in low, indifferent tones. After that there was a dead silence. The Schnurra majestically folded some silk stockings and lay them in the box. Upon them he packed other garments in stern, sorrowful hoture. Grobstock's soul began to tingle with pricks of compunction. T'Costa completed his task, but could not shut the overcrowded box. Grobstock silently seated his weighty person upon the lid. Manassa neither resented nor welcomed him. When he had turned the key he mutely tilted the sitter off the box and shouldered it with consummate ease. Then he took his staff and strode from the room. Grobstock would have followed him, but the Schnurra waved him back. On Friday then, the conscience-stricken magnate said feebly. Manassa did not reply. He slammed the door instead, shutting in the master of the house. Grobstock fell back on the bed exhausted, looking not unlike the tumbled litter of clothes he replaced. In a minute or two he raised himself and went to the window and stood watching the sun set behind the trees of the tenter-ground. At any rate I've done with him, he said, and hummed a tune. The sudden bursting open of the door froze it upon his lips. He was almost relieved to find the intruder was only his wife. What have you done with Wilkinson? she cried vehemently. She was a pale, puffy-faced, portly matron with a permanent air of remembering the exact figure of her dowry. With Wilkinson, my dear, nothing. Well, he isn't in the house. I want him. But Cook says you've sent him out. I? Oh, no! he returned with dawning uneasiness looking away from her sceptical gaze. Suddenly his pupils dilated. A picture from without had painted itself on his retina. It was a picture of Wilkinson. Wilkinson the austere, Wilkinson the unbending, treading the tenter-ground gravel, curved beneath a box before him strode the schnarrer. Never during all his tenure of service in Goodman's fields had Wilkinson carried anything on his shoulders but his livery. Grobstock would have as soon dreamt of his wife consenting to wear cotton. He rubbed his eyes, but the image persisted. He clutched at the window-curtains to steady himself. My Persian curtains! cried his wife. What is the matter with you? He must be the Baalcham himself! gasped Grobstock unheeding. What is it? What are you looking at? Nothing. Mrs. Grobstock incredulously approached the window and stared through the panes. Wilkinson in the gardens, but did not recognise him in his new attitude. She concluded that her husband's agitation must have some connection with a beautiful brunette, who was tasting the call of the evening in a sedan chair, and it was with a touch of asperity that she said, Cook complains of being insulted by a saucy fellow who brought home your fish. Oh! said poor Grobstock. Was he never to be done with the man? How came you to send him to her? His anger against Manasseh resurged under his wife's peevishness. My dear, he cried, I did not send him anywhere except to the devil. Joseph, you might keep such language for the ears of creatures in sedan chairs! And Mrs. Grobstock flounced out of the room with a rustle of angry satin. When Wilkinson reappeared, limp and tired, with his pompousness exuded in perspiration, he sought his master with a message which he delivered ere the flood of interrogation could burst from Grobstock's lips. Mr. Ducosta presents his compliments and says that he has decided, upon reconsideration, not to break his promise to be with you on Friday evening. Oh, indeed! said Grobstock grimly. And pray, how came you to carry his box? You told me to, sir. I told you? I mean, he told me. You told me to? said Wilkinson, wonderingly. Didn't you? Grobstock hesitated. Since Manasseh would be his guest, was it not imprudent to give him away to the livery servant? Besides, he felt a secret pleasure in Wilkinson's humiliation. But for the Schnorah, he would never have known that Wilkinson's gold lace concealed a pliable personality. The proverb, like master, like man, did not occur to Grobstock at this juncture. I only meant you to carry it to a coach, he murmured. He said it was not worthwhile, the distance was so short. Ah, did you see his house? inquired Grobstock curiously. Yes, a very fine house in Allgate, with handsome portico and two stone lions. Grobstock strove hard, not to look surprised. I handed the box to the footman. Grobstock strove harder. Wilkinson ended with a weak smile. Would you believe it, sir? I thought at first he brought home your fish. He dresses so peculiarly. He must be an original. Yes, yes, an eccentric, like Baron de Aguilar, whom he visits, said Grobstock eagerly. He wondered, indeed, whether he was not speaking the truth. Could he have been the victim of a practical joke, a prank? Did not a natural aristocracy ooze from every pore of this mysterious visitor? Was not every tone, every gesture, that of a man born to rule? You must remember, too, he added, that he is a Spaniard. Ah, I see, said Wilkinson, in profound accents. I dare say he dresses like everybody else, though, when he dines or sups out, Grobstock added lightly. I only brought him in by accident, but go to your mistress, she wants you. Yes, sir. Oh, and by the way, I forgot to tell you, he hopes you will save him a slice of his salmon. Go to your mistress. You did not tell me a Spanish nobleman was coming to see us on Friday, said his spouse later in the evening? No, he admitted curtly. But is he? No, at least, not a nobleman. What, then, I have to learn about my guests from my servants? Apparently. Oh, and you think that's right? To gossip with your servants, certainly not. But if my husband will not tell me anything, if he has only eyes for sedan chairs? Joseph thought it best to kiss Mrs. Grobstock. A fellow director, I suppose? She urged more mildly. A fellow Israelite. He has promised to come at six. Manasseh was punctual to the second. Wilkinson ushered him in. The hostess had robed herself in her best to do honour to a situation which her husband awaited with what hope he could. She looked radiant in a gown of blue silk. There was done in a tuft, and round her neck was an escalivage consisting of festoons of gold chains. The Sabbath table was equally festive, with its ponderous silver candelabra, coffee urn and consecration cup, its flower vases and fruit salvers. The dining room itself was a handsome apartment. Bouffées glittered with Venetian glass and Dresden porcelain, and here and there gilt pedestals supported globes of gold and silver fish. At the first glance at his gas Grobstock's blood ran cold. Manasseh had not turned a hair, nor changed a single garment. At the next glance Grobstock's blood boiled. A second figure loomed in Manasseh's wake. A short schnurrer, even dingier than D'Costa, and with none of his dignity a clumsy, stooping schnurrer with a cajoling grin on his mud-coloured, hairy face, neither removed his headgear. Mrs. Grobstock remained glued to her chair in astonishment. Peace be unto you, said the king of schnurrers. I have brought with me my friend, Yankala Ben Yitzoch, of whom I told you. Yankala nodded, grinning harder than ever. You never told me he was coming? Grobstock rejoined with an apoplectic air. Did I not tell you that he all was supped with me on Friday evenings? Manasseh reminded him quietly. It is so good of him to accompany me even here. He will make the necessary third at grace. The host took a frantic, surreptitious glance at his wife. It was evident that her brain was in a whirl. The evidence of her sense is conflicting with vague doubts of the possibilities of Spanish grandeism, and with a lingering belief in her husband's sanity. Grobstock resolved to snatch the benefit of her doubts. My dear, he said, this is Mr. D'Costa. Manasseh Bueno Barzila Azevedo D'Costa, said the schnurrer. The dame deemed a wit startled and impressed. She bowed, but words of welcome were still congealed in her throat. And this is Yankala Ben Yitzoch, added Manasseh, a poor friend of mine. I do not doubt Mrs. Grobstock that as a pious woman, the daughter of Moses Bernberg, his memory for a blessing, you prefer grace with three. Ah! any friend of yours is welcome! She found her lips murmuring the conventional phrase without being able to check their output. I never doubted that, either, said Manasseh gratefully. Is not the hospitality of Moses Bernberg's beautiful daughter a proverb? Moses Bernberg's daughter could not deny this. Her salon was the rendezvous of rich bag men, brokers and bankers, tempered by occasional young bloods and old bucks, not of the Jewish faith nor any other. But she had never before encountered a personage so magnificently shabby, nor extended her proverbial hospitality to a Polish schnurrer uncompromisingly musty. Joseph did not dare to meet her eye. Sit down there, Yankala, he said hurriedly, in ghastly, genial accents, and he indicated a chair at the farthest possible point from the hostess. He placed Manasseh next to his Polish parasite and seated himself as a buffer between his guests and his wife. He was burning with inward indignation the futile rifling of his wardrobe, but he dared not say anything in the hearing of his spouse. It is a beautiful custom. This of the Sabbath guest is it not, Mrs. Grobstock? remarked Manasseh as he took his seat. I never neglect it, even when I go out to the Sabbath meal as to-night. The late Miss Bernberg was suddenly reminded of old Langsine. Her father, who according to a wag of the period had divided his time between the law and the P.R.O. F.I.T.S. profits, having been a depository of ancient tradition. Perhaps these obsolescent customs, unsuited to prosperous times, had lingered longer among the Spanish grandees. She seized an early opportunity when the Sephardic snorer was taking his coffee from Wilkinson of putting the question to her husband, who fell in weakly with her illusions. He knew there was no danger of Manasseh's beggarly status leaking out. No expressions of gratitude were likely to fall from that gentleman's lips. He even hinted that D'Costa dressed so fustily to keep his poor friend in countenance. Nevertheless, Mrs. Grobstock, while not without admiration for the quixotism, was not without resentment for being dragged into it. She felt that such charity should begin and end at home. I see you did save me a slice of salmon, said Manasseh, manipulating his fish. What salmon is that? asked the hostess, pricking up her ears. One I had from Mr. D'Costa on Wednesday, said the host. Oh, that! It was delicious! I'm sure it was very kind of you, Mr. D'Costa, to make a such a nice present, said the hostess, her resentment diminishing. We had company last night, and everybody praised it till there was none left. This is another, but I hope it is your liking." She finished anxiously. Yes, it is very fair, very fair indeed. I don't know when I've tasted better except at the house of the President of the Deputados. But Yankola here is a connoisseur in fish, not easy to please. What do you say, Yankola? Yankola munched a muffled approval. Help yourself to more bread and butter, Yankola, said Manasseh. Make yourself at home. Remember you're my guest. Silently he added the other fork. Grobstock's irritation found vent in a complaint that the salad wanted vinegar. How can you say so? It's perfect, said Mrs. Grobstock. Salad is cooked specialty. Manasseh tasted it critically. On salads you must come to me, he said. It does not want vinegar, was his verdict, but a little more oil would certainly improve it. Oh, there is no one dresses salads like Hyman. Hyman's fame as the kosher chef who superintended the big dinners at the London Tavern had reached Mrs. Grobstock's ears, and she was proportionately impressed. They say his pastry's so good, she observed to be in the running. Yes, said Manasseh, in kneading and puffing he stands alone. Our cook's tarts are quite as nice, said Grobstock, roughly. We shall see, Manasseh replied, guardedly. Though, as for almond cakes, Hyman himself makes none better than I get from my cousin, Barzili of Fenchurch Street. Your cousin, exclaimed Grobstock, the West India merchant. The same, formerly of Barbados. Still, your cook knows how to make coffee, though I can tell you do not get it direct from the plantation, like the wardens of my synagogue. Grobstock was once again peaked with curiosity at the Schnurrer's identity. You accuse me of having stoned figures in my house, he said boldly, but what of the lions in front of yours? I have no lions, said Manasseh. Wilkinson told me, didn't you, Wilkinson? Wilkinson is a slanderer. That was the house of Nathaniel Furtado. Grobstock began to choke with chagrin. He perceived at once that the Schnurrer had merely taken the clothes conveyed directly to the house of a wealthy private dealer. Take care, exclaimed the Schnurrer anxiously. You are spluttering sauce all over that waistcoat without any consideration for me. Joseph suppressed himself with an effort. Open discussion would betray matters to his wife, and he was now too deeply enmeshed in falsehoods by default. But he managed to whisper angrily, Why did you tell Wilkinson I ordered him to carry your box? To save your credit in his eyes. How was he to know we had quarreled? He would have thought you discourteous to your guest. That's all very fine. But why did you sell my clothes? You did not expect me to wear them? No. I know my station, thank God. What is it you're saying, Mr. DeCosta? asked the hostess. Oh, we are talking of Dan Mendoza, replied Grobstock glibly, wondering if he'll beat Dick Humphries at Doncaster. Oh, Joseph, didn't you have enough of Dan Mendoza at supper last night? protested his wife. It is not a subject I ever talk about, said the Schnurrer, fixing his host with a reproachful glance. Grobstock desperately touched his foot under the table, knowing he was selling his soul to the king of Schnurres, but too flaccid to face the moment. No, DeCosta doesn't usually, he admitted, only Dan Mendoza being a Portuguese, I happen to ask if he was ever seen in the synagogue. If I had my way, growled DeCosta, he should be excommunicated, a bruiser, a defacer of God's image. By God, no, cried Grobstock, stirred up. If you had seen him lick the badger in thirty-five minutes on a twenty-four foot stage, Joseph, Joseph, remember, it's the Sabbath, cried Mrs. Grobstock. I would willingly exchange our Dan Mendoza for your David Levy, said DeCosta severely. David Levy was the literary ornament of the ghetto, a shoemaker and hat dresser who cultivated Hebrew philology and the muses, and broke a lance in defence of his creed with Dr. Priestley, the discoverer of oxygen, and Tom Payne, the discoverer of reason. For sure, David Levy, the mad hatter, said Grobstock, he makes nothing at all out of his books. You should subscribe for more copies, retorted Manasseh. I would, if you wrote them, rejoined Grobstock with agreements. I got six copies of his lingua sacra, Manasseh declared with dignity, and a dozen of his translation of the Pentateuch. You can afford it, snarled Grobstock with grim humour. I have to earn my money. It's very good of Mr. DeCosta all the same, interposed the hostess. How many men, born to great possessions, remain quite indifferent to learning. True, most true, said DeCosta, men of the earth, most of them. After supper he trolled the Hebrew grace hilariously, assisted by Yankler, and ere he left he said to the hostess, May the Lord bless you with children. Ah, thank you," she answered, much moved. You see, I should be pleased to marry your daughter if you had one. You are very complimentary," she murmured, but her husband's exclamation drowned hers. You marry my daughter? Who else moves among better circles would be more easily able to find her a suitable match? Oh, in that sense, said Grobstock, mollified in one direction, irritated in another. In what other sense? You do not think I, a safari, would marry her myself? My daughter does not need your assistance," replied Grobstock shortly. Not yet, admitted Manasseh, rising to go. But when the time comes, where will you find a better marriage broker? I have had a finger in the marriage of greater men's daughters. You see, when I recommend a maiden or a young man, it is from no surface knowledge. I have seen them in the intimacy of their homes. Above all, I am able to say whether they are of good, charitable disposition. Good Sabbath! Good Sabbath! murmured the host and hostess in farewell. Mrs. Grobstock thought he need not be above shaking hands for all his grand acquaintances. This were, Yonkala, said Manasseh, showing him the door. I am so glad you were able to come. You must come again! End of Chapter 2