The King of Schnorrers: Grotesques and Fantasies. Zangwill Israel

dear! I can easily get three for twopence.' But she wouldn't part with them at that price, so I went on, thinking I'd meet another woman with a similar lot over the water. They were lovely fat herrings, and my chaps watered in anticipation of the treat of eating them. But when I got to the other end of the bridge there was no other fishwife to be seen. So I resolved to turn back to the first fishwife, for, after all, I reflected, the herrings were really very cheap, and I had only complained in the way of business. But when I got back the woman was just sold out. I could have torn my hair with vexation. Now, that's what I call Remorse."

      After that the Rabbi was what the congregation called Remorse; also Red-herring.

      The Rabbi's fondness for concrete exemplification of abstract ideas was not, however, to be stifled, and there was one illustration of Charity which found a place in all the five sermons of consolation.

      "If you have a pair of old breeches, send them to the Rabbi."

      Rabbi Remorse Red-herring was, however, as is the way of preachers, himself aught but a concrete exemplification of the virtues he inculcated. He lived generously – through other people's generosity – but no one could boast of having received a farthing from him over and above what was due to them; while Schnorrers (who deemed considerable sums due to them) regarded him in the light of a defalcating bankrupt. He, for his part, had a countervailing grudge against the world, fancying the work he did for it but feebly remunerated. "I get so little," ran his bitter plaint, "that I couldn't live, if it were not for the fasts." And, indeed, the fasts of the religion were worth much more to him than to Yankelé; his meals were so profuse that his savings from this source were quite a little revenue. As Yankelé had pointed out, he was married. And his wife had given him a child, but it died at the age of seven, bequeathing to him the only poignant sorrow of his life. He was too jealous to call in a rival consolation preacher during those dark days, and none of his own five sermons seemed to fit the case. It was some months before he took his meals regularly.

      At no time had anyone else taken meals in his house, except by law entitled. Though she had only two to cook for, his wife habitually provided for three, counting her husband no mere unit. Herself she reckoned as a half.

      It was with intelligible perturbation, therefore, that Yankelé, dressed in some other man's best, approached the house of Rabbi Remorse Red-herring about a quarter of an hour before the Sabbath mid-day meal, intent on sharing it with him.

      "No dinner, no marriage!" was da Costa's stern ukase.

      What wonder if the inaccessible meal took upon itself the grandiosity of a wedding feast! Deborah da Costa's lovely face tantalised him like a mirage.

      The Sabbath day was bleak, but chiller was his heart. The Rabbi had apartments in Steward Street, Spitalfields, an elegant suite on the ground-floor, for he stinted himself in nothing but charity. At the entrance was a porch – a pointed Gothic arch of wood supported by two pillars. As Yankelé mounted the three wooden steps, breathing as painfully as if they were three hundred, and wondering if he would ever get merely as far as the other side of the door, he was assailed by the temptation to go and dine peacefully at home, and represent to da Costa that he had feasted with the Rabbi. Manasseh would never know, Manasseh had taken no steps to ascertain if he satisfied the test or not. Such carelessness, he told himself in righteous indignation, deserved fitting punishment. But, on the other hand, he recalled Manasseh's trust in him; Manasseh believed him a man of honour, and the patron's elevation of soul awoke an answering chivalry in the parasite.

      He decided to make the attempt at least, for there would be plenty of time to say he had succeeded, after he had failed.

      Vibrating with tremors of nobility as well as of apprehension, Yankelé lifted the knocker. He had no programme, trusting to chance and mother-wit.

      Mrs. Remorse Red-herring half opened the door.

      "I vish to see de Rabbi," he said, putting one foot within.

      "He is engaged," said the wife – a tiny thin creature who had been plump and pretty. "He is very busy talking with a gentleman."

      "Oh, but I can vait."

      "But the Rabbi will be having his dinner soon."

      "I can vait till after dinner," said Yankelé obligingly.

      "Oh, but the Rabbi sits long at table."

      "I don't mind," said Yankelé with undiminished placidity, "de longer de better."

      The poor woman looked perplexed. "I'll tell my husband," she said at last.

      Yankelé had an anxious moment in the passage.

      "The Rabbi wishes to know what you want," she said when she returned.

      "I vant to get married," said Yankelé with an inspiration of veracity.

      "But my husband doesn't marry people."

      "Vy not?"

      "He only brings consolation into households," she explained ingenuously.

      "Vell, I won't get married midout him," Yankelé murmured lugubriously.

      The little woman went back in bewilderment to her bosom's lord. Forthwith out came Rabbi Remorse Red-herring, curiosity and cupidity in his eyes. He wore the skull-cap of sanctity, but looked the gourmand in spite of it.

      "Good Sabbath, sir! What is this about your getting married?"

      "It's a long story," said Yankelé, "and as your good vife told me your dinner is just ready, I mustn't keep you now."

      "No, there are still a few minutes before dinner. What is it?"

      Yankelé shook his head. "I couldn't tink of keeping you in dis draughty passage."

      "I don't mind. I don't feel any draught."

      "Dat's just vere de danger lays. You don't notice, and one day you find yourself laid up mid rheumatism, and you vill have Remorse," said Yankelé with a twinkle. "Your life is precious – if you die, who vill console de community?"

      It was an ambiguous remark, but the Rabbi understood it in its most flattering sense, and his little eyes beamed. "I would ask you inside," he said, "but I have a visitor."

      "No matter," said Yankelé, "vat I have to say to you, Rabbi, is not private. A stranger may hear it."

      Still undecided, the Rabbi muttered, "You want me to marry you?"

      "I have come to get married," replied Yankelé.

      "But I have never been called upon to marry people."

      "It's never too late to mend, dey say."

      "Strange – strange," murmured the Rabbi reflectively.

      "Vat is strange?"

      "That you should come to me just to-day. But why did you not go to Rabbi Sandman?"

      "Rabbi Sandman!" replied Yankelé with contempt. "Vere vould be de good of going to him?"

      "But why not?"

      "Every Schnorrer goes to him," said Yankelé frankly.

      "Hum!" mused the Rabbi. "Perhaps there is an opening for a more select marrier. Come in, then, I can give you five minutes if you really don't mind talking before a stranger."

      He threw open the door, and led the way into the sitting-room.

      Yankelé followed, exultant; the outworks were already carried, and his heart beat high with hope. But at his first glance within, he reeled and almost fell.

      Standing with his back to the fire and dominating the room was Manasseh Bueno Barzillai Azevedo da Costa!

      "Ah, Yankelé, good Sabbath!" said da Costa affably.

      "G-g-ood Sabbath!" stammered Yankelé.

      "Why, you know each other!" cried the Rabbi.

      "Oh, yes," said Manasseh, "an acquaintance of yours, too, apparently."

      "No, he is just come to see me about something," replied the Rabbi.

      "I thought you did not know the Rabbi, Mr. da Costa?" Yankelé could not help saying.

      "I