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'But it is full of genius! he cried in genuine astonishment. 'I might have written it myself, except that it is so unequal a mixture of diamonds and paste, like all Hebrew literature. He indicated with flawless taste the good lines, not knowing they were one and all unconscious reproductions from the English masterpieces Mieses had borrowed from the library in the Educational Alliance.
'Better than the Prince of Denmark without Hamlet, retorted the poet, cramming cream-tart down his throat in great ugly mouthfuls; 'that is how he is usually played. In my version the Prince of Denmark indeed vanishes, for Hamlet is a Hebrew and the Prince of Palestine. 'You have made him a Hebrew? cried Mieses, a pimply young poet.
The acolytes listened respectfully, and the beardless, blotchy-faced Mieses began to take importance in their eyes and to betray the importance he held in his own. 'Perhaps I, too, shall write a play one day, he said. 'My "M," too, makes "Master." 'It may be that you are destined to wear my mantle, said Pinchas graciously. Mieses looked involuntarily at the ill-fitting frock-coat.
And the Heathen Journalist who had discovered it felt, as so often before, that here alone in this arid, mushroom New York was antiquity, was restfulness, was romanticism; here was the Latin Quarter of the city of the Goths. Encouraged by the Master's good humour, young Mieses timidly exhibited his new verses. Pinchas read the manuscript aloud to the confusion of the blushing boy.
Pinchas rose. 'And now, Mieses, you must give me a car-fare. I have to go and talk to the manager about rehearsals. One must superintend the actors one's self these pumpkin-heads are capable of any crime, even of altering one's best phrases. Radsikoff smiled.