 THE KING OF SCHNORRERS by Israel Zangwill, read by Adrian Predzellus. THE KING OF SCHNORRERS by Israel Zangwill, Chapter 3, showing how his majesty went to the theatre and was wooed. As Manasseh the great first beggar in Europe sauntered across Goodman's fields, attended by his Polish parasite, both serenely digesting the supper provided by the treasurer of the great synagogue Joseph Grobstock, a martial music-clove suddenly the quiet evening air, and set the Schnorrers' pulses bounding. From the tenter-ground emerged a squad of recruits picturesque in white fatigue-dress against which the mounted officers showed gallant in blue sortutes and scarlet-striped trousers. A-ha! said D'Costa, with swelling breast. There go my soldiers. Your soldiers? Ejaculated Yankola in astonishment. Yes, do you not see they are returning to the India House in Leadenhall Street? And what of that? said Yankola, shrugging his shoulders and spreading out his palms. What of that? Surely you have not forgotten that the clod-pater at whose house I have just entertained you is a director of the East India Company, whose soldiers these are. Oh! said Yankola, his mystified face relaxing in a smile. The smile fled before the stern look in the Spaniard's eyes. He hastened to conceal his amusement. Yankola was, by nature, a droll, and it cost him a good deal to take his patron as seriously as that potentate took himself. Perhaps, if Manasa Bueno Barzilay-Azeveno D'Costa had had more humour, he would have had less momentum. Your man of action is blind in one eye. Caesar would not have come and conquered if he had really seen. Wounded by that temporary twinkle in his client's eye, the patron moved on silently in step with the military air. It is a beautiful night! observed Yankola in contrition. The words had hardly passed his lips before he became conscious that he had spoken the truth. The moon was peeping from behind a white cloud, and the air was soft and broken shadows of foliage lay across the path, and the music was a song of love and bravery. Somehow Yankola began to think of D'Costa's lovely daughter. Her face floated in the moonlight. Manasa shrugged his shoulders, unappeased. When one has supped, well, it is always a beautiful night, he said, testily. It was as if the cloud had overspread the moon, and a thick veil had fallen over the face of D'Costa's lovely daughter. But Yankola recovered himself quickly. Ah, yes, he said, you have indeed made it a beautiful night for me. The king of Snorra's waved his staff. It is always a beautiful night when I am with you, added Yankola, undaunted. It is strange, replied Manasa musingly, that I should have admitted to my hearth and Grobstock's table, one who is, after all, but a half-brother in Israel. But Grobstock is also a Tiskodo, protested Yankola. That is also what I wonder at, rejoined D'Costa. I cannot make out how I have come to be so familiar with him. You see, ventured the Tedesco timidly. Perhaps when Grobstock had really had a girl you might even have come to marry her. God, your tongue, a safari cannot marry a Tedesco. It would be a degradation. Yes, but out of a round, a Tedesco can marry a safari, is it not? That is a rise. If Grobstock's daughter had married you, she would have married above her. He ended with an ingenuous air. True, admitted Manasa, but then as Grobstock's daughter does not exist and my wife does. Ah, but if you verse me, said Yankola, for jurada marry a Tedesco safari. A safari, of course, but I will be guided by you, interrupted the poll hastily. You be the vitous man I have known. But, Manasa repeated, do not deny it you be. Instantly will I seek out a safari maiden and wed her. Perhaps you crown your counsel by choosing fund for me. Manasa was visibly mollified. Oh, how do I know your taste? he asked, hesitatingly. Ah, any Spanish girl would be a prize, replied Yankola. Even then she had to face like a Passover cake, but I still prefer a Pentecost blossom. What kind of beauty do you like best? Your daughter's style plumply answered the poll. But there are not many like that, said D'Costa unsuspiciously. No, she is like the rose of Sharon. But then there are not many handsome fathers. Manasa bethought himself. There is Gabriel, the corpse watcher's daughter. People considered her figure and deportment good. Puh, awful! she's ugly enough to keep the messiah from coming. Thy she is like cart out of the father's face. Besides, consider his occupation. You would not advise that I marry into a such a low family, be you not my benefactor. Well, I cannot think of any good-looking girl that would be suitable. Yankola looked at him with a roguish insinuating smile. Say not that! Have you not told Grobstock that you'd be the first of marriage brokers? But Manasa shook his head. No, you be quite right, said Yankola humbly. I could not get a really beautiful girl unless I married your Deborah herself. No, I am afraid not, said Manasa sympathetically. Yankola took the plunge. Ah, why can I not hope to call you father-in-law? Manasa's face was contorted by a spasm of astonishment and indignation. He came to a standstill. That must be a fine piece, said Yankola quickly, indicating a flamboyant picture of a fearsome phatum hovering over a somber moat. They had arrived at Lehman Street and had stopped before Goodman's Fields Theatre. Manasa's brow cleared. It is the Castle Spectre, he said graciously. Would you like to see it? But it is half over. Oh, no! said Dacosta, scanning the play-bill. There was a farce by O'Keefe to start with. The night is young. The drama will be just beginning. But it is a Sabbath. If he must not pay. Manasa's brow clouded again in rothful, righteous surprise. Did you think I was going to pay? he gasped. No! stammered the pole, abashed. But you haven't got no orders. Orders? Me? Will you do me the pleasure of accepting a seat in my box? In your box? Yes, there's plenty of room. Come this way, said Manasa. I haven't been to other play myself for over a year. I'm too busy always. It will be an agreeable change. Yankola hung back, bewildered. Through this door, said Manasa, encouragingly. Come, you shall lead the way. But they will not admit me. Will not admit you? When I give you a seat in my box, are you mad? Now you shall go in without me. I insist upon it. I will show you. Manasa, Buena, Baratzilia, Azevedo de Costa is a man whose word is the law of Moses, true as the Talmud. Walk straight through the portico, and if the attendant endeavors to stop you, simply tell him Mr. de Costa has given you a seat in his box. Not daring to exhibit skepticism, nay, almost confident in the powers of his extraordinary protector, Yankola put his foot on the threshold of the lobby. But you be coming, too? he said, turning back. Oh yes, I don't intend to miss the performance, have no fear. Yankola walked boldly ahead and brushed by the doorkeeper of the little theatre, without appearing conscious of him. Indeed, the official was almost impressed into letting the snora pass unquestioned as one who had gone out between the acts. But the visitor was too dingy for anything but the stage door. He had the air of those nondescript beings who hang mysteriously about the hinder recesses of playhouses. Recovering himself just in time, the functionary, a meek little cockney, hailed the intruder with a backward drawing, Oi! What you want? said Yankola, turning his head. There's your ticket. Don't want no ticket. Don't you? I does, rejoined the little man who was a humorist. Mr. de Costa has given me a seat in his box. Oh, indeed! You swear to that in the box? By my head he gave it to me. A seat in his box? Yes. Mr. de Costa, you've a say in, I think. The same. Ah, this way, then. And the humorist pointed to the street. Yankola did not budge. This way, my lad, cried the little humorist preemptually. I tell you I'm going to Mr. de Costa's box. And I tell you you're a going into the gutter. And the official seized him by the scruff of the neck, a big ang pushing him forward with his knee. Now, then, what's this? A stern, angry voice broke like a thunder-clap across the humorist's ears. He released his hold of the snorer and looked up, to behold a strange, shabby, stalwart figure towering over him in censorious majesty. Why are you hustling this poor man? demanded Manasa. He wanted to sneak in. The little cockney replied, half apologetically and half resentfully. Except he ails from saffronil, and he has his eyes on the wipes. Told me some gammon, a cock-and-ball story about having a seat in a box. In Mr. de Costa's box, I suppose, said Manasa, ominously calm, with a menacing glitter in his eye. Ah, yes! said the humorist, astonished and vaguely alarmed. Then the storm burst. You impertinent rascal! You jack-and-apes! You low, bengally rapscallion! And so you refused to show my guest into my box? Are you Mr. de Costa? Faulted the humorist? Yes, I am Mr. de Costa, but you won't much longer be doorkeeper, if this is the way you treat people who come to see your pieces. Because, forsooth, the man looks poor, you think you can bully him safely? Forgive me, uncle, I am so sorry I did not manage to come here before you and spare you this insulting treatment. And as for you, my fine fellow, let me tell you that you make a great mistake in judging from appearances. There are some good friends of mine who could buy up your theatre, and you and your miserable little soul at a moment's notice, and to look at them you would think they were cages. One of these days, Hark you, you will kick out a person of quality, and be kicked out yourself. I am very sorry, sir. Don't say that to me. It is my guest you owe an apology to. Yes, and by heaven you shall pay it, though he is no plutocrat, but only what he appears. Surely, because I wish to give a treat to a poor man who has, perhaps, never been to a play in his life, I am not bound to send him to the gallery. I can give him a corner in my box, if I choose. There is no rule against that, I presume. No, sir, I can't say that as there is, said the humorist humbly. But you will allow, sir, it's rather unusual. Unusual? Of course, it's unusual. Kindness and consideration for the poor are always unusual. The poor are trodden upon at every opportunity, treated like dogs, not men. If I had invited a drunken fop, you'd have met him hat in hand. No, no, you didn't take it off to me now, it's too late. But a sober poor man, by God, I shall report your insubility to the management, and you'll be lucky if I don't thrash you with the stick into the bargain. But how was I to know, sir? Don't speak to me, I tell you. If you have anything to urge in extenuation of your disgraceful behavior, address your remarks to my guest. You'll overlook it this time, sir, said the little humorist, turning to Yankler. Next time, perhaps, you'll believe me when I say I have a seat in Mr. D'Costa's box, replied Yankler in gentle reproach. Well, if you are satisfied, Yankler, said Manasseh, with a touch of scorn, I have no more to say. Go along, my man, show us to our box. The official bowed and led them into the corridor. Suddenly he turned back. What box is it, please? he said timidly. Blockhead! cried Manasseh. Which box should it be, the empty one, of course? But, sir, there are two boxes empty, urged the poor humorist deprecatingly, the stage-box and a one-up by the gallery. Don't! do I look the sort of person who is content with a box on the ceiling. Go back to your post, sir, I will find the box myself. Heaven send you wisdom! Go back! Someone might sneak in while you're away, and it would just serve you right. The little man, slunk back half-dazed, glad to escape from this overwhelming personality, and in a few seconds Manasseh stalked into the empty box, followed by Yankler, whose mouth was a grin, and whose eye a twinkle. As the Spaniard took his seat, there was a slight outburst of clapping and stamping from a house impatient for the end of the Entra Act. Manasseh craned his head over the box to see the house, which in turn craned to see him, glad of any diversion, and some people imagining the applause had reference to the newcomer, whose head appeared to be that of a foreigner of distinction, joined in it. The contingent spread, and in a minute Manasseh was the sinister of all eyes and the unmistakable recipient of innovation. He bowed twice or thrice in unruffled dignity. There were some who recognized him, but they joined in the reception with wandering amusement. Not a few, indeed, of the audience were Jews, for Goodman's Fields was the ghetto theatre, and the Sabbath was not a sufficient deterrent to a lax generation. The audiences, mainly Germans and Poles, came to the little unfashionable playhouse as one happy family. Distinctions of rank were trivial, and the gallery held converse with circle and pit co-logged with box. Supper parties were held on the benches. In a box that gave on the pit, a portly Jewish sat stiffly, arranged in the very pink of fashion in a spangled robe of India muslin, with a diamond necklace and crescent, her head crowned by terraces of curls and flowers. Betsy called up a jovial feminine voice from the pit when the applause had subsided. Betsy did not move, but her cheeks grew hot and red. She had got on in the world and did not care to recognize her old crony. Betsy! iterated the well-meaning woman, buy your life and mine, you must take a piece of my fried fish. And she held up a slice of cold place, beautifully browned. Betsy drew back, striving unsuccessfully to look unconscious. To her relief the curtain rose and the castle spectre walked. Yankler, who had scarcely seen anything but private theatricals, representing the discomforture of the wicked Heyman and the triumph of Queen Esther, a role he had once played himself in his mother's old clothes, was delighted with the thrills and terrors of the ghostly melodrama. It was not until the conclusion of the second act that the emotion, the beautiful but injured heroine, cost him welled over again into matrimonial speech. If you find up the night glorious, he said, I'm glad you like it. It is certainly an enjoyable performance. Manasseh answered, with stately satisfaction. Your daughter Deborah, Yankler, ventured timidly. Do she ever go to the play? No, I do not take my woman kind about. Their duty lies at home, as it is written. I call my wife not wife, but home. But dink how they have enjoyed themselves. We are not sent here to enjoy ourselves. True, most true, said Yankler, pulling a smug face. We be sent here to obey the law of Moses. But do not remind me I be a sinner in Israel. How so? I am twenty-five, yet I have no wife. I daresay you had plenty in Poland. By my soul not, only one. And I gave her gait for barrenness. You can ride to the rabbi of my town. Why should I write? It's not my affair. But I want it to be your affair. Manasseh glared. Do you begin that again, he murmured. It is not so much that I desire your daughter for a wife as you for a father-in-law. It cannot be, said Manasseh more gently. Oh, that I was born a safari, said Yankler, with a hopeless groan. It's too late now, said D'Costa soothingly. They say it's never too late to mend, moaned the pole. Is there no way for me to be converted to Spanish Judaism? I could easily pronounce Hebrew in your superior way. Our Judaism differs in no essential respect from yours. It is a question of blood. You cannot change your blood. As it is said, and the blood is the life. I know, I know that I aspire too high. Oh, why did you become my friend? Why did you make me believe you cared for me? So did I think of you day and night? And now when I ask you to be my father-in-law, you say it cannot be. It is like a knife in the heart. Tink how proud and happy I should be to call you my father-in-law. All my life would I be devoted to you. My van thought to be worthy of such a man. You are not the first I have been compelled to refuse, said Manasseh with emotion. What helps me that there are beyond the schlemiels? Quoted Yankler with a sub. How can I live without you for a father-in-law? I am sorry for you, more sorry than I've ever been. Then you do care for me. I will not give up hope. I will not take no for no answer. That is this blood that it should divide you from due, that it should prevent me from becoming the father-in-law of the only man I have ever loved. Say not so. Let me ask you again in a month or a year. Even twelve months would I wait. Then you could only promise not to pledge your daughter to another man. But if I become your father-in-law, mind I only say if. Not only would I not keep you, but you would have to keep my D'Bora. And supposing. But you are not able to keep a wife. Not able? Who told you that? cried Yankler indignantly. You yourself. Why, when I first befriended you, you told me you were blood-poor. That I told you as a schnurrer. But now I speak to you as a suitor. True, admitted Manasa, instantly appreciating the distinction. And as a suitor I tell you I can schnurrer enough to keep two vives. But do you now tell this to decoster the father? Or to decoster the marriage-broker? Hush from all parts of the house as the curtain went up, and the house settled down. But Yankler was no longer in rapport with the play. The spectre had ceased to thrill and the heroine to touch. His mind was busy with feverish calculations of income, scraping together every penny he could raise by hook or crook, and even drew out a crumpled piece of paper and a pencil, but thrust them back into his pocket when he saw Manasa's eye. I forgot, he murmured apologetically, being at the play made me forget if was the Sabbath. And he pursued his calculations mentally, this being naturally less work. When the play was over the two beggars walked out into the cool night air. I find, Yankler began eagerly in the vestibule, I make at least one hundred fifty pounds. He paused to acknowledge the farewell salutation of the little doorkeeper at his elbow, one hundred and fifty a year. Indeed, said Manasa in respectful astonishment. Yes, I have reckoned it all up. Ten are the sources of charity. As it is written, interrupted Manasa with unction, with ten sayings was the world created, there were ten generations from Noah to Abraham, with ten trials our father Abraham was tried, ten miracles were wrought for our fathers in Egypt, and ten at the Red Sea, and ten things were created on the eve of the Sabbath in the twilight. And now it shall be added, ten good deeds the poor man affords the rich man. Proceed, Yankler. First comes my allowance from the synagogue, eight pounds, Vancevik I call and receive half a crown. Is that all? Our synagogue allows three and six. Ah, sighed the pole wistfully. Did I not say you be a superior race? But that makes only six pounds ten. I know the other thirty shillings are allowed for Passover cakes and groceries. Then for synagogue knocking I get ten guineas. Stop, stop! cried Manasa with a sudden scruple. All tied to listen to financial details on the Sabbath. Certainly when they be connected with my marriage, which is a commandment, it is the law we really discuss. You are right. Go on then. But remember, even if you can prove you can snore enough to keep a wife, I do not bind myself to consent. You be already a father to me. Vile will you not be my father in law? Anyhow, you will find me a father in law, he added hastily, seeing the blackness gathering again on the costa's brow. No, no, we must not talk of business on the Sabbath, said Manasa evasively. Proceed with your statement of income. Ten guineas for synagogue knocking. I have twenty clients who, stop a moment, I cannot pass that item. Why not, it's two? Maybe, but synagogue knocking is distinctly work. Work? Well, if going round early in the morning to knock at the doors of twenty pious persons and rouse them for morning service isn't work, then the Christian bell-ringer is a beggar. No, no, profits from this source I cannot regard as legitimate. But most snorers be synagogue-knuckers. Most snorers are congregation men or Psalms men, retorted the Spaniard witheringly. But I call it debasing. What? To assist at the services for a fee, to worship one's maker for hire, under such conditions to pray is to work. His breasts swelled with majesty and scorn. I cannot call it verk, protested the snorer. Why, at that rate, you would make out that the minister-verks or the preacher? Why, I reckon, fourteen pounds a year to my services as congregation man. Fourteen pounds, as much as that. Yes, you see, there's my private customers as well as the synagogue. Then there is a morning in the house, they cannot always get together ten friends for the services, so I make one. How can you call that verk? It is friendship, and the more they pay me, the more friendship I feel, asserted Yonkola with a twinkle. Then the synagogue allows me a little extra for announcing the dead. In those primitive times when a Jewish newspaper was undreamt of, the day's obituary was published by a peripathetic snorer who went about the ghetto rattling a picks, a copper money-box with a hand and a lid closed by a padlock. On hearing this death-rattle, anyone who felt curious would ask the snorer, who's dead today? So-and-so, Ben, so-and-so, funeral on such a day, morning service at such an hour, the snorer would reply, and the inquirer would piously put something in the bicks, as it was called. The collection was handed over to the Heverich edition, in other words, the burial society. Perhaps you called that verk, concluded Yonkola in a timid challenge. Of course I do, what do you call it? Valking exercise, it keeps me healthy. Vance, friend of my customers, from whom I snort half a crown a week, said he was tired of my coming and getting at every Friday. He wanted to compound me with me for six pounds a year, but I wouldn't. But that was a very fair offer. He only deducted ten shillings for the interest on his money. That, I did the mind, but I wanted a pound more for his depriving me of my valking exercise, and that he wouldn't pay, so he goes on giving me half a crown a week. Some of these charitable persons are terribly mean, but what I want to say is that I carry the bicks mostly in the street where my customers lay. It gives me more standing at the snorer. No, no, that is a delusion. What? Are you weak-minded enough to believe that? All the philanthropists say so, of course, but surely you know that snoring and work should never be mixed. A man cannot do two things properly. He must choose his profession and stick to it. A friend of mine once succumbed to the advice of the philanthropists instead of asking mine. He had one of the best provincial rounds in the kingdom, but in every town he weakly listened to the lectures of the president of the congregation, inculcating work, and at last he actually invested the savings of years in jewellery and went around trying to peddle it. The presidents all bought something to encourage him, though they beat down the price so that there was no profit in it, and they all expressed their pleasure at his working for his living. And showing a manly independence. But I snore also. He reminded them holding out his hand when they had finished. It was in vain. No one gave him a farthing. He had blundered beyond redemption. At one blow he had destroyed one of the most profitable connections a snorer ever had, and without even getting anything for the good will. So, if you will be guided by me, Yankola, you will do nothing to assist the philanthropists to keep you. It destroys their satisfaction. A snorer cannot be too careful. And once you begin to work, where are you to draw the line? But you be a marriage-broker yourself, said Yankola impudently. That, thundered Manasseh angrily, that is not work, that is pleasure. If I look, there is Henry Simmons, cried Yankola, hoping to divert his attention. But he only made matters worse. Henry Simmons was a character variously known as the tumbling Jew, Harry the Dancer, and the juggling Jew. He was afterwards to become famous as the hero of a slander case which deluged England with pamphlets for and against, but for the presence he had merely outraged the feelings of his fellow snorers by budding out in a direction so rare as to suggest preliminary baptism. He stood now playing antique and slight of hand tricks, surrounded by a crowd, a curious figure crowned by a velvet skull-cap from which wisps of hair protruded, with a scarlet handkerchief thrust through his girdle. His face was an olive oval bordered by ragged tufts of beard and stamped with melancholy. You see the results of working, cried Manasseh. It brings temptation to work on Sabbath. That epicurian there is profaning the holy day. Come away! A snorer is far more certain of the world to come. No, decidedly I will not give my daughter to a worker, or to a snorer who makes illegitimate profits. But I make the profits all the same, persisted Yankola. You make them to-day, but to-morrow? There is no certainty about them. Work of whatever kind is by its very nature unreliable. At any moment trade may be slack. People may become less pious, and you lose your synagogue knocking. Or more pious, and they won't want congregation men. But new synagogues spring up, urged Yankola. New synagogues are full of enthusiasm, retorted Manasseh. The members are their own congregation men. Yankola had his roguish twinkle. At first, he admitted, but the snorer veights his time. Manasseh shook his head. Snoring is the only occupation that is regular all the year round, he said. Everything else may fail. The greatest commercial houses may totter to the ground. As it is written, he humbleth the proud. But the snorer is always secure. Whoever fails, there are always enough left to look after him. If you were a father, Yankola, you would understand my feelings. How can a man allow his daughter's future happiness to repose on a basis so uncertain as work? No, no. What do you make by your district visiting? Everything turns on that. Twenty-five shillings a week? Really. Law of Moses. In six months' shillings and half-crowns. Vine, hounds, ditch alone, I have two streets, all except for a few houses. But are they safe? Population shifts. Good streets go down. That twenty-five shillings is as safe as Makata's business. I have it all written down at home. You can inspect the books if you choose. No, no, said Manasseh, with a grand wave of his stick. If I did not believe you, I should certainly not entertain your proposal for a moment. It rejoices me exceedingly to find you have devoted so much attention to this branch. I have always held strongly that the rich should be visited in their own homes, and I grieve to see this personal touch, this contact with the very people to whom you give the good deeds being replaced by lifeless circulars. One owes it to one's position in life, to afford the wealthy classes the opportunity of charity warm from the heart. They should not be neglected and driven in their turn to write checks in cold blood, losing all that human sympathy which comes from personal intercourse. As it is written, charity delivers from death. But do you think charity that is given publicly through a secretary and advertised in annual reports has so greater redeeming power as that slipped privately into the hands of the poor man, who makes a point of keeping secret from every donor what he has received from the others? I'm glad you don't call collecting the money, Verc, said Yankala, with a touch of sarcasm which was lost on D'Costa. No, so long as the donor can't show any value received in return, and there's more friendship in such a call, Yankala, than in going to a house of mourning to pray for a fee. Oh, said Yankala, wincing, then perhaps you strike out all my year time item. Year time? What's that? Don't you know, said the poll astonished, then a man has year time he feels charitable for the day. You mean when he commemorates the anniversary of the death of one of his family? We, Cepheidim, call that making years, but are there enough year times as you call them in your synagogue? There might be more. I only make about fifteen pounds. Our colony is, as you say, new to us. The globe road cemetery is as empty as a synagogue on weekdays. The fathers have left their fathers on the continent and kept many year times out of the country. But in a few years many fathers and mothers must die off here, and every parent leaves two or three sons to have year times, and every child, two or three brothers and a father, then every day more German Jews come here, which means more and more to die. I think, indeed, it would be fair to double this item. No, no, stick to facts. It is an iniquity to speculate in the misfortunes of our fellow creatures. Somebody must die that I may live, retorted Yankler roguishly. The world is so created. Did you not, quote, charity deliver us from death? If people lived forever, snorers could not live at all. Hush! The world could not exist without snorers, as it is written, and repentance and prayer and charity avert the evil decree. Charity is put last, it is the climax, the greatest thing on earth, and the snorer is the greatest man on earth, for it stands in the Talmud. He who causes is greater than he who does. Therefore the snorer who causes charity is even greater than he who gives it. Talk of the devil! said Yankler, who had much difficulty in keeping his countenance when Manasseh became magnificent and diathrambic. Why, there's Greenbaum, whose father was buried yesterday. Let us cross over by accident and wish him long life. Greenbaum dead? Was that the Greenbaum on change, who was such a rascal with the wenches? The same, said Yankler, then approaching the son, he cried, Good Sabbath, Mr. Greenbaum, I wish you a long life. What a blow for the community! It comforts me to hear you say so, said the son with a sob in his voice. Oh yes, said Yankler, chokingly, your father was a great and good man, just my size. I've ordered you to give them a way to Baruch the Glacier, replied the mourner. Ah, but he has his glazing, remonstrated Yankler. I have nothing but the clothes I stand in, and they don't fit me half so well as your father would have done. Baruch has been very unfortunate, replied Greenbaum defensively. He had a misfortune in the winter, and he was never got straight yet. A child of his died, and unhappily, just when the snow-balling was at its height, so that he lost seven days by the morning. And he moved away. Did I not say work was uncertain? cried Manasseh. Not at all, maintained the Schnurrer. What of the six guineas I made by carrying round the palm branch on tabernacles to be shaken by the women who cannot dissent synagogue, and by blowing the trumpet for the same women's on New Year's so that they may bake their fasts? The amount is too small to deserve discussion pass on. There's a smaller amount, just half of that I get from the presents to the poor at the feast of lots, and from the bridegrooms for the beginning and the bridegrooms of the law at the rejoicing of the law, and there's about four pounds ten a year from the sale of the clothes given to me. Then I have a lot of meals given me. This I have reckoned is as good as seven pounds. And lastly I cannot count the odds and ends under ten guineas. You know there's all those legacies and gifts and distributions all unexpected. You never know who'll break out next. Yes, I think it's not too high a percentage of your income to expect from unexpected sources, admitted Manasseh. I have myself lingered about Change Alley or Sampson's Coffee House, just when the jobbers have pulled off a special coup, and they have paid me quite a high percentage on their profits. And I, boasted Yankala, stung to noble emulation, have made two sovereigns in one minute out of Gideon to bully and broker. He likes to give the Shnora's sovereigns as if in mistake for shillings to see what they'll do. The fools hurry off or move slowly away, as if not noticing, or put it quickly in the pocket. But those who have the wisdom to tell him he has made a mistake, and he gives them another sovereign, honesty is the best policy with Gideon. Then there is the rabbi, the fog, the bar-shem, the great cabalist, then but, interrupted Manasseh impatiently, you haven't made out your one hundred and fifty a year. Yankala's face fell, not if you cut out so many items. No, but even all-inclusive it only comes to one hundred and forty-three pounds, nineteen shillings. Nonsense, said Yankala, staggered. How can you know so exact? Do you think I cannot do simple addition? responded at Manasseh sternly. Oh, not those your ten items. One, synagogue pension with Passover extras, eight pounds. Two, synagogue knocking, ten pounds, ten shillings. Three, district visiting, sixty-five pounds. Four, as Congregation Man and Pixbearer, fourteen pounds. Five, year times, fifteen pounds. Six, Palm Branch and Trumpet Fees, six pounds, six shillings. Seven, Purim Feasts, and so on. Three pounds, three shillings. Eight, sale of clothes, four pounds, ten shillings. Nine, equivalent of free meals, seven pounds. Ten, miscellaneous, the unexpected. Ten pounds, ten shillings. Total, one hundred and forty-three pounds, nineteen shillings. A child could sum it up, concluded Manasseh severely. Yankala was subdued to genuine respect and consternation by Dacosta's marvellous memory and arithmetical genius. But he rallied immediately. Of course, I also reckoned on a dowry, mid my bride, if only a hundred pounds. Well, invested in consuls, that would not bring you four pounds more, replied Manasseh instantly. The rest will be made up in extra free meals, Yankala answered no less quickly. For when I take your daughter off your hands, you will be able to afford to invite me more often to your table than you do now. Not at all, retorted Manasseh. For now that I know how well off you are, I shall no longer feel I am doing a charity. Oh, yes you will, said Yankala insinuatingly. You are too much a man of honour to know as a private philanthropist, what I have told the marriage broker, the father-in-law, and the fellow-snorrer. Besides, I would have the free meals from you as the son-in-law, not the snorrer. In that relation I should also have free meals from you, rejoined Manasseh. I never dared to think you would do me to honour, but even so I can never give you such good meals as you gave me, so dare is a balance in my favour. That is true, said D'Costa thoughtfully, but you have still about a guinea to make up. Yankala was driven into a corner at last. He flashed back without perceptible pause. You do not allow for what I save by my piety. I fast twenty times a year, and surely that is at least another guinea per annum. But you will have children, reported D'Costa. Yankala shrugged his shoulders. That is the affair of the Holy One, bless be here. Then he sends them, he will provide for them. You must not forget, too, that mid your daughter the dowry would be nothing so small as a hundred pounds. My daughter will have a dowry befitting her station, certainly, said Manasseh in his grandest manner. But then I had looked forward to her marrying a king of snorers. Well, but when I marry her I shall be. How so? I shall have snored your daughter, the most precious thing in the world, and snored her from a king of snorers, too. And I shall have snored your services as marriage-broker into the bargain. The King of Snorers The King of Snorers, by Israel Zangwill, read by Adrian Predsellus. The King of Snorers, by Israel Zangwill, Chapter 4 Showing How the Royal Wedding Was Arranged Manasseh Bueno Barzilia Ziveto de Costa was so impressed by his would-be son-in-law's last argument that he propended it in silence for a full minute. When he replied, his tone showed even more respect than had been infused into it by the statement of the aspirant's income. Manasseh was not one of those to whom money is a fetish. He regarded it merely as something to be had for the asking. It was intellect for which he reserved his admiration. That was strictly not transferable. It is true, he said, that if I yielded to your importunities and gave you my daughter, you would thereby have approved yourself a King of Snorers of a rank suitable to my daughters. But an analysis of your argument will show that you are begging the question. What more proof do you want of my begging powers? demanded Yankala, spreading out his palms and shrugging his shoulders. Much greater proof, replied Manasseh, I ought to have some instance of your powers. The only time I have seen you trying to snore, you failed. Me, then, exclaimed Yankala indignantly. Why, this very night, when you asked Young Weinstein for his dead father's clothes, but he had already given them away, protested the poll. What of that? If anyone had given away my clothes, I should have demanded compensation. You really must be above rebuffs of that kind, Yankala, if you are to be my son-in-law. No, no, I remember the dictum of the sages. To give your daughter to an uncultured man is like throwing her bound to a lion. But you have also seen me snore with success, remonstrated the suitor. Never, protested Manasseh vehemently, often. From whom? From you, said Yankala boldly. From me, sneered Manasseh, accentuating the pronoun with infinite contempt. What does that prove? I am a generous man. The test is to snore from a miser. I will snore from a miser, announced Yankala desperately. You will? Yes, choose your miser. No, I leave it to you, said D'Costa politely. Well, uh, Sam Lazarus, the butcher's shop. No, not Sam Lazarus. He once gave a schnore, I know, eleven pence. Eleven pence? Incredulously murmured Yankala. Yes, it was the only way he could pass a shilling. And it wasn't bad, only cracked, but he could get no one to take it except a schnore. He made the man give him a penny change, though. It is true the man afterwards laid out the shilling at Lazarus's shop. Still, a really good miser would have added that cracked shilling to his horde rather than the perfect penny. No, argued Yankala. There would be no difference, since he does not spend. True, said D'Costa, reflectively. But by the same token a miser is not the most difficult person to tackle. How do you make that out? Is it not obvious? Already we see Lazarus giving away eleven pence. A miser who spends nothing on himself may, in exceptional cases, be induced to give away something. It is the man who indulges himself in every luxury and gives away nothing who is the hardest the schnore from. He has a use for his money, himself. If you diminish his store you hurt him in the tenderest part. You rob him of creature comforts. To schnore from such a one I should regard as a higher and nobler thing than to schnore from a mere miser. Vell, name your man. No, I couldn't think of taking it out of your hands, said Manassa again with his stately bow. Whomever you select I will abide by. If I could not rely on your honour, would I dream of you as a son-in-law? Then I will go to Mendel Jacobs of Mary-Ax. Mendel Jacobs? Oh, no. Why, he is married. A married man cannot be entirely devoted to himself. Fine art is not a vie for creature comfort. Perhaps also she comes cheaper than a housekeeper. We will not argue it. I will not have Mendel Jacobs. Simon Kalatsky, divine merchant. He? He is quite generous with his snuff-box. I have myself been offered a pinch. Of course I did not accept it. Yankala selected several other names, but Manassa barred them all, and at last had an inspiration of his own. Isn't there a rabbi in your community whose stinginess is proverbial? Let me see. What is his name? A rabbi? murmured Yankala disingenuously, while his heart began to palpitate with alarm. Yes, isn't there? Rabbi Bloater? Yankala shook his head. Ruin stared him in the face. His fondest hopes were crumbling. I know it's some fishy name, Rabbi Haddock. No, no it isn't. It's Rabbi Remorse something. Yankala saw it was all over with him. Perhaps you mean Rabbi Remorse Red Herring? He said feebly, for his voice failed him. Oh yes, Rabbi Remorse Red Herring, said Manassa. From all I hear, for I have never seen the man, a king of guzzlers and toppers, and the meanest of mankind. Now, if you could dine with him, you might indeed be called a king of schnoras. Yankala was pale and trembling, but he is married, he urged with a happy thought. Dine with him, tomorrow, said Manassa inexorably. He fares extra royally on the Sabbath, obtain admission to his table, and you shall be admitted into my family. But you do not know the man, it is impossible, cried Yankala. That is the excuse of the bad schnorra. You have heard my ultimatum, no dinner, no wife, no wife, no dowry. But for this dowry be, asked Yankala by way of diversion. Oh, unique, quite unique. First of all, there would be all the money she gets from the synagogue. Our synagogue gives considerable dowries to portionless girls. There are large bequests for the purpose. Yankala's eyes glittered. Ah, what gentleman you Spaniards be! Then I dare say I should hand over to my son-in-law all my Jerusalem land. Have you property in the Holy Land? said Yankala. First class with an unquestionable title. And, of course, I would give you some province or other in this country. But, gasped Yankala, could I do less, said Manasseh blandly, my own flesh and blood, remember. Ah, here is my door. It is too late to ask you in. Good Sabbath, don't forget your appointment to dime with rabbi remorse red herring to-morrow. Good Sabbath, faltered Yankala, and crawled home heavily hearted to Dinah's building's tripyard white chapel, where the memory of him lingers even unto this day. Rabbi remorse red herring was an unofficial preacher who officiated at morning services in private houses, having a gift of well-turned eulogy. He was a big burly man with overlapping stomach and a red beard, and his spiritual consolations drew tears. His clients knew him to be vastly self-indulgent in private life, and abstemious in the matter of benevolence, but they did not confound the rules. As a morning preacher he gave every satisfaction. He was regular and punctual, and did not keep the congregation waiting, and he had considerable experience in showing that there was yet balm in Gilead. He had about five ways of showing it, the variants depending upon the circumstances. If, as not infrequently happened, the person deceased was a stranger to him, he would inquire in the passage, Was it a man or a woman? Boy or girl? Married or single? Any children? Youngins or oldens? When these questions have been answered, he was ready. He knew exactly which of his five consolatory addresses to deliver. They were all sufficiently vague in general to cover the considerable variety of circumstances, and even when he misheard the replies in the passage, and dilated on the grief of a departed willow's relic, the results were not fatal throughout. The few impossible passages might be explained by the mishearing of the audience. Sometimes, very rarely, he would venture on a supplementary sentence or two, fitting the specific occasion, but very cautiously, for a man with a reputation for extemporary addresses cannot be too wary of speaking on the spur of the moment. Off obituary lines, he was a failure. At any rate, his one attempt to preach from an English synagogue pulpit resulted in a nickname. The theme was remorse, which he explained with much care to the congregation. For instance, said the preacher, the other day I was walking over London Bridge. When I saw a fish-wife standing with a basket of red herrings, I said, How much? She says, Two for threepence. I say, Ah, that's frightfully dear. I can easily get three for tuppence. But she wouldn't part with them at that price, so I went on thinking I'd meet another woman with a similar lot over the water. They were lovely fat herrings, and my chaps watered in anticipation of the treat of eating them. But when I got to the other end of the bridge, there was no other fish-wife to be seen. So I resolved to turn back to the first fish-wife, for after all I reflected the herrings were really very cheap, and I had only complained in the way of business. But when I got back, the woman was just sold out. I could have torn my hair with vexation. Now that's what I call remorse. After that the rabbi was what the congregation called remorse, also red herring. The rabbi's fondness for concrete exemplification of abstract ideas was not, however, to be stifled. There was one illustration of charity which found a place in all the five sermons of consolation. If you have a pair of old breeches, send them to the rabbi. Rabbi Remorse Red Herring was, however, as is the way of preachers, himself ought but a concrete exemplification of the virtues he inculcated. He lived generously, through other people's generosity, but no one could boast of having received a farthing from him over and above what was due to them. While Schnorrers, who deemed considerable sums due to them, regarded him in the light of a defulcating bankrupt, he, for his part, had a countervaining grudge against the world, fancying the work he did for it, but feebly remunerated. I get so little, ran his bitter plate, that I couldn't live if it was not for the fasts. And indeed the fasts of the religion were worth much more to him than to Junkala. His meals were so profuse that his sayings from this source were quite a little revenue. As Junkala had pointed out, he was married, and his wife had given him a child, but it had died at the age of seven, bequeathing to him the only poignant sorrow of his life. He was too jealous to call in a rival consolation preacher during those dark days, and none of his own five sermons seemed to fit the case. It was some months before he took his meals regularly. At no time had anyone else taken meals in his house, except by law entitled. Though she had only two to cook for, his wife habitually provided for three, counting her husband no mere unit. She herself reckoned as half. It was with intelligible perturbation, therefore, that Junkala, dressed in some other man's best, approached the house of rabbi remorse Red Herring about a quarter of an hour before the Sabbath midday meal, intent on sharing it with him. No dinner, no marriage. Was the custer's stern you case? What wonder if the inaccessible meal took upon itself the grandiosity of a wedding-feast? D'Bora de Coster's lovely face tantalised him like a mirage. The Sabbath day was bleak, but chillier was his heart. The rabbi had apartments in Stuart Street's Spittlefields, an elegant suite on the ground floor, for which he stinted himself in nothing but charity. At the entrance was a porch, a pointed gothic arch of wood supported by two pillars. As Junkala mounted the three wooden steps, breathing as painfully as if they were three hundred, and wondering if he would ever get merely as far as the other side of the door, he was assailed by the temptation to go and dine peacefully at home, and represent to de Coster that he had feasted with the rabbi. Manasseh would never know. Manasseh had taken no steps to ascertain if he satisfied the test or not. Such carelessness, he told himself, in righteous indignation, deserved fitting punishment. But, on the other hand, he recalled Manasseh's trust in him. Manasseh believed him a man of honour, and the patron's elevation of soul awoke and answering chivalry in the parasite. He decided to make the attempt at least, for there would be plenty of time to say he had succeeded after he had failed. Vibrating with tremors of nobility as well as apprehension, Junkala lifted the knocker. He had no program, trusting to chance, and mother wit. Mrs. Remorse read herring half open the door. I wish to see the rabbi, he said, putting one foot within. He's engaged, said the wife, a tiny, thin creature who had been plump and pretty. He's very busy talking to a gentleman. Ah, but I can wait. But the rabbi will be having his dinner soon. I can wait until after dinner, said Junkala, obligingly. Oh, but the rabbi sits long at table. I don't mind, said Junkala, with undiminished placidity. The longer the better. The poor woman looked perplexed. I'll tell my husband, she said at last. Junkala had an anxious moment in the passage. The rabbi wishes to know what you want, she said, when she returned. I want to get married, said Junkala, with an inspiration of veracity. But my husband doesn't marry people. Fine art! He only brings consolation into households. She explained ingenuously. Well, I won't get married without him. Junkala murmured legubriously. The little woman went back in bewilderment to her bosom's lord. Fourth with out came Rabbi Remorse read herring, curiosity and cupidity in his eyes. He wore the skull cap of sanctity, but looked like the gourmand in spite of it. Good Sabbath, sir! What is this about your getting married? It's a long story, said Junkala, and as your good wife told me, your dinner is just ready, I mustn't keep you now. No, there are still a few more minutes before dinner. What is it? Junkala shook his head. I couldn't think of keeping you in this draughty passage. I don't mind, I don't feel any draught. That is just where the danger lies. You didn't notice, and one day you find yourself lay up with rheumatism and you will have remorse, said Junkala with a twinkle. Your life is precious, if you die, who will console the community? It was an ambiguous remark, but the rabbi understood it in its most flattering sense, and his little eyes beamed. I would ask you inside, he said, but I have a visitor. No matter, said Junkala, but I have to say to you, rabbi, is not private, a stranger may hear it. Still undecided, the rabbi muttered, you want me to marry you? I have come to get married, replied Junkala. But I've never been called to marry people. It's never too late to mend, they say. Strange, strange, murmured the rabbi, reflectively. What is strange, that you should come to me just today? Why did you not go to Rabbi Sandman? Rabbi Sandman, replied Junkala with contempt. There would be good of going to him. But why not? Every snogger goes to him, said Junkala, frankly. Hmm, mused the rabbi. Perhaps there is an opening for a more select maria. Come in, then, I can give you five minutes if you really don't mind talking before a steiger. He threw open the door, and led the way into the sitting room. Junkala followed, exultant. The outworks were already carried, and his heart beat high with hope. But at his first glance, within, he reeled and almost fell. Standing with his back to the fire, and dominating the room, was Manasa Bueno Barzilla as Avedo D'Costa. Ah, Junkala, good Sabbath, said D'Costa affably. Good Sabbath, stammered Junkala. Why, you know each other, cried the rabbi. Oh, yes, said Manasa, an acquaintance of yours too, apparently. No, he just has come to see me about something, replied the rabbi. I thought you did not know the rabbi, Mr. D'Costa. Junkala could not help saying. I didn't. I only had the pleasure of making his acquaintance half an hour ago. I met him in the street as he was coming home from morning service, and he was kind enough to invite me to dinner. Junkala gasped. Despite his secret amusement at Manasa's heirs, there were moments when the easy magnificence of the man overwhelmed him, exhorted his reluctant admiration. How in heaven's name had the Spaniard conquered at a blow? Looking down at the table, he observed that it was already laid for dinner. And for three. He should have been that third. Was it fair of Manasa to handicap him thus? Naturally there would be infinitely less of a chance of a fourth being invited than a third, to say nothing of the dearth of provisions. But surely you didn't intend to stay for dinner, he complained in dismay. I have given my word, said Manasa, and I shouldn't care to disappoint the rabbi. Oh, it's no disappointment, no disappointment, remarked rabbi remorse, red herring cordially. I could just as well come round and see you after dinner. After dinner? I never see people, said Manasa majestically. I sleep. The rabbi dared not make further protest. He turned to Junkala and asked, Well now, what's this about your marriage? I can't tell you before, Mr. D'Costa, replied Junkala to gain time. Why not? You said anybody might hear. Nothing of the sort. I said a stranger might hear, but Mr. D'Costa isn't a stranger. He knows too much about the matter. What will we do then? murmured the rabbi. I conveyed until after dinner, said Junkala with good-natured carelessness. I don't sleep. Before the rabbi could reply, the wife brought in a baked dish and set it on the table. Her husband glowered at her, but she, regular as clockwork, and, as unthinking, produced the black bottle of schnapps. It was her husband's business to get rid of Junkala. Her business was to bring on the dinner. If she had delayed, he would have raged equally. She was not only wife, but maid of all work. Seeing the advanced state of the preparations, Manasa D'Costa took his seat at the table. Abaying her husband's significant glance, Mrs. Red Herring took up her position at the foot. The rabbi himself sat down at the head, behind the dish. He always served, being the only person he could rely upon to gauge his capacities. Junkala was left standing. The odor of the meat and potatoes impregnated the atmosphere with wistful poetry. Suddenly the rabbi looked up and perceived Junkala. Ah, will you do as we do? he said in seductive accents. The schnurrer's heart gave one wild, mad throb of joy. He laid his hand on the only other chair. I don't mind if I do, he said with responsive amiability. Then go home and have your dinner, said the rabbi. Yankala's wild heartbeat was exchanged for a stagnation as of death. A shiver ran down his spine. He darted an agonized, appealing glance at Manasa, who sniggered inscrutably. Oh, I don't think I ought to go away and leave you mid-out a third man for guice, he said, in tones of prophetic rebuke. Since I be here it would be a sin not to stay. The rabbi, having a certain connection with religion, was cornered. He was not able to repudiate such an opportunity of that more pious form of grace which needs the presence of three males. Ah, but I should be very glad for you to stay, said the rabbi, but unfortunately we only have three meat-plates. Oh, the dish will do for me. Very well then, said the rabbi. And Yankala, with the old mad heartbeat, took the fourth chair, darting a triumphant glance at the still, sniggering Manasa. The hostess rose, misunderstanding her husband's optical signals, and fished out a knife and fork from the recesses of a chiffonier. The host first heaped his own plate high with artistically coloured potatoes and stiff meat. Less from discourtesy than from lifelong habit, then divided the remainder in unequal portions between Manasa and the little woman, in rough correspondence with their sizes. Finally he handed Yankala the empty dish. You see, there's nothing left, he said simply. We didn't even expect one visitor. First come, first served, observed Manasa, with his Sphinx-like expression as he fell to. Yankala sat frozen, staring blankly at the dish, his brain as empty. He had lost. Such a dinner was a hollow mockery like the dish. He could not expect Manasa to accept it, quibbled as ever so cunningly. He sat for a minute or two as if in a dream, the music of knife and fork ringing mockingly at his ears. His hungry palate moistened by the delicious savor. Then he shook off his stupor, and all his being was desperately astray, questioning for an idea. Manasa discoursed with his host on Neo-Hebrew literature. We thought of starting a journal at Gobno, said the rabbi. Only the funds. Be you then a native of Gobno? Interrupted Yankala. Yes, I was born there, mumbled the rabbi, but I left there twenty years ago. His mouth was full, and he did not cease to plier the cutlery. Ah! said Yankala enthusiastically. Then you must be the famous preacher everybody speaks of. I do not remember you myself, for I was a boy, but they say we haven't got no such preachers nowadays. In Gobno my husband kept a brandy shot, put in the hostess. There was a bad quarter of a minute of silence. To Yankala's relief, the rabbi ended it by observing, Yes, but doubtless the gentleman. You will excuse me calling you that, sir. I don't know your real name. Alluded to my fame as a boy-magid. At the age of five I preached to audience of many hundreds, and my manipulation of texts, my demonstrations that they did not mean what they said, drew tears even from octogenarians familiar with the Torah from their earliest infancy. It was said there was never such a wonder-child since Ben Sira. But why did you give it up? inquired Manasseh. It gave me up! said the rabbi, putting down his knife and fork to expound an ancient grievance. A boy-magid cannot last for more than a few years. Up to nine I was still a drawer, but every year the wonder grew less, and when I was thirteen my bar mitzvah sermon occasioned no more sensation than those of the many lads whose other sermons I had written for them. I struggled along as boyishly as I could for some time after that, but it was a losing game. My age won on me daily. As it is said, I have been young, and now I am old. In vain I composed the most elegant addresses to be heard in Grobno. In vain I gave a course on the emotions with explanations and instances from daily life. The fickle public preferred younger attractions, so at last I gave it up and sold vodka. Votapiti, Votapiti! ejaculated Yonkala after vinning fame in the toira. But what is a man to do? He is not always a boy, replied the rabbi. Yes, I kept a brandy shop. That's what I call degradation. But there is always balm in Gilead. I lost so much money over it. I had to immigrate to England, where, finding nothing else to do, I became a preacher again. He poured himself out a glass of snaps, ignoring the water. I heard nothing of the vodka shop, said Yonkala. It was swallowed up in your earlier fame. The rabbi drained the glass of snaps, smacked his lips, and resumed his knife and fork. Manasseh reached for the unoffered bottle and helped himself liberally. The rabbi, on ostentatiously, withdrew it beyond his easy reach, looking at Yonkala the while. How long have you been in England? he asked the pole. Not long, said Yonkala. Ah, does Gabriel the Cantor still suffer from neuralgia? Yonkala looked sad. No, he's dead, he said. Dear me, well, he was tottering when I knew him. His blowing of the wham's horn got weasier every year. And how is his young brother Samuel? He's dead, said Yonkala. What, he too, tut tut, he was so robust. Has Mendelsohn the stonemason got many more girls? He's dead, said Yonkala. Nonsense, gasped the rabbi, dropping his knife and fork. Why, I heard from him only a few months ago. He's dead, said Yonkala. Good, greatest me, Mendelsohn dead. After a moment of emotion he resumed his meal. But his sons and daughters are doing well, I hope. The eldest Solomon was a most pious youth, and his third girl, Nashama, promised to be a rare beauty. They are dead, said Yonkala. This time the rabbi turned pale as a corpse himself. He laid down his knife and fork automatically. Dead, he breathed in awestruck whisper. All? Everyone, the same collar, took all the family. The rabbi covered his face with his hands. Then poor Solomon's wife is a widow. I hope he left her enough to live upon. No, but it doesn't matter, said Yonkala. It matters a great deal, cried the rabbi. She's dead, said Yonkala. Rebecca Schwarz dead, screamed the rabbi, for he had once loved the maiden himself, and, not having married her, still had a tenderness for her. Rebecca Schwarz reported Yonkala inexorably. Was it the collarer? Faulted the rabbi. No, she was heart-boke. Rabbi Remorse Red Herring silently pushed his plate away and leaned his elbows upon the table and his face upon his palms and his chin upon the bottle of schnapps in mournful meditation. You're not eating, rabbi, said Yonkala insinuatingly. I've lost my appetite, said the rabbi. Vot a pity to let food get cold and spoiled. You'd better eat it. The rabbi shook his head quarreulously. Then I've all eat it, said Yonkala indignantly. Good hot food like that! As you like, said the rabbi wearily. And Yonkala began to eat at lightning speed, pausing only to wink at the inscrutable menace, and to cast yearning glances at the inaccessible schnapps that supported the rabbi's chin. Presently the rabbi looked up. You're quite sure that all these people are dead? He asked with a dawning suspicion. May my blood be poured out like the schnapps, protested Yonkala, dislodging the bottle, and vehemently pouring the spirit into a tumbler. If they be not, the rabbi relaxed into his moody attitude and retained it till his wife brought in a big willow-pattern china dish of stewed prunes and pippins. She produced four plates for these, and so Yonkala finished his meal in the unquestionable status of a first-class guest. The rabbi was, by this time sufficiently recovered to toy with two platefuls in a melancholy silence, which he did not break till his mouth opened involuntarily to intone the grace. When the grace was over he turned to Manasseh and said, And what was this way you were suggesting to me of getting a profitable Sephardic connection? I did indeed wonder why you did not extend your practice as consolation preacher among the Spanish Jews, replied Manasseh gravely. But after what we have just heard of the death rate of Jews in Grodno, I should seriously advise you to go back there. No, they cannot forget that I was once a boy, replied the rabbi with equal gravity. I prefer the Spanish Jews. They are well to do. They may not die so often as the Russians, but they die better, so to speak. You will give me the introductions. You will speak of me to your illustrious friends, I understand. Understand, repeated Manasseh in dignified astonishment. You do not understand. I shall do no such thing. Bet you yourself suggested it, cried the rabbi excitedly. I, nothing of the kind, I had heard of you and your ministrations to mourners and meeting you in the street this afternoon for the first time. It struck me to inquire why you did not carry your consolations into the bosom of my community, where so much more money is to be made. I said I wondered you had not done so from the first, and you invited me to dinner. I still wonder. That is all, my good man. He rose to go. The haughty rebuke silenced the rabbi, though his heart was hot with a vague sense of injury. Do you come my way, yankalo? said Manasseh carelessly. The rabbi turned hastily to his second guest. When do you want me to marry you? he asked. You have married me, replied yankalo. I gasped the rabbi. It was the last straw. Yes, reiterated yankalo. Hasn't he, Mr. D'Costa? His heart went pitter-pitter as he put the question. Certainly, said Manasseh without hesitation. Yankalo's face was made glorious summer. Only two of the quartet knew the secret of his radiance. There, rabbi, he cried exultantly. Good Sabbath! Good Sabbath! added Manasseh. Good Sabbath! daisily murmured the rabbi. Good Sabbath! added his wife. Congratulate me, cried yankalo when they got outside. On what? On what? asked Manasseh. On being your future son-in-law, of course. Oh, on that. Certainly, I congratulate you most heartily. The two schnarrers shook hands. I thought you were asking for compliments on your manoeuvring. For I, doesn't it deserve them? No, said Manasseh, magisterially. No, queried yankalo, his heart sinking again. Why not? Why did you kill so many people? Somebody must die the time they live. You said that before, said Manasseh severely. A good schnarrer would not have slaughtered so many for his dinner. It is a waste of good material. And then you told lies. How do you know they were not dead? pleaded yankalo. The king shook his head reprovingly. A first-class schnarrer never lies, he laid it down. I might have made the truth go as far as a lie if you hadn't come to dinner yourself. What is that, you say? Why, I came to encourage you by showing how easy your task was. On the contrary, you made it much harder for me. There was no dinner left. But against that you must reckon that since the rabbi had already invited one person, he couldn't be so hard to tackle as I had fancied. Oh, but you must not judge from yourself, protested yankalo. You be not a schnarrer, you be a miracle. But I should like a miracle for my son-in-law also, grumbled the king. And if you had the schnarrer son-in-law, you would get a miracle. Said yankalo soothingly, as he has to schnore you, he gets the miracle. True, observed Manasse amusingly, and I think you might therefore be very well content without the dowry. So I might, admitted yankalo, only you would not be content to break your promise. I suppose I shall have some of the dowry on the marriage morning. On that morning you shall get my daughter, without fail. Surely that will be enough for one day. Well, when do I get the money your daughter gets from the synagogue? When she gets it from the synagogue, of course. How much will it be? It may be a hundred and fifty pounds, said Manasse pompously. Yankalo's eyes sparkled. And it may be less, added Manasse as an afterthought. How much less? inquired yankalo anxiously. One hundred and fifty pounds, repeated Manasse pompously. Do you mean to say I may get nothing? Certainly if she gets nothing. What I promised you was the money she gets from the synagogue. Should she be fortunate enough in the sauteo? The sauteo? What is that? The dowry, I told you of. It is accorded by lot. My daughter has as good a chance as any other maiden. By winning her you stand to win a hundred and fifty pounds. It is a handsome amount. There are not many fathers who would do as much for their daughters. Concluded Manasse with conscious magnanimity. But about the Jerusalem estate, said Yankalo, shifting his standpoint. I don't want to go and live there. The Messiah is not yet come. No, you will hardly be able to live on it, admitted Manasse. You do not object to my selling it then? Oh, no, if you are so sordid, if you have no true Jewish sentiment. Then can I come into possession? On the wedding day, if you like. One may as well get it over, said Yankalo, suppressing a desire to rub his hands in glee. As the Talmud says, one peppercorn today is better than a basket full of pumpkins tomorrow. All right, I will bring it to the synagogue. Bring it to the synagogue? repeated Yankalo in a maze. Ah, you mean the deed of transfer. Deed of transfer? Do you think I waste my substance on solicitors? No, I will bring the property myself. But how can you do that? Where's the difficulty? demanded Manasse, with withering contempt. Surely a child can carry a casket of Jerusalem earth to synagogue. A casket of earth is your property in Jerusalem only a casket of earth? What then, who didn't expect it would be a casket of diamonds? retorted Manasse, with gathering wrath. To a true Jew, a casket of Jerusalem earth is worth all the diamonds in the world. But your Jerusalem property is a fraud, gasped Yankalo. Oh no, you may be easy on that point, it's quite genuine. I know there's a great deal of spurious Palestine earth in circulation, and that many a dead man who has clods of it thrown into his tomb is nevertheless buried in unholy soil. But this casket I was careful to obtain from a rabbi of extreme sanctity. It was the only thing he had worth snoring. I don't suppose I can get more than a crown for it, said Yankalo with irrepressible indignation. That's what I say, returned Manasse, and never did I think a son-in-law of mine would meditate selling my holy soil for upholtery five shillings. I will not withdraw my promise, but I am disappointed in you, bitterly disappointed. Had I known this earth was not to cover your bones, it should only have gone down to the grave with me as enjoined in my last will and testament, by the side of which it stands in my safe. Very veiled, and I won't sell it, said Yankalo sulkily. You relieve my soul, as the missioner says, he who marries a wife for money begets forward children. What about the povents in England? asked Yankalo in low despondent tones. He had never believed in that, but now, behind all his despair and incredulity, was a vague hope that something might yet be saved from the crash. Oh, you shall choose your own! replied Manasse graciously. We will get a large map of London, and I will mark off in red pencil the domain in which I snore. You will then choose any district in this, say, two main streets and a dozen byways and alleys, which shall be marked off in blue pencil, and whatever province of my kingdom you pick, I undertake not to snore in it, from your wedding-day onwards. I need not tell you how valuable such a province already is, and a careful administration such as you will be able to give it, the revenue from it might be doubled, trebled. I do not think your tribute to me need be more than ten percent. Yankalo walked along mesmerized, reduced to senambulism by his magnificently masterful patron. Ah, here we are! said Manasse, stopping short. Won't you come in and see the bride and wish her joy? A flash of joy came into Yankalo's own face, dissipating his glue. After all, there was always De Custer's beautiful daughter, a solid, substantial satisfaction. He was glad she was not an item of the dowry. The unconscious bride opened the door. Aha, Yankalo! said Manasse, his paternal heart aglow at the sight of her loveliness. You will not only be a king but a rich king, as it is written. Who is rich? He who hath a beautiful wife.