first.”
Since the discussion took place in Millie’s father’s house, she said nothing at that time: but she gave the photographer a terrible look, catching which, he continued: “On the other hand, the mother’s wishes must be obeyed. Now, take the name Khatzkele. A good name, an honourable name, a perfect name. But when in Rome you do as Rome does. Say for example that your father’s name was Habakkuk. Therefore would you call your son Habakkuk? No. Why? Because you’re in England now. If you called your son Habakkuk everyone would laugh athim. People would say: ‘Why don’t you go and have a Kuck.’ Every time he left the room people would say ‘He’ll be back in a minute, he’s just gone to Habak kuk . ’ … Now you’ve got to call somebody after somebody, so you’d call your Habakkuk Habakkuk actually, but in English you’d call him Henry. Why? For his own good! Take the name Khatzkele. I’ve got a cousin called Khatzkele. He calls himself Charles, and what’s the matter with that? Now Millie wants a Dudley, and Srul wants a Khatzkele. Well? What’s the matter with two names? I say, call the boy Charles Dudley. Charles Dudley Small—isn’t that a name? Charles Dudley Small.”
All Millie’s sisters and brothers-in-law applauded this suggestion . Her mother had no fault to find with it. Her father, scratching his beard in perplexity, muttered: “Duddler? Duddler? Who was Duddler, who?” For as far as he knew there was no one in the Pentateuch who begat a Duddler.
But the photographer said: “Dudley, Dudley is short for Dovidel.”
“Then let it be.”
I. Small was defeated again. The brat was named Charles Dudley, but for thirteen years he did not know exactly what his name was. When his mother hated his father more than usual—two or three days in every week—she would call her son Dudley; with extraordinary subtlety and courage (for him) I. Small put a stop to this by waiting until they were all together in a public place and then saying in a loud voice: “Khatzkele, mein liddle boychik.”
This made Millie so ashamed that she settled on the name of Charley. The photographer, who loved his little joke, called him Chudleigh. Lily, who missed no opportunity of annoying her sisters in general and Millie in particular, and liked nothing better than a suggestive word or smutty story called him Habakkuk . The last syllable of the name of that fierily poetic prophet had, in jargon, a fæcal significance, so she laid heavy emphasis upon it. But that was Lily all over; that was the way her mind worked. (If she admired your room she developed an inability to pronounce her R’s, so that she was talking about your womb; and if you could have heard her talking about male chickens, you would have died laughing.)
Habakkuk, Dudley, Khatzkele, Chudleigh, Charley…. The child was confused for years until the jokes wore out, and everyone calledhim Charley. I. Small grew to like the name: it was a handy name to shout when he wanted to let all the air out of his lungs—Char-LAAAY!——He made it sound as if he was selling Charlies by the sackful off a coalheaver’s cart, at two-and-twopence a hundredweight.
But when, at the age of thirteen, the boy was according to Jewish Law proclaimed a man morally responsible for his own sins—on the momentous occasion when, wearing his first long trousers, he was called up to read a portion of the Law in the local synagogue, did they call Charles Dudley Small? No. They called Khatzkele-ben-Yisroel: and then old I. Small disgraced himself by making a sucking, popping noise like a wet cork drawn out of a rubber bottle and letting his feelings overcome him to such an extent that tears ran down into his moustache and were sniffed up into his nostrils, from which they were expelled in a whirling spray by a terrible sneeze; whereupon he had to use his handkerchief, blowing a ram’s-horn blast that might have brought down the walls of Jericho. But they were not in
Since the discussion took place in Millie’s father’s house, she said nothing at that time: but she gave the photographer a terrible look, catching which, he continued: “On the other hand, the mother’s wishes must be obeyed. Now, take the name Khatzkele. A good name, an honourable name, a perfect name. But when in Rome you do as Rome does. Say for example that your father’s name was Habakkuk. Therefore would you call your son Habakkuk? No. Why? Because you’re in England now. If you called your son Habakkuk everyone would laugh athim. People would say: ‘Why don’t you go and have a Kuck.’ Every time he left the room people would say ‘He’ll be back in a minute, he’s just gone to Habak kuk . ’ … Now you’ve got to call somebody after somebody, so you’d call your Habakkuk Habakkuk actually, but in English you’d call him Henry. Why? For his own good! Take the name Khatzkele. I’ve got a cousin called Khatzkele. He calls himself Charles, and what’s the matter with that? Now Millie wants a Dudley, and Srul wants a Khatzkele. Well? What’s the matter with two names? I say, call the boy Charles Dudley. Charles Dudley Small—isn’t that a name? Charles Dudley Small.”
All Millie’s sisters and brothers-in-law applauded this suggestion . Her mother had no fault to find with it. Her father, scratching his beard in perplexity, muttered: “Duddler? Duddler? Who was Duddler, who?” For as far as he knew there was no one in the Pentateuch who begat a Duddler.
But the photographer said: “Dudley, Dudley is short for Dovidel.”
“Then let it be.”
I. Small was defeated again. The brat was named Charles Dudley, but for thirteen years he did not know exactly what his name was. When his mother hated his father more than usual—two or three days in every week—she would call her son Dudley; with extraordinary subtlety and courage (for him) I. Small put a stop to this by waiting until they were all together in a public place and then saying in a loud voice: “Khatzkele, mein liddle boychik.”
This made Millie so ashamed that she settled on the name of Charley. The photographer, who loved his little joke, called him Chudleigh. Lily, who missed no opportunity of annoying her sisters in general and Millie in particular, and liked nothing better than a suggestive word or smutty story called him Habakkuk . The last syllable of the name of that fierily poetic prophet had, in jargon, a fæcal significance, so she laid heavy emphasis upon it. But that was Lily all over; that was the way her mind worked. (If she admired your room she developed an inability to pronounce her R’s, so that she was talking about your womb; and if you could have heard her talking about male chickens, you would have died laughing.)
Habakkuk, Dudley, Khatzkele, Chudleigh, Charley…. The child was confused for years until the jokes wore out, and everyone calledhim Charley. I. Small grew to like the name: it was a handy name to shout when he wanted to let all the air out of his lungs—Char-LAAAY!——He made it sound as if he was selling Charlies by the sackful off a coalheaver’s cart, at two-and-twopence a hundredweight.
But when, at the age of thirteen, the boy was according to Jewish Law proclaimed a man morally responsible for his own sins—on the momentous occasion when, wearing his first long trousers, he was called up to read a portion of the Law in the local synagogue, did they call Charles Dudley Small? No. They called Khatzkele-ben-Yisroel: and then old I. Small disgraced himself by making a sucking, popping noise like a wet cork drawn out of a rubber bottle and letting his feelings overcome him to such an extent that tears ran down into his moustache and were sniffed up into his nostrils, from which they were expelled in a whirling spray by a terrible sneeze; whereupon he had to use his handkerchief, blowing a ram’s-horn blast that might have brought down the walls of Jericho. But they were not in
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