long as he had enough money to live on he did not care to work. But he
would be glad to see his dear old friend. I would pretend that I did not
know how rich he was. I would be open and honest with him. I would keep
the letter and the spirit of the agreement. I would not keep back a
single cent. ‘Bykowsky,’ I would say, ‘dear, good, old Bykowsky. Here I
am. I have three thousand dollars in my pocket. I have nine thousand
dollars in good government bonds in Germany. I also have a fine gold
watch, and a gold chain and a ring, but the ring is not solid gold. Half
of what I have is yours.’ And we will fall on each other’s shoulders and
be, oh, so glad!
“I found Bykowsky. He was not at home where he lived. But I found him in
a café. He was playing pinochle with the proprietor. I took a good long
look at him. He did not know me, but I recognised him right away. I went
over and held out my hand. ‘It is my old friend Bykowsky!’ I said. He
looked at me and got very red in the face. ‘Ah, ha!’ I said to myself.
‘I have guessed right.’ Then he cried, ‘Sorkin!’ and we threw our arms
around each other. ‘Bykowsky,’ I said, ‘I have come many thousand miles
to keep our boyhood agreement. Maybe you and I might have forgotten it,
but we swore on the Torah, and I know that you could not forget it any
more than I could. I have three thousand dollars in my pocket. I have
nine thousand dollars in good government bonds in Germany. I have a fine
gold watch and a gold chain and a ring, but the ring is not solid gold.
Half of what I have is yours. I hope—oh, Bykowsky, I am so selfish—I
hope that you are poor so that I can have the pleasure of dividing with
you.’ Then Bykowsky said, ‘Let me see the ring!’
“I showed him the ring, and he shook his head very sadly. ‘You are
right, Sorkin,’ he said. ‘It is not solid gold.’
“‘Well, dear friend,’ I said, ‘how has the world gone with you?’
“‘Very badly,’ he said. ‘Let me see the watch and the chain.’
“Something told me he was joking. So I said, ‘Please keep the watch and
chain as a token of our old friendship. We will not count it in the
division. But I am sorry to hear that things have gone badly with you.
Why did you not’ (this was only a sly hint) ‘go into the real-estate
business? I hear so many people are getting rich that way.’
“Then he sighed—and I felt that something was wrong.
“‘Dear friend Sorkin,’ he said. ‘Dearest comrade of my boyhood days, I
have a sad story to tell you. A year ago I owned a fine row of houses. I
had nearly two hundred thousand dollars. I was looking forward to the
time when I would write to you, dear, kind old friend, and ask you to
come over to share with me all my wealth. But alas! The wheel of fortune
turned! I began to speculate. It is a long, sad story. Two months ago I
sold the last of my houses. To-day I have three hundred dollars left.
Dear, sweet Sorkin, you come as a Godsend from heaven. My luck has
turned!’”
* * * * *
Here there was a long pause in Sorkin’s story. Then he said:
“My son, even to this day when I think of that moment, I feel the
sensation of choking.”
“But did you keep the compact?”
And, in a flash, I regretted the question.
“I had sworn on the Torah,” Sorkin replied.
* * * * *
The firm of Sorkin & Bykowsky has recently changed its name to Sorkin,
Bykowsky & Co. The Co. is young Ignatz Sorkin Bykowsky. There is also a
young Nathan Bykowsky Sorkin. But he is still at school.
A SONG OF SONGS
I know a story that runs almost like a song—like that old song, “Behold,
thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair!”
In the heart of the Jewish quarter stood an old Catholic church, relic
of those bygone days ere the oppressed Jews of Russia and Austria had
learned that this land was a haven of refuge, and had come to settle in
this neighbourhood by the hundreds of thousands. Close by this church
lived the Rabbi Sarna, one of the earliest of the immigrants—an honest,
whole-souled man who knew the Talmud and the Kabbala by heart, and who
had a daughter. Her name was Hannah—and there the story and the song
began.
It began in the days when Hannah was a young girl, who would sit for
hours on her father’s doorstep with a school-book in her lap, and when
Richard Shea was altar boy in the Catholic church close by, and would
spend most of his time on the doorstep beside Hannah. And they lived a
life of dreams, those happy dreams that abound in the realm of
childhood, where no thought is darkened by the grim monsters of reality,
the sordid facts of life.
In those days Richard’s tasks in the service of the Holy Roman Church
possessed but little significance for him. It was his duty to swing the
censer, to light the candles, and to carry the Book at Mass, and when
the task was done Richard’s only thought was of Hannah, who was sitting
on her father’s doorstep waiting for him. Father Brady, the rector of
the Catholic church, who was Richard’s guardian—for the lad was an
orphan, and had been left entirely in the priest’s care—was very
exacting in all affairs that pertained to his parish, and insisted that
Richard should perform his duties carefully and conscientiously. But
when the service was over his vigilance relaxed, and, so long as there
was no complaint from the neighbours, the lad might do as he pleased.
And it was Richard’s greatest pleasure to be with Hannah.
They would sit for hours in the long summer nights, hand in hand,
building those wonderful fabrics of childish imagination, looking
forward hopefully, enthusiastically, to a future whose basis, whose
essence was an eternal companionship of their two souls. There came a
night—perhaps it was because the stars were brighter than usual, perhaps
because the night was balmy, or perhaps because the spirit of spring was
in the air—at any rate, that fatal night came when, in some
unaccountable manner, their lips came together, came closely, tightly
together, in a long, lingering kiss, and the next moment they found
themselves flooded in a stream of light. Hastily, guiltily they looked
up. The door had been opened, and the Rabbi Sarna was looking down upon
them.
Hannah’s father kissed her that night as usual, and she went to bed
without hearing a word of reproach or of paternal advice. Whether he had
gained his wisdom from the Kabbala or the Talmud I do not know, but the
Rabbi Sarna was a wise man. He took a night to think the matter over.
Perhaps he felt that the bringing-up of a motherless daughter was no
trivial matter, and that there were times when, being a man, his
instinct was sure to be wrong, and that only the most careful
consideration and deliberate thought could guide him into the right
path. For a whole day he said nothing.
The following evening, however, when the grace after meal had been said,
and “Hear, O Israel!” had been recited, he laid his hand fondly upon his
daughter’s head and spoke to her, kindly.
“Remember, Hannah,” he said, “the lad is not one of our people. He is a
good lad, and I like him, but you are a daughter of Israel. You come of
a race, Hannah, that has been persecuted for thousands of years by his
people. If your mother were alive, she would forbid you ever to see him
again. But I do not feel that I ought to be so harsh. I only ask you, my
daughter, to remember that you are of a race that was chosen by Jehovah,
and that he comes from a race that has made us suffer misery for many
ages.”
Hannah went to bed and cried, and rebelled at the injustice of an
arrangement that seemed to her all wrong and distorted. Why were not the
Jewish lads that she knew as tall and straight as her Richard? And why
had they not blue eyes like his? And curly, golden hair? And that
strength? And she cried herself to sleep.
In some unaccountable manner—it may have been that the rabbi told the
butcher and the butcher told the baker—the matter reached the ears of
Richard’s guardian, who promptly took the lad to task for it.
“Remember, Richard,” he said, “she is a Jewess. You need not look so
fierce. I know that she is a nice little girl, but, after all, her
father is a Jew, and her mother was a Jewess. They have always been the
enemy of our religion. You know enough of history to know what suffering
they have caused. I have not the slightest objection to your seeing her
and talking to her, but things seem to have gone a little too far. You
must remember that you cannot marry her. So what is the use of wasting
your time?”
And, of course, Richard went to bed very glum and disheartened. For a
long time he did not see Hannah, and when, after several weeks, they
came face to face again, each bowed, somewhat stiffly, and promptly felt
that the bottom had dropped out of life.
So the years passed, and the dreams of childhood passed, and many
changes came. Hannah grew to be a young woman, and her beauty increased.
Her eyes were dark and big, her cheeks were of the olive tint that
predominates in her race, but enlivened by a rosy tinge; she grew tall
and very dignified in her carriage—and Richard, each time he saw her,
was reminded of the canticle, “Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold,
thou art fair!”
He, too, had grown older, had grown taller and manlier; the boldness and
audacity that had captivated the fancy of the Jewish lass had developed
into manly strength and forceful personality; but his heart had not
freed itself from that early attachment. While the service lasted, and
the odour of incense rose to his nostrils, and the pomp and ceremony of
his religion thrilled his whole being, Hannah was only a memory, a dim
recollection of a life-long past. But when, from time to time, he met
her and saw the look of joy that lit up her eyes, Hannah became a vivid,
stirring, all-absorbing reality. And Richard was troubled.
Father Brady sent Richard to the seminary to prepare for the priesthood.
For two winters Richard pursued his theological studies, pursued them
with zeal, and devoted himself heart and soul to the career his fond
guardian had selected for him. And for two summers, during which he
helped his guardian in the parish work, the young man struggled and
fought and battled manfully with the problem of Hannah. They had spoken
but little to each other. The dream of childhood had passed, and they
had grown to realise the enormity of the barrier that rose between
them—a barrier of races, of empires, of ages—a monstrous barrier before
whose leviathan proportions they were but insignificant atoms. And yet——
It came like one of those levantine storms, when one moment the sky is
blue and the air is still, and the next moment the floodgates of heaven
are open, and the air is black with tempest. The Rabbi Sarna came
rushing to the house of Father Brady. They had known each other for
years, and a certain intimacy, based upon mutual respect for each
other’s learning and integrity, had grown up between them. And the rabbi
poured forth his tale of woe.
“I begged, I implored her,” he ran on, “to tell me the cause of her
stubbornness. The finest young men you ever saw, one after another,
handsome, strong, well-to-do, have asked her, and have come to me to
intercede for them. And at last I went to her and begged her, beseeched
her to tell me why she persisted in refusing them all. I am an old man.
I cannot live many years longer. The dearest wish of my heart is to see
her happily married and settled in life. And she persists in driving
every suitor from the house. And what do you think she told me?”
A horrible suspicion came into the priest’s head, but all he said was,
“I cannot guess.” The rabbi was gasping with excitement.
“She loves that Richard of yours. If she cannot marry him she will not
marry anyone else. I told her she was crazy. Her only fear was that I
would tell you—or him. She does not even realise the enormity of it! The
girl is out of her head!”
The priest held out his hand.
“I thank you,” he said, “for warning me in time. It was an act of
kindness. I will see that an end is put to the matter at once. At least,
so far as Richard is concerned. If he is to blame for that feeling on
your daughter’s part I will see that he does whatever is necessary to
remedy the harm he has done. His course in life has been laid out. He
will be a priest. I am very thankful to you for coming to me.”
The rabbi was greatly troubled. “I do not know what to do,” he said. “I
am all in a whirl. I felt that it was only right that you should know.
But I cannot imagine what can be done.”
“Leave it to me,” said Father Brady. As soon as the rabbi had departed
he sent for Richard.
“What is this I hear about that Jewish girl?” he demanded, sternly.
Richard turned pale.
“What!” cried the priest. “Is it possible that you are to blame?”
“To blame?” asked Richard. “I? For what?”
“Only this minute,” the priest went on, “her father was here with a
story that it made my blood boil to hear. The girl has rejected all her
suitors, and tells her father that she will marry no one but you or——”
With a loud cry Richard sprang toward the door. There was a chair in the
way, but it went spinning across the room.
“Richard!” roared his guardian. “What is all this?”
But Richard, bareheaded and coatless, was tearing down the stairs,
three, four, five at a time, and the next moment there was a crash that
made the house tremble to its foundation. Richard had gone out, and had
shut the door behind him. The rabbi, homeward bound, was nearing his
door when a young whirlwind, hatless and coatless, rushed by him. The
rabbi stood still, amazed. His amazement grew when he beheld this
tornado whirl up the steps of his house and throw itself violently
against the door. As he ran forward to see what was happening the door
opened and Hannah stood on the threshold, the light behind her streaming
upon her shining hair. And, the next instant, all the wisdom that he had
learned from the Talmud and the Kabbala deserted him. In after years he
confessed that at that moment he felt like a fool. For the tempestuous
Richard had seized Hannah in his arms and was kissing her cheeks and her
lips and her eyes, and pouring out a perfect torrent of endearing
phrases. And Hannah’s arms were tightly wound around his neck, and she
was crying as though she feared that all the elements were about to try
to drag the young man from her. A glint of reason returned to the rabbi.
“Hold!” he cried. “Foolish children! Stand apart! Listen to me!”
They turned and looked at him. The Rabbi Sarna looked into the eyes of
Richard. But what he saw there troubled him. He could not bear the young
man’s gaze. Almost in despair he turned to his daughter. “Hannah,” he
began. Then he looked into her eyes, and his gaze fell. He sighed and
walked past them into the house. In an instant he was forgotten.
“Oh, thou art fair, my love!” cried Richard. “Thou art fair!”
* * * * *
When “the traveller from New Zealand” stands upon the last remaining
arch of London Bridge and gazes upon the ruins of St. Paul’s, the
Catholic Church will still flourish. And when the nations of the earth
have died and their names have become mere memories, as men to-day
remember the Phœnicians and the Romans, then will there still rise to
heaven that daily prayer, “Hear, O Israel!” And in the chronicles of
neither of these religions will there ever be found mention of either
Richard Shea or his wife Hannah. But, if that story be true of the Great
Book in which the lives of all men are written down, and the motives of
all their deeds recorded in black and white, then surely there is a page
upon which these names appear. And perhaps, occasionally, an angel peeps
at it and brushes away a tear and smiles.
A WEDDING IN DURESS
In the days when the Ashkenazim and the Sephardim were divided by walls
of sentiment and pride, as difficult to surmount as the walls that
separated patrician from plebeian in ancient Rome, an Ashkenazi youth
married a Sephardi maiden. It happened some four hundred or five hundred
years ago. Youth and maiden are dust, their romance is forgotten, and we
owe them an apology for disturbing their memory. Let us only add that
the youth’s name was Zalman. May Mr. and Mrs. Zalman rest in peace!
* * * * *
Zalman, the tailor, lived in Essex Street on the same floor with the
Rabbi Elsberg. Zalman possessed two treasures, each a rarity of
exquisite beauty, each vying with the other for supremacy in his
affections. The one was a wine glass of Venetian make, wonderful in its
myriad-hued colouring, its fragile texture, and its rare design. The
mate of it rests in one of the famous museums of Italy, and the
connoisseurs came from far and near to feast their eyes upon Zalman’s
piece. Money, in sums that would have made Zalman a rich man in that
neighbourhood, had been offered to him for this treasure, but he always
shook his head.
“It has been in my family for hundreds of years,” he would say, “and I
cannot part with it. Years ago—many, many years ago—our family was
wealthy, but now I have nothing left save this one wine glass. I would
rather die than lose it.”
His visitors would depart with feelings of mingled wonder and rage;
wonder that so priceless a gem should be in the possession of a
decrepit, untidy, poverty-stricken East Side tailor; and rage that he
should be so stubborn as to cling to it in spite of the most alluring
offers that were made to him. Zalman’s other treasure was his daughter
Barbara, whose name, like the wine glass, had descended from some
long-forgotten Spanish or Italian ancestress. All the lavish praise that
the most enthusiastic lover of things beautiful had ever lavished upon
that wonderful wine glass would have applied with equal truth to
Barbara. Excepting that Barbara was distinctly modern.
Reuben sat in the Rabbi Elsberg’s sitting-room, frowning and unhappy;
the rabbi, puffing reflectively at a long pipe, gazing at him in
silence. Through the walls they could hear Barbara singing. Barbara
always sang when she was merry, and Barbara was merry, as a rule, from
the moment she left her bed until she returned to it. The rabbi took a
longer puff than usual, and then asked Reuben:
“What said her father?”
Reuben gulped several times as if the words that crowded to his lips for
utterance were choking him.
“It is well for him that he is her father,” he finally said. “I would
not have listened to so much abuse from any other living man.” (Reuben,
by the way, had a most determined-looking chin, and there was something
very earnest in the cut of his features.)
“He gave me to understand,” he went on, “that he knew perfectly well it
was his wine glass I was after, and not his daughter. That I was
counting on his dying soon, and already looked forward to selling that
precious glass to spend the money in riotous living. And when I told him
that Barbara and I loved each other, he said ‘Bosh!’ and forbade me to
speak of it again.”
The rabbi puffed in silence for a moment.
“He evidently has not a flattering opinion of you, my young friend.”
“He knows nothing against me!” Reuben hurriedly exclaimed. “It is only
because I want Barbara. He would say the same to anyone else that asked
for his daughter. You know me, rabbi; you have known me a long time,
ever since I was a child. I do not pretend to be an angel, but I am not
bad. I love the girl, and I can take good care of her. I don’t want to
see his old wine glass again. I’d smash it into a——”
Reuben’s jaw fell, and his eyes stared vacantly at the wall. The rabbi
followed his gaze, and, seeing nothing, turned to Reuben in surprise.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing,” replied Reuben, with a sheepish grin. “I—I just happened to
think of something.”
The rabbi frowned. “If you are often taken with such queer ideas that
make you look so idiotic, I don’t think I can blame Zalman so very
much.” But Reuben’s contrite expression immediately caused him to regret
his momentary annoyance, and holding out his hand, he said,
affectionately:
“Come, Reuben, I will do what I can for you. You are a good boy, and if
you and the girl love each other I will see if there is not some way of
overcoming her father’s objections.”
Taking Reuben by the arm he led him into Zalman’s shop. Zalman was not
alone. A little shrivelled old man, evidently a connoisseur of _objets
d’art_, was holding the wonderful wine glass to the light, gloating over
the bewildering play of colours that flashed from it, while Zalman
anxiously hovered about him, eager to receive the glass in his own hands
again, yet proudly calling the old man’s attention to its hidden
beauties.
Barbara stood in the doorway that led to the living-rooms in the rear.
When she saw Reuben she blushed and smiled.
Zalman looked up and saw the rabbi and smiled; saw who was with him and
frowned.
“I just dropped in to have a little chat,” said the rabbi, “but there is
no hurry. I will wait until you are disengaged.”
The connoisseur carefully set the glass upon the counter, and heaved a
long, painful sigh.
“And no price will tempt you to part with it?” he asked. Zalman shook
his head and grinned. What followed happened with exceeding swiftness.
Zalman had got as far as, “It has been in our family for hundreds of
years——” when a shadow caused him to turn his head. He saw Barbara throw
up her hands in amazement, saw the rabbi start forward as though he were
about to interfere in something, and saw the precious wine glass in
Reuben’s hand. Mechanically he reached forward to take it from him, and
then instantly felt Reuben’s other hand against his breast, holding him
back, and heard Reuben saying, quite naturally, “Wait!”
It had not taken ten seconds—Zalman suddenly felt sick.
The connoisseur hastily put on his glasses. The situation seemed
interesting.
“Mr. Zalman,” said Reuben, speaking very slowly and distinctly, yet
carefully keeping the tailor at arm’s length, “I told you this very day
that your daughter Barbara and I love each other. We will not marry
without your consent. So you must consent. If I cannot marry Barbara I
do not care what happens to me. I will have nothing to live for. I can
give her a good home, and we will be very happy. You can come to live
with us, if you like, and I will always be a good son to you. I swear by
the Torah that this glass is nothing to me. I want Barbara because I
love her, and you can throw this glass into the river for all I care.
But if you do not give your consent I also swear by the Torah that I
shall fling this glass to the floor and smash it into a thousand
pieces.”
Zalman, who had been clutching Reuben’s outstretched arm throughout this
speech, and had followed every word with staring eyes and open mouth,
dropped his arms and groaned. Barbara had listened in amazement to
Reuben’s first words, but when his meaning dawned upon her she had
clapped her kerchief to her mouth and fled precipitately through the
doorway whence now came faint sounds which, owing to the distance, might
have been either loud weeping or violent laughter. The rabbi’s face had
reddened with indignation. The connoisseur alone was smiling.
“Reuben,” said the rabbi sternly, “you have gone too far. Put the glass
down!” He advanced toward the young man.
“Hold!” cried Reuben. “If anyone in this room touches me or attempts to
take this glass from me, I shall quickly hurl it to the floor. Look,
everybody!” He held the glass aloft. “See how fragile it is! I have only
to hold it a little tighter and it will break into a dozen pieces, and
no human skill will ever be able to put them together again!”
Zalman was in agony.
“I yield,” he cried. “Give me the glass. You shall marry Barbara
to-morrow. Do not hold it so tightly. Put it down gently.”
He held out his hand. His lips were twitching with repressed curses on
Reuben’s head. But Reuben only smiled.
“No, good father,” he said. “Not to-morrow. You might change your mind.
Let it be now, and your glass is safe.”
(“What a pertinacious young man!” thought the connoisseur.)
“May the fiends devour you!” cried Zalman.
“Now look you,” said Reuben, twirling the delicate glass in a careless
way that sent chill shudders down the tailor’s spine; “it is you who are
stubborn. Not I. If you knew how devotedly I loved Barbara you would
not, you could not be so heartless as to keep us apart.”
“The foul fiends!” muttered Zalman. Beads of perspiration stood out upon
his forehead; he was very pale.
“You were young yourself once,” Reuben went on. “For the sake of your
own youth, cast aside your stubbornness and give us your consent.
Barbara! Barbara! Where are you?”
The young woman, blushing like a rose, came out and stood beside him
with lowered head and downcast eyes.