"Ah, they are a bad lot, these Rabbis," said Simon Wolf, sipping his sherry. The conversation took place in English and the two men were seated in a small private room in a public-house, awaiting the advent of the Strike Committee.

 

"Dey are like de rest of de Community. I vash my hands of dem," said the poet, waving his cigar in a fiery crescent.

 

"I have long since washed my hands of them," said Simon Wolf, though the fact was not obvious. "We can trust neither our Rabbis nor our philanthropists. The Rabbis engrossed in the hypocritical endeavor to galvanize the corpse of Judaism into a vitality that shall last at least their own lifetime, have neither time nor thought for the great labor question. Our philanthropists do but scratch the surface. They give the working-man with their right hand what they have stolen from him with the left."

 

Simon Wolf was the great Jewish labor leader. Most of his cronies were rampant atheists, disgusted with the commercialism of the believers. They were clever young artisans from Russia and Poland with a smattering of education, a feverish receptiveness for all the iconoclastic ideas that were in the London air, a hatred of capitalism and strong social sympathies. They wrote vigorous jargon for the _Friend of Labor_ and compassed the extreme proverbial limits of impiety by "eating pork on the Day of Atonement." This was done partly to vindicate their religious opinions whose correctness was demonstrated by the non-appearance of thunderbolts, partly to show that nothing one way or the other was to be expected from Providence or its professors.

 

"The only way for our poor brethren to be saved from their slavery," went on Simon Wolf, "is for them to combine against the sweaters and to let the West-End Jews go and hang themselves."

 

"Ah, dat is mine policee," said Pinchas, "dat was mine policee ven I founded de Holy Land League. Help yourselves and Pinchas vill help you. You muz combine, and den I vill be de Moses to lead you out of de land of bondage. _Nein_, I vill be more dan Moses, for he had not de gift of eloquence."

 

"And he was the meekest man that ever lived," added Wolf.

 

"Yes, he was a fool-man," said Pinchas imperturbably. "I agree with Goethe--_nur Lumpen sind bescheiden_, only clods are modaist. I am not modaist. Is the Almighty modaist? I know, I feel vat I am, vat I can do."

 

"Look here, Pinchas, you're a very clever fellow, I know, and I'm very glad to have you with us--but remember I have organized this movement for years, planned it out as I sat toiling in Belcovitch's machine-room, written on it till I've got the cramp, spoken on it till I was hoarse, given evidence before innumerable Commissions. It is I who have stirred up the East-End Jews and sent the echo of their cry into Parliament, and I will not be interfered with. Do you hear?"

 

"Yes, I hear. Vy you not listen to me? You no understand vat I mean!"

 

"Oh, I understand you well enough. You want to oust me from my position."

 

"Me? Me?" repeated the poet in an injured and astonished tone. "Vy midout you de movement vould crumble like a mummy in de air; be not such a fool-man. To everybody I haf said--ah, dat Simon Wolf he is a great man, a vair great man; he is de only man among de English Jews who can save de East-End; it is he that should be member for Vitechapel--not that fool-man Gideon. Be not such a fool-man! Haf anoder glaz sherry and some more ham-sandwiches." The poet had a simple child-like delight in occasionally assuming the host.

 

"Very well, so long as I have your assurance," said the mollified labor-leader, mumbling the conclusion of the sentence into his wine-glass. "But you know how it is! After I have worked the thing for years, I don't want to see a drone come in and take the credit."

 

"Yes, _sic vos non vobis_, as the Talmud says. Do you know I haf proved that Virgil stole all his ideas from the Talmud?"

 

"First there was Black and then there was Cohen--now Gideon, M.P., sees he can get some advertisement out of it in the press, he wants to preside at the meetings. Members of Parliament are a bad lot!"

 

"Yes--but dey shall not take de credit from you. I will write and expose dem--the world shall know what humbugs dey are, how de whole wealthy West-End stood idly by with her hands in de working-men's pockets while you vere building up de great organization. You know all de jargon-papers jump at vat I write, dey sign my name in vair large type--Melchitsedek Pinchas--under every ting, and I am so pleased with deir homage, I do not ask for payment, for dey are vair poor. By dis time I am famous everywhere, my name has been in de evening papers, and ven I write about you to de _Times_, you vill become as famous as me. And den you vill write about me--ve vill put up for Vitechapel at de elections, ve vill both become membairs of Parliament, I and you, eh?"

 

"I'm afraid there's not much chance of that," sighed Simon Wolf.

 

"Vy not? Dere are two seats. Vy should you not haf de Oder?"

 

"Ain't you forgetting about election expenses, Pinchas?"

 

"_Nein_!" repeated the poet emphatically. "I forgets noding. Ve vill start a fund."

 

"We can't start funds for ourselves."

 

"Be not a fool-man; of course not. You for me, I for you."

 

"You won't get much," said Simon, laughing ruefully at the idea.

 

"Tink not? Praps not. But _you_ vill for me. Ven I am in Parliament, de load vill be easier for us both. Besides I vill go to de Continent soon to give avay de rest of de copies of my book. I expect to make dousands of pounds by it--for dey know how to honor scholars and poets abroad. Dere dey haf not stupid-head stockbrokers like Gideon, M.P., ministers like the Reverend Elkan Benjamin who keep four mistresses, and Rabbis like Reb Shemuel vid long white beards outside and emptiness vidin who sell deir daughters."

 

"I don't want to look so far ahead," said Simon Wolf. "At present, what we have to do is to carry this strike through. Once we get our demands from the masters a powerful blow will have been struck for the emancipation of ten thousand working-men. They will have more money and more leisure, a little less of hell and a little more of heaven. The coming Passover would, indeed, be an appropriate festival even for the most heterodox among them if we could strike oft their chains in the interim. But it seems impossible to get unity among them--a large section appears to mistrust me, though I swear to you, Pinchas, I am actuated by nothing but an unselfish desire for their good. May this morsel of sandwich choke me if I have ever been swayed by anything but sympathy with their wrongs. And yet you saw that malicious pamphlet that was circulated against me in Yiddish--silly, illiterate scribble."

 

"Oh, no!" said Pinchas. "It was vair beautiful; sharp as de sting of de hornet. But vat can you expect? Christ suffered. All great benefactors suffer. Am _I_ happy? But it is only your own foolishness that you must tank if dere is dissension in de camp. De _Gomorah_ says ve muz be vize, _chocham_, ve muz haf tact. See vat you haf done. You haf frighten avay de ortodox fool-men. Dey are oppressed, dey sweat--but dey tink deir God make dem sweat. Why you tell dem, no? Vat mattairs? Free dem from hunger and tirst first, den freedom from deir fool-superstitions vill come of itself. Jeshurun vax fat and kick? Hey? You go de wrong vay."

 

"Do you mean I'm to pretend to be _froom_," said Simon Wolf.

 

"And ven? Vat mattairs? You are a fool, man. To get to de goal one muz go crooked vays. Ah, you have no stadesmanship. You frighten dem. You lead processions vid bands and banners on _Shabbos_ to de _Shools_. Many who vould be glad to be delivered by you tremble for de heavenly lightning. Dey go not in de procession. Many go when deir head is on fire--afterwards, dey take fright and beat deir breasts. Vat vill happen? De ortodox are de majority; in time dere vill come a leader who vill be, or pretend to be, ortodox as veil as socialist. Den vat become of you? You are left vid von, two, tree ateists--not enough to make _Minyan_. No, ve muz be _chocham_, ve muz take de men as ve find dem. God has made two classes of men--vise-men and fool-men. Dere! is one vise-man to a million fool-men--and he sits on deir head and dey support him. If dese fool-men vant to go to _Shool_ and to fast on _Yom Kippur_, vat for you make a feast of pig and shock dem, so dey not believe in your socialism? Ven you vant to eat pig, you do it here, like ve do now, in private. In public, ve spit out ven ve see pig. Ah, you are a fool-man. I am a stadesman, a politician. I vill be de Machiavelli of de movement."

 

"Ah, Pinchas, you are a devil of a chap," said Wolf, laughing. "And yet you say you are the poet of patriotism and Palestine."

 

"Vy not? Vy should we lif here in captivity? Vy we shall not have our own state--and our own President, a man who combine deep politic vid knowledge of Hebrew literature and de pen of a poet. No, let us fight to get back our country--ve vill not hang our harps on the villows of Babylon and veep--ve vill take our swords vid Ezra and Judas Maccabaeus, and--"

 

"One thing at a time, Pinchas," said Simon Wolf. "At present, we have to consider how to distribute these food-tickets. The committee-men are late; I wonder if there has been any fighting at the centres, where they have been addressing meetings."

 

"Ah, dat is anoder point," said Pinchas. "Vy you no let me address meetings--not de little ones in de street, but de great ones in de hall of de Club? Dere my vords vould rush like de moundain dorrents, sveeping avay de corruptions. But you let all dese fool-men talk. You know, Simon, I and you are de only two persons in de East-End who speak Ainglish properly."

 

"I know. But these speeches must be in Yiddish."

 

"_Gewiss_. But who speak her like me and you? You muz gif me a speech to-night."

 

"I can't; really not," said Simon. "The programme's arranged. You know they're all jealous of me already. I dare not leave one out."

 

"Ah, no; do not say dat!" said Pinchas, laying his finger pleadingly on the side of his nose.

 

"I must."

 

"You tear my heart in two. I lof you like a brother--almost like a voman. Just von!" There was an appealing smile in his eye.

 

"I cannot. I shall have a hornet's nest about my ears."

 

"Von leedle von, Simon Wolf!" Again his finger was on his nose.

 

"It is impossible."

 

"You haf not considair how my Yiddish shall make kindle every heart, strike tears from every eye, as Moses did from de rock."

 

"I have. I know. But what am I to do?"

 

"Jus dis leedle favor; and I vill be gradeful to you all mine life."

 

"You know I would if I could."

 

Pinchas's finger was laid more insistently on his nose.

 

"Just dis vonce. Grant me dis, and I vill nevair ask anyding of you in all my life."

 

"No, no. Don't bother, Pinchas. Go away now," said Wolf, getting annoyed. "I have lots to do."

 

"I vill never gif you mine ideas again!" said the poet, flashing up, and he went out and banged the door.

 

The labor-leader settled to his papers with a sigh of relief.

 

The relief was transient. A moment afterwards the door was slightly opened, and Pinchas's head was protruded through the aperture. The poet wore his most endearing smile, the finger was laid coaxingly against the nose.

 

"Just von leedle speech, Simon. Tink how I lof you."

 

"Oh, well, go away. I'll see," replied Wolf, laughing amid all his annoyance.

 

The poet rushed in and kissed the hem of Wolf's coat.

 

"Oh, you be a great man!" he said. Then he walked out, closing the door gently. A moment afterwards, a vision of the dusky head, with the carneying smile and the finger on the nose, reappeared.

 

"You von't forget your promise," said the head.

 

"No, no. Go to the devil. I won't forget."

 

Pinchas walked home through streets thronged with excited strikers, discussing the situation with oriental exuberance of gesture, with any one who would listen. The demands of these poor slop-hands (who could only count upon six hours out of the twenty-four for themselves, and who, by the help of their wives and little ones in finishing, might earn a pound a week) were moderate enough--hours from eight to eight, with an hour for dinner and half an hour for tea, two shillings from the government contractors for making a policeman's great-coat instead of one and ninepence halfpenny, and so on and so on. Their intentions were strictly peaceful. Every face was stamped with the marks of intellect and ill-health--the hue of a muddy pallor relieved by the flash of eyes and teeth. Their shoulders stooped, their chests were narrow, their arms flabby. They came in their hundreds to the hall at night. It was square-shaped with a stage and galleries, for a jargon-company sometimes thrilled the Ghetto with tragedy and tickled it with farce. Both species were playing to-night, and in jargon to boot. In real life you always get your drama mixed, and the sock of comedy galls the buskin of tragedy. It was an episode in the pitiful tussle of hunger and greed, yet its humors were grotesque enough.

 

Full as the Hall was, it was not crowded, for it was Friday night and a large contingent of strikers refused to desecrate the Sabbath by attending the meeting. But these were the zealots--Moses Ansell among them, for he, too, had struck. Having been out of work already he had nothing to lose by augmenting the numerical importance of the agitation. The moderately pious argued that there was no financial business to transact and attendance could hardly come under the denomination of work. It was rather analogous to attendance at a lecture--they would simply have to listen to speeches. Besides it would be but a black Sabbath at home with a barren larder, and they had already been to synagogue. Thus degenerates ancient piety in the stress of modern social problems. Some of the men had not even changed their everyday face for t............