A BACK-STITCH.
This was how Aronson made the acquaintance of Serena Lamb. One day there
resounded through the Ghetto (where Aronson lived) the pounding of a
violent drum. Tum, tum, tum! Tum, tum, tum! Tumtyty, Tumtyty! Tum, tum,
tum! And every now and then its bass companion marked the ictuses with a
cavernous "Boom!" Then Moses and Samuel ceased their buying and selling
for a few moments and the coats, vests and trousers which draped their
window-fronts swung idly in the wind. And the little Samuels swarmed
from their hiding-places till both curbstones were fringed two deep with
humanity, eying the musical invaders. For the notes of the bugle burst
out after this percussion prelude and a mixed choir of voices lifted a
strange refrain.
Motley singers they were! Shabbily dressed men, with exaltation in their
faces, and women of all ages and types, uniform only in their costumes.
Raising the song, they clapped their hands together, like bacchants or
chorybantes dashing cymbal on cymbal in the ecstasy of the dance. But
such bacchants! Bacchants in blue bonnets, like grandmother's sundown!
Bacchants with pure faces of undefiled girlhood! Bacchants with
crone-faces all wrinkled and yellow! And away at the rear, chanting with
might and main, though bent nearly double under the bass-drum which
rested on his back, proudly marched Pineapple Jupiter.
Frowns gathered on the foreheads of Moses and Samuel when the import of
this procession became clear, and many a portly Rachel clucked warningly
to her brood. But youth is frivolous and inquisitive even in Israel; so
the square was jammed with onlookers when the army set up its standard
in the very heart of the Ghetto. True, not all these were children of
the tribe. The slurred consonants of the Italian, vainly trying to
smooth and liquefy our rugged tongue, were heard; the muffled nasals of
the Portuguese; the virile drawl of the Celt; and a youthful accent
which seemed to be a resultant of all this polyglot mixture. And to
these others also the army was an abomination even as to Samuel and
Moses.
Therefore, when the music ceased and the army formed in a wide ring with
hands joined sisterly and brotherly, a great pandemonium took up and
prolonged the last note of the dying bugle. The cock crew, the cat
called and the bulldog barked at these devoted soldiers. But they only
blessed their enemies and danced round and round as if rejoicing at
persecution. Whereat the multitude fringing their circle danced with
them, too, and staid Saul Aronson, who was passing, found himself
whirled perforce in a maelstrom of larking boys, full-grown hoodlums and
petticoated hobbledehoys.
When the first sister stepped forth to give her "testimony" the face
beneath her bonnet compelled silence. Her voice was gentle, her figure
petite. Her eyebrows lay across her forehead straight and dark, and she
spoke from a rosebud mouth. No wonder the nearest onlookers leaned
forward and the idlers on the outskirts inclined their heads to one side
and hollowed their hands at their ears so as to catch the utterance
which promised so fairly to their eyes.
To Saul Aronson it was a vision of paradise. The lashes of her modestly
drooped eyes lay in dark half-moons on her cheek, but once when she
lifted them a blue light seemed to flash down into his very heart; and
that organ, amorphous before, grew suddenly crystal--a great blood-red
ruby which he longed to lay at her feet. This was what she said, this
lily of the morass:
"I give thanks to the Lord,"--her utterance was slow, her shrill voice
pierced the stillness, "that He has led me away from my sins."
"Alleluia!" murmured the chorus.
"That He has poured into my heart the grace of His love and made
manifest the wonder of His works. Are ye weary, sinners, weary of the
way ye tread? Oh, come to the true way, where ye shall find life and
light and joy and peace, as I have found it."
"Bress de name ob de Lord!" said Pineapple Jupiter, loudly. Whereat
several tittered and a discreet sister whispered "Hush!"
"It is not to-day for which we live or the things of to-day--not for
bread, or for gold, or for fame, which are perishable things. Not for
to-day nor for to-morrow should we strive, but for eternity! Not for the
approval of men, but of Him who is the just Judge everlasting. Holy!
Holy! Holy!"
"Alleluia!" murmured the chorus.
"It is written in the word, which cannot lie, that the keys of the
kingdom are given to Peter. Therefore, when ye go forth to the labor of
your days, ask yourselves not what will men say, but what will Peter say
when I knock at the golden door for admittance. Will he welcome me as a
true child or will he spurn me to the outer darkness? Ask yourselves
this, oh, sinners, each and all. What will Peter say, Joseph? What will
Peter say, John? What will Peter say, Christian soul?"
This conclusion seemed to be the refrain of a hymn which the circle took
up:
"What will Peter say, Christian soul,
When the last great trumpet sounds?"
The trombone here drew forth a sepulchral note, representing, no doubt,
the trump of doom, and Saul Aronson could almost feel its vibrations in
the earth beneath him. He could have pummeled the irreverent knot of
gamins who mimicked it grotesquely. Such courage, such loveliness, such
sincerity, imposed reverence even for opposite opinions. Never before
had he seen their performance in such a light as now. For performance it
was. One after another of the brethren stepped into the circle and
recited "testimony" to the jeering crowd around. Each testimony was
followed by a hymn, in regular alternation. Not even the curiosity about
the different sisters and brothers could prevent this evangel from
becoming monotonous. So the captain varied it with more and more
ecstatic exhibitions.
"Volunteers to clap hands!" he would call and four or five brothers
jumped into the middle, clapping hands to the verses of a simple hymn,
repeated ten or fifteen times. Brisker and brisker the tempo became,
till the captain and his volunteers found themselves galloping around
the ring, with sweet bonneted faces eagerly chanting their
accompaniment. Aronson marveled but he did not sneer. For his gaze was
on the rosebud mouth, whose "Alleluias" (adapted from his own liturgy,
he knew) seemed to him the sweetest music mortal throat ever gave forth,
the distilled honey of sound.
After more than an hour of such missionary effort, the captain called
for a show of converts. "Hands up, all that have the love of the Lord in
their hearts!"
Two seafaring men and a darky had the courage to show their palms, and
they were standing very near the circle.
"How many souls love Jesus who died on the cross?"
Aronson, still at his post, felt a traitorous gladness when a dozen more
of the crowd gave the signal of assent. This meager harvest of souls was
the result of their labors. Then Pineapple Jupiter again bent his back
under the heavy bass-drum, and the army reformed. Tumtyty, tum! Tumtyty,
tum! Tumtyty, tumtyty, boom! The ringing bugle revived the languishing
interest of the mob. One Jew of the Jews followed the music for nearly a
mile. When he finally fell to the rear the rosebud mouth was still
singing:
"What will Peter say, Christian soul?"
and he felt as if a great light had come to him and then vanished again,
leaving a deeper darkness than ever.
Next morning he awoke with a rapid pulse. "What will Peter say,
Aronson?" he asked as he drew on his garments, and when he sat down to
copy a brief for Shagarach, "What will Peter say, Aronson?" the question
again recurred. Strangely enough, it always took the clear, shrill
accent of the girl. "What will Peter say, Aronson?" was the prayer for
success he offered, when a week later, he mustered up courage to cross
the mission threshold and ask Jupiter her name.
From that day Saul Aronson was an altered youth. The least beat of a
drum in the Ghetto found him ready to quit dinner or company or work and
fly out of the house with a hasty snatch at his hat in the entry.
Sometimes he returned with a rueful look and then his mother knew it was
only the Garibaldi guard parading. But at other times it was a subject
of remark how long he stayed and how moody he returned.
There was a family living in the rear of the Aronsons, with a divine
little 8-year-old girl. Saul knew she was divine, although he had never
seen anything but the back of her head. For at noontime when he came to
dinner, or in the evening when he returned from work, she would be
sitting in the swing her father had built for her, with her back toward
him--swinging, singing, in blissful ignorance of the eyes that doted on
her through the slats of Saul Aronson's blinds. She had one song of "the
Savior" which she delighted to croon. Her voice was like that of a
fledgling lark and her carols were made sweet with little improvised
turns which often threatened to fail but always came out true--so sure
was the child-singer's instinct, feeling the way before her. Nothing
reminded him of Serena so much as this earthly angel, and he loved her
for the image she called up.
Serena always looked at him. That is to say, her blue eyes pierced him
through, accused him, reproved him, every time they were lifted toward
the onlookers. But it was not until the day he raised his hand among the
converts that she noted down his face for remembrance. He knew its
features were not fascinating, especially the red mustache that bristled
out horizontally from his lips, with the ends trimmed off as clean as a
scrubbing-brush. But no one else, he felt sure, could worship her with
such reverent adoration; and now she had deigned to notice him. What if
Simon Rabofsky scowled at his raising his hand? Not "What will Simon
Rabofsky say?" but "What will Peter say, Aronson?" was the question of
questions. But I fear Peter was confused somewhat oddly in Saul's mind
with the possessor of a certain rosebud mouth.
One night Aronson dreamed of Serena Lamb as his bride and the next
morning announced his conversion to Pineapple Jupiter, at the same time
asking for an introduction to blue eyes.