g
forces wakened in him found vent in a rhapsody of synagogue melody to
which he abandoned himself, for once forgetting his audience. When
gradually he became aware of the incongruity, it did but intensify his
inspiration. Let the heathen rats wallow in Hebrew music! But soon all
self-consciousness passed away again, drowned in his deeper self.

It was a strange fantasia that poured itself through his obedient
fingers; it held the wistful chants of ancient ritual, the festival
roulades and plaintive yearnings of melodious cantors, the sing-song
augmentation of Talmud-students oscillating in airless study-houses,
the long, melancholy drone of Psalm-singers in darkening Sabbath
twilights, the rustle of palm-branches and sobbings of penitence, the
long-drawn notes of the ram's horn pealing through the Terrible Days,
the passionate proclamation of the Unity, storming the gates of
heaven. And fused with these merely physical memories, there flowed
into the music the peace of Sabbath evenings and shining candles, the
love and wonder of childhood's faith, the fantasy of Rabbinic legend,
the weirdness of penitential prayers in raw winter dawns, the holy joy
of the promised Zion, when God would wipe away the tears from all
faces.

There were tears to be wiped from his own face when he ended, and he
wiped them brazenly, unresentful of the frenzied approval of the
audience, which now let itself go, out of stored-up gratitude, and
because this must be the last performance. All his vanity, his
artistic posing, was swallowed up in utter sincerity. He did not shut
the piano; he sat brooding a moment or two in tender reverie. Suddenly
he perceived his red-haired muse at his side. Ah, she had discovered
him at last, knew him simultaneously for the genius and the patriot,
was come to pour out her soul at his feet. But why was she mute? Why
was she tendering this scented letter? Was it because she could not
trust herself to speak before the crowd? He tore open the delicate
envelope. _Himmel!_ what was this? Would the maestro honour Mrs.
Wilhammer by taking tea in her cabin?

He stared dazedly at the girl, who remained respectful and silent.

'Did you not hear what I was playing?' he murmured.

'Oh yes--a synagogue medley,' she replied quietly. 'They publish it on
the East Side, _nicht wahr_?'

'East Side?' He was outraged. 'I know nothing of East Side.' Her
absolute unconsciousness of his spiritual tumult, her stolidity before
thi