“Where did you get to feel and know so much?” she breathed adoringly.
He did not answer. But his eyes dwelt on her in ardent reverie, marvelling at the gift of the gods that she was. Through unceasing frustration of the things for which he had striven, he had come to a point of understanding the materialists no less than the dreamers. He had learned to forgive even Minnie who had turned from his love for the security of wealth. But here was the glowing innocence of a girl with the heart and brain of a woman—a woman in his own poet’s world, one who had rejected the fleshpots of her own free will. It was as though after years of parching thirst life had suddenly brought him a draught of wine, a heady vintage of youth, of living poetry, of love perhaps. Straining closer to her, he abandoned himself to the exaltation that swept him and kissed her hand.
“No—no! It was Minnie you always loved,” Rebecca gasped, frightened at his ardour.
“Minnie I loved as a dreaming youth, a half-fledged poet,” he flashed back at her. “But you—you——”
She knew now why she had come back home again—back to the naked struggle for bread—back to the crooked, narrow streets filled with shouting children, the haggling push-carts and bargaining housewives—back to the relentless, penny-pinched poverty—but a poverty rich in romance, in dreams—rich in its very hunger of unuttered, unsung beauty.
THE SONG TRIUMPHANT
The Story of Beret Pinsky, Poet of the People, who Sold his Soul for Wealth
§ 1
“Where went your week’s wages?” demanded Hanneh Breineh, her bony back humping like an angry cat’s as she bent over the washtub.
Terrified, Moisheh gazed wildly at the ceiling, then dropped his eyes to the floor.