Becker took Saadi to one or two socialist meetings and introduced him to
several men, but to no women.
For socialism in general Saadi had only contempt. “What you want, Becker?
More meats in walking sepulchre? Real life is to fight with cold steel
and not care one damn what is in esophagus. Only kind of socialism which
is any good is in Servia. Everybody owns nine acres, and nobody is
allowed to sell. It is hardly any cities in Servia. But Jews must get in
big smoky city and lift up voice and wail like jackals.”
“Nitchevo!” said Becker. “I don’t care to discuss it. Socialism is
the one thing that has come to stay. But what you say about Servia is
interesting. Tell me more.”
“You do not read Sunday paper, Becker.”
They had been walking home from Hodcarriers’ Hall, Sunday evening,
October 19, and had stopped in Harrison Street to have tea from a samovar.
“What was in the paper?”
“Little piece about Balkans. Yesterday Austria sent ultimatum to Servia
to yank troops out of Albania.”
Becker dropped a third lump of sugar into his glass. “That means nothing
to me. How did the Balkan war begin?”
“How begins anything? Everything begins with Jews. It is only thirteen
millions on whole football of Shaitan, and they are more nuisance than
all rest put in one bunch.”
“Oye, oye! And now the insults begin.”
“Suremike. I will explain. Young Turks were dreamers in Paris, all about
liberty, fraternity, equality, which are damfool notions of kids. But
it was no money to make revolution. Salonika was Jew town, with lots of
money, but Greeks were grabbing trade. Salonik Jews and Vienna Jews gave
young Turks money for revolution. Well, revolution revolved. Then Jews
said, ‘Shut eyes while we boycott damn Greeks.’ Young Turks said, ‘All
right. Maybe they will give back Crete.’”
“It sounds possible,” admitted Becker reluctantly. “But who was the
builder of the Balkan League? Who was the one man most responsible?”
“Beck, is this what you say conspiracy? Ameen and Wu and Chat have been
telling Saadi Arabian Nights about what one man can do. It is no such
thing as one man, Beck. Every damn thought is stolen, and every damn
finger is moved by nature, same as moon across sky. Your nice personal
Jew nose is public thing as moon in sky.”
“Saadi, you are a quaint proposition.”
“Beck, little bit scientific commonsense is so rare in world it seems
what you say quaint to idiots like you. But I will talk Halsted about
Balkan League and you will not believe. Jimmy Bourchier did it.”
“Who is Jimmy?”
“He is deaf Irishman. He is journalist. He wrote article on Balkans for
Encyclopedia Britannica—you can read it in Jaffer’s room.”
“I never heard of him.”
“Of course not. You will never hear of anything till it is all over and
I have run off with your pocket-book. But Jimmy went to Venizelos in
February of 1911, and suggested Greece, Bulgaria, Servia, and Montenegro
to get together and lick Turk. Venizelos said: ‘Haidee, James! Go
chase self. My folks are Bulgar-eaters. It is impossible.’ Jimmy said:
‘Nothing is impossible with Shaitan. I will come back when May blooms
on Pelion, and you will say yes.’ So he went back in May and they walked
up mountain, and came down with Balkan League under hats. Then Jimmy got
Bulgaria ready, and Servia ready. Montenegro was ready anyhow. Nikolas
cannot eat breakfast till he has taken shot at somebody.”
“An Irishman, eh? And deaf! Maybe you can do as much for Bokhara some
day. I see you getting Bokhara and Khiva and Afghanistan together to swat
Russia with a Central Asian league.”
“Why you leave out Persia?” grinned Saadi.
“I did not mean to. It was an oversight. But tell me more about your own
share in the Balkan game. You came away before the second war, didn’t
you?”
“Yes, in March. You see, it was fifth year in medicine, but I lost
October and November. On December third came armistice, and Savoff and
Nazim hugged each and drank champagne with each, and I said war is over.
So I went back to make up work. But no professor would help Saadi little
bit. All were mad because he went to help Servia. It was awful days in
Vienna. It was no Christmas trade, and every day Jew paper _Neue Freie
Presse_ had bankrupt notices. I began to be watched.”
Becker gave a wink, and listened for revelations which did not come.
“All winter I expected Austria would jump on Servia, and Russia would
jump on Austria. I thought so in January when Nazim was shot because it
was known he would surrender Adrianople. I thought so in February when
war began again. I thought so in March when I gave up bad job and started
for New York to go out west young man and grow up with country. When
I got in New York, King George had been shot and Adrianople had been
gobbled. I said, Austria will sure jump now. Then Nikolas took Skutari,
and warships of powers made fool blockade off shore, and old Nik lay on
cliff on belly with spyglass and laughed till sick. But at last he let
powers have Skutari, to save peace of whole world.”
“Grey was some help, wasn’t he?”
“Suremike. Well, I have been waiting still for war to begin. In May,
boys in Bosnia were so anxious to bust loose from Austria that whole
country had to be chucked into state of siege. Bosnia is still in state
of siege. In June Mahmud Shevket was shot in automobile because he let
go of Adrianople. For Mahmud twelve boys were hanged. They were buried
on June 28, day when Bulgaria jumped on Servia. Black Austria told her
to jump, but Black Austria had Servian surprise party coming. Bulgaria
got awful licking. Becker, when you hear about only Turks raping and
mutilating, you can say it is damn lie. What Christians did to Christians
this summer—it is no words—Dr. Trench says I must not try to tell such.”
“I believe you, Saadi, but I thought you preferred war to peace.”
Saadi sighed heavily. “It can be what you say too much of one good thing.
It is not sin to wear buttons, but it is crime to wear nothing but
buttons.”
“Oye, oye! You are just whistling to keep your courage up.”
“It is good word, Becker. I will remember. I need to whistle all time,
same as peanut-roaster.”
“Well,” laughed Becker, “I have my grouch against Nicky, but he will keep
the peace. A man wrote me from Moscow that when the Panslavists made a
demonstration after Adrianople, the Cossacks stopped it with the lash.
The Tsar does not want war.”
“It may be, Becker,” said Saadi, dreamily. “I will not know unless I go
to Petersbourg, where it is big strike coming soon. I would give four
microbes to know, and maybe I would give five. It would depend on size.
If they were small, like little devils Dr. Trench was telling, maybe I
would give six. What you think about those chlamydozoa? You think they
are microbes? They go through all filters. What you think?”
“I think you are trying to ditch me, Saadi. But there is another good
reason for not fearing war. The Crown Prince of Austria will prevent it.
He married a Slav. He loves the Slavs.”
Saadi was smilingly inspecting the sugary bottom of his glass. “I love my
cat and my cat loves me, I feed my cat on green bay tree, my little cat
goes mew, mew. It is song Deland sings. You should pay me visit, Becker,
and get acquainted with my cat. My cat is named Jaffer. Of course he will
be fatter sometime—what Deland says ‘some sweet day by and by.’ I love to
hear Deland sing on mandolin. It is like old blind men in Servia making
music on guzla. But Deland is not blind. He made picture of me and my
cat.”
“Ditched again, Saadi! What has your cat to do with the Crown Prince of
Austria?”
“Becker, you are Nick Carter, price ten cents with coloured picture on
front. My cat loves Slavs. My cat goes down in cellar and makes love to
Slavs.”
“Be serious, Saadi. Franz Ferdinand is not only a Slavophil, but he hates
the Kaiser.”
“Suremike. That is why Willie is so sorry his oldest kid did not behave
like gentleman at table of Franz Ferdinand’s duchess. That is why Willie
is telling all Berlin what nice wife Ferdy has got, and how nice empress
she would make, by golly, no matter how much Magyars hate her and Ferdy
too. Also it is why Willie goes to visit Ferdy in Konopischt. Next time
he will take Tirpitz with him. Behold whole damn Teutonic bunch in
Ferdy’s rose garden, singing _M’r san M’r_, We are Us!”
“You seem to know a lot about it.”
“Suremike. I do not read newspapers—that is why I know so much. What I
know about Ferdy is first-hand, same as Chat’s acquaintance with God
Almighty. I will now say ‘Piffle!’ like girl I met. We must go home,
Beckerovitch. Doctor will lambast me for not to know composition of
breast milk. You suppose Sophie and Maximilian and Ernest were brought up
on bottle?”
“What?”
“Nothing, Becker. I am talking in sleep about clinic.”
“Saadi, I’m a proletarian Jew and you’re a Moslem noble, but you needn’t
walk on me.”
Saadi’s manner changed. “Becker, if you ever again accuse me to have race
feeling, I will what you say knock block off. I will give you proof I
respect you.”
Becker waited.
Saadi set down his glass and gazed at it, while sadness stole into his
eyes.
“On ninth day of August—day before Bukarest treaty was signed—Vienna
privately informed Rome and Berlin that she would move against Servia
very soon.”
“How do you know that?”
“Becker, if I tell you it is sign of Jew to ask one question too much,
you must not blame me with to be Moslem noble.”
Becker flushed. “I withdraw the question.”
“Of course you withdraw. And it is pleasure to tell one more thing. Rome
has refused to back Vienna.”