"Yes, those six lines proved it thoroughly," sneered the savant.
"Aha! You see!" said the poet, a gratified smile pervading his dusky features. "But I must tell you of this comedy--it will be a satirical picture (in the style of Molière, only sharper) of Anglo-Jewish Society. The Rev. Elkan Benjamin, with his four mistresses, they will all be there, and Gideon, the Man-of-the-Earth, M.P.,--ah, it will be terrible. If I could only get them to see it performed, they should have free passes."
"No, shoot them first; it would be more merciful. But where is this comedy to be played?" asked Hamburg curiously.
"At the Jargon Theatre, the great theatre in Prince's Street, the only real national theatre in England. The English stage--Drury Lane--pooh! It is not in harmony with the people; it does not express them."
Hamburg could not help smiling. He knew the wretched little hall, since tragically famous for a massacre of innocents, victims to the fatal cry of fire--more deadly than fiercest flame.
"But how will your audience understand it?" he asked.
"Aha!" said the poet, laying his finger on his nose and grinning. "They will understand. They know the corruptions of our society. All this conspiracy to crush me, to hound me out of England so that ignoramuses may prosper and hypocrites wax fat--do you think it is not the talk of the Ghetto? What! Shall it be the talk of Berlin, of Constantinople, of Mogadore, of Jerusalem, of Paris, and here it shall not be known? Besides, the leading actress will speak a prologue. Ah! she is beautiful, beautiful as Lilith, as the Queen of Sheba, as Cleopatra! And how she acts! She and Rachel--both Jewesses! Think of it! Ah, we are a great people. If I could tell you the secrets of her eyes as she looks at me--but no, you are dry as dust, a creature of prose! And there will be an orchestra, too, for Pesach Weingott has promised to play the overture on his fiddle. How he stirs the soul! It is like David playing before Saul."
"Yes, but it won't be javelins the people will throw," murmured Hamburg, adding aloud: "I suppose you have written the music of this overture."
"No, I cannot write music," said Pinchas.
"Good heavens! You don't say so?" gasped Gabriel Hamburg. "Let that be my last recollection of you! No! Don't say another word! Don't spoil it! Good-bye." And he tore himself away, leaving the poet bewildered.