One Friday evening of December, when miry snow underfoot and grayish
fog all around combined to make Spitalfields a malarious marsh, the
Red Beadle, coming in with the week's wages, found to his horror a
doctor hovering over Hulda's bed like the shadow of death.
From the look that Zussmann gave him he saw a sudden change for the
worse had set in. The cold of the weather seemed to strike right to
his heart. He took the sufferer's limp chill hand.
"How goes it?" he said cheerily.
"A trifle weak. But I shall be better soon."
He turned away. Zussmann whispered to him that the doctor who had been
called in that morning had found the crisis so threatening that he was
come again in the evening.
The Red Beadle, grown very white, accompanied the doctor downstairs,
and learned that with care the patient might pull through.
The Beadle felt like tearing out his red beard. "And to think that I
have not yet arranged the matter!" he thought distractedly.
He ran through the gray bleak night to the office of _The Flag of
Judah_; but as he was crossing the threshold he remembered that it was
the eve of the Sabbath, and that neither little Sampson nor anybody
else would be there. But little Sampson _was_ there, working busily.
"Hullo! Come in," he said, astonished.
The Red Beadle had already struck up a drinking acquaintanceship with
the little journalist, in view of the great negotiation he was
plotting. Not in vain did the proverbial wisdom of the Ghetto bid one
beware of the red-haired.
"I won't keep you five minutes," apologized little Sampson. "But, you
see, Christmas comes next week, and the compositors won't work. So I
have to invent the news in advance."
Presently little Sampson, lighting an unhallowed cigarette by way of
Sabbath lamp, and slinging on his shabby cloak, repaired with the Red
Beadle to a restaurant, where he ordered "forbidden" food for himself
and drinks for both.
The Red Beadle felt his way so cautiously and cunningly that the
negotiation was unduly prolonged. After an hour or two, however, all
was settled. For five pounds, paid in five monthly instalments, little
Sampson would translate _The Brotherhood of the Peoples_ into English,
provided the Beadle would tell him what the Hebrew meant. This the
Beadle, from his loving study of Hulda's manuscript, was now prepared
for. Little Sampson also promised to run the translation through _The
Flag of Judah_, and thus the Beadle could buy the plates cheap for
book purposes, with only the extra cost of printing such passages, if
any, as were too dangerous for _The Flag of Judah_. This unexpected
generosity, coupled with the new audience it offered the Idea,
enchanted the Red Beadle. He did not see that the journalist was
getting gratuitous "copy," he saw only the bliss of Hulda and
Zussmann, and in some strange exaltation, compact of whisky and
affection, he shared in their vision of the miraculous spread of the
Idea, once it had got into the dominant language of the world.
In his gratitude to little Sampson he plied him with fresh whisky; in
his excitement he drew the paper-covered book from his pocket, and
insisted that the journalist must translate the first page then and
there, as a hansel. By the time it was done it was near eleven
o'clock. Vaguely the Red Beadle felt that it was too late to return to
Zussmann's to-night. Besides, he was liking little Sampson very much.
They did not separate till the restaurant closed at midnight.
Quite drunk, the Red Beadle staggered towards Zussmann's house. He
held the page of the translation tightly in his hand. The Hebrew
original he had forgotten on the restaurant table, but he knew in some
troubled nightmare way that Zussmann and Hulda must see that paper at
once, that he had been charged to deliver it safely, and must die
sooner than disobey.
The fog had lifted, but the heaps of snow were a terrible hindrance to
his erratic progression. The cold air and the shock of a fall lessened
his inebriety, but the imperative impulse of his imaginary mission
still hypnotized him. It was past one before he reached the tall
house. He did not think it at all curious that the great outer portals
should be open; nor, though he saw the milk-cart at the door, and
noted Cohen's uncomfortable look, did he remember that he had
discovered the milk-purveyor nocturnally infringing the Sabbath. He
stumbled up the stairs and knocked at the garret door, through the
chinks of which light streamed. The thought of Hulda smote him almost
sober. Zussmann's face, when the door opened, restored him completely
to his senses. It was years older.
"She is not dead?" the visitor whispered hoarsely.
"She is dying, I fear--she cannot rouse herself." Zussmann's voice
broke in a sob.
"But she must not die--I bring great news--_The Flag of Judah_ has
read your book--it will translate it into English--it will print it in
its own paper--and then it will make a book of it for you. See, here
is the beginning!"
"Into English!" breathed Zussmann, taking the little journalist's
scrawl. His whole face grew crimson, his eye shone as with madness.
"Hulda! Hulda!" he cried, "the Idea works! God be thanked! English!
Through the world! Hulda! Hulda!" He was bending over her, raising her
head.
She opened her eyes.
"Hulda! the Idea wins. The book is coming out in English. The great
English paper will print it. In that day God shall be One and His name
One. Do you understand?" Her lips twitched faintly, but only her eyes
spoke with the light of love and joy. His own look met hers, and for a
moment husband and wife were one in a spiritual ecstasy.
Then the light in Hulda's eyes went out, and the two men were left in
darkness.
The Red Beadle turned away and left Zussmann to his dead, and, with
scalding tears running down his cheek, pulled up the cotton window
blind and gazed out unseeing into the night.
Presently his vision cleared: he found himself watching the milk-cart
drive off, and, following it towards the frowsy avenue of Brick Lane,
he beheld what seemed to be a drunken fight in progress. He saw a
policeman, gesticulating females, the nondescript nocturnal crowd of
the sleepless city. The old dull hopelessness came over him. "Nature
makes herself," he murmured in despairing resignation.
Suddenly he became aware that Zussmann was beside him, looking up at
the stars.