Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: May 31, 2025
For Hulda shared Zussmann's dreams, and was even copying out his great work for the press, for business was brisk and he would soon have saved up enough money to print it. The great work, in the secret of which the Red Beadle came to participate, was written in Hebrew, and the elegant curves and strokes would have done honor to a Scribe.
This personage drew a little income from the population of his house, whose staircases exhibited strata of children of different social developments, and to which the synagogue on the first floor added a large floating population. Zussmann's attendance thereat was not the only thing in him that astonished the Red Beadle.
The thought of Hulda smote him almost sober. Zussmann's face, when the door opened, restored him completely to his senses. It was years older. "She is not dead?" the visitor whispered hoarsely. "She is dying, I fear she cannot rouse herself." Zussmann's voice broke in a sob.
Possibly it was the familiarity with divine things which synagogue beadledom involves that had bred his contempt for them. At any rate, he was not now to be coerced by Zussmann Herz, even though he was fully alive to the fact that Zussmann's unique book-lined workshop was the only one that had opened to him, when the more pious shoemakers of the Ghetto had professed to be "full up."
"Nonsense; one has always a jewel left," said Hulda. Zussmann's eyes grew wet. "Yes," he said, drawing her to his breast, "one has always a jewel left." "More meshuggas!" cried the Red Beadle huskily. "Much the English Jews care about ideas! Did they even acknowledge your book in their journals? But probably they couldn't read it," he added with a laugh. "A fat lot of Hebrew little Sampson knows!
Word Of The Day
Others Looking