Jericho. They were in synagogue. The whole family was there. By this time Khatzkele-ben-Yisroel, alias Charles Dudley Small, had half a dozen male cousins who had already been initiated, thus, into full manhood. It had been conveyed to him that all the world was waiting for him to make a fool of himself. When his father blew his nose the Portion of Law which he had learned by heart, word by word, fell through a hole in his head. He had stage fright. Something like a hard-boiled eggwas stuck at the back of his throat. Then the great scroll unrolled, and a voice hissed the first word, which was Kee, and it all came back in a rush, and came out in a rush, delivered in a voice so piercing that several people in the audience could not hear themselves speak for half an hour after.
When it was all over his mother kissed him and said: “Dudley! Dudley!”
“Khatzkele,” said his father, shaking him by the hand, “Khatzkele, now you are a man!”
“Come on, Dudley!”
“Do what your mother tells you, Khatzkele. ”
He was aware of an interlacing, a reticulation of forked lightning not far above his head: looks were being exchanged. But there was no quarrel that day, because Millie was in a genial, expansive mood. She smiled and nodded, as if to say: “To-day isa holiday, for to-day let me put aside my tools—my rack, my thumbscrew, and my pincers. Let me turn my four wild horses out to graze for a few hours and refresh them. I will make a fresh start and tear you asunder first thing to-morrow morning.”
For on that day her son had become a Man….
Ha-ha-ha! says Charles Small, looking at the photograph that was taken to commemorate the occasion. It is a magnificent photograph, expensively mounted and signed (if you please) like an Old Master— Nathan, with a flourish. There is a high- class-looking inscription chastely printed in elegant type: The Studio Nathan, Old Bond Street, West One —not a common or garden W.1. but West One. This was the kind of man Nathan, the Photographer , had turned out to be: Bond Street, West One! He had picked up (such creatures have all the luck; there is no getting away from it) a wonderful Belgian photographer, a refugee who had fled from Brussels when the Kaiser’s Army was on its way in. So now Nathan was making a fortune. He was patronised by the nobility and gentry. Society beauties had their photographs taken by Nathan of West One. Foolish people who did not know what Millie knew about the immoral lives Society ladies led, illiterates unacquainted with the works of Miss Marie Corelli, stood and gaped at framed photographs of famous beauties in the vestibule of The Studio Nathan. Millie, who was a keen observer of women, and who could be relied upon to find their weak points—she had brought a charwoman around to her opinion that Lily Langtry was ugly as sin and that Ellen Terry had a face like a horse—could not bear to look at such portraits. If Lady A. was blonde, she bleached. If Lady B. was dark, she dyed. If the Duchess of C. had a fine bosom, it was because she stuffed her dress with newspapers or handkerchiefs. Millie was very much down on bosoms. She thanked God that she had never gone in for any such filthiness. But as for Nathan, the Photographer, all he thought about was bosoms. Millie said that she would rather see her husband sweeping the streets than messing about with Duchess’s bosoms.
Be it as it may: Nathan’s present to Charles Small when he became a Man was a picture, again. Naturally: it cost Nathan nothing. He said that his normal charge for such a picture would be “in the region of twenty guineas.” When he suggested a date for an appointment Millie said that she did not know how to thank him. As soon as he was out of earshot she laughed withoutmirth and said: “It just shows you. That’s the way to get rich. I’d rather sell bootlaces in the street than get rich that way. But there you are—what can you expect from a Litvak? ”
I. Small said:
When it was all over his mother kissed him and said: “Dudley! Dudley!”
“Khatzkele,” said his father, shaking him by the hand, “Khatzkele, now you are a man!”
“Come on, Dudley!”
“Do what your mother tells you, Khatzkele. ”
He was aware of an interlacing, a reticulation of forked lightning not far above his head: looks were being exchanged. But there was no quarrel that day, because Millie was in a genial, expansive mood. She smiled and nodded, as if to say: “To-day isa holiday, for to-day let me put aside my tools—my rack, my thumbscrew, and my pincers. Let me turn my four wild horses out to graze for a few hours and refresh them. I will make a fresh start and tear you asunder first thing to-morrow morning.”
For on that day her son had become a Man….
Ha-ha-ha! says Charles Small, looking at the photograph that was taken to commemorate the occasion. It is a magnificent photograph, expensively mounted and signed (if you please) like an Old Master— Nathan, with a flourish. There is a high- class-looking inscription chastely printed in elegant type: The Studio Nathan, Old Bond Street, West One —not a common or garden W.1. but West One. This was the kind of man Nathan, the Photographer , had turned out to be: Bond Street, West One! He had picked up (such creatures have all the luck; there is no getting away from it) a wonderful Belgian photographer, a refugee who had fled from Brussels when the Kaiser’s Army was on its way in. So now Nathan was making a fortune. He was patronised by the nobility and gentry. Society beauties had their photographs taken by Nathan of West One. Foolish people who did not know what Millie knew about the immoral lives Society ladies led, illiterates unacquainted with the works of Miss Marie Corelli, stood and gaped at framed photographs of famous beauties in the vestibule of The Studio Nathan. Millie, who was a keen observer of women, and who could be relied upon to find their weak points—she had brought a charwoman around to her opinion that Lily Langtry was ugly as sin and that Ellen Terry had a face like a horse—could not bear to look at such portraits. If Lady A. was blonde, she bleached. If Lady B. was dark, she dyed. If the Duchess of C. had a fine bosom, it was because she stuffed her dress with newspapers or handkerchiefs. Millie was very much down on bosoms. She thanked God that she had never gone in for any such filthiness. But as for Nathan, the Photographer, all he thought about was bosoms. Millie said that she would rather see her husband sweeping the streets than messing about with Duchess’s bosoms.
Be it as it may: Nathan’s present to Charles Small when he became a Man was a picture, again. Naturally: it cost Nathan nothing. He said that his normal charge for such a picture would be “in the region of twenty guineas.” When he suggested a date for an appointment Millie said that she did not know how to thank him. As soon as he was out of earshot she laughed withoutmirth and said: “It just shows you. That’s the way to get rich. I’d rather sell bootlaces in the street than get rich that way. But there you are—what can you expect from a Litvak? ”
I. Small said:
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