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Updated: June 13, 2025
'Silence, impudent-face! You are not talking to Radsikoff. I am a Poet, and I demand my rights. Kloot was silent from sheer surprise. Goldwater was similarly impressed. 'What rights? he observed more mildly. 'You've had your twenty dollars. And that was too much. 'Too much! Twenty dollars for the masterpiece of the twentieth century!
'But Goldwater awaits me, the poet protested. 'I guess not. Mr. Kloot's orders. Can't have authors monkeying around here. As he spoke Goldwater's voice rose from the neighbouring stage in an operatic melody, and reduced Pinchas's brain to chaos. A despairing sense of strange plots and treasons swept over him. He ran back to the lobby. The doors had been bolted.
But Goldwater was too irate for irony. 'A month! he gasped at last. 'I could put on six melodramas in a month. 'But "Hamlet" is not a melodrama! said Pinchas, shocked. 'Quite so; there is not half the scenery. It's the scenery that takes time rehearsing, not the scenes. The poet was now as purple as the player.
Yet in the end the poet escaped scot-free. Goldwater was a coward, Kloot a sage. The same prudence that had led Kloot to exclude authors, saved him from magnifying their importance by police squabbles. Besides, a clever lawyer might prove the exclusion illegal. What was done was done.
'You low-down monkey! Goldwater almost flung his brush into the poet's face. 'You compare my wife to a kangaroo! Take your filthy manuscript and begone where the pepper grows. 'Well, Fanny would be rather funny as Ophelia, put in Kloot pacifyingly. 'And to make your wife ridiculous as Ophelia, added Pinchas eagerly, 'you would rob the world of your Hamlet! 'I can get plenty of Hamlets.
Misery had made him childish. Goldwater had, indeed, blossomed out since the days of his hired hall in Spitalfields, but his fame remained exclusively Yiddish and East-side. But Gittel! How could that obscure rush-light of the London Ghetto Theatre have blazed into the Star of Paris and New York?
But at that very instant Goldwater's voice returned to the bureau, ejaculating complacently: 'They're loving it, Kloot; they're swallowing it like ice-cream soda. Pinchas tingled with pleasure, but all Kloot replied was: 'You're wanted on the 'phone. 'Hello! called Goldwater. 'Hello! replied Pinchas in his natural voice. 'May a sudden death smite you!
But the theatre with its brilliantly-lighted lobby and flamboyant posters restored his spirits; the curtain was already up, and a packed mass filled the house from roof to floor. Rebuffed by the janitors, Pinchas haughtily asked for Goldwater. Goldwater was on the stage, and could not see him. But nothing could down the poet, whose head seemed to swell till it touched the gallery.
Darkshawled figures of the circumcised, in sackcloth and ashes, stand by the wailing wall. M. Shulomowitz, Joseph Goldwater, Moses Herzog, Harris Rosenberg, M. Moisel, J. Citron, Minnie Watchman, P. Mastiansky, The Reverend Leopold Abramovitz, Chazen. Ah yes. Yes, indeed. Bloom? Never heard of him. No? Queer kind of chap. There's the widow. That so? Ah, yes.
May the curtain fall on a gibbering epileptic! 'Can't hear! said Goldwater. 'Speak plainer. 'I will speak plainer, swine-head! Never shall a work of mine defile itself in your dirty dollar-factory. I spit on you! He spat viciously into the telephone disk. But Goldwater had cut off the connection. Pinchas finished for his own satisfaction: 'An Irish fire-woman.
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