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Nehemiah stared at him. ‘God’s messenger!’ was all he could gasp. Then the tall melancholy man raised his eyes to heaven, and uttered a Hebrew voluntary in which references to the ram whose horns were caught in the thicket to save Isaac’s life were distinctly audible.

Barstein waited patiently till the pious lips were at rest.

‘But what business do you think you—-?’ he began.

‘Shall I presume dictation to the angel?’ asked Nehemiah with wet shining eyes.

‘I am thinking that perhaps we might find something in which your children could help you. How old is the eldest?’

‘I will ask my wife. Salome!’ he cried. The dismal creature trotted in.

‘How old is Moshele?’ he asked.

‘And don’t you remember he was twelve last Tabernacles?’

Nehemiah threw up his long arms. ‘Merciful Heaven! He must soon begin to learn his Parshah (confirmation portion). What will it be? Where is my Chumash (Pentateuch)?’ Mrs. Silvermann drew it down from the row of ragged books, and Nehemiah, fluttering the pages and bending over the rushlight, became lost to the problem of his future.

Barstein addressed himself to the wife. ‘What business do you think your husband could set up here?’

‘Is he not a dentist?’ she inquired in reply.

Barstein turned to the busy peering flutterer.

‘Would you like to be a dentist again?’

‘Ah, but how shall I find achers?’

‘You put up a sign,’ said Barstein. ‘One of those cases of teeth. I daresay the landlady will permit you to put it up by the front door, especially if you take an extra room. I will buy you the instruments, furnish the room attractively. You will put in your newspapers–why, people will be glad to come as to a reading-room!’ he added smiling.

Nehemiah addressed his wife. ‘Did I not say he was a genteel archangel?’ he cried ecstatically.

IV

Barstein was sitting outside a cafe in Rome sipping vermouth with Rozenoffski, the Russo-Jewish pianist, and Schneemann the Galician-Jewish painter, when he next heard from Nehemiah.

He was anxiously expecting an important letter, which he had instructed his studio-assistant to bring to him instantly. So when the man appeared, he seized with avidity upon the envelope in his hand. But the scrawling superscription at once dispelled his hope, and recalled the forgotten Luftmensch. He threw the letter impatiently on the table.

‘Oh, you may read it,’ his friends protested, misunderstanding.

‘I can guess what it is,’ he said grumpily. Here, in this classical atmosphere, in this southern sunshine, he felt out of sympathy with the gaunt godly Nehemiah, who had doubtless lapsed again into his truly troublesome tribulations. Not a penny more for the ne’er-do-well! Let his Providence look after him!

‘Is she beautiful?’ quizzed Schneemann.

Barstein roared with laughter. His irate mood was broken up. Nehemiah as a petticoated romance was too tickling.

‘You shall read the letter,’ he said.

Schneemann protested comically. ‘No, no, that would be ungentlemanly–you read to us what the angel says.’

‘It is I that am the angel,’ Barstein laughed, as he tore open the letter. He read it aloud, breaking down in almost hysterical laughter at each eruption of adjectives from ‘the dictionary in distress.’ Rozenoffski and Schneemann rolled in similar spasms of mirth, and the Italians at the neighbouring tables, though entirely ignorant of the motive of the merriment, caught the contagion, and rocked and shrieked with the mad foreigners.

‘3A, THE MINORIES, E.

‘RIGHT HONOURABLE ANGELICAL MR. LEOPOLD BARSTEIN,

‘I have now the honour to again solicit Your genteel genuine sympathical humane philanthropic kind cordial nobility to oblige me at present by Your merciful loan of gracious second and propitious favourable aidance in my actually poor indigent position in which I have no earn by my dental practice likewise no help, also no protection, no recommendation, no employment, and then the competition is here very violent. I was ruined by Russia, and I have nothing for the celebration of our Jewish new year. Consequentially upon your merciful archangelical donative I was able to make my livelihood by my dental practice even very difficult, but still I had my vital subsistence by it till up now, but not further for the little while, in consequence of it my circumstances are now in the urgent extreme immense need. Thus I implore Your competent, well famous good-hearted liberal magnanimous benevolent generosity to respond me in Your beneficent relief as soon as possible, according to Your kind grand clemence of Your good ingenuous genteel humanity. I wish You a happy new year.

‘Your obedient servant respectfully,
‘NEHEMIAH SILVERMANN,
‘Dentist and Professor of Languages.’

But when the reading was finished, Schneemann’s comment was unexpected.

‘Rosh Hashanah so near?’ he said.

A rush of Ghetto memories swamped the three artists as they tried to work out the date of the Jewish New Year, that solemn period of earthly trumpets and celestial judgments.

‘Why, it must be to-day!’ cried Rozenoffski suddenly. The trio looked at one another with rueful humour. Why, the Ghetto could not even realize such indifference to the heavenly tribunals so busily decreeing their life-or-death sentences!

Barstein raised his glass. ‘Here’s a happy new year, anyhow!’ he said.

The three men clinked glasses.

Rozenoffski drew out a hundred-lire note.

‘Send that to the poor devil,’ he said.

‘Oho!’ laughed Schneemann. ‘You still believe “Charity delivers from death!” Well, I must be saved too!’ And he threw down another hundred-lire note.

To the acutely analytical Barstein it seemed as if an old superstitious thrill lay behind Schneemann’s laughter as behind Rozenoffski’s donation.

‘You will only make the Luftmensch believe still more obstinately in his Providence,’ he said, as he gathered up the New Year gifts. ‘Again will he declare that he has been accorded a good writing and a good sealing by the Heavenly Tribunal!’

‘Well, hasn’t he?’ laughed Schneemann.

‘Perhaps he has,’ said Rozenoffski musingly. ‘Qui sa?‘