The carp give another little spring.

"Oh," they moan, "we do not see any river--and our bones are breaking--and we cannot breathe."

"On with you--make an effort! It is not much further--give a jump!"

But the carp are past hearing.

The carp lie dying on the floor, and the pike are having a dispute.

Both opine that any proper leap would carry one into the river, but one says that other fish are wanted, not stupid carp, who can only leap in the water, who cannot exist for an hour without food, and that what are wanted are--electric fish!

And the other says: "No, carp--only, lots and lots of carp. If one hundred thousand carp were to leap, _one_ would certainly fall into the river, and if _one_ fell in, why, then--ha, ha!"

XIX

THE FAST

A winter's night; Sarah sits by the oil-lamp, darning an old sock. She works slowly, for her fingers are half-frozen; her lips are blue and brown with cold; every now and then she lays down her work and runs up and down the room to warm her icy feet.

In a bed, on a bare straw mattress, sleep four children--two little heads at each end--covered up with some old clothes.

Now one child and now another gives a start, a head is raised, and there is a plaintive chirp: "Hungry!"

"Patience, dears, patience!" says Sarah, soothingly.

"Father will be here presently, and bring you some supper. I will be sure to wake you."

"And something hot?" ask the children, whimpering. "We have had nothing hot to-day yet!"

"And something hot, too!"

But she does not believe what she is saying.

She glances round the room--perhaps, after all, there is something left that she can p.a.w.n. Nothing! Four bare, damp walls--split stove--everything clammy and cold--two or three broken dishes on the chimney-piece--on the stove, an old, battered Chanukah lamp--over-head, in the beam, a nail--sole relic of a lamp that hung from the ceiling; two empty beds without pillows--and nothing, nothing else!

The children are some time getting to sleep.

Sarah's heart aches as she looks at them.

Suddenly she turns her eyes, red with crying, to the door--she has heard footsteps, heavy footsteps, on the stairs leading down into the bas.e.m.e.nt--a clatter of cans against the wall, now to the right, now to the left.

A gleam of hope illumines her sunken features.

She rubs one foot against the other two or three times, rises stiffly, and goes to the door.

She opens it, and in comes a pale, stoop-shouldered Jew, with two empty cans.

"Well?" she whispers.

He puts away the cans, takes off his yoke, and answers, lower still:

"Nothing--nothing at all; n.o.body paid me. To-morrow! they said. Everyone always says to-morrow--the day after to-morrow--on the first day of the month!"

"The children have hardly had a bite all day," articulates Sarah.

"Anyway, they're asleep--that is something. O, my poor children!"

She can control herself no longer, and begins to cry quietly.

"What are you crying for?" asks the man.

"O, Mendele, the children are so hungry." She is making desperate efforts to gulp down her tears.

"And what is to become of us?" she moans. "Things only get worse and worse!"

"Worse? No, Sarah! It is a sin to speak so. We are better off than we were this time last year. I had no food to give you, and no shelter. The children were all day rolling in the gutter, and they slept in the dirty courts. Now, at least, they sleep on straw, they have a roof over their head."

Sarah's sobs grow louder.

She has been reminded of the child that was taken from her out there in the streets. It caught cold, grew hoa.r.s.e, and died--and died, as it might have died in the forest, without help of any kind--no tearing open the Ark[117]--no measuring of graves--nothing said over it to exorcise the evil eye--it went out like a candle.

He tries to comfort her:

"Don't cry, Sarah; don't cry so! Do not sin against G.o.d!"

"Oh, Mendele, if only He would help us!"

"Sarah, for your own sake don't take things so to heart. See what a figure you have made of yourself. Do you know, it is ten years to-day since we were married? Well, well, who would think you were the beauty of the town!"

"And you, Mendele; do you remember, you were called Mendele the strong--and now you are bent double, you are ill--and you don't tell me!

O, my G.o.d, my G.o.d!"

The cry escapes her, the children are startled out of their sleep, and begin to wail anew: "Bread! Hungry!"

"Who ever heard of such a thing! Who is going to think of eating to-day!" is Mendele's sudden exclamation.

The children sit up in alarm.

"This is a fast-day!" continues Mendele with a stern face.

Several minutes elapse before the children take in what has been said to them.

"What sort of fast is it?" they inquire tearfully.

And Mendele with downcast eyes tells them that in the morning, during the Reading of the Law, the Scroll fell from the desk. "Whereupon," he continues, "a fast was proclaimed, in which even sucking-children are to take part." The children are silent, and he goes on to say: