"I'm very sorry to hear that," I said, "very sorry."
"Yes" he said, "The righteous flourish like the bay-tree: they tell us that: you see it there on the tombstone."
He put his head on one side and stared at it.
"Vell," he said—and I noticed for the first time the thick Jewish speech—"vell, its there, so I suppose its true, ain't it? But its difficult to see, y' know always. I've often said the only thing we can do is to lead a clean life here, a pure life, and we'll get our reward. But mine seems to be pretty long in coming," he sighed, "yes pretty long, I tell you. I had hard times before: we both of us did, my poor wife and I. And then at last I got this job; I thought she was going to have a happy peaceful life at last. Nothing very grand in pay, but enough to keep us and the two boys. And a nice enough house for her. And then as soon as we come here she takes ill and dies, poor soul."
He wiped his eyes.
"I don't know why I should call her poor soul. She's at rest any way. And she made me the best, the very best wife a man could have."
He put his hands well down in the pockets of his overcoat, drew his arms to his sides so that he looked like a great black bird folding its wings round itself, and rocked himself backwards and forwards, first on his toes and then on his heels, looking up at me sideways with wrinkled forehead.
"Vell," he said, "EI've got my two boys. I wish you could see 'em. Fine young fellows. One earning 30/- a week, though he's only eighteen. He'll do well, I tell you; all right up here." He tapped his forehead. "And the other, though I'm his father I'm not afraid to tell anyone, he's a genius—he draws, draws beautiful, and paints too, real artistic pictures. Ah they're good lads—a bit wild, the elder one—" he lowered his voice and showed his teeth in a grin, "he's got an eye for the petticoats, but then boys will be boys. I daresay I was the same myself."
I didn't altogether like the grin, with my wife standing there, so I gave him a shilling and went. I've seen him once more: the day came round again, and I took my boy this time, dear little chap, to see his mother's grave. And Fanny came too,—ah, she's a mother to those motherless children.
There he was standing in the same place, in his top-hat and seedy black coat. I saw at once that things were not right with him. His clothes seemed to hang on him as if he were merely an old clothes prop; his old bowed shoulders sloped more than ever. His face was grey, pasty, terribly lined, and his nose more white and shiny than ever. Seedy was the word for him, seedy inside and out, seedy through and through. He was beaten, degraded, down, gone under, gone all to bits. And yet somehow he looked as if that was just what hadn't happened—he hadn't gone all to bits: there was something in him that still stood up and held him together, something like a rock which, beaten and buffeted, still held out indomitable.