



Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by google books







Transcriber's Notes:

   1. Page scan source:
      http://books.google.com/books?id=f_kMAQAAIAAJ&dq

   2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].

   3. Alternate spelling of author's name: Jozef Ignacy Kraszewski.





                                THE JEW



                     TRANSLATED FROM THE POLISH OF
                       JOSEPH IGNATIUS KRASZEWSKI



                                   BY
                          LINDA DA KOWALEWSKA





                                NEW YORK
                          DODD, MEAD & COMPANY
                               PUBLISHERS






                            Copyright, 1890

                        By DODD, MEAD & COMPANY.

                               *   *   *

                         _All rights reserved_






        PRESS OF
Rockwell and Churchill
         BOSTON




                               CONTENTS.

   CHAPTER

       I.--Sestri-Ponente.

      II.--Judaism and Poland.

     III.--Education of Jacob.

      IV.--Aqua Sola.

       V.--A Simple History of Love.

      VI.--From Genoa to Pisa.

     VII.--Voyage on Foot.

    VIII.--The Sabbath.

      IX.--The Eve of an Insurrection.

       X.--The Pursuit of a Husband.

      XI.--A Political Meeting.

     XII.--A Siren.

    XIII.--Akiba.

     XIV.--Alea Jacta Est.

      XV.--A Perilous Interview.

     XVI.--The Jews in Council.

    XVII.--Reunion of the Nobles.

   XVIII.--The Country Wills It.

     XIX.--A Father's Grief.

      XX.--Muse Cultivates the Russians.

     XXI.--Lia.

    XXII.--The Old Mother.

   XXIII.--Russian Politics.

    XXIV.--The Seducer.

     XXV.--Between Two Fires.

    XXVI.--The Reconciliation.

   XXVII.--Jacob in Flight.

  XXVIII.--Love of Country.

    XXIX.--The Gordian Knot.

     XXX.--The Insurgents.

           Epilogue.




                               CHAPTER I.

                            SESTRI-PONENTE.


On a warm afternoon in the autumn of 1860 the best, or rather the only,
inn of Sestri-Ponente was full of people. Firpo, the host of the
Albergo e Trattoria della Grotta, was little accustomed to such a
crowd, except on Sundays and fete-days. As this was only a simple
Thursday, his sunburnt cheeks reflected a smile of satisfaction.

Sestri-Ponente is situated an hour's distance from Genoa, on the
sea-shore "_in vincinanza del mare_" and on the grand route from Savona
to Nice. Sestri, beside dock-yards for the construction of small
merchant-vessels, which is its chief source of wealth, possesses also a
fine beach where it is possible to bathe in safety. It has this one
superiority over Genoa "_la superba_" which lacks sea-bathing. Genoa
has all else; even her trees seem dwarfed near her stately edifices;
she has a magnificent harbour, and if one is determined to bathe in the
sea he can hire a boat to take him some distance from the quay, where
the water is not full of all sorts of _debris_. Once in clear water a
rope is tied around his waist, and he can seat himself on the steps
fixed to the back of the boat. If he slip, the honest boatman draws him
out of the sea, by the rope, at the end of which he looks like a new
species of fish suspended on a hook. Those who dislike this method are
at liberty to bathe in the saltwater of the port or in the marble
bath-houses of the Piazza Sarzana; but to bathe where the beach is more
or less rocky one must abandon Genoa for the fashionable Livourne, the
charming Spezia, or the modest Sestri. The wealthier classes congregate
at the former resorts. Sestri is patronized more by quiet people who
wish to economize, who prefer a peaceful life to the distractions of
the gay world, and the fresh sea-breeze to the feverish gayety and
gossip of a crowded watering-place. The scenery is somewhat sombre, but
not altogether deprived of the picturesque; in grave and classic lines,
like that of Poussin, are delineated vineyards, groves, gardens, and
luxurious villas, to-day used chiefly as country-seats for the
Italians. Here and there the spires of little churches and of convents
rise to heaven and complete the panorama. The steep banks extend on one
side as far as Genoa, on the other to Savona, and are then lost in the
immensity of the sea, a mighty space of blue and green.

From a distance the Albergo della Grotta makes a good appearance. This
pretty little palace was formerly the villa of a rich noble, and was
never intended to be an inn. Its approaches are lined with laurels,
pomegranates, and orange-trees, and it is reached by a steep path with
steps cut in the solid rock. Everywhere traces appear of the fastidious
taste of some former owner, and in the midst of all this beauty,
without regard for the neighbouring nobility, is a prosaic inn. This
shows that the conditions of life are changing everywhere. It is not
only in Italy that one meets edifices which do not respond to the
exactions and the needs of actual society. How many palaces are changed
into breweries, how many villas transformed into inns, how many
beautiful private gardens have become plantations! The opulent
_parvenus_, only, have preserved some remains of the noble dwellings of
the extinct or ruined nobility. The great lords have built for the
bankers. The shell still remains, but the mollusk has departed.

The principal ornament of our villa was that which its name indicates,
a grotto constructed with great skill, recalling the time when the
Roman Caesars established oyster-parks on their roofs and forced nature
into every extravagance. This grotto formed a vast _salon_ occupying an
entire wing of the house, and, thanks to the _bizarre_ ornamentation of
stalactites, had every appearance of a natural cavern. The walls were
of gypsum of all colours. A labyrinth lighted from above led to a
fish-pond and a fountain, from which the water flowed slowly, its
musical plashing being a genuine refreshment on a hot summer's day.

On entering this subterranean place for the first time one experienced
a sense of melancholy, but gradually the eye became accustomed to the
twilight and the illusion disappeared, and was followed by a delicious
feeling of refreshment and enthusiasm.

To-day this grotto serves for the dining-room of the inn. Tables are
set in the middle and in the dark corners, and on the rocks surrounding
the fish-pond is placed a table where at times the workmen employed in
the neighbouring forges eat, drink, and sleep. When they cede this
place, it is only to tourists or to English families.

Here all classes fraternize over their wine and macaroni. The host
serves with the same zeal the lords or the drivers. Who knows that he
does not prefer the latter, for the lords seldom return, while the
post-drivers, like an intermittent fever, come back every other day.
The cuisine of this inn was no better nor worse than any other Italian
cookery. The wine was agreeable enough to a palate that was not too
_blase_, and a grateful freshness made the grotto a delightful retreat
during the day, for no brawling crowd or discordant music ever
disturbed the place. Over the skylight the pomegranate and orange trees
intermingle their branches, and when all was still could be heard the
murmuring of the sea, a fine view of which might be had from the flat
roof of the grotto.

Sestri is a village which is animated only at times by travellers, and
to which the railway gives but a fugitive vitality. Few people stop
here, for before them near at hand appears the vision of Genoa, and
each one hastens to reach "la Superba." Only the visitors of the Villa
Palaviccini, which is near, meet at Sestri with the occasional tourists
who do not dislike the _brodi_ of Signor Firpo.

The inn, as we have said, was, for a sultry afternoon, unusually full
of people. Two diligences painted blue, as well as other vehicles, had
arrived from Genoa and Nice. The host naturally conducted his guests to
the grotto, which he loved to show off as a wonder. The tables were
soon taken by the travellers, who, once comfortably seated, began to
examine each other with a certain distrust.

Near one of the tables was seated a young man of medium size. At the
first glance one would judge from his expressive face and regular
features that he was an Italian; but examining him more closely certain
characteristics of the Oriental type would be discovered. Sorrow or
labour had prematurely furrowed his high forehead, and the energy of
his glance denoted a strong character. He appeared like one who had
conquered himself after long internal combats.

His was a sympathetic face and drew men to him. His costume, not
extremely elegant, yet comfortable and in good taste, attested, if not
a great fortune, at least a fair competency. Before him were spread the
remains of a frugal repast of fruit, wine, and cheese.

A short distance from him was a group of three persons, one of whom was
a woman. She was a clear brunette with red lips, and had passed her
first youth, but was still very attractive, almost beautiful, and
the natural gayety of her manner was augmented by a charming air of
good-will toward all. She appeared to be the idol of the two men seated
near her. One of fine physique, dark complexion, and quiet manners was
evidently her husband, or else a very intimate friend. The other
cavalier was blonde, slender, and timid as a young girl, blushing on
every occasion. The trio ate slowly, and seemed to try to shake off the
melancholy impression produced by the singular dining-room.

On the other side a man sat smoking, with a bottle of wine before him.
Under his long black disordered hair he knitted his brows. Although
still young he bore the traces of a dissipated life. His bronzed
complexion, his thick lips, his low, square forehead which made him
resemble the sphinx, indicated that he was the descendant of a
non-European race. He looked like a carving in basalt, but in basalt
worn by the storms of passion, to-day extinct but formerly tumultuous.
One was reminded on regarding him of those lakes which, agitated in the
morning, are calm under the soft breeze of evening.

Farther off lounged two Italians, easily recognized by the carelessness
of their attitude in spite of the presence of a lady. Their nationality
was furthermore betrayed by their olive complexions and long black hair
falling over their shoulders. The younger wore a mustache _a la Victor
Emmanuel_, which gave him a military air. The second and stouter man
was an artist. They both had that air of content worn by men who are at
home and breathe their native air.

Separated from them by an empty table a pale, blonde young man seemed
to seek solitude. This was a son of Germany. Despite his phlegmatic
manner and apparent indifference one could divine nevertheless that he
had experienced some misfortune.

Clad poorly and with a certain negligence, forgetting his bread and
cheese he looked dreamily at the grotto and his neighbours, absorbed
entirely in awaiting the morrow, yet as though he dreaded it.

All the company was silent and a little sleepy. From time to time could
be heard voices at the table where the only woman of the party was
seated; at times the clinking of glasses and of bottles; then the
silence became more profound.

Suddenly a stranger entered by a little back-door. All eyes were turned
toward him. There was something in the sudden appearance of this man
that was startling. He was very pale and thin. His garments, gray with
dust, proved that he had travelled long on foot. Fatigue had marked his
visage, and imprinted on his features that melancholy beauty which
interests at first sight all men truly worthy of that name. His eyes
were sunken, but their expression was soft as the glance of a woman,
and attested almost superhuman, sufferings. His haversack, his staff,
and his miserable appearance showed that he travelled on foot rather
from necessity than from preference.

He sought timidly with his eyes an obscure corner; then, seeing that
almost all the tables were occupied, he moved slowly to a seat near the
German; but scarcely had he taken off his straw hat and wiped the sweat
from his brow, than his figure contracted under frightful suffering. He
seized the table convulsively to steady himself, but his strength gave
way and he fell unconscious to the ground. In the fall he overturned
his chair, and it was a miracle that he did not cut his head on the
stalactites of the grotto. He remained stretched at full length, pale
as a corpse, and retaining on his features that expression of calm
which death gives. All the travellers, led by the lady,--we must do
them that justice,--rushed to his assistance. It was the lady who
showed most presence of mind, and she proved a veritable sister of
charity. In every woman there is a mother and a sister. She seized a
carafe, and wetting a napkin applied it to the temples of the unknown,
who sighing deeply opened his eyes, and soon came to himself. At first
he seemed ashamed of his accident. He leaned on his elbow, his eyes
timidly lowered, and stammered some unintelligible words of thanks.

Short as was the time of this little scene the landlord had already
heard of it. He hastened, speechless from fear of the formalities which
would follow a sudden death in his inn, and he had already decided to
beg the invalid to go and die elsewhere, when he was reassured by
seeing the stranger again conscious.

This first thought of Signer Firpo was characteristic of our age,
which, in place of giving the hand to the unfortunate, repulses him,
and does not recognize in the poor the right to be ill. The first
sentiment experienced to-day when men meet is that of suspicion or
distrust. Indifference has replaced the ideal. Society has turned its
back on the unfortunate, and its motto is egotism.

The innkeeper felt a little ashamed when he saw the solicitude of all
his patrons for the unfortunate man. Nevertheless, he had no idea of
harbouring during the night a traveller who fainted so easily and who
had no baggage. Genoa is not far off. There are hospitals there,
thought he. I must see that he leaves as soon as possible.

What would have been the exasperation of the honest Firpo if he had
known that hunger was the cause of the fainting?

For the present he did not announce his charitable intention on account
of his guests who gathered around the new-comer. A common feeling of
compassion and charity drew these strangers to each other. They
fraternized like old friends, conversing now in French, now in Italian,
in order to understand each other.

The woman sought with her delicate hands the wound on the young man's
head, whence flowed the blood which stained his temples. The men talked
in low voices about the accident, and with a forced smile the stranger
muttered feebly:--

"It is nothing! Pardon and thanks! But the heat--fatigue--" "Or rather
hunger," added the spectators, looking at the poor fellow whose sunken
cheeks showed that they were right.

Gradually calm was again established. Some one advised the invalid to
take a little wine, and the woman brought him her own glass after
having filled it. He raised it to his lips, thanking her timidly.

"Will you come and sit with us, monsieur?" said she drawing near him;
"after a little rest this weakness will pass away." Then she added:--

"These accidents are sometimes succeeded by another, and it will be
prudent to be near us. We can watch over you. And if the question is
not indiscreet, will you tell us whence you came and where you are
going?"

"I go to Genoa, madame," replied the unknown.

"And you come from a distance?"

"Quite a distance, from France. I have travelled on foot, and am very
weary."

There was a short silence. But the woman was curious and continued the
role of interrogator.

"Then you are not a Frenchman?"

"No, madame."

"I knew it by your accent."

The other travellers approached the table where the stranger was
seated, and the conversation became general. They talked of their
travels, and during this time the invalid became stronger. His extreme
paleness diminished as the blood circulated more rapidly in his veins.
The woman fixed on him a maternal gaze.

"You are truly unpardonable," continued she. "Being subject to
fainting, you ought not to have undertaken such a long journey alone
and in such heat. Although Italy is safe in the vicinity of Naples, and
has lost her legendary brigands, who no longer exist except in
romances, you might have been assassinated or at least robbed in some
lonely place on the route that you have taken."

The young man smiled sadly, hung his head, and replied in a low voice,
"It would have been impossible, madame, to have followed your excellent
advice. I had not the means to do so."

"Poor boy," murmured his fair questioner, "this is frightful!"

"I am an exile," continued he raising his head. "I am a Pole. I left my
country on account of some college pranks for which I would have been
sent to Siberia, with my future ruined. I hoped to find a warm welcome
from compassionate nations. I sought it in Germany, in England, and in
France. Everywhere beautiful words concealed a cold indifference. At
last I thought of Italy. It has a people whose destiny not long ago
somewhat resembled ours. Outlaws, they also sought from the world a
little aid and sympathy. Alas!" He interrupted this involuntary
confession, which had produced different impressions on his hearers.

He had at first somewhat chilled the company, who, however, soon
submitted to a more generous sentiment, and felt themselves captivated
by his frankness.

"We are, then, in a measure compatriots," said in Polish the blonde
young man seated near the beautiful lady. "I am a little Polish, but
Galician." The "but" sounded coldly on the ears of the outlaw, who
nevertheless saluted him, and took in silence his outstretched hand.

The dark man with majestic features arose in his turn.

"I, also," declared he in a slightly ironical tone, "have the honour to
present myself as in a measure your compatriot. I am Polish, but a
Jew."

The Galician turned quickly toward the last speaker, who was warmly
shaking the hand of the exile.

"In this general recognition," added the lady's second cavalier,
"permit me also to consider myself as somewhat your countryman. We are
brother Slavs, for I am a Russian, but outlawed. Give me, then, your
hand."

"Outlaw or vagabond, it is all the same," said the man with the bronzed
skin. "Permit me, then, as a brother in exile and vagabondage, as a
pariah, to fraternize with you. I am a Tsigane, but a rich Tsigane, and
that is a rare thing. It is the only reason why I am not rubbing down
horses, and why I do not rob hen-roosts. Yes, messieurs, I belong to
that condemned race who in the Middle Ages were driven out at the
bayonet's point, and who are to-day under the supervision of the
police. The only exception made is for our sisters under twenty years
who have white teeth, a sweet voice, and _la beaute du diable_. To
reassure you, I repeat, messieurs, that I am very rich; that, surely,
is a corrective for the worst reputation. I am not, however, a Tsigane
king. I am only an idler by profession." He laughed sardonically,
watching the effect of his words, then continued: "I bear on my face
the indelible witness of my origin. No magic water can whiten my skin.
No cosmetic can conceal my race."

"Listen, messieurs," interposed the lady with vivacity, "if banishment
and a nomadic life are the standard of your good-will, you can admit me
to your society. My father was Italian, of that Italy which was not yet
a country, but a 'simple geographical expression,' to quote Metternich.
He emigrated voluntarily to England. My mother was of an old Irish
family. My husband, Russian; and if that be not enough, my grandmother
was Greek."

A little man suddenly advanced from the midst of the circle brandishing
an enormous parasol. He was dressed with great care, and wore a pair of
spectacles, with shoulder-straps crossed on his breast from which hung
on one side a lorgnette and on the other a game-bag.

"Bravo! bravissimo!" cried he, taking a part in the conversation.
"Pardon me for interrupting you, madame, but I desire to participate in
this general introduction, and I flatter myself that I have rights
which give me the priority. I am a Dane by birth. My mother was Scotch
or English, my grandmother an Italian. I have long lived in France, and
I believe that I am even naturalized. I hope, then, to have the right
to dine in a company from all the world. What think you, my friends?"

There was a general laugh, and he was admitted with frank and joyous
cordiality.

"I solicit the same honour," said the German with a heavy air; "I,
also, am an exile." With these words he bowed and seated himself.

"The question of country," said the Dane, "is today a simple question
of money. With a full purse one is everywhere received, everywhere
naturalized; with gold one has everywhere the right of citizenship. No
money; no country! No money; move on! The only real outlaw, the true
pariah, is he who has nothing. With money one can buy as many countries
as he desires. That is why I do not feel the want of one."

With these words he shrugged his shoulders and was silent, and one of
the Italians arose.

"My friend and I," said he, "do not wish to be excluded from this
charming circle, and we have both a title to be received among you. In
the first place, we are artists, who are always nomads in body and
spirit. And though we are Italians, one is a Roman, the other Venetian.
And we can tender the hand to the Pole, for we are brothers in
poverty."

"No! no!" cried the Pole. "You are not like us, despoiled of all. You
know whither to fly from persecution. All Italy is open to you. You
have a country, a king, and a government. We have only police, spies,
executioners, and persecutors. We are always menaced with Siberia or
death. Europe does not recognize even our right to exist."

These words, vibrating with despair, threw into the conversation the
dramatic note. All the men in this motley society--Italians, Poles,
Jew, Dane, and Tsigane--gathered around the little tables, and even
those who were least inclined to make new acquaintances could not
resist the general impulse. The ice had been broken by the fainting and
the confession of the Pole.

We very often hesitate to make new acquaintances when travelling. The
motive is usually a selfish one. Each encounter costs us some words of
politeness, some courteous concessions, if our ideas are not in accord
with those of our new friend. And all these concessions are a total
loss, because before long we part at the next station. It is an expense
that one can easily avoid. It is much pleasanter to be silent and to
stretch one's legs without caring for a neighbour who will be gone in a
few moments.

For once the guests of Sestri-Ponente forgot all considerations of
personal comfort. The woman had communicated to all the sentiment of
charity which had seized her.

Everything is contagious in this world, even virtue. A half-century
ago, when there was less travelling, men were much more accessible to
each other. To-day there passes before our eyes such a procession of
specimens of human kind, from the prince without a crown to the
_proletaire_ without a shirt, that one reflects that caution is
necessary.

Man has become cosmopolitan, and he avoids sympathetic persons for fear
he may become attached to them.

The landlord, concealed behind the door, felt reassured on seeing him
whom he thought dying, under the protection of the whole company. This
protection relieved him from obligations, the very thought of which was
terrifying.

As a good action reacts on those who are the cause of it, the lady was
radiant. She chatted with the Venetian and the Roman, interrogated the
Pole, argued with the Dane, said some words to the Tsigane, even smiled
at the phlegmatic German, and so charmed the whole company that each
one commenced to dread the hour of departure. The conversation
continued gayly as it had begun.

"I am not altogether a cosmopolite," said the lady; "man needs a
country, and he who has none has one joy the less in his heart, one
love the less in his life, and in his thoughts a hope and a consolation
the less. Rather than want a country one ought to choose and create one
to love, for it is necessary for a young man to have an ideal love if
he has not a real one. However, love of one's country does not imply
hatred of others. It is a beautiful thing this human brotherhood."

"Very well said," agreed the Dane, who, in order to put in his word,
had left his macaroni. "But unfortunately, madame, this fraternity
belongs only to fabulous and Utopian days, like the English republics
and the patriarchal monarchies. It is a dream, like the imaginary
cottages of lovers with idyllic roots and herbs for food, and the clear
water of the rushing brook for drink; it is an idle dream, like any
other nonsense that men have invented in this age of beefsteaks, of
business, of bank-notes, and comfort. It is thousands of years since
men coined the word 'fraternity.' Eh! madame, ask the Muscovite to love
the Pole, and the English to love the French; demand, then, of the
German to renounce his disposition to assimilate all the neighbouring
provinces and to demand their ground for the cultivation of his
potatoes; ask him then to cease singing the praises of his
mother-country wherever he may be."

"Oh! oh!" said the peaceable German shaking his head. "Behold already a
satire on the most inoffensive of men." Then he resumed between his
teeth, "Oh! Schiller!"

"I have had the pleasure of reading all his works," replied the Dane,
returning to his macaroni, "in a translation. He has written many
beautiful things. But beautiful verses do not characterize a people, my
dear German. I call you very dear, because I love exceedingly men in
general, although I hate a few in particular. Well, very dear son of
blonde Germany, I tell you, without remembrance of your monopoly of
Schleswig and of Holstein, two principalities to which I do not
belong,--I tell you frankly, Schiller, Goethe, Kant, Herder, and
Lessing are not Germans."

"How is that?"

"Listen, peaceable son of industrious Germany; do not fly in a passion.
I know you, that is why I maintain that neither Schiller nor the others
belong to you."

"To whom do they belong, then?" demanded the German, striking his knife
on the table.

"They are geniuses like Shakespeare. They belong to the whole world,
and not to His Majesty the King of Prussia. They are not as well known
in the country that has produced them as in other lands."

"That is perfectly true," added the young Pole. "I feel that I
understand Schiller better than most Germans, who go into ecstasies
over his genius, and raise statues on all the street corners, and throw
a flat contradiction over the poet's ideal by shutting themselves up in
a narrow and egotistical nationality."

"Enough, young enthusiast!" interrupted the Dane. "You are twenty-one
or"--

"Twenty-two," said the Pole.

"I will not permit you to discuss the subject of egotism yet. Wait a
few years, until you become an egotist yourself. '_Nemo sapiens nisi
patiens_.' I admit, however, that you have comprehended my meaning very
well, and that you have argued fairly."

A general laugh seized the whole company.

"With your permission," added the Dane, taking up his lorgnette, which
he had placed on the table, "this threatens to become a rather long
international conference. It is necessary that I should reinforce the
inner man to sustain the discussion. Macaroni is very 'filling,' but
does not nourish overmuch. I shall send for something more substantial.
Decidedly, these Italians for many generations of stomachs have
cultivated an exaggerated taste for macaroni."

"Do not trouble yourself about us!" replied the lady smiling.

"Monsieur Pole," continued the loquacious Dane, "do not be offended if
I invite you brusquely to dine with me. It is simple egotism. When I
eat alone I am not hungry. To see any one eat gives me an appetite, and
I divine in you a Polish stomach."

The young man blushed deeply and murmured, "But--but"--

"No _buts_. It is a service which you can render me. Eat like a wolf; I
will enjoy looking at you in coveting your appetite."

With these words he sighed with regret and knocked on the table. A
waiter in his shirt-sleeves came running in. Each one ordered his
dinner. The conversation flagged, and the German, gloomy and indignant,
went and seated himself in a corner.

"Monsieur is provoked," said the Dane to him; "but monsieur is wrong. I
esteem your nation very highly, and I render justice to all its general
qualities. The Germans abound everywhere, like the trichina; and like
it, the hardier they are the more surely they provoke the death of
those who have received them. It is a credit to the people, though it
be an offence in the trichina. If you dislike my opinion read Heine,
who justifies me in all points."

The German made a gesture of contempt.

"Heine, a Jew!" said he in a low voice.

The Dane alone heard him, and leaning towards his companion added, in
an undertone, "I fear you will soon be obliged to seek your future
where Heine saw it." Then lower still he pronounced this word, a title
in one of Heine's works,--"Hammonia!"

After a short colloquy the two men evidently came to an amicable
understanding, for they shook hands.

The _menu_ for the principal meal at the Albergo della Grotto was as
follows: First a thick brodo, a soup that alone with Italians
supersedes their beloved macaroni. Then a dish of fried fish and one of
stewed meat; that, to say the least, was a little suspicious, for it
had come from Genoa in the heat of the day, and was certainly somewhat
fatigued by the journey. Afterward a roast, then cheese and fruit.

The Dane grumbled, and said that the cooking was unworthy of the least
of scullions; but the travellers were hungry, and they excused many
shortcomings.

The Pole had overcome his embarrassment and ate with evident enjoyment,
although he feared that his new friends would divine his long fast. His
companion was not hungry, for he had eaten at Cogoletto. The
unfortunate young man considered this meal a Godsend, for he was saving
his last sou to return home. Having lost confidence in "human
fraternity," he relied only on his own strength and economy.

"Am I permitted to ask where you are going?" said the lady, looking
around the tables.

"As for me," said the one whom she had succoured, "I go, or rather
return, to Poland. It is two years since I left it, and I return
impelled by suffering and hope. Aged by my trials, I have left on the
way all my illusions."

"I also return to Poland," added the Jew. "I consider it my country.
Permit me to call it thus, for I love it, and that gives me the right."

The two men pressed each other's hands like brothers, whilst the
Galician seemed to be looking for something under the table, and
feigned not to hear them.

"I," said the Tsigane, "believe that I will go to Hungary. I say
_believe_, for it is not yet decided; it is only probable. I have
relations established there. They have left the tents of their tribe
for more substantial dwellings. I wish to see them once more and to
salute them in our ancient language. But for me every place is the
same. I am never in haste; I have money, and wander where I will. My
country is any spot that suits me, for there does not exist for us a
country in the sense in which you use it. We have forgotten our land
since we left it, and if we should return, she would not recognize her
children. We should be like Epimenides when he returned and found that
no one knew him."

"Well," said the Dane to the Pole brusquely, "you have made a wonderful
journey, and in the most agreeable way. Necessity is often a blessing
in disguise. How often have I wished to be obliged to go on foot, but,
unfortunately, there has never been any urgent reason for doing so, and
I have always listened to the voice of sloth."

"You wish for everything," said the Jew; "but at the same time you lack
the will to obtain the object of your desires."

"That is true. But that which I long for most is youth!" replied the
Dane.

"The route is truly charming enough to make one forget hunger and
heat," said the Pole. "Walking along the shores of the blue sea, it
seemed to me that the world was finished in emeralds and opals and
sapphires. It was like Paradise,--an ideal land. What a poem is the
ocean!"

"The ocean is not at all poetical," said the Dane; "it only seems so in
your youthful enthusiasm. To me the sea speaks only of oysters and
fish."

The lady smiled at this prosaic remark, and softly quoted,--


           "_O primavera! gioventu de l'anno!_
            _O gioventu! primavera della vita!_"


"I intend to visit Italy, and I am going to Genoa," remarked the German
laconically.

"I, also," added the Dane.

"We go anywhere," replied the Roman and the Venetian.

"As for me," declared the Muscovite, "I am obliged to wander, because I
cannot return to '_la sainte Russie_' until"--

"Until the tempest explodes there," finished the Dane. "Was not that
what you intended to say?" added he.

The Moscovite made an affirmative gesture.

"As for me, I shall prolong my voyage," murmured the Galician. "I wish
to see Italy thoroughly."

"Then we are all bound for Genoa," resumed the lady; "this Genoa '_la
superba_,' that we can already catch a glimpse of here, and which I am
anxious to reach."

"Madame, do not complain of the length of the route," observed the Jew.
"The true happiness of life is in knowing where one aims to be, and
then going slowly toward it. Genoa the beautiful is more beautiful at a
distance than when near. The journey from here is ravishing."

"I know something of it, for I have come on foot from Marseilles," said
the Pole.

One of the Italians launched out into enthusiastic praise of Italy "_la
bella_."

"I am not surprised to find love of country even among the Esquimaux,
but I cannot comprehend an Italian that does not love Italy. Where else
can be found so beautiful a country? At your feet eloquent ruins of
past ages, overhead a sky of unequalled beauty, and everywhere wonders,
with a climate which restores life to the dying. Italy reigns queen of
the world; they have plucked the diadem from her brow, but she still
continues calm and majestic. Barbarians have chained her beautiful
hands, but she will soon rise again and shake off her fetters. Tell me,
do you know a more beautiful land?"

"I know one," replied the Pole mournfully. "A gray sky envelops it; its
soil is stained with blood. The cemeteries alone speak of the past, and
through these burial-grounds pass often despairing groups of chained
men. It has no sapphire sea,--nothing but the cold, icy wind. But it is
the altar of innumerable sacrifices,--it is my country."

The Italians nodded their heads, and the Tsigane smiled ironically.

"What matters it to a man," cried he, "whether he be here or there!
Life is short, and death will soon oblige him to return to the darkness
whence he came. Let us not become attached to anything or anybody. It
is not worth the trouble."

"What an error!" interrupted the lady; "it is by the heart that one
lives. All else is the bitter peel of the fruit."

"In that case one must become accustomed to the peel," said the Tsigane
shrugging his shoulders.

A servant came to announce to the lady's cavaliers that their carriage
was ready, and he believed it his duty to add that the diligence was
also waiting at the door to take the other travellers to Genoa. This
interruption had the effect of a cold douche on the company, and a
cloud passed over their countenances.

"Thus," said the lady sighing, "we must separate. Destiny pushes us on
again like the galley slaves who wish to stop on the way, and are
relentlessly forced onward by their keepers. God alone knows if we
shall ever meet again!"

"No, we cannot tell," rejoined the Dane, adjusting his lorgnette; "but
we shall certainly meet again the types which we resemble. As for
myself, I am convinced that I have seen you all already somewhere, and
that I shall meet you again, but perhaps under a form less attractive."

This odd idea did not please the lady, who was no doubt offended at the
thought of being considered an ordinary woman.

"As for me, monsieur," said she haughtily, "this is the first time in
my life that ever I saw you, and I tell you that"--

"That you do not desire to see me again?"

"That is not exactly what I was going to say. However, your belief in
types and not in individuals shocks me, I acknowledge. For what man has
then a perfect ideal?"

"Men are but men, be certain of that, madame. I affirm more: to believe
in a variety of men is dangerous; there are only certain types many
times repeated. We often think to find a new man, an unknown; but we
soon recognize an old acquaintance who, between you and me, does not
amount to much."

"In the abstract you are right, monsieur," said she, glancing at the
Russian, who smiled, and at the Galician, who appeared not to listen.
"But," added she quickly, "we will not grieve about it. _En route_ and
_Au revoir!_"

"_Au revoir!_ but where?"

"At Genoa."

"At what place?"

"At Aqua Sola," said one of the Italians; "there is good music there,
and there we may easily find each other."

Every one arose and saluted the lady, who held out her hand to the
young Pole and wished him better health.

The rest of the company prepared to leave, wishing each other a
pleasant journey. The Dane took the diligence and the Tsigane an
omnibus. The Italians went on foot. The German found it economical to
glide into the vehicle of the _proprietaire_, in the midst of tomatoes
and fruits.

"We will go together," said the Jew to the Pole. "I do not wish to part
with you. I have a carriage, and if you will not come willingly I shall
employ force."

"But I have no right to trouble you."

"On the contrary, you will do me a service. Solitude fatigues me, and
your company will distract my thoughts. It is a genuine favour that you
will grant me. Come, no more doubts. Give me your hand, brother, and
think no more about it."

From the threshold of the inn the landlord saw the departure of the
invalid with great satisfaction. And his joy was augmented by the fact
that all had paid well, and that his first care now was to prepare a
second dinner.

"What good luck," said he to himself, "that that young stranger should
have fallen into the hands of those people. If it had not been so he
might perhaps have committed suicide here, and I should have been
obliged to bury him at my own expense, for he did not appear to have a
heavy haversack, and I do not believe he had a sou. May God deliver me
from any more such tourists! Yes, I have had a lucky escape."




                              CHAPTER II.

                          JUDAISM AND POLAND.


The two men traversed in almost uninterrupted silence the short
distance which separated Sestri from Genoa. The route is simply a
continuous line of straggling hamlets. On one mass of rock arose the
ruins of an old tower; above the door was the image of the Virgin,
patroness of the city. The light-house appeared in the distance, then
the harbour, like an amphitheatre around which Genoa la Superba is
built. This beautiful city is seen to best advantage from the sea. It
is a city of palaces, with its colonnades, its porticos and staircases,
its streets climbing toward the sky or sinking in sudden precipices. It
has been likened to an enormous shell thrown up by the waves of the
sea. The marine monster who lived in this shell has been replaced by a
miserable spider; a life full of littleness has succeeded the life of
grandeur of past ages.

In this marble city the inhabitants to-day are somewhat embarrassed.
The shell is too large for them,--this shell, in the bottom of which
the turbulent Genoese Republic vied with Venice in its traffic and its
aristocracy. New peoples are there, new ways. The Balbi and Palaviccini
palaces now have the appearance of tombs, while at the port the modern
Italian struggles for precedence in a new form of existence, perhaps as
full of pride as in the vanished past.

The carriage rolled softly through the streets which led to the
interior of the city.

"Permit me to alight," said the young Pole suddenly.

"Why?"

"To go in search of lodgings."

"I thought it was agreed that we travel together?"

"Yes; but I wish to live alone. I tell you frankly that I have scarcely
enough to finish my journey. It is necessary for me to seek cheap
lodgings."

"Have you not accepted my fraternal offer to stay with me?"

"Yes, perhaps; but poverty has its pride, as wealth sometimes has its
humility. Do not be angry because I wish to retain my independence. It
is so good to be free, when liberty costs only a bad dinner and a
wretched bed."

"I understand your scruples," replied the Jew. "If they were of any
value I would heed them. I do not dream of chaining you to myself. My
offer amounts to little, but it is made with a good heart, and if you
find life with me insupportable you can leave me. In asking you to
share my lodgings, if only for a night, I do not make any sacrifice,
and you owe me no gratitude. Do not refuse. I can share with you
without inconvenience, and it is you who will do me a favour. I am
sad-hearted; solitude oppresses me, I do not wish to be alone. Come
with me to my hotel. I do not ask you to amuse me, but only to be near
me. My heart longs to overflow into the heart of a fellow-man. If I
weary you, you are at liberty to leave me to my sufferings."

"It would be foolish for me," said the Pole, "to refuse such a
courteous invitation. Pardon my too susceptible pride. It was owing to
my poverty."

"I honour the sentiment," replied the Jew smiling. Then he cried to the
driver, "To the Hotel Feder!"

The Hotel Feder, like most of the hostelries of Genoa, of Venice, and
of other Italian cities, is an ancient palace appropriated to this new
service. The structure, half antique and half modern, has a strange
appearance. At the foot of the court, obscure and abandoned, trickles
an old fountain; a narrow path passes under the windows of the
chambers, and on every side can be discovered traces of former
grandeur, relics of a romantic age now superseded everywhere by the
plain practical life of to-day, whose chief end is money-getting.

The companions obtained a large room on the third floor with two beds,
the windows of which commanded a fine view of the port, bristling with
masts, like a garden of shrubs despoiled of their leaves by winter. In
the distance the Mediterranean could be seen stretching away to the
horizon.

They had hardly entered the room when the young man fell exhausted into
a chair, and seemed about to swoon for the second time. Some cologne
revived him, and a slight repast soon dispelled his weakness, the
result of long fasting and excessive fatigue. His strength returned
with rest and nourishment.

"And now," advised the Jew, "lie down on this couch, or perhaps it
would be better to go to bed."

"If you will permit me?" asked the young man timidly.

"Nay, I beg you to do so."

"And you?"

"Oh, I will see Genoa this evening. Never mind me. I will amuse myself;
all I ask of you at present is to sleep; and, mind, you must not even
dream."

He took his hat and cane and left the room. The young man fell like one
dead on the bed, and was asleep before his head touched the pillow.
Fatigue is not the same in old age as in youth, for then sleep soon
restores the exhausted energies.

The young traveller was awakened from his profound slumber by the
discordant braying of the asses grouped under the windows of the hotel.
He had forgotten the events of the past evening, and threw an
astonished glance around the luxurious apartment. He who had for so
long a time been accustomed to sleep in miserable lodgings now awoke in
a pleasant room, and saw a simple but abundant breakfast spread out on
the table beside him.

The Jew returned from a sea-bath, prepared to do it honour.

"Is it then very late?" murmured the Pole, rising from the bed.

"No, not very late. I arose early to enjoy the freshness of the
morning. Have you slept well?"

"I know not."

"How is that?"

"I fell like a piece of lead. I rise as I fell without having stirred,
without having moved even. I have slept the sleep of the dead."

"And how do you feel at present?"

"Strong as Hercules, thanks to you."

"Ah, bah! thanks to youth. Does your head ache still?"

"Not at all."

"Then let us attend to breakfast."

"You treat me too well, dear Amphitryon. This is a breakfast worthy of
Lucullus and of the Sybarites. I have contented myself for a long while
on awakening with a glass of sour wine and a piece of bread with
cheese. A similar repast in the evening, and that was all. I cannot
permit myself luxuries. I, a poor orphan, without future or friend,
have never been pampered."

"It is not necessary that this should hinder your eating," interrupted
the Jew gayly. "I am hungry, and will set you an example. Let us begin.
We will become better acquainted."

"That is true; we do not even know each other's names."

"Very well. I have the honour to present you Jacob Hamon."

"And I," said the Pole in his turn, "my friends have christened me
familiarly with the name of Ivas. In reality I am called Jean Huba.
Huba, and not Hube, which is a German name. You will learn it if you
know Poland a little, for I am from a Russian province, in the language
of which Huba signifies champignon. It is like the Polish Gzybowski or
Gzybowicz. This name became later an addition to the family name of the
Pstrocki who came from Masovia to gain their living in a more fertile
land. In full, I am _Jean Huba Pstrocki ex Masovia olim oriundus, in
Russia possessionatus et natus_."

"Have you any kindred there?" asked Jacob.

"Neither kindred nor an inch of ground. I am an orphan in every sense
of the word. My father, after losing his last cent, and seeing his
little farm in Volhynie devastated by hail and other plagues, died,
leaving me to the charity of men. From pity they sent me to school,
where I passed the examination and entered the university."

"Why did you leave the country?"

"Because with us college pranks are considered as a crime; because we
are not permitted to love our country, neither in its past nor future;
because those who stifle seek the air. For writing some simple
patriotic verses I was threatened with banishment to Siberia."

"Always the malady of the oppressed," remarked the Jew. "Where veterans
are seen tearing up all their rights, the young try to reconquer, and,
in their unreflecting enthusiasm, often find exile, misery, and death."

They both sighed, and Jacob asked:--

"Why do you dream of returning to a country from which you were obliged
to flee?"

"I know not myself" replied Ivas sadly; "I only know that I return to
my native land. Suffering has pushed me to it. I have not learned to
live in any other country, and exile is to me intolerable, morally and
physically. I left home believing that ideas of liberty, concord,
light, and justice vibrated in the hearts of other men as in mine.
Alas! society is not what I thought it. It has no place for the
oppressed, no hand to hold out to the dying, no consolation to offer to
the afflicted, no shelter to the proscribed. I return, then, to the
country I have left. There, at least, beat some generous hearts, while
in Europe"--

"Europe has grown old," interrupted Jacob. "She is afraid of
quarrelling. The world is in the hands of charlatans who profit by the
sufferings of martyrs. Truth is no more comprehended. They mock at her.
Men who are crafty and unscrupulous profit by everything in these days.
Self-interest is the only spring of human interest. The heart has given
out its last spark of generosity, and the world is drifting towards
scepticism and intolerance. Men pride themselves on unbelief, for
liberty has degenerated into an unbridled license. Revolution has set
up a pedestal for the ambition of impostors, and the apostles of
progress make money out of their dupes. Fortunately humanity will grow
better."

While he was speaking, the sun rose high in the heavens, and the heat,
which was great, made it uncomfortable to walk abroad. The Jew closed
the shutters, and the two companions continued their conversation in a
subdued light and comparative coolness.

"I ought to make myself known to you," said the Jew, after a short
silence. "We understand each other already, but my exceptional position
requires explanation. Our acquaintance, which commenced near Genoa,
will not end here, I hope. You can tell me more of yourself later on,
but it is right that I should be the first to make a frank confidence.
It is a courtesy that I wish to show to our new-born friendship.

"The word 'Jew' contains all my history. It tells my destiny, it
divines my character. This known, the consequences are certain. The
Jew, even while he has ceased to be a pariah in society, still remains
no less an enigma. For several thousand years he has borne engraved on
his forehead his holy mission,--a mission of, suffering, humility, and
abasement. But from this deep abasement he comes out greater, to go
forward toward the universal power he lends to the entire world. He
builds and tears down thrones, dominates over governments, makes laws,
and reigns in an invisible manner. It is with pride that I say it, the
word 'Jew' has immense significance.

"Pardon me if I forget myself in speaking of the Jews. I feel myself a
child of that great family on the foreheads of which the finger of
Moses has inscribed the mysterious name--Jehovah.

"Before being a man I am a Jew. This word recalls much suffering, the
first legislation worthy of humanity, the most ancient morals emanating
from divine wisdom in the Ten Commandments.

"As God is eternal, so are his laws. When nations were wandering and
lost in the by-ways of polytheism and of anomalism (if I can by this
word express the absence of laws), the one God is manifested to us; and
to us is communicated the sacred fire, which we have preserved during
all ages.

"We are spread over the whole world, holding fast the word of God.
During two thousand years we have not made proselytes: we have guarded
the treasure for ourselves. The world is busy, toils and labours; and
we live on, absorbed entirely in guarding this treasure. We are
preserved in all our suffering, a distinct people, bearing everywhere
our country in our hearts, in our holy books and our religious
services, and in all the minute circumstances of life. But to-day, I
fear, alas! that we have thrown from our shoulders this dear burden.
The Jewish idea seems to have diminished with the cessation of
persecution. But to return to my personal history.

"I was born of one of those Jewish families scattered in the Polish
villages. You probably know something of the Jews in Poland, a country
that I love as well as you do, and on which I can cast only one
reproach. The Poles, though deeply imbued with the idea of human
dignity, refused the name of man to all those who were not noble.
Poland, like the Republic of Venice, has not known how to reform
herself. Caste prevailed to so great a degree that she has preferred to
perish sooner than adopt a new mode of existence, and risk all in the
defence of liberty. Nevertheless, in the lives of these people I
recognize a great and brilliant spirit like our own. In speaking of
Poland, I do not call myself a Pole, for I am a Jew, and we are a
distinct people, it matters not what land we dwell in. In judging
Poland's past impartially, one can perhaps criticise, but must
acknowledge that it is full of poetry; it is a Homeric epoch."

"Stop!" cried the young Pole, "you are a son of the present; do not
excuse the past."

"Why do you speak thus?"

"Why? Because I was born in the midst of new ideas. I condemn the most
brilliant epochs of our history, for they were the veritable cause of
our ruin. We who are descended from those guardians of our rights are
now their judges, and we justly consider as the greatest kings those
who tried to crush the nobility to establish their own power."

"You are partly right. Nevertheless, when I meditate on Poland, she
seems to me strange, frightful, at times almost savage, but always
grand and magnificent, chivalrous and noble. No one has a better right
than the Jew to condemn the Polish nobility, yet it is necessary to
judge a nation without personal prejudice."

"We will discuss this subject at another time," interrupted the young
man; "but there is really something strange in the fact that I, a noble
Pole, should condemn the past more than you, a Jew. You are truly
magnanimous!"

Jacob smiled, and said, "I am older than you, dear brother, if not in
years, at least in experience. Suffering, labour, and meditation, and
perhaps, also, the sorrows of bygone generations, have prematurely aged
me."

"That is true; but tell me more about yourself."

"Do not be impatient. I cannot do otherwise. We will travel over a
rocky road, like the mineralogists. Every time that we encounter a
curious stone we will strike it with our hammer to find out what it
contains. So we will pause to discuss different subjects. But do you
not remember that it will soon be time to go to Aqua Sola?"

"Ah, yes! It is true that we shall meet my beautiful benefactress, who,
like the Samaritan, gave me aid in my distress."

"This Italienne who bathed your temples with water, and at the same
time, perhaps, lighted a fire in your heart. But between yesterday and
to-day there is an abyss. Who knows how many will keep the rendezvous
at Aqua Sola?"

"Do you think many will fail to put in an appearance?"

"Experience has taught me to count very little on engagements
twenty-four hours old, and not at all on those dating back several
weeks."

"The evening is still far off," said the Pole.

"Very far. The sun is yet high in the heavens."

"Then pray continue your autobiography."




                              CHAPTER III.

                          EDUCATION OF JACOB.


"Who does not love to recall the occurrences of youth, however sad? I
cannot boast of happiness in my childhood, yet the memory of those days
brings tears to my eyes, and I repeat that which is written in one of
our books: 'Youth is a garland of flowers; old age, a crown of thorns.'
Even in comparison with maturity, full of power and intelligence, those
years seem to me strewn with flowers, although they were unhappy.

"My parents were descended from an important and once wealthy family,
whose fortunes had declined for several generations. They found
themselves for a time in the lowest degree of society, working in the
village inns or occupying themselves in some little business or petty
speculations in wheat or cattle. To speak frankly, my father was an
innkeeper in a little village. He was a quiet, studious man, loving his
books, and little calculated for business. My mother took care of
everything. She was the second wife of my father, Joel, who had lost
his first after the birth of a son, Joel, who was already well grown
when I came into the world.

"Joel, the elder, was of a gloomy character, silent, concentrated, a
dreamer. He was absorbed in abstruse speculations, and was happy only
when he was left in undisturbed possession of his books. He was
generally esteemed on account of his learning, but his family suffered
from his inaptitude for business, which was for us a question of life.

"It has been, and is still, with the Jews, a traditional duty to amass
wealth. This does not proceed from the character of the race, but from
the conditions under which they live. The only rights accorded, or,
rather, dearly sold, to the Jews can at any moment be revoked,
suspended, or torn in shreds by the tribunal of the clergy. Where can
justice be found? To whom can they complain? The Jew has been forced to
seek in gold, which is worshipped by all nations, the means of
obtaining justice, rights, and consideration. The poor Jew has no
defence, no protection, but the head of the community to which he
belongs. The Christians have, in a measure, made a religious duty of
avenging the death of Christ on us; this Christ who was a Jew also. We
are therefore obliged to cling to our money as the only safeguard,
though the law of Moses condemns severely this love of gold. (Exodus
xxii. 25.)

"My father could not be accused of enriching himself at the expense of
others. In the end, plunged as he was in metaphysical studies, which
made him forget the affairs of this world, he lost even the little
hoard that had been saved with so much difficulty. All the care and
labour fell on my poor mother, who was much younger, and therefore
interested in the future. I had two sisters younger than myself, and my
half-brother was much older.

"Our rural establishment consisted of a rented farm, and a tavern
situated near a highway. The locality was much frequented. We were
brought up in a continual bustle, which, however, did not disturb my
father, who was too absorbed to notice it. My mother and two servants
worked hard to satisfy their guests. It would have been a most
profitable business, in spite of a neighbouring rival, if fortune had
only smiled on us. But that which was made by the sale of brandy, hay,
and oats was lost in other ways. In his transactions with the dealers
in hides and cattle, my father always came out worsted. He attributed
this ill-luck to the will of God; but my mother grieved bitterly over
his lack of business tact. We grew poorer every day. The family jewels,
my father's furs and clothes, all that we possessed of any value, were
gradually parted with.

"The owner of the tavern was a noble. Fat, hearty, always gay and
good-humoured, he was a _viveur_; a heart good enough, but terribly
dissipated. He cared not for the morrow, provided that to-day was
passed agreeably. At all times he required money. He was our plague,
although he was not wicked. Every time that he sent for Joel my mother
wept, for she knew that he would have to take money with him.

"At the manor-house, which was about half a mile from the tavern, there
was always a gay company. When he was alone a single day, Micuta almost
died of _ennui_. If no one came to amuse him, he ordered his horses,
and went to visit his neighbours. His wife wept then, like my mother.
She could not prevent his dissipation nor correct his faults, but,
womanlike, she loved him in spite of all. To procure money with which
to amuse himself was the sole object of this nobleman, and when he was
told that he would ruin himself, he replied carelessly, 'Ah, bah!
Providence will provide. I will die as I have lived.'"

"Such types," said Ivas, "are common with us. Every district possesses
several Micutas."

"At the same time that he sent for Joel to bring him money," resumed
the Jew, "his wife, Madame Micuta, sent to my mother, and begged her
not to give him any. But how could she resist when he was determined to
have his way at any cost? Joel always yielded to his demands. For his
continual banquets it was necessary to have fish, meat, sugar and
vegetables, spices and wine. And that was not all; the accounts
increased, and my father was obliged to give his note and pay usurious
interest.

"Naturally I, too young to understand the state of affairs, looked on
the world around me, and found it wonderful. The tavern was always full
of travellers. Behind our garden was a forest of oaks, where I loved to
wander, listening to the warbling of birds and the rustling of the
branches overhead. Now, I cannot interest myself thus in nature; human
beings interest me more. It is not given to every child to grow up in
such a turmoil, and in the midst of a crowd of strangers continually
going and coming. From it I learned that there were many people in the
world, and at the same time that many of them were strangers. I
realized that all these people were preoccupied, and cared nothing for
us. My mother, in these early days, could pay little attention to me,
occupied as she was, while my father prayed and read. We knew that she
loved us, but she had no time to caress or to amuse us. I became
accustomed at an early age to live alone. My thoughts were my
companions, and a secret mistrust separated me from men. I loved,
however, to observe them and to penetrate their characters.

"I was still quite young when my father died, after a short illness.
That day of mourning and lamentation is engraved on my memory. It was
then that I pronounced for the first time the words, as is the duty of
all Israelites whom the hand of God has stricken, 'Glory to Thee,
equitable Judge, may Thy will be done.'

"After the old man's death, which left me an orphan, our landlord
turned us out of the tavern in spite of my mother's entreaties. She
rented a little inn situated near a mill, on the border of a forest.
This place seemed pleasant to us, but here began hardships which
children only do not feel. Instead of the incessant noise of our inn,
full day and night, we now seldom saw any one, save that occasionally
an individual came to the mill, and this ran only six months in the
year, on account of lack of water.

"During this dull season we scarcely sold a barrel of brandy."

"Around the little cabin murmured the pine-trees, and the narrow path
which led to the mill was overgrown with trailing vines and herbs. We
lived in this solitude on black bread and vegetables furnished by our
little garden. My mother grew more despairing every day, and appealed
to her relatives and to those of my father, but in vain. We were in
rags, but yet we children were not unhappy. Presently I reached the age
for study. My mother grieved over her inability to have me taught, and
I remember that one day she left us under the protection of a poor Jew
of the neighbourhood, and was gone for some weeks. She returned a
little more tranquil, kissed my forehead and said, 'Rejoice, my son,
thou shalt soon have some one to instruct thee!'

"I realized so little the importance of this promise, that I was much
more pleased with the sweet cakes which she brought me. You know what
care the Israelites take in the education of their children, for it is
in that way that we learn the laws and traditions of our people; it is,
in a word, the shaping of our souls. From the rabbi, at five years,
every boy ought to learn the Bible; at ten, the Michna; at thirteen,
the Divine Ordinances; and at fifteen, the Gemara."

Seeing an expression of incredulity spread over the lips of Ivas, Jacob
paused. "I am aware," said he, "that these books have been ridiculed to
you by men who are antagonistic to us. They know only the outlines of
their teachings, and that very superficially or by hearsay. It is,
however, to these customs which appear ridiculous to you that we owe
the fact that we have not disappeared from the face of the earth, nor
become absorbed by other nations. Obscure as the text is, it merits our
gratitude.

"I remember, as if it was yesterday, the arrival of my tutor. I was at
the door of our cabin, when from a miserable vehicle alighted a being
so deformed and of such a frightful appearance that he scarcely seemed
human. The body of this creature was so bent by long study that he
could not stand erect. He was hump-backed, and from his curved chest
arose an enormous head, with a high forehead, from which shone a pair
of piercing black eyes. His glance terrifies me even now in my dreams.
It seemed as if he could penetrate one's inmost thoughts. The outer
world was nothing to the owner of these eyes; he lived for books alone.
Lame in one foot, he walked with difficulty, leaning on a cane. It was
more of a hop than a walk.

"Such was my mentor. He came from the village, was called Moche, and
was celebrated in the vicinity for his great learning. His knowledge of
sacred literature was most extensive. He recited by heart long passages
of the Talmud and of the Kabala, without omitting a word, without
forgetting an accent. His life was devoted to the instruction of
children and to self-culture. The world did not interest him; he lived
entirely in the past. No doubt he would never have consented to come to
us, had he not been attracted by two boxes full of rare books, the
heritage of my father.

"Moche was a strict teacher, and insisted on the observance of all
religious rules and traditions. He was a travelling encyclopedia which
moved mechanically. I doubt if there ever was a more severe teacher. He
fulfilled his functions without pity, almost with cruelty.

"Deprived so suddenly of my liberty, I was forced to embrace so many
studies that I thought I should lose my reason and become a fool. But,
at any cost, I must learn to be a Jew, or perish. Mechanically my head
was filled with words, with long tirades which I had to repeat without
stopping, each intonation of which, required by the sense of the
phrase, had to be learned with care. In spite of the brutality of this
method, it was a spur to my intelligence, which gradually opened and
put itself in motion.

"I commenced to study with some understanding. It is difficult to
determine what influence on the mind of a child the study of past
generations has. It is certain that, on commencing the study of the
Bible and the history of my people, I believed myself awakened from a
dream after a long slumber. Once the first difficulties vanished, I
applied myself so ardently to study that Moche was astonished. It was
not his custom to encourage children by pleasant words, but he showed
himself less severe toward me, without, at any time, becoming
affectionate. The only thing that annoyed him was when I asked
explanations of the passages which we studied. Then he was cross, and
rapped my fingers with a little rod which served him for pointing out
the letters. He wished to chase from my brain that which he considered
premature pride. Moche often repeated to me, to pique me into
emulation, that, following the rabbins, the world rests on the breath
of children who learn the law of God, and not on the intelligence of
savants.

"Laugh, if you will, but these remembrances have a great charm for me."

"That does not prevent me from laughing at your club-footed Moche,"
said Ivas.

"I do not dream of poetizing him. I even say that his severity rendered
him almost a savage. Although he was always polite to my mother, he did
not hesitate to reproach her for not keeping up our customs more
rigidly. Then he would threaten to go away.

"For us Moche was a sort of bugbear. Yet when he was roused he became
almost grand. Then the brightness of his soul became so apparent that
you did not think of his body. When he recited to us the sufferings of
Israel the tears rolled down his cheeks, he was excited almost to
frenzy. His voice was broken with sobs, and he often sang the verses in
an inspired voice. In these moments his hair was pushed back from his
forehead, and his body shook with a nervous tremor, produced by extreme
susceptibility and appreciation of the subject; his memory was
prodigious.

"Such is a brief sketch of my master, not flattering, but very like
him.

"It was he who made me read the first books of the Bible, or rather who
made me weep over them. He was so conscientious that, having recognized
in me a certain ability, he advised my mother to send me to a
neighbouring town to finish my education.

"Thanks to him, at thirteen, following our custom, I read publicly in
the Synagogue passages from the Holy Scriptures, and I was made one of
the ten officiants of the temple, the number necessary for the assembly
to be considered complete.

"It was exceedingly difficult for my poor mother to remove. But she
resolved to use every effort in my behalf. Miserable as our existence
was near the mill, it had some advantages, for our rent was very low,
and we had fuel, thanks to the woods which surrounded our cabin, and
vegetables from our little garden. In the town we should have had to
pay for everything, even water. How could we live? How could she do it?
How transport her children thither? And after getting there, on what
resources could we subsist?

"While my mother racked her brain to find an answer to these questions,
my half-brother, having already amassed a little fortune by selling
hides, came to pay us a visit.

"This unlooked-for event was of great importance to us. We had not seen
him for a long time. He was nearly thirty years old, and was married.
His wife's marriage portion and a little heritage from my father formed
a small capital, which he had known how to increase. The first year of
his married life he had lived at the expense of his wife's parents, who
were willing to do anything in their power. Afterward he established
himself separately, and little by little increased his business.
Fortune, which had frowned on our father, smiled on the son. This gave
him courage; economical, cold, prudent, he devoted all his intelligence
to the success of his projects. To be rich was his aim, and he was
convinced that he should succeed. He was not yet well enough off to
draw money from his business to aid us, but he brought us news of
relations of my mother's, who, touched at last by her sad situation,
sent her a small sum of money to invest in some business, the profits
of which might educate my sisters and me. My mother wept with joy. We
children were sad when we heard that we were to leave the mill and the
forest, but we soon became accustomed to the life of a town.

"The elder brother was received with great affection. My mother asked
him if he knew of any way for her to invest the money. Joel, who wished
to increase his business, proposed that she invest the sum with him and
share his house. She agreed to the proposition, and the next day,
impatient for the change, sent for a vehicle to remove from the cabin.

"Here commenced the second period of my life. You have seen that my
childhood was not cradled on a bed of roses, that I have suffered, and
that suffering was the sun which hastened my development. As the sun's
rays make the flowers blossom, so hardship forced my character to
unfold. Those years have left me memories, for the most part
disagreeable. Memories of ruin, of labour, of fighting against hunger,
cold, and the contempt of men which paralyzed the intelligence, and
prevented one from rising above bodily occupations. It is permitted to
poets, or rather to those who give themselves out as such, to exalt in
nature an impossible idealism and to rebel against materialism. But,
alas! on regarding actual life, how many needs we have, and how much is
required for mere existence!

"Man in full strength can battle with nature and poverty and come out
conqueror. It is, nevertheless, very difficult to rid one's self of the
cares of each day, the rock of Sisyphus which rolls back on us
continually. The Jews were very numerous in our town; indeed, they
formed the larger part of the population. We had a synagogue with which
I was very much impressed, for until then I had seen only the miserable
cabins which we used for places of worship. I could for the first time
form a just idea of our religious ceremonies, and of the sabbath which
draws us away from the world, restores us to God, and brings us nearer,
in a measure, to our lost country. The baking of bread, a part of which
is given to the poor, the setting of the table, the prayers in common,
the blessing of the wine, all the customs recall the patriarchal epoch
when God was with us, and took, in a way, part in human existence.

"To-day you Christians and we Jews have driven God from our presence,
and we have forgotten him. Man made by the hands of the Creator
believes himself a god, and anthropology is the contemporary religion.

"In my brother's house we dwelt in unity as one family, of which he was
the head. The women prepared in common the evening meal, and what was
needed for the morrow. When the hour for prayer in the synagogue
arrived, an old priest rapped on the shutters three times with his
mallet of wood, and we set out toward the temple bearing our books
under our arms. The synagogue was an old building, dating from the
sixth century. It had cost the community much money, for when they were
building it the proprietor of the place, who was a Catholic, the Prince
K----, had little toleration. The Jews, who had for worship only a
little wooden house with a worm-eaten roof, solicited permission to
build a new temple; which was granted to them only because money was
needed by the proprietor, and it was not plenty just then, there having
been a war. The Jews profited by his necessity to buy from the prince a
plot of ground and the right to erect thereon a brick synagogue. The
traditions of the neighbourhood speak of a colossal sum paid for the
privilege. During the construction the workmen were ordered to undo
their work, and to pull down the carved balls which ornamented the roof
and made the synagogue more imposing than any of the surrounding
buildings. However, such as it was, with its style much less Gothic
than was planned, it seemed to my childish eyes fully equal to
Solomon's Temple.

"I continued my studies with ardour. My teachers found in me much
aptitude, and I had an insatiable desire to learn.

"Our little town, except on market-days, was not one of the most
frequented, although it ranked among the most important. It was
traversed by a thoroughfare on which a continual procession passed to
and fro. Our co-religionists had founded a school here. As the
Catholics had an important church, and the principal population was
composed of the government employes, it was necessary, in order to
remain unmolested, to pay without ceasing.

"I soon learned to conduct myself differently toward each person,
according to his position on the social ladder.

"In general the Jew owes tribute to every one, commencing with the
door-keepers of the Lords, and the wives of their door-keepers.

"One day returning from my class I found the house in a commotion. I
feared at first that there had been an accident. The smiling faces
reassured me. They awaited the arrival of an important person. My
mother pulled me into the house, and ordered me to array myself in my
best. My brother was already dressed. On the table there was brandy,
with sweets, honey cake, white bread, spiced bread, and even a bottle
of wine. I learned that he whom we were to receive with so much
ceremony was my mother's cousin, a rich merchant from Warsaw. He was
coming to decide about my future.

"I imagined in my childish brain a man of imposing figure with a long
beard and a biblical costume recalling patriarchal times. I was still
in this dream when a man appeared that I should have taken for a
Christian. He was dressed differently from us, wore spectacles and a
round hat. He had passed his first youth, had heavy eyebrows, large
features, black eyes, and a smooth face. His complexion was rosy, his
figure corpulent, and he evidently considered himself a man of
importance.

"My mother told me to kiss the hand held out to me so majestically.
Afterward he examined me attentively, caressed my chin, joked about the
cap that I wore, and finished by blowing a cloud of smoke in my face
from the cigar he was smoking. After the preliminaries, he said in
German, in a patronizing voice, 'I think we can make a man out of this
boy.' We all listened to him as to an oracle, because he was enormously
rich, and my future depended on him.

"'What think you?' added he addressing my mother. 'I will take care of
him, but not in your way.' Then turning to my brother he continued:
'There are already enough Jews employed in little ways, keeping taverns
in the villages. The cause of it is our ignorance.'

"'Nevertheless,' replied Joel, 'this boy is not ignorant; he has been
well taught, and he is now learning to read in the Gemara.'--'Ah! What
does he want of the Gemara? Do you think of making him a rabbi? It is
necessary for us in these days to go everywhere, and not remain in a
corner! Why these ear-rings in the ears? Why that iarmulka? These are
all remnants of the Middle Ages. The time of our persecution is almost
past. The world opens to us. We must be ready to play an important
role. The Jew has good sense and judgment, which he has preserved
through hundreds of years of suffering. Why can he not enjoy the same
advantages as Christians? Why is not our education as well developed as
theirs? With that we can remain Israelites in the bottom of our
hearts.'

"In spite of their respect for this wealthy kinsman my mother and my
brother could not agree with him, for his remarks shocked their
traditional ideas. Without noticing this impression he continued:--

"'I ought not to forget that I am a Jew, and to keep my faith in the
citadel of my soul, but outwardly appear in the world on an equal
footing with other men, as all sensible Jews do, in strange countries,
and even in the kingdom of Poland. I have examined this lad
attentively. He is worthy of Israel. I will occupy myself with his
education, but we must send him to the Christian schools. He must
commence to go to them here. Afterward send him to me, and I will take
care of him.'

"'You are our benefactor!' cried my mother. 'But you know that many of
our people have abandoned their belief, and are equally despised by the
Jews and the Christians. How, then, will he preserve his paternal
traditions?'

"'And why should he not preserve them? You must banish your puerile
fears, otherwise he will vegetate like a good-for-nothing in rags and
misery, where you are, instead of being like me. I still remain a Jew.
I go to the synagogue, and I observe the law, but no doubt less
strictly than you.'

"All this conversation is engraven in my memory, and it fixed my
destiny.

"Having learned that our kinsman had arrived from Warsaw, Abraham
Machnowiecki, the oracle of the Jews in our town, came to pay us a
visit. His was a common type in our community; he was a Polish Jew of
the old school, a Polish Israelite, though he could not give so
complete an account of his descent as Mickiewicz has so well set forth
in his Jankiel. Abraham was an important man in his part of the
country. He had continual relations with all the proprietors. He knew
their families, their situation, their business, in a word, all that
concerned them. He was much interested in electoral meetings. He was
consulted on all subjects, and in the most delicate affairs he was
often chosen arbiter. He was esteemed because he was worthy of esteem;
he was received everywhere with courtesy, and offered a place of
honour, while his co-religionists were left standing at the door.
Without Abraham nothing of importance was done. His bearing was full of
dignity; he was very tall, and wore a white beard, which fell almost to
his girdle. His ordinary costume was a black redingote, a czapka of
sable, and in summer a wide-brimmed felt hat. A silver-headed cane
completed the dress, by which he was recognized from a distance.

"In his dwelling, which was one of the best of the neighbourhood, there
were always visitors on business. He was the banker of half the
proprietors, and he lent or procured money.

"The science of Abraham went no further than that of most Jews, but he
had a quick intelligence and a great knowledge of men. His predominant
quality was an imperturbable calmness. He was never annoyed, never gave
any signs of impatience, and showed in all things an undisturbed
moderation. He was not communicative, words came slowly from his lips,
and he was thoroughly trustworthy. Very much attached to his faith and
its customs, he was yet not a fanatic.

"This oracle so generally respected was absolutely devoid of pride. He
did not demand the consideration which was naturally given him.

"The appearance of Abraham at our house was rare, and you may infer
that this extraordinary circumstance was owing to an invitation from my
mother, who felt the need of his advice. Our elegant kinsman seemed
less sympathetic before the grave Abraham. His somewhat frivolous
manner became more offensive compared with the conduct of the other
Israelite, who was, at the same time, dignified and amiable. The
meeting of these men--one of whom, a free thinker, had lost almost all
traces of Judaism; the other, a biblical character--was very
interesting and aroused my curiosity.

"Our relative, in all the pride of a man full of his own importance,
was hardly polite to the old man. My mother's cousin did not abandon
his cigar, and began to laugh on regarding the Jew's long curly hair,
iamulka, the old-fashioned costume, and gigantic cane.

"It did not take Abraham long to recognize in our kinsman a type of
modern Jew that he had often met before.

"'It is very kind of you,' said he, 'to take an interest in this
unfortunate family. Would to God every one would do the same! The book
Nedarin says: "Honour the sons of the poor who are the brightness of
our religion."'

"'I wish to do so truly,' replied the Varsovien carelessly. 'I wish to
make of this young relative a sound and healthy branch of our
community. That is why I have proposed to send him to school with the
other children.'

"'You will cast him in the fire to see if he is gold? If he be gold, he
will remain gold; if he be of base metal, he will melt.'

"'They tell me he has good faculties. It is necessary to develop them.'

"'Provided that he does not lose his faith. That is why I think that it
will not do to remove him from our schools until he is well grounded in
his religion. When the potter wishes to make an impression on a vase of
clay, he sees that the vase goes to the studio soft and plastic.'

"'How old is he?' asked our cousin.

"'Thirteen years.'

"'You have probably,' continued he, 'a good common school here; he must
go to it.'

"'Why not?' replied Abraham; 'but the poor child will suffer much.'

"'Who, then, has not had trials? You see me. I am worth to-day two
millions, perhaps more, and I commenced by selling blacking and matches
in the streets.'

"The old Abraham murmured in a low voice a text from the Book of Judges
which said: 'One must endure the sun's bursting rays because it is
indispensable to the world.'

"Then he put his hand on my head and blessed me, praying in a low
voice, reassured my mother, and the conversation became general. Child
as I was, I remember this scene very well. It was shared by many
listeners, for the Jews had come from all sides to see this great
personage who honoured us with a visit. Our cousin entered into the
development of his ideas, which were that the time had come for the
Jews to go out and mingle with the world, and to leave the narrow
circle where they had remained so long from an exaggerated fear of
losing their faith and nationality.

"'We have suffered long enough,' said he. 'We ought to enjoy ourselves
to-day, and occupy the place which belongs to one of the most ancient
peoples of the earth. We possess rapidity of conception, facility to
acquire all the sciences and arts; we have money, which levels
everything, and at the same time we are united, and this cohesion can
accomplish great things. Why then stagnate scattered in these little
country towns? Why not strike out? See the Jews of other lands. You
find them in the ministry, the parliament, and in high positions. They
march to the conquest of civil and political rights, wherever these
rights are still refused them.'

"Abraham listened without contradiction, and appeared sad and
thoughtful; as to our other co-religionists they heartily agreed with
our kinsman. He finished by citing as example a celebrated Jew.

"This was an epoch which was not soon forgotten in our little town. It
provoked a movement which swayed the whole community, with the
exception of a few old conservatives. I remained at home the rest of
that year, then I entered the common school. It was the first time that
a Jew had seated himself on a bench beside Christian children. I knew
beforehand what awaited me, but that which I endured surpassed my worst
fears.

"The larger part of the scholars were the children of petty nobles or
of the bureaucracy, students well grown. Their instincts were more than
cruel. It was a veritable torment,--torment unceasing. I grew
accustomed to continual attacks, and passed in silence the insults
which were showered on me. Jokes about pork were met with, even in the
mouths of the masters; what could I do but keep silence? My humility
and silence were a sort of defence, The first days were intolerable;
but, little by little, I became accustomed to my comrades, and they to
me. After a while they left me in peace on my solitary bench. The new
method of teaching was strange to me, but awakened in my mind a desire
to excel. The knowledge that I had accumulated increased. I resolved to
continue my studies, and to wait until the strength of science and of
the truth enlightened my mind."




                              CHAPTER IV.

                               AQUA SOLA.


As he finished his sentence, Jacob perceived that it was growing late.
He remembered the rendezvous at Aqua Sola.

"I feel," said he, "that you are bored. Excuse me, kind listener. It is
the only mode of recital that I understand. I cannot be brief, but must
digress. To render my story intelligible, it is necessary to infuse
life and colour."

"No excuse is necessary," replied Ivas. "I am in no hurry to know the
end; let us go slowly."

"Yes, we will finish it later on; but now it is time to go to Aqua
Sola."

The evening had brought with it a little freshness. Many had already
left old Genoa for the new part of the city. The streets called Nuova,
Nuovissima, Balbi, and Aqua Sola were full of people. The men were
dressed more or less in costume, and the women were enveloped in
floating white veils which only partly concealed their graceful
figures.

The companions walked through the dark, narrow streets until they
arrived at the hill, which is the only point of verdure in that city of
marble.

"I am very curious," said Ivas, "to know if we shall find many of our
late companions at the rendezvous."

"Well, we shall see presently," said Jacob. "A day is long, and human
nature changeable." They soon came to the steps which led to the
promenade, in whose centre murmured a fountain, near which a fine band
sent forth its inspiring strains. The crowd was compact: a Genoese
crowd composed of soldiers, workmen, and priests, of sunburnt women,
and tourists, among whom were many English. Aqua Sola is not much
frequented by the aristocracy, who shut themselves up in their palaces
or villas, nor by the bourgeoisie, who have their gardens at Nervi.
One, therefore, meets at Aqua Sola two classes only,--the tourists or
the regular _habitues_.

Jacob and Ivas strolled slowly along the principal walk, talking of the
country and of the future of humanity. They had not yet noticed the
arrival of the phlegmatic German, who had been distinguished for his
silence at the Albergo della Grotto; but he soon approached them, and
smilingly said: "I am very happy to meet you again, messieurs, and to
be able to inquire for our invalid of yesterday. At the same time, I
will excuse myself for not remaining long in your society. I have a
chance to hire a veturino at half-price to Pisa. I shall have for a
companion the privy councillor, Zuckerbeer. We leave to-day."

"What a pity!" cried Jacob in German, not wishing to inflict the French
language on his interlocutor, and desiring also to escape torture
himself from the execrable pronunciation of the compatriot of Goethe.

"What a pity! We should have had such a pleasant time together this
evening."

On hearing his native language, the German beamed on him and smiled;
but, in spite of the temptation to remain, he sacrificed pleasure to
duty. Order and economy were his two predominant virtues, and the
society of the privy councillor would be a consolation.

"The Councillor von Zuckerbeer," said he, "counts on me. I have given
him my word; I am, therefore, absolutely obliged to go."

Jacob no longer urged him. He saluted, and said farewell, in the valley
of Jehoshaphat. The German said adieu to his acquaintance of the day
before without much regret. At the bottom of his heart he feared that
the Pole was a dangerous revolutionist, a republican conspirator, an
admirer of Garibaldi and Mazzini. If so, he was wise to renounce in
time such a compromising acquaintance.

He had hardly disappeared when the Tsigane presented himself; smiling
as ever, he fanned himself with his handkerchief; his waistcoat was
unbuttoned, but the heated temperature seemed, nevertheless, very
agreeable to him. He was in good spirits, and his expression was as
joyful as was possible to one with such features.

"Well," cried he, "how do you like Genoa? For my part I find too much
noise, too many asses bearing casks, and too few men by comparison, and
the air is full of bad smells. It has the colour of the Orient, but the
Orient is lacking. I will concede to you that Genoa possesses the
perfumes of Constantinople. Oh! my poor olfactory nerves! What torture!
Were we presented to each other yesterday? I have a bad memory, but you
already know that I am a Tsigane, and, perhaps, my race will inspire
you with aversion."

"You are wrong there," said Jacob, "for I have no aversion to any
race."

"My name is Stamlo Gako," said the Tsigane. "My father was at the head
of his tribe. But I have abandoned the collective wandering life for
solitary vagabondage. I am thus, as you see, alone in the world. I
would have been still using the same old pans and kettles had it not
been for my beautiful bass voice, which gained me a place at the
theatre. I saved some money, and invested it for the first time in the
lottery. I won a large sum of money. Some of this I scattered in
extravagance, but I kept enough to place me above want for the rest of
my life. It is agreeable to me to live in idleness. I go or I stay, as
I choose, but my forehead is marked indelibly. No one sympathizes with
me, and I am indifferent to the world. A stupid life, if you will; but
I would not change it for any other, for I am attached to it. I have no
duties; that is to say, I am freed from everything,--from all belief,
all hope, and all occupation. I weary myself comfortably, and my
idleness is well ordered. In winter I go north; one suffers less there
from the colds, on account of the houses being well warmed. I live in
hotels, I eat well, I make passing acquaintances, I frequent the
theatres, and in summer I go to Italy and sometimes return to my people
in Hungary. There are yet there some individuals of my race and of my
blood, but fortunately I have not a single near relative to persecute
me. Hungary is for me a sort of home. I have learned to read, and a
book with well-turned phrases serves me admirably to kill time, but in
general I consider literature as useless. The best books contain more
folly than reasonable thoughts. All human wisdom can be written on the
palm of the hand."

"I am without country, like you," said Jacob, who had perceived that
the Tsigane had drunk a little too much, "but I look on life
differently. I have an aim, for I have brothers among men. You, who are
better-informed than other Tsiganes, you can do much for your people if
you will. It would be a grand thing for you to become a reformer and
benefactor to your people."

"What would you do with the Tsiganes?" replied Gako showing his white
teeth. "We are only a handful of living beings that God or the devil
has thrown on the earth. What would you do with a cursed race without
ambition or place? At least, do not ask me to conduct them to the
Ganges, whence it is said they originally came. 'You shall perish!'
such is the sentence against us. And we are perishing slowly. We shall
disappear in time. Look at our women! At Moscow, singers and dancers,
fortune-tellers and jades, always among the ragamuffins and beggars. In
what language shall I speak to them of the future? Do the brutes
understand anything? Like fruit that falls from the tree, we are a
decayed people without root."

"Then change your nationality."

"Petrify myself! never! We will be Tsiganes as long as it pleases God.
In the night of the ages," added Gako in a mysterious voice, "there was
a terrible crime which we expiate, some fratricide of which we cannot
wash our hands. I possess all that can make man happy on this earth,
yet I shall never be happy. I have counted the number of days that I
have to live. I will submit to my destiny."

Just then the two Italians arrived--Alberto Primate and Luca Barbaro.

They had a contented and satisfied look. They breathed their native
air voluptuously, trod the soil of Italy, and viewed with joy the
tri- flag floating in the breeze.

Luca Barbaro carried a sketch-book in his hand, Primate, a roll of
music.

"Greeting, brothers," said the first. "How is your health? This
delicious temperature ought to completely cure you. What do you think
of good old Genoa?"

"She reminds us somewhat of the Middle Ages," replied Jacob.

"Does she not speak to you of the future?" asked one of the Italians.
"Do you not then feel that delicious breath of springtime which
promises to all nations a garland of flowers?"

"Utopist!" interrupted the Israelite sadly. "The springtime comes not
at the same time for all lands. Men are brothers in words, but not in
deeds. Each one is ready to become a fratricide in self-defence. Little
by little humanity will perhaps come out of the shadows of servitude,
of charlatanism and egotism, which stifle all generous tendencies in
order to satisfy the thirst for gold and grandeur."

"Do not blaspheme!" cried Luca. "I believe in humanity. It is possible
that there is a handful of vile reactionists and a band of miserable
charlatans, but in general men are the sons of God. By music, painting,
literature, and devotion, souls will open, all hearts will be purified,
intelligence will develop, virtue will spread abroad, and soon a
luminous springtime will brighten the world."

"Amen!" cried Primate; "amen! But I have a question to ask you. We have
come here to rest, have we not?"

"Yes! Yes! Certainly!"

"Very well; for once let us leave the subjects of philosophy and
politics. Leave all that to the reactionists. Let us amuse ourselves
with art and with life."

Luca kissed his compatriot's forehead. "_Poverino!_ he is wearied by
me, for I have given him no rest. He bears in his heart three things
only: woman, love, and music."

Just then the group was augmented by the Dane.

"Plague take it!" said he; "if I had known that _la belle dame_ would
not be here, I would not have tired myself out to join you. I had a
great desire to go to the theatre; primitive and barbarous as it is, I
might have passed an agreeable evening there. I have been drawn to Aqua
Sola by the remembrance of two lovely eyes, a little faded, perhaps,
but full of expression. If she had been coming she would be here by
this time. I have been deceived."

"You have yet time to go to the theatre," said the Tsigane
indifferently, as he lit his cigar.

"Very true! But if, by chance, she should come. She, the unknown. She?
Who is she?"

"A retired artiste singing only occasionally, as she has told us
herself," replied the Tsigane; "a priestess of Thalia. I doubt if she
is a Vestal. Hum!"

"Widow," added Luca.

"A widow! The title is appropriate. But she is escorted by two
admirers," said the Dane: "a Russian and a Pole. Who are they? Are they
rich or poor? How long has she known them? _Chi lo sa?_"

"_Chi lo sa?_" repeated Primate.

And Barbara added: "We know that the Russian is a refugee. If, in
leaving his country, he has brought his purse with him he is a
dangerous rival, for the Russians are said to be fabulously rich. It is
said that each noble receives from the Czar his share of the gold mines
of the Ural Mountains. But if in saving his head he has not saved his
purse, and if he has no private resources, he becomes much less
vulnerable. As for the young Galician, he has his youth, which is a
capital. But you, messieurs, as Poles, can better judge of the worth of
your compatriot."

"The Galician nobles," said Ivas, "ordinarily bear the title, more or
less authentic, of Count. Many of them have been rich, but since 1848
they frequently give themselves an appearance of riches. I do not
believe that the young man is a dangerous rival."

"Behold her! Behold her!" cried the Dane suddenly, perceiving the
brunette at the end of the street, looking more attractive to-day than
yesterday. "What do I see? She is alone with the Russian! A bad sign!
The Galician was evidently in the way. The plot thickens! Yesterday
when there were two gallants there was room for a third; but when there
is only one it is difficult for another to get a foothold."

"He is very wise in the art of loving," remarked the Tsigane.

The charming Lucie Coloni approached. She was, in reality, in the full
height of her beauty, and she had had time to augment her many
attractions by the toilet. Her eyes were humid without having wept, and
a sweet smile played on her lips. The Russian accompanied her,
appearing melancholy in contrast with her gayety. She went up to Ivas,
and held out a little hand, elegantly gloved, asking with much
solicitude, "_Va bene?_"

"Thanks, madame. No trace of yesterday's illness. The scar which
remains on my temple will be for me an indelible souvenir of your
goodness."

"Flatterer!" replied she, shrugging her shoulders.

The Russian affected an exaggerated politeness to show his ease of
manner.

"We are not complete," said he.

"One is lacking," replied Jacob. "We shall see him no more. It is the
German. He has found a cheap way of going to Pisa with a privy
councillor, and he has profited by it. One does not travel every day
with dignitaries, lately granted a _von_ who knows for what secret
service? This _von_, fresh and new, comes out of the bandbox with the
perfume of a half-blown rose. But you also, madame, you have lost one
of your companions."

"Yes, the count. He was obliged to leave this afternoon for Spezia."

"Yesterday he did not speak of this project," said the Dane.

The Russian seemed to be looking at the sea, a little of which was
visible from where they stood. The lady bit her lips to avoid laughing,
fanned herself negligently, and said:--

"I really do not know what has taken him. He was perhaps frightened by
his compatriots. It is for you, messieurs, to clear this mystery."

"What country is this Galicia? The youth assured me that he was neither
Polish nor Austrian, but a Galician."

Ivas and Jacob exchanged a smile, without replying.

"We will not wear mourning for him!" cried Ivas.

"I regret him, however," replied Lucie. "He would have become a very
agreeable man, but as yet he resembles those Italian nuts shut up in a
bitter shell."

They all laughed.

"Aqua Sola! How sweet the words sound!" continued she, walking at the
head of the procession. "But how little it is, shabby, and even
tiresome. What trees, what drops of water, a disagreeable crowd, plenty
of dust, and only in the distance a glimpse of the sea! _Povera
Geneva!_"

"And yet," observed the Muscovite, "what marvels were promised us."

The cosmopolite Dane profited by an opportunity to place himself beside
the lady. This was too significant, and she gave him a haughty look
which he did not perceive. This look seemed to say: "No use. No hope
for you!"

Lucie occupied herself more with Ivas than the rest of the company. In
a sweet voice she asked: "You go to Poland?"

"Yes, madame," replied he smiling.

"I am very superstitious," said she; "and as I also go to Poland, I
consider it a good omen to have made the acquaintance of a Pole on my
way."

"Poland, madame, is to-day an abstraction. There is no Poland, and yet
there are several: Russian Poland, the Kingdom of Poland raised up by
the Congress of Vienna, Prussian Poland, and Austrian Poland."

"I really do not know to which Poland I am going. Tell me, where is
Warsaw?"

"It is, in a way, my native city. One of the ancient capitals of
Poland, and the last; to-day the capital of that ideal Poland which is
yet to be established."

"I lose myself in all this geography! Do you also go to Warsaw?"

"Yes, madame. But I do not know whether I shall arrive there, and
whether, on arriving, I shall not be sent much farther toward the
Asiatic steppes."

"You are very unfortunate, you Poles."

"Our misfortunes pass all conception. But do not let us speak of it.
How is it, madame, that you go to Warsaw?"

"From curiosity only," replied she, lowering her eyes. "It is possible
also that I may sing in some theatre."

"Oh! You are sure to be admirably received. Colonel Nauke is very fond
of Italian music, and as soon as he knows"--

"You will introduce me to him?"

"I, madame, it is impossible! I shall be obliged to conceal myself. To
be seen would be for me death or exile."

"If I could at least meet you there!"

Ivas sadly shook his head. The Dane, very attentive to the
conversation, concluded that she intended to leave the Russian, who, of
course, as he was a refugee, could not return to the land of the Czars.

This idea did honour to his acquaintance with political geography, of
which nearly all European journalists are absolutely ignorant.

"And you go alone?" asked he.

"No, not alone. But, monsieur, you annoy me with your questions. Really
I do not know yet what I shall do, and I do not like to speak of the
future. That will be accomplished in one way or another. _Chi lo sa?_"

"I am ready to follow you to the end of the world!" cried her
cosmopolite adorer enthusiastically.

"You are jesting, monsieur, and I do not like jests of this kind. In
any case, I do not count on you as a companion."

"What a pity that she is so savage!" said her admirer to himself.

The Russian listened passively, without mingling in the conversation.

"I am very curious to visit Poland and Russia," said Lucie Coloni. "They
say that the Poles and Russians understand and love music, that they
are enthusiastic dilettanti."

"There have been such instances in Poland," said Jacob. "In regard to
Russia I know nothing. But monsieur can tell us that in his country
they love art less than the artistes. In Poland there is now room only
for a single sentiment. The future has but one aim. Do the witches of
Shakespeare watch at the dark cross-roads, or will the angels lend
their aid? God alone knows. From Warta to the frozen sea the earth is
in travail, hearts beat with violence, the battle is preparing, there
will be something frightful which will shake the very foundations of
the earth. What song, sweet though it be, can be heard by ears which
await a signal which will sound like a thunderclap?"

"Perhaps," said Lucie, "I shall have the happiness of singing your song
of triumph."

"Or a death hymn," added Jacob sadly.

"Or rather a song intermezzo which makes one forget the tragedy of
life," replied la Coloni. "I grant to you that this Europe, cold, dull,
dead, worn out, _blase_, has for me the effect of a withered bouquet
picked up out of the dust. It has no longer a spark of vitality."

"Behold a sally that astonishes me, coming from you," cried the Dane.
"Europe when she was young was frolicsome; maturity has arrived, but
has not taken away all her charms. To-day children are born reasonable.
The young man of nineteen has a drunkard's pride to drain the enormous
cup to the bottom. More barriers on life's grand highway! More
toll-money! Go where you will, paths open before you. More
proscriptions, more laws, more prejudices, binding us. Fresh surprises!
Everything is possible."

"And nothing is worth much; nothing is good," added Lucie.

"Madame," cried the Italian musician, "before continuing your
invective, deign to hear me."

"Very willingly, monsieur."

"Will you then be seated? My companion and I are children of two parts
of Italy which have not yet united with their common mother. We seek a
little relaxation after a long servitude. Very well. We cannot take a
step without being persecuted by politics, political economy, or
philosophy. Have pity on us, and speak of other things."

"Spoiled child of Italy," said the Dane, "your prayer cannot be
granted. Our age takes her nourishment where it is found. It is useless
to try to hinder me."

"Cannot we discuss music?"

"Music! She has followed the general route, and the music of the
future, with her prophet, Wagner, is political music."

"Granted. And the other arts?"

"They cannot be separated from philosophy and history."

"Then let us speak of frivolities, of the times, of the weather, of the
city we are visiting; remember I am young, and an artist."

"There are no more young hearts," said Jacob.

"What remains then for those who thirst for life?"

"Nothing," replied the Dane quickly, in a serious tone; "only to
drink."

"And afterward?"

"Afterward? That depends on the temperament; to sleep or"--

During this conversation, the evening breeze brought from a
neighbouring house the sound of sweet music, now gay, now sad. They all
listened. It was not Italian music. A young and sympathetic voice sang,
accompanied by the piano. The song was of profound sadness, rendered
with good expression and method.

The Italian instantly recognized an inspiration of Mendelssohn. He took
off his hat, and listened with an expression of pleasure. He took a few
steps, and, with a sign, demanded silence.

In contrast to the light songs of Italy, full of harmony, this song was
full of grave majesty. For the Italian who had not heard much German
music it was a revelation.

The mysterious chords, coming from an unknown window, from an invisible
mouth, had a fascinating charm and a melodious sadness, which made a
lively impression. The woman's voice came from a house near the Academy
of Medicine, and was carried to our hearers by the indiscreet breeze.

"It is fine," said the Dane, "but it is somewhat like the music of the
future."

"Be silent, then, monsieur," said Lucie severely. "It is wonderful."

At that moment the song gradually grew fainter, and finally died away.
The accompaniment ceased also with a few majestic chords.

They all drew near the house whence came the melody, and in the general
preoccupation no one observed that Jacob grew pale, and seemed to
recognize the voice. He pressed his hand against his side as if in
pain. His emotion was almost terrifying, and his features had changed
so as to be hardly recognizable.

Ivas perceived his friend's emotion.

"What is the matter?" asked he anxiously. "Has the music impressed you
thus?"

The Jew, distrait and silent, thanked him for his solicitude, and
motioned for him to be silent.

"Listen; perhaps she will sing again," said Lucie.

They were silent, but in vain.

After long waiting the door opened, and there came out of the house a
young and elegant woman accompanied by a distinguished-looking man,
whose features were of the Oriental type.

They attracted at once the attention of the promenaders. The woman was
about twenty years old; her features were delicate. She was a pale
brunette, with black eyes full of languor, and she bore on her face an
expression so noble and so sad that one thought she was an angel of
death. Her calmness apparently covered some bitter chagrin and a
profound melancholy. Her dress was sombre and bore out the grave
character of her features, maintaining without heightening her beauty.

Her companion, in spite of his elegant appearance and gentlemanlike
bearing, had, on close inspection, something pretentious about him. He
played with too much affectation the role of fine gentleman to be real.
In every line of his face could be seen pride and vanity, without human
sentiment. His mobile eyes, his sensual lips, his strong physique,
betokened exuberant passions.

Everything about him disclosed instincts, but not heart. In spite of
his politeness, this man, cold, _distingue_ at first, inspired a
certain terror. One easily divined that in his heart there was no pity,
and that he had made of his egotism a systematic rule of conduct from
which nothing could make him deviate. A beggar meeting him alone would
never dare to ask alms. He would hazard it only before witnesses. In
spite of his courteous manner toward the lady, who was evidently his
wife, there appeared to be a sort of weariness and constraint between
them. He seemed to drag her along with him like a victim. Without
looking around her, she walked (if I may say so) automatically, while
her husband did not even try to conceal his indifference.

Our group knew immediately that this was the mysterious singer. Jacob,
absorbed in himself, did not perceive that he was in their path; his
haggard eyes were fixed on the woman, who had not yet noticed him. The
husband did not see Jacob either, until he was near him. Then he
frowned and bit his lips; but this expression was followed by a forced
smile and a polite bow. The woman mechanically raised her head,
recoiled, and gave a cry of surprise. Her voice recalled Jacob to
himself. He took off his hat and bowed, standing aside to let them
pass.

"What an astonishing meeting!" said the stranger, giving his hand
without cordiality.

The woman had become calm, and added, with a sad smile, in a trembling
voice: "It is true; the meeting is unexpected!"

"Very unexpected, and very happy for me," replied Jacob with emotion.
"After a long absence, I am about to return to Poland. I desired to
visit a part of Italy which has been so extolled. Chance has kept me in
Genoa with other travellers. Your divine voice fixed us under your
windows, for there is not another like it in the world."

The husband listened with indifference to this compliment. The wife
blushed, and did not reply.

"But what are you doing at Genoa?" said Jacob.

"We go here and there," replied the husband. "Dr. Lebrun has prescribed
a warm climate for Mathilde, for she has an obstinate little cough.
That is why we are here in this bracing atmosphere."

"And how do you like Italy?"

"She impresses me," said the woman, "as a mirage of that Orient which I
have never seen, and for which I long and dream as for one's native
land. Italy is very beautiful!"

During this conversation the Jew noticed that he was the object of his
companions' curiosity. He hesitated to make his adieux, and separate
himself from them. The husband, always polite, relieved him from this
embarrassment.

"Will you not come with us?" asked he, politely.

"Willingly, but permit me to take leave of my companions."

He called Ivas and charged him to make his excuses to the company, at
the same time begging him to wait for him; then went away with his
acquaintances.

"Ah!" cried the Italian on learning from Ivas that he had been
requested to wait for his friend, "I also am willing to wait a long
time to find out who this lady is. I am anxious to hear this marvellous
singer again. Where are you staying?" said she to the Pole.

"At the Hotel Feder."

"That is fortunate. You are very near me. I am at the Hotel de France.
Wait for your companion, and bring him to me, willingly or by force, to
drink tea. I will not fix the hour, for so active is my curiosity about
this woman that I cannot sleep until I have seen you."

She turned to the rest of the company. "Messieurs," said she, "will you
also accept my invitation?"

They all bowed their acceptance, and Lucie took the Russian's arm, with
whom she departed, chatting vivaciously.

Ivas remained with the Italians. The Dane and the Tsigane went away
together.

"I perceive," said Lucie to her cavalier, "that this unexpected meeting
betokens a mysterious romance. Did you see how he looked at her? Did
you hear the cry she gave? The husband and the lover, that is certain.
How I wish I knew their history! Will he consent to tell us? Provided
he comes, I know well how to lead him on."

"Why should their story interest us?"

"Because it will be more curious than the books you read. I love
reality better than fiction."




                               CHAPTER V.

                       A SIMPLE HISTORY OF LOVE.


Ivas, abandoned, seated himself alone on a bench, his head bowed. The
sight of the men and women around him who had leisure to occupy
themselves with sentiments of love, and their conversation, made a sad
impression.

Hunger, misery, political passions, consumed him. He thought of his
country and its future. He sought a remedy for his unhappiness and the
sorrows of his countrymen. What mattered to him the sweet words of
women, their tender glances, their whispered promises; women for him
did not exist before the vision of his misery and his despair. An
inexpressible sadness tortured him. Was he not going to risk his life
in order to breathe his native air?

His melancholy thoughts were rocked by the sea breeze when some one
clapped him on the shoulder. It was Jacob.

"Let us return," said he with vivacity.

"I am at your service, but first let me tell you that we are invited to
take tea with the Italian lady at her hotel."

"No! I will not go! I need solitude. Have you accepted?"

"Certainly, for I do not enjoy being alone with my thoughts. And I
believe, dear friend of forty-eight hours, that it will do you good to
go also. We have not known each other long, but permit me to suggest
that there are things that one had better bury in the bottom of the
heart. Come, Coloni is very curious. If we do not go she is capable of
coming after us. That would be worse still."

"It is true that we are recommended to cure old wounds by distraction.
Come, then, we will forget ourselves in a foolish and gay society."

"You speak of old wounds. Then this lady"--

"Do not speak of her. Are there not other persons, other faces and
names, which awaken old memories? You had better speak of man rather
than of woman. This one is an unfortunate who slowly works out her
destiny."

"Let us go, then!"

"Let us go! I will be gay in spite of"--

"Of what?"

"In spite of mournful remembrances."

They turned and walked rapidly along the dark streets which conducted
them to the shore. Here were built two hotels. In the morning this part
of the city was very busy on account of the bourse, but all was silent
and deserted at this hour of the evening.

They entered the Hotel de France.

On the first floor Lucie reigned in a little _salon_, fresh and
elegant. Here they found all the rest of the company. Seated in the
balcony, the Russian smoked in silence. It was easy to be seen that
this impromptu tea was not pleasing to him, for he shut himself up in
complete reserve without joining in the conversation.

The Tsigane, installed comfortably on the sofa, looked around him with
supreme indifference. The Dane paid special attention to his hostess,
and the Italians were in gay spirits. When the door opened and Jacob
appeared, Madame Coloni went hastily to meet him.

"_Grazie tante! Grazie tante!_" cried she. "You are so kind to have
come. It is a sacrifice for which I thank you."

"How can it be called a sacrifice to pass the evening in your charming
society, and to have the pleasure of looking at you," said Jacob.

"Unworthy flatterer!" replied she, striking him softly on his hand. "No
more compliments. You mock me! Seat yourself, sir, and tell me quickly
who is our singer. Who is this beautiful lady with accents so sad that
on hearing her we have tears in our eyes? Why was she so agitated on
seeing you? Why did you grow so pale?"

Jacob had great control over himself. He laughed so naturally that he
deceived his fair questioner, who began to lose the hope of hearing a
romantic history.

"You have truly a vivid imagination!" said he. "You have already
composed a sad song. You have invested me with the sufferings of the
hero of your romance; but I am no hero, I assure you. The lady is a
countrywoman of mine and a co-religionist. She and her husband are Jews
and live in Warsaw. Our acquaintance is then very natural. Behold the
truth in simple prose."

The Italian tapped her foot impatiently. "This truth seems a little
false," said she. "I observed you closely when you first met her."

Jacob made an effort to smile.

"The real truth is that I might well have been grieved and astonished,
for I know the sad history of this woman."

"Ah! there is, then, as I thought, a sad story?"

"Yes, but I did not figure in it."

Lucie looked at him fixedly, but he returned her glance without
emotion.

"Oh! pray, monsieur," demanded she in a caressing voice, "relate to me
this story. I am dying to hear it."

"I warn you, madame, that it is not remarkable, and as it is the story
of a Jewess it will be less interesting to you than to me. I am afraid
I shall weary you. I am a bad story-teller, long and tiresome."

"You take a long time to tell a story! So much the better, we have
plenty of time to listen. But do not torment me. Begin."

"Permit me, madame, to collect my thoughts for a moment."

"If," said the Dane, "the story is as long as monsieur promises us, and
there is in the story a sentimental woman encumbered with a beast of a
husband and a noble lover, I will excuse myself from listening. I can
guess it all in advance."

"I also," said the Tsigane. "It is always the same thing."

"Where can true love be found to-day?" cried the Dane.

Lucie protested against this atrocious blasphemy, but the Tsigane
replied imperturbably:--

"You will grant that the times of chivalrous love have vanished. Only
the turtle-doves are innocent enough to sigh still. Formerly, as we are
told, humanity passed through a long epoch of exalted love. Today men
have almost abandoned these ways. A hundred years from now they will
laugh at such love-stories and wonder how it could have been. I speak
of such loves as those of Leander and Hero, not that of Calypso for
young and handsome warriors, nor of the love of Nero for Poppea. That
kind of love lasts because it is natural. But love which is torture,
which suffers for some ideal beauty, it is an old, stereotyped plate,
out of fashion. Show me to-day some one who loves in this way or who
would be disposed to make serious sacrifices for love. The young girls
marry because the husband suits the father and mother. The men marry
for settlements, or for charms more or less fascinating. They do not
marry at all for love,--that fantasy has gone out of fashion."

"Why," said Lucie indignantly, "you cannot maintain such ridiculous
assertions."

"I can prove them by facts. Look around you. Everywhere caprice,
passion, love of excitement, etc., but true love nowhere."

Lucie sighed.

"Is this progress or decadence?" asked she.

"I know not. It is sad for you beautiful women to descend from the
pedestal on which you were elevated, but how can you refuse the
evidence of things?"

"Is it so evident?"

"Alas! I do not wish to impose my opinion on you, but reflect
seriously. Where can you find as formerly two souls created for each
other?"

"What you say," interrupted Jacob, "is true up to a certain point. But
I hope the world has only temporarily renounced this poetry. If all
ideality should disappear it would be a sad thing. I will add a
commentary to your remarks, Monsieur Gako. Men do not love themselves
as much as they used. That is why existence is in some sort lessened,
and the number of suicides from weariness of life is daily augmented."

Madame Coloni clapped her hands and reminded Jacob of his promise to
relate a history.

The Tsigane yawned. The Russian lighted a fresh cigarette, the Dane
went out, and when it was silent the Jew commenced in a low voice:--

"In all the legislation of the world the most badly understood and the
most badly judged is perhaps that of Moses. It belongs to me to defend
it in my character of Jew. Our law is the fundamental base of yours. Do
not forget that Jesus said that he came not to destroy the law, but to
complete it.

"It is generally supposed that the Hebrew women were debased to the
level of slaves. Nothing of the kind. Customs were sometimes swerved
from the law, influenced as they were by the barbarity of the times,
but it is not the law which abases woman.

"In the Jewish language she is called _Ischa_, the feminine of _Isch_,
which means 'man.' This name alone indicates the perfect equality of
the sexes. Deuteronomy xxi. 10-15 commends us to respect even the
captives. Polygamy, exceptionally practised by the kings, is forbidden
in a formal manner. The Bible reveals to us in more than one page the
disastrous effects of this immoral custom. On a level with man, _Isch_,
woman, _Ischa_, it is true, was not priest, but she was permitted to
bear the offerings to the altar. No legislation of antiquity or even of
later epochs can show us woman better treated or more respected than
with the Jews. The mothers of the Maccabees and of Judith prove the
importance of that role.

"A young girl of twelve years, _Ketannah_, could be promised in
marriage by her father, but, above that age, become _Nairah_, she could
marry to please herself.

"Pagan and barbarous usages, nevertheless, penetrated even among us at
the epoch of the Kings. The sexes were more strictly separated.
Sometimes, for example, the Jews cloistered the women in a harem, or,
if they were poor, compelled them to do manual labour. There rests this
stain against us, contrary to the true spirit of the Mosaic law.

"Pardon this digression, too grave, perhaps, for a love idyl between a
man and woman. But you will see later on that it was necessary."

"I believe that your story will contain at least two men," said Lucie
lightly.

"It suffices me to put only one in strong relief, although two or three
men will find a place in this history, this idyl, or, if you prefer,
this drama. Without them there could be no drama."

"Or simply a monodrama depending on one man."

"You have all seen this woman whose voice has so charmed us. She is the
most unfortunate of women, because she is obliged to submit to a
situation that is revolting to her.

"Her father, a rich Jew, belongs, or rather belonged, to those of his
race who, owing to a European education, have sunk into a destructive
scepticism, and regard as an imposture all religions, including his
own. Entering early into active life, he attributed the success of his
career partly to luck, but above all to his own intelligence and
energy. Outside of these three forces, there was for him nothing else
here below but a poetical Utopia for the amusement of simpletons.

"The mother of Mathilde was a devout Israelite, but she died young, and
her child was left to the care of so-called Christians, who taught her
their own unbelief in the ideal, and left her to form her mind for good
or evil by reading without discernment. They taught her that there was
neither virtue nor vice, but skill or stupidity, calculation or
improvidence, decency or unseemliness. So that when the maiden entered
society she looked on men as mere ciphers or figures, as they appear in
one of the tables of Pythagoras. Such a society seemed unattractive to
a youthful imagination which had an instinctive longing for the
perfumes of life, and found only dead and withered flowers.

"At an early age she was deprived of these illusions. She was told that
men were wicked, heartless, and deceivers. It would not do to believe
in their protestations; she must view them with contempt and aversion.
It was a good thing to be honest, to spare one's self the trouble of
embarrassment, and honesty is often the best policy. On this theory
crime was only an awkwardness, and virtue without intrinsic worth
unless it brought assured profits.

"As Mathilde might marry an Israelite, a Mussulman, or a Christian, she
had access to the literature of all religious beliefs. She read the
Bible, but her father ridiculed the most sacred passages. This critical
raillery and the numerous books perused by her left her mind nothing
but unbelief.

"Add to this the practical education which endeavoured prematurely to
tear from her all heart, as one pulls an aching tooth to prevent
further suffering, and you can form some idea of what they had done to
this poor child.

"Mathilde entered this existence like an insensible statue, without
taste for life. She foresaw that she would not be happy, for she well
knew that there could be no happiness for noble souls. Her sentiments
did not accord with the line of conduct that had been drawn for her.
Her aspirations were pure, but she was taught that self-interest should
be the only motive of all her aspirations, and that any other course
was a morbid weakness, and would lead to ruin. Although she was
ignorant of many things that had been concealed from her, she divined
them, and each day she rebelled against this desperate reality. Her
widowed father lived on, following his own whims without regard to
moral law, and without belief in virtue. Coveting all that was
accessible to him, he led a selfish life, and, although he was careful
to observe the proprieties in his house, his practices were visible to
the eyes of his young daughter, who was convinced that true affection
had no place in the hearts of men. Her generous nature revolted sadly
against this paternal materialism. Any other woman under the influence
of such an example, in such an immoral atmosphere, would have been
corrupted. Mathilde felt only a profound melancholy. Nature and study
became her consolers. Art spoke to her of the great sentiments toward
which she had wished to raise herself, but had been prevented.

"There is perhaps no torture more intense than a struggle like this
between noble instincts and the animalism of the world. Mathilde in her
fourteenth year was already as sad, as wearied, as she is to-day of
this existence without future and without hope. Before her appeared the
certainty of an advantageous marriage which would render her life a
success in a worldly sense. Nothing more! Her father, with his wealth,
was sure to find a young husband of good position, possessed of riches
equal to his own. It was not to be supposed that he would seek for
other qualities, and it was certain that he would not suffer from his
daughter, whom he loved after his own fashion, the least remonstrance
in regard to his choice.

"While the girl was growing up in this poisonous moral atmosphere, in
the midst of every luxury, a young man came to the house."

"I have waited for him a long time with impatience," cried Lucie
Coloni. "Behold, at last he is here!"

"Do not ask me to describe his character," said Jacob. "The heroes of
true romances like this all resemble each other in general. They have
external fascinations, all the virtues, all the grand and noble
qualities, an affectionate heart and an exalted head, and so forth. But
my hero, nevertheless, differs a little from the ordinary. He had some
distinctive traits; he had been poor, and was little accustomed to
_salons_. He had drawn all the forces of his success and energy from
the school of humility; he was modest, peaceable, and little expansive,
like all those to whom a premature sadness has proved that to ask
sympathy provokes only raillery in this world. The father of Mathilde
was a distant relative of this young man, and had taken him to his
house to finish his education, having recognized in him a certain
capacity. He intended to push his fortunes owing to a noble sentiment
of relationship which remained in his heart, and was almost the only
trace of old Judaism. He also felt some pride in protecting a young man
who promised to do himself honour in the world. This promise was only
partly fulfilled, for too precocious talents do not always produce the
fruits that are expected of them.

"The young man, who had finished his studies and was preparing himself
for business, lived in the house of his protector, who intended to send
him to foreign parts to oversee his business. You may give to my hero
any name you wish."

"Call him Jacob," said Ivas.

"No, no! let us call him Janus, the Polish equivalent for Jonas. I do
not know, madame, if it is hardly worth while to relate the rest to
you, for it is easy to divine. Two orphaned souls, aspiring to the
poetry of life, could not meet without loving. Mathilde found in him a
nobleness which responded to her ideal of a man's character, and he
recognized in her his ideal of melancholy beauty.

"In his protector's house it was necessary to be on guard, lest he
should suspect an inclination which would cause them to be separated,
and should chase Janus from his Paradise. The young people well
understood that they must feign indifference for fear of such a
catastrophe. A few words exchanged in a room full of people, on the
street, or near the piano, some furtive glances,--behold the relations
of the young man with Mathilde!

"The father had not the least idea that this unfortunate youth could
dare to throw his eyes on an inheritance worthy of a Rothschild. If
such a thought had by chance entered his head, he would have put it
away as a thing impossible.

"The English governess, mature but romantic still, was very fond of
these Platonic friendships, and had herself even such a weakness for
the young man that she hoped to fascinate him by the multiplicity of
her talents. She put no restraint upon her pupil, and she even took it
upon herself to assist them. His host, seeing the man[oe]uvres of Miss
Burnet, for he had for these things much perspicuity, laughed in his
sleeve, thinking it quite natural for Janus thus to commence his virile
career, and never dreaming that it was his daughter to whom the youth
aspired."

Jacob paused, as if short of breath, and Lucie gave him some sherbet.
There was a moment of silence, then he resumed his narrative in a
weaker voice:--

"Recall, each one of you, kind listeners, your youth and the earliest
flower of the springtime of your first love. Consider that angel of
candour, chained unhappily to the earth, this most prosaic earth, while
her wings unfold and open to carry her to heaven. The youth adored her
as a divinity, and she saw in him a celestial messenger sent to her
from the ethereal world. That is the romance which they held in their
hearts, and which they would not manifest visibly. Two words sufficed
to make them happy for a long time. A look, when they met during the
day, gave them new strength to live.

"The word 'love' was never mentioned between them. The same chaste
sentiment beat in unison in their hearts without inflaming their brains
or their senses. For them silence even was a poem of happiness; the
smile, a joy divine; and a flower was an avowal.

"These felicities, which appeared afterward like child's play, and
which reason turned to raillery, passed unperceived.

"Neither Mathilde's father nor her governess had the least suspicion of
anything serious. The father even thought that, at times, his daughter
was too timid and too cold toward Janus, and Miss Burnet reproached her
for the same thing. The want of theory or of practice, I know not
which, deceived her, and she supposed that it was to herself that Janus
aspired.

"Alas! this dream of the heart, this love without hope, vanished like a
dream at the gate of Paradise. One morning, or rather one afternoon,
the father ordered his daughter, with a very indifferent air, to dress
herself with much care, as he expected a visitor. A short time before
dinner there entered a young man, distinguished, well-bred, a perfect
man of the world, and whom the father presented under the name of Henri
Segel.

"There are presentiments! This black-eyed Antinoues, with a perpetual
smile on his lips, with an amiability so spiritual and so courteous,
frightened the girl. She felt for him a violent repulsion, a strange
sentiment which is explained by psychology only; she detested him,
although she had nothing with which to reproach him.

"He loved music, and was himself a good musician, and he was said to be
enormously rich.

"Three days after, the father said quietly to his daughter, without
asking her opinion, that Henri Segel was her betrothed. In announcing
this he said that she was to be congratulated on having pleased
Monsieur Segel, and that he had fallen desperately in love with her.
All this was in a tone which did not permit the slightest
contradiction. The thing was settled; she had nothing to say about it.

"The marriage seemed to him so suitable that all hesitation or
opposition would have appeared an unpardonable childishness. She ought
to consider herself a very lucky girl.

"Mathilde did not reply, but she grew frightfully pale. She was
congratulated on all sides, while she suffered in her heart. Her sad
glance seemed to say to Jacob"--

"Pardon me," cried Ivas, "but you called him Janus."

Jacob blushed, drank a glass of water, wiped his brow, and seemed
unable to continue his story.

"You are right," said he at last. "I was mistaken."

"Continue, monsieur,--continue, I beg of you," cried Lucie.

"It was," said the Jew, "a pleasant evening in springtime. The perfume
of flowers was spread abroad, and on the leaves glistened drops of dew.
Mathilde and Miss Burnet walked in the garden. Seated on a bench, Janus
held a book which he did not read. The Englishwoman saw him and
directed their steps toward him. Happily, or perhaps unfortunately,
just then there came a friend of Miss Burnet. Chance willed that the
lovers were left alone together. They were both glad and frightened at
this unexpected circumstance. They walked together for some time in
silence, trembling and hardly breathing. The two Englishwomen had a
thousand secrets to relate, and left them alone a long time. The
governess had even whispered to her pupil on leaving, 'Go as far as you
please.'

"They strolled along in silence. She gathered flowers, among the leaves
of which her tears mingled with the dew-drops. He, pensive, looked at
her and man-like held back the tears that rose to his eyes. Suddenly
Mathilde stopped. She raised her head proudly, as if she had gained a
victory over herself. She put her hand to her side, and threw on her
kinsman a strange look in which she gave herself to him for eternity.

"'Very soon,' murmured she, 'we must separate. You know what awaits me.
It will be sweet for me to recall this evening's walk. And you, will
you remember?'

"She spoke to him for the first time in a sad and solemn voice. Her
expressive words went to Janus' heart, and he thought he should go mad.
His heart beat violently, his hands were clenched on his breast.

"'Forget you, Mathilde!' cried he. 'Forget the happiness I have tasted
with you! Oh, no, never! Never! I swear to you that I will never marry
another woman, for I have loved you, and I love you still, as one loves
but once in life. Why need I tell you all my love when you know it
already!'

"'I have believed it, and I still believe it, but life is long and
memory unfaithful. For you men, it is said that love is a pastime, for
us it is existence. I have loved you, and I will never cease to love
you!'

"Stifled sobs interrupted her words.

"'Love could never be a plaything to me,' said Janus. 'In my eyes it is
the most sacred thing in life. It is the marriage of two souls for
eternity.'

"'I believe it,' cried Mathilde, 'and that is why I love you. I feel
that you are honest and sincere; you know what awaits me. They have
sold me to a man for whom I have an invincible aversion. But I will not
suffer long, for I shall soon die. May your soul be the tomb where my
memory will not perish! My father will raise for me a monument, my
husband will give me a fine funeral, but my grave before long will be
covered with weeds; may a memory of me remain, at least, in your
heart!'

"The Englishwomen were so absorbed in their conversation that they
prolonged their farewells for some time.

"'To-day,' continued Mathilde, 'I have seen you so sad that I have
wished, under pretence of saying adieu, to give you some words of
consolation. Who knows if we shall ever meet alone again; let me then
repeat that I love you; that I love and will love you until death.'

"'Mathilde,' cried he, rebelling against their destiny, 'if you have
confidence in me, leave this house. Behold two arms which can procure
you bread. Your father will forgive us, and you will be mine forever.'

"'No!' she answered firmly, after an instant of reflection; 'I love you
like a child, but I can reason like a mature woman. I do not believe in
a future; for me the future is a lure. I should bring you, perhaps,
some moments of happiness, but afterward I should be a cause of
weariness and remorse. You have no right to show yourself so ungrateful
to your protector, who has done much for you. Who knows whether you
would not be disappointed in me. I am already fading, having been
poisoned from my cradle. My unbelief awakens. I hear a mocking laugh
vibrate in my ears, even when tears are in my eyes. No, no! a hundred
times no! It will be better for you to love the dead, for who knows if
living, you would love me long.'

"She dismissed him with a sigh, and withdrew from him as if she feared
that she might be persuaded.

"After a little, she returned to Janus, who was lost in bitter
thoughts. He had remained where she had left him, with bowed head and
clasped hands.

"'What do you think of my future husband?' asked she.

"'I detest him.'

"'Is it because he is to be my husband?'

"'No. He produced this impression at first sight.'

"'And why?'

"'I know not. He is odious to me, although I know nothing against him.
He is rich, fashionable, very amiable. And with all that I cannot like
him.'

"'I even fear,' added Mathilde, 'that he has nothing human in him. He
is a being which appears to me to be utterly without heart, a sort of
automaton fabricated by the nineteenth century. With all his knowledge,
I am sure that he does not know how to weep, nor suffer, nor to have
pity or compassion on the sorrows of others. If he gives alms, it is
for ostentation or calculation; but he will not grieve for an
unfortunate; he will never sympathize with him nor mingle his tears
with his. Our epoch of iron has fashioned men worthy of herself. She
has made them of iron, and the blood that courses in their veins is no
longer pure, but has grown rusty.'

"'Perhaps you are a little too severe,' said Janus. 'However, it is the
same impression that I have formed of him. But love and a wife often
transform a man.'

"'A man, yes, but not an automaton. His very look freezes me. This
sweet smile, this perpetual gayety which cannot be natural, irritates
me. He is always the same,--a being of marble. My God! have pity on
me!'

"In saying these words she drew from her hand a ring and put it on one
of his fingers.

"'I bought this expressly for you. Preserve it in memory of her whom
you have loved. It is black; it is a mourning ring, the only kind
appropriate to our unhappy love. After to-day any conversation between
us will be impossible, so farewell, and forget me not.'

"She left him and joined her governess.

"These were the first and last words of love that passed between them.
They saw each other every day, but as strangers. They bowed to each
other, but neither of them ever sought another interview. Hereafter
only shadows and silence would surround their passion.

"Mathilde accepted, without a word, the husband that her father had
chosen for her. The marriage was celebrated with great ostentation. The
victim walked to the altar robed in satin and lace and covered with
diamonds.

"Her father was radiant with the joy of having so well established his
daughter. Every one knew that he had given her a million for a wedding
dowry, and that still another was promised, and that the husband
possessed several himself, with expectations besides. All the mothers,
all the fathers, and all the marriageable young girls envied Mathilde's
luck. Behold, in all its simplicity, the end of my story!

"Two years have passed, and you have met this husband and wife. He is
always calm and happy, she, sad. The only thing that ever troubles him
is when he fails to receive in good time the reports of the bourse of
Paris or London. To amuse him she sings, as you have heard, the music
of Mendelssohn. Truly, it was hardly worth while to listen to my story.
It is a romance which happens every day, and which has been related a
thousand times before."

"And Janus?" asked the lady.

"Janus wears always the ring of his only beloved. He bears his sorrow,
for in one hour he drained the dregs of despair. To-day he is only a
body without soul."

"The story is heart-rending above all expression," said Lucie, "and I
admit that I expected something more dramatic. The victim has all my
sympathy. As for the lover, I am not anxious about him. This 'body
without soul' will soon be consoled."

"I doubt it," replied Jacob. "Consolation comes only to those who wish
to console themselves. Janus is resigned to a perpetual mourning of the
heart."

"No one would believe," remarked Madame Coloni, "that this story was of
our day; its character is so simple and so elegiac."

Jacob rose; the hour was late, and all the company prepared to retire.
The Russian, who had remained silent all the evening, was the only one
who did not hasten to depart.

"Then, if not in Genoa, we shall meet again in Warsaw," said Lucie to
Ivas and Jacob.

"You are surely going there, madame?"

"It appears that it is decided," replied she, looking at her companion.
"The hour of departure only is not yet fixed. You will, perhaps, be
kind enough to come to see me."

Ivas and Jacob returned to the Hotel Feder.

"I believe," said Ivas, "that I will not hear the rest of your
biography this evening. You are already too fatigued with your
remembrances. Good-night!"




                              CHAPTER VI.

                          FROM GENOA TO PISA.


When Jacob awoke the next morning, he was astonished to find himself
alone. He was told that Ivas had gone out before daybreak. He was at
first alarmed about this matinal sortie, although he tried to explain
it by a desire to bathe in the sea, or curiosity to see the city. The
thought came to his mind that the poor boy wished to leave him, through
excess of susceptibility, and had departed, counting on his restored
strength. However, the sight of his little travelling-bag calmed his
fears, and he was waiting calmly for breakfast when Ivas returned.

"I went out," said he, shaking Jacob's hand, "to take a little walk. I
need air, solitude, and movement. I came on foot from Marseilles, and I
am accustomed to walking. I have no right to soften myself with
inaction. I must fatigue myself to feel that I live."

"You are a child," said Jacob smiling; "you distrust yourself, while so
many others have too much confidence in themselves. You possess that
which can vanquish all,--will. Strong as you feel in yourself you will
overcome all obstacles. I know men remarkable in all respects who have
never accomplished anything for lack of will, and I know other men who
by their energy have attained, by sheer determination, a position far
above that which their talents merited."

"You understand me," said Ivas, "and I fear to lose this will. I wished
a short battle to convince me that I was not benumbed. I wrestled
somewhat as Jacob, your namesake, did during his sleep, and I have
conquered."

"Where have you been?"

"Almost everywhere. In the dusty highway, in the tumult of the port, in
the deserted walks of Aqua Sola, and even under the windows of the
beautiful Mathilde."

"And what took you there?"

"I know not. I found myself there by chance. I have seen Madame Coloni,
the two Italians, and the Tsigane. We all met there to watch the
departure from Genoa of the marvellous singer."

"What, the departure! Perhaps they only went out for a walk."

"No; if they intended to remain longer in Genoa they have changed their
minds. The veturino told me that he was going to Spezia and Pisa. I do
not think the husband would go alone, and from the baggage that I have
seen I cannot tell how many travellers there are. The servant would not
answer one of my questions."

"Why did you question him?"

"From curiosity."

"Then they are gone?"

"Probably, but I did not wait to see them go. I did not wish to be seen
among the rabble which surrounded the carriage."

"Well," said Jacob suddenly, "what shall we do now? What do you
desire,--to remain here longer, or to proceed on our journey?"

"As you will; but your journey has nothing in common with mine. I must
go as soon as I have rested a little. You can do as you wish."

"Let me hear no more of this. Away with ceremony! It was agreed that we
travel together. Refuse, and you will offend me. Give me your hand. We
will go together. You can reserve your strength for something"better."

"But"--

"Where do you wish to go?"

"I should like to see Spezia and Pisa, if it is agreeable."

"Why?"

"Frankly, because Jacob wishes to go to Spezia, because Mathilde has
gone that way, because Janus and Jacob are one and the same person. On
his uncovered breast during his sleep I have seen a mourning ring
suspended from a black ribbon."

"Even without that it was easy for you to pierce this mystery. Yes,
that history is mine. Neither she nor I have any reason to blush. The
relative who sent me to school was Mathilde's father."

"Then we will go to Pisa?"

"Yes, and I think we had better go on foot, if it is agreeable to you.
The route is so beautiful that it deserves to be taken in detail. We
will consign our baggage to the diligence, and we will take to the road
like two wandering artists."

"An excellent idea. But let us depart before evening. I am anxious to
get to my country. My homesickness becomes each day more violent. I
foresee great events; impatience consumes me."

"Confess! You are a conspirator?"

"How could I be anything else? All Poland has conspired for two hundred
years. Oppression drives us to it; generations of martyrs have excited
us. Where life cannot expand in liberty, conspiracy is inevitable. It
is the natural result of despotism."

"I understand you. Unhappily, however, for a country which is in such a
situation, its inhabitants have lost confidence in themselves, and
recognize their own weakness. I can only comprehend a conspiracy like
ours, which has lasted two thousand years and which has led us to a
regeneration. It has agglomerated our forces in a solid and vigorous
union. Your conspiracies have something feverish about them that can
end only in morbid decadence."

"Do not say so, I beg of you! You have not the same love for Poland as
we, and you have not passed through such martyrdom."

"Excuse me for contradicting you. The country that has sheltered us,
where in spite of continual persecutions we have increased by labour,
has become for us a second country that we have chosen. You will think
as I do some day before long. I feel myself at the same time Israelite
and Pole."

"Men like you are rare," said Ivas. "I say it without flattery. In
general, your race is credited with little affection for the country
which has been a safeguard against other persecutors, and has
recognized you as her children."

"Softly! Review history without partiality. Religious fanaticism and
the arrogance of the nobility have long been an obstacle to the
admission of Jews as citizens. The fault is also with the Jews, who
have not tried to adopt the language and the customs of the country.
They have isolated themselves, made a state within a state, a nation
within a nation, and have not laboured sincerely to obtain that
naturalization which is obtained only by common bloodshed and devotion.
The fault is on both sides; both sides also ought to ask pardon and
forget the past. Our age is different from others. Civilization spreads
everywhere. Humane ideas are general; everything to-day tends to bring
us together and unite us. We tender you the hand, do not repulse us!"

"What! can our younger generation be capable of repulsing you? There
will be for a long while yet prejudices and repugnances, and evil
predictions, but the majority of the people accept frankly your hand.
Be then our brothers, but he is in spirit as well as in words, in
action as in appearance. Be our brothers, not in the time of prosperity
only, but in times of trouble and conflict."

Jacob pressed his companion's hand.

"Enough for to-day," said he. "We shall agree very well together, we
young men. The youth of Israel think as I do. However, with us, as with
you, there will be prejudices, old hatreds, secular distinctions; we
must not let ourselves be influenced by these remembrances of the past.
Love only can appease and unite us as one. Let us endeavour to love
each other. We shall have occasion to resume this subject; let us now
prepare to go. Shall it be on foot or in a carriage?"

"On foot, by all means."

That afternoon, dressed as pedestrians, they went to say farewell to
Lucie Coloni. They found her in the midst of preparations for
departure, in the midst of bags and trunks. The Russian was arranging
the books and papers. The lady was finishing paying bills.

Jacob and Ivas were going to leave, fearing to incommode them, when
Lucie looked up and saw Ivas.

"Ah, you are there! We are just going. Be sure to come to Warsaw, and
do not forget what I asked you. Let me hear from you; I shall be
anxious to see you. To-day I cannot talk longer. Do not forget Lucie
Coloni. At the theatre you will find my address."

The young Pole looked at her with astonishment.

"You go with Gromof?" asked he.

"Yes. He is an old friend. I do not know that he will accompany me all
the way. That depends. There is nothing certain. I will remind you that
you can be very useful to me. May that be a reason for our meeting
again."

"But how can I be useful to you?"

"Do not ask me now, I pray you. That is my business. _Au revoir! Addio!
Addio!_"

When they came down the steps which led to the narrow place that
separated the two hotels, they almost ran against the Tsigane who stood
gaping in the air, smoking his cigar, and gravely watching the asses
transporting their enormous loads to the wharf.

"Where are you two bound?" asked he.

"We leave to-day, on foot."

"On foot?"

"Yes."

"How ridiculous, when you can travel so much more comfortably! It is
good, however, to have whims. As for me I am no longer capable of them.
Still, if I could have for a companion the charming Italian I might
decide to go on foot with her. The Russian monopolizes her."

"I fear so!" cried the Dane, suddenly appearing. "She has made an
execrable choice. They have gone together; I have seen them off. Where
are they going?"

"We know not. Perhaps toward the south."

"It is the cheapest way," replied the Dane, "and perhaps that is why
the Russian will take it. One hardly needs food when they have
swallowed the dust on the way. That is why I have decided to go by
water. I love to travel that way much better than by land. I came to
say good-by to _la belle_ Coloni. I hoped to cut out the Russian, and I
still have hopes that when I meet her again she may be tired of him. In
order to gain a victory one must try."

"He calls that a victory; droll idea!" said the Tsigane. "He ignores
the fact that in Italy one can obtain as many Lucie Colonis as he
wishes for travelling companions."

"I do not believe," said Ivas, "that there are many persons as good and
as _spirituelle_ as this Lucie."

"I forgot that she came to your assistance at the Grotto. That is
nothing. It only proves that she has a good heart. Any other woman
would have screamed, and profited by the occasion to swoon gracefully.
But I do not see the necessity of spirit in women. What use is it to
them? To bite? They have their teeth for that."

Then addressing Jacob, the Tsigane continued: "Will you accept me as a
companion? I ask it as a favour."

The two men questioned each other with their eyes. Gako perceived it,
and said haughtily: "I withdraw my request. Stamlo is too old and too
tiresome. Then the heat, the dust, render the diligence preferable.
Adieu!"

He took leave of them and quickly disappeared.

"That is much better," said the Jew. "We should have had a tiresome
companion."

The sun was sinking into the sea when the two comrades left their hotel
and set out for Spezia. The suburbs of Genoa were marvellously
beautiful. There were cypress and orange groves, and vineyards; flowers
bloomed on every side, and birds sang in the branches overhead. Soon
their pathway led along the border of the sea; at each moment the scene
changed like a panorama. In springtime or in autumn this route is
overrun by swarms of tourists who pass by with such rapidity that they
retain only a vague impression of its beauty. Less numerous are the
travellers who know how to travel slowly, and make frequent halts to
drink in the beauty of the country.

Our friends were of the number who hasten slowly. They were in no way
troubled about their arrival at Spezia; they were sure to find a
lodging somewhere, for it was not difficult. A rustic chamber, some
fish salad and cheese, some wine of the district, more or less
palatable, that was to be found everywhere; and for lights they could
have primitive little lamps, the rays from which are agreeable enough,
but too feeble to permit one to read and write easily. Civilization in
Italy has introduced wax candles only in the large cities.

Before they were fatigued, Jacob and Ivas procured asses, whose easy
gait permits one to sleep if one wishes. These useful animals are
accustomed to carry men as well as the most fragile objects.

The day had given place to twilight when they came to the orange groves
of Nervi, with the flowers of which is made a water for spasms,
celebrated the world over.

Until then the friends had spoken on many subjects. "You promised me to
finish your biography," at last said Ivas. "You have disarranged a
little the chronological order by your love episode, but it will not be
difficult to reestablish and complete your recital."

"With pleasure. I have concealed nothing, and yesterday I was obliged
to reveal the most secret part of my life. I believe we left off where
I entered school. Persecuted by my comrades, I learned there to know
life as well as grammar. There were no notable events during that
period. It opened to me, however, the doors of science, which I
embraced to a surprising extent. Until then I had read only the Bible,
which comprised for me the entire world. Since then I have been
interested not only in the development of a single people, but of
humanity. My exclusive faith in the chosen people was shaken by these
studies. They appeared to me under a different light. My faith was
troubled and my mind made more independent. Finally, I returned to the
Bible more a Jew than ever, but of a different kind. Perhaps it is
difficult for you to comprehend my Judaism. I will try, then, to
explain to you how our society, strongly united by the remembrance of
former persecutions, is to-day divided into several divergent factions.

"The Jew is no longer what he was when his absolute separation forced
him to be himself,--to live, to reflect, and to instruct, within the
narrow circle which hostile Christianity had traced for him. From time
to time this circle sent out a Maimonides or a Spinosa, but it was
largely composed of a compact body of strict and faithful believers. We
grouped ourselves around the Ark of the Covenant. To-day the Jews are
more liberal, less restrained, and walk in different paths. Many reject
the ancient law, and accept in appearance another religion, while, in
reality, they have none. My protector, the father of Mathilde, was one
of this type. Educated by strangers, in the midst of indifferent men,
he lost, at an early age, all respect for our traditions. Liberated
from all ceremonious restraint, he was not a Christian, but had arrived
at a stand-point, as you already know, where he reduced morality to
calculation, and had taken reason for his guide.

"Man is only the most perfect animal. Above him exist other worlds,
other beings, other conceptions; besides the body, there is a soul,
which unites itself to the divinity, and can soar higher than the earth
or stars. Materialism and atheism satisfy neither society nor
individual. Their adepts are like flowers torn from their stalks: they
wither rapidly. Take away God and the soul, and what would be the
result with our refined civilization? An age such as ours, which
subjugates the elements, pierces the mysteries of nature, but knows not
how to distinguish good from evil. It is an age which worships only
force, and where are heard in prolonged echoes the _vae victis_. There
is nothing more sad than to see men who have overthrown tradition, and
who have no other hope or aim but material prosperity.

"They are only too numerous in your communion as well as ours. The
Christian who has ceased to be a Christian, the Jew who rejects Moses,
have for a horizon only an earthly life consecrated to the satisfaction
of their passions. Even when they appear to be happy, they are at heart
miserable. They end in apathy or insanity. Man finds in Mosaism an
intellectual nourishment sufficient for his reason.

"In order to decry the faith of Moses, which is the basis of
Christianity, it is unjust to take advantage of certain singularities
in the Talmud which are almost always falsely ridiculed. Even in the
Talmud one finds a poetry of which any literature might be proud."

"I know nothing of this poetry," said Ivas.

"You have, however, read quotations from the Talmud chosen in such a
way as to cast ridicule upon it."

"No; I know almost nothing of it."

"Are you curious to have some idea of it? Would you like to know the
Paradise or the Hell after the rabbinical conceptions?"

"From preference the Hell, for human imagination is more apt to
represent the tortures of the damned than the delights of the elect.
Dante's Heaven is very inferior to his Hell. Probably it is the same
thing with the Talmud."

"I do not know. The description of the abode of the blessed in the Book
Jalkut (7. A.) is full of splendour."

"As for Hell in the book, Nischmas Khaim, it is separated from Paradise
by a very thin wall, symbol of the narrow bounds which often separate
vice and virtue. The river which rushes through the Hell is boiling,
whilst that which flows through Paradise is of an agreeable freshness.
Three routes lead to it: by the sea, by the desert, and by a city of
the world. Five kinds of fire burn continually in Hell, of which the
extent is sixty times greater than that of the earth. It is governed by
three chiefs. The most important of this triumvirate is called Dumah.
This Dumah has three prime ministers,--Ghinghums, Taschurinia, and
Sazsaris. The palace of this demon is situated in that part of Hell
called Bor.

"Hell is full of scorpions and serpents, and is divided into several
departments. The deepest and the most frightful serves as a sewer for
the filth of the other hells, and for the poison of the old serpent
that seduced Eve.

"The Talmud is varied. It contains dialogues, controversies,
dissertations, allegories, and moral tales. It is a collection of the
writings of several ages, through which one can follow the variations
in the Hebrew language. They have tried to establish in this confusion
a certain order. Maimonides, among others, has tried it; but his book
on this subject, although very much esteemed, has not been accepted by
all.

"In opposition to the unbelieving Jews like Mathilde's father, there
are Jews who adhere blindly to the Talmud, and put several rabbis on a
level with Moses. Others, like myself, put their faith in the Old
Testament, and are content to respect the traditions related in the
Talmud. At first by early Jewish education, afterward by my European
education, I became an Israelite of a special kind. The Talmud, from
which I sought to draw lessons of wisdom, had not made me
superstitious. At the bottom of my heart I guard as a most precious
treasure my religious belief. I do not repel the light of reason nor
the law of progress, a negation which would, in a way, separate me from
actual humanity. My faith and my reason agree perfectly.

"When I was called to Warsaw by my kinsman, I had not the least idea of
the true situation of my co-religionists. In the provinces I had met
many kinds of Jews. Some were so faithful to their belief that they
dared not depart from the most useless and inexplicable rules. Others,
our brothers by blood, were no more ours in customs and spirit.

"I approached the capital of the kingdom with lively emotions, anxious
for the future, and ignorant of the world I was about to enter.

"The provincial Jews live and have lived entirely separated from the
Christians. Here I met them for the first time mixed and confounded, if
not by law, at least by habit, with the population. At first I could
hardly comprehend the thing. I met Jews who sought to conceal their
origin, visible as it was on their Semitic brows, among whom some were
believers, others complete sceptics. Our race, by wealth, education,
and acquired importance, were in position to court and obtain political
and civil equality. The old Polish nobles, imbued with bygone
prejudices, saw with alarm this imminent fusion, and endeavoured to
prevent or to <DW44> it, considering always the children of Israel as
strangers and intruders. On both sides hatred has been kindled, and the
position is false in both camps. Those whom daily business brought
together, whom necessity united, who had mutual interests, remained
like armed foes divided by remembrances, prejudices, and fanaticism.

"However, victory for us is certain. Justice and the spirit of the
times render it inevitable; but I digress, as usual.

"Mathilde's father, feeling sure of his pupil, introduced me into
society. I had other kindred in the capital, and before long I had made
many acquaintances.

"I was much chagrined by the sentiment of the greater part of my
compatriots, a sentiment incomprehensible to me,--of shame at being
Jews. In the houses of the wealthy there was not the slightest vestige
of the faith and traditions of our fathers. The ancient customs had
disappeared, the religious ceremonies were not observed. They concealed
themselves to celebrate the Sabbath.

"I would like to describe some types of the community difficult to
characterize in general, but it would take too long.

"We made evident progress; still we were in some sort dispersed and
enfeebled, and what is worse, the country was indifferent to us. If we
displayed any patriotic sentiments, they were rather affected than
sincere. It was rather from pride than from duty. We had almost ceased
to be Jews, and we knew not how to become Poles. We started, as it
were, on a voyage without compass. Unhappy situation!"

Jacob sighed and ceased speaking. The darkness obliged them to halt at
an inn near by. It was a small brick house built on a hill near the
sea-shore. The sign bore the name, _Albergo di Tre Corone_.

Near the door, whence streamed the cheerful light from a crackling
wood-fire, they saw a cart with two horses surrounded by men clad like
sailors with their jackets thrown over their shoulders. A woman holding
an infant to her breast was seated against the wall. Around the house
were vineyards, aloe and fig trees, the whole scene being thrown out in
strong relief by the glimmering firelight.

Our travellers relieved themselves of their bags, ordered supper, and
in the interval of waiting went down near the sea, and, seating
themselves on a rock, listened to the ebb and flow of its murmuring
waters. Near them under the stunted bushes flew innumerable fireflies,
seeming in the obscurity to be little sparkling stars. They rested
mute, in the silence of the evening, the prayer of the tired earth.




                              CHAPTER VII.

                            VOYAGE ON FOOT.


Our companions were awakened early next morning by the coming and going
of travellers at the inn, a noise which was only dominated by the
braying of asses. Jacob and Ivas resolved to depart immediately, and,
profiting by the freshness of the morning, to make up the time they had
lost the previous evening. Short stages, such as that of the day
before, threatened if continued to render their journey interminable;
but their excuse was that their route lay through an enchanting country
where the beauties of the landscape made them forget the flight of the
days.

They walked for some time without exchanging a single word. Both were
absorbed in thought. Finally Ivas broke a silence which weighed equally
on his companion.

"Well," said he, "have you finished your history? I have your life in
general, but it lacks many details. You ought to have something more to
tell me."

"It would be as easy," replied Jacob, "to finish my recital in two
words, as to continue it for two years, without even then exhausting
the subject. However, if you desire it, we will take it up where we
left off.

"My kinsman observed me attentively. My reflections often astonished
and displeased him. He found me too much of a Jew, and when on Saturday
I announced to him that I wished to go to the synagogue, it was with
surprise that he replied:--

"'Why? Do you wish to remain faithful to obsolete prejudices?'

"'Yes. I wish to remain a Jew.'

"'Do as you will,' said he, 'but know beforehand that the point in
question is to be a man. After that, complete liberty in religious
matters.'

"After this interview he looked on me as an individual on whom he could
count only up to a certain point.

"One day he spoke to me of a person who, as he said, shared my
convictions. He was an old man named Louis Mann, whom I knew by sight,
and who passed for one of the deep thinkers of the city.

"The next day I went to pay my respects to him at an hour when I was
almost certain to find him at home. He lived with his wife and three
daughters in the first floor of a fine mansion. His apartments were
richly furnished, and his son lived in a separate house near by.

"When I rang the bell a servant showed me into a little reception-room.
A half-open door permitted me to look into the _salon_, and see a
brilliant company of ladies and elegant cavaliers. I waited a long
quarter of an hour. Mann then came in to see me; he did not deign to
introduce me to his family or guests. I was received politely, but not
as an equal. He made me understand that he did me an honour by
receiving a homage which was due to him as a co-religionist, but that
he had no desire to have any social relations with me.

"My position was embarrassing enough. On one side ladies dressed in the
latest fashion surrounded the mistress of the house, who was clad in a
magnificent robe of embroidered satin. I had not even been asked to sit
down, as Monsieur Mann evidently disdained my unfashionable clothes.
His pride did not hurt me; in spite of my poverty I had a most profound
sentiment of self-respect, and it made me feel for this person puffed
up with his own importance more pity than resentment.

"He began to give me advice, mentioning the names of many rich
Israelites and dignitaries of the highest places, happy to let me see
that he had intimate relations with these distinguished men. What did
it matter? Wishing to dazzle me, he laid bare his littleness, and I
remember perfectly the glitter of three decorations that ornamented his
morning coat.

"'Young man,' said he in a solemn voice, 'I am rejoiced that your most
worthy kinsman has tendered you a helping hand. By your assiduity and
labour try to recompense him and render yourself useful to our race. We
are all disposed to assist you, but you must make yourself worthy of
us.'

"Still speaking, he looked at the door without even condescending to
turn his head toward me. As he finished speaking there entered a lovely
young girl who scanned me with half-closed eyes, then approached her
father, put her arm around his neck and whispered something in his ear
without granting me the least recognition.

"That was enough. There was nothing for me to do but retire as soon as
possible. Mann, not thinking of detaining me, dismissed me coldly and
entered the _salon_.

"I learned later on that he had done many benevolent actions, but,
right or wrong, I have always attributed them to his extreme vanity. I
ought to be grateful that in difficulties he has always put himself
forward as the protector of the Jews. Far from being ashamed of his
origin, he proclaimed it aloud and gloried in it. It was, perhaps,
because he wished to pass as the representative of his people and be
celebrated. Many times even he has agitated the subject in a perfectly
useless and stupid manner.

"Mann was apparently a chief, but his followers were composed of a
phalanx of adroit advisers who knew well how to accustom him to adopt
their ideas as his own.

"His house was always open to visitors who considered him, or pretended
to consider him, as the influential leader of the Jewish population of
the city. Never did an exterior so well correspond to the character of
a man. Short and corpulent, with broad shoulders, he had the air of
carrying the world on his back, a crushing weight for others, but
insignificant for a person of his calibre. In private life he played
willingly enough the role of querulous benefactor.

"In other respects an honest man, his Jewish orthodoxy, although
lacking sincerity, was, at least, a satisfaction to his pompous vanity.
Under a mask of religion he equalled my kinsman in scepticism. They
both had one real sentiment,--hatred for the nobility; and as I did not
look on things as they did, they seemed to me extremely unjust. They
concealed this enmity as much as possible; they lived on good terms
with many of the nobles, and even made them great demonstrations of
friendship. It was a comedy on both sides.

"Would you know the Jews in their worst light, then ask a Polish noble.
Would you learn the vices and follies of the nobility, question a Jew.

"The populous city was a large field of study for a curious observer
like myself. I sought to learn the inmost character of the people of
Israel. My attachment to them dated from infancy, and for a long while
I hoped to consecrate my life to the amelioration of my race. Still
weak, unknown, without influence and without knowledge, I could hardly
believe myself equal to the role to which I aspired; but an interior
voice encouraged me. I dreamed of regenerating the Polish Israelites.
But in this dream I did not believe that the reform would commence in
the higher classes. These were they who above all were an obstacle to
my mission, through systematic indifference, always a thing more
difficult to overcome than the most inveterate prejudice.

"The question being more complex than I had at first supposed, I found
it necessary to acquire a more solid instruction in order to combat it.
I consecrated anew all my leisure to reading the Bible and its
commentaries. At the outset my sojourn at Warsaw was sustained by sweet
illusions, and my daily meetings in the city were very profitable to my
intelligence. Conversations with this one and that one showed me the
urgency of a reform to purify the Talmud and affirm the Bible and its
teachings. The enterprise promised to be no less successful with
mocking sceptics like my cousin, than with sincere fanatics whose sins
were only excess of credulity.

"I really do not know how the idea of such a gigantic project
originated in my mind. Humblest of men, I only know that I had a
confidence in myself which increased with difficulties. In place of
discouraging me, obstacles only enlarged the circle of my activity. I
was in no haste to set to work. I wished above all to discover the
ground and the weak point of my adversaries. That which frightened me,
without making me renounce my project, was the great number of atheists
among the Israelites.

"Mann and my cousin were not the only leaders of unbelief. Always and
everywhere in the ruling class I met counterparts of these two men. The
lower class offered me some consolation. Among them, though belief
might be extinguished, religious customs still existed. There was often
an abyss between true religion and its practice whose corruption was
great, but at times there appeared an instance of virtue, radiant and
pure.

"Everything assured me that my idea of reform was a just one, and that
the propitious hour was not far off when I should become the instrument
of God for the advancement of the people of Israel."

Jacob arose from his seat on the rock as he spoke, and his face shone
with a superb and devout inspiration.

"And the streets of Warsaw did not make you lose your illusions?" asked
Ivas smiling.

"Not at all. The thought that I carried from my distant province I
preserved in the Polish capital. I have published it in my journeys,
and I will take it back to Poland. The thought is my life!"

"Alas!" cried Ivas, "you come too late. The days of the prophets and
the lawgivers are past. Proselytism is not possible in an epoch where
each individual feels himself as capable as his neighbour of reasoning,
of reforming, and of advancing by following his own impulses. No one
will permit himself in these days to be led by the hand like a child."

"You are mistaken. Prophets are of all times, and, as general education
is perfected, a guide is necessary to indicate the end to be obtained,
and to conduct the masses by the power of superior virtue."

"Have you, then, the hope of raising yourself to that position?"

"I know not. But the sentiment of this mission would not have taken
such root in my soul if it came not from God. If I think to shrink from
the task, a superior power orders me to advance."

"Poor dreamer!" thought Ivas.

"The burden is heavy," Jacob continued; "I do not ignore that. My
personal worth has nothing to do with the thing. My object is so
sublime that it awes me. But," said he suddenly, "you do not appear to
comprehend me."

"No matter, I admire you!" replied the young Pole, shaking his
companion's hand warmly. "I know very little of the Israelites, but I
sympathize with them. Your race resembles ours. An ingenious Muscovite
teacher, in one of his manuals for the schools where history is learned
by questions and answers, has put the following question: 'Which are
the nations without a country?' The official reply is: 'The Jews, the
Gypsies, and the Poles.' I have never forgotten that wicked irony of a
Russian teacher. Between you and me there is a likeness, and at the
same time an unlikeness. Your oppression dates back to ages whose very
antiquity is in one way an excuse for barbarism, while ours dates from
an age that has taken for its device 'Fraternity, equality, and
liberty!' Compared with other people in this nineteenth century,
except, perhaps, the Irish, our destiny is a frightful anachronism. But
to return to the Jews."

"You know me much better now," continued Jacob slowly. "You see before
you a fanatic, an original, an eccentric, a man who believes, who
hopes, who has a determined aim in life. I have undertaken my journey
only to prepare myself better for the execution of my project. I am
more convinced than ever of the necessity of the task which I have
assumed. I have seen the Jews in almost every land. Everywhere I have
found in them the two maladies which poison my co-religionists in
Poland,--indifference or unbelief, which renders us cosmopolites;
fanaticism, or ignorance, which puts on us the ban of humanity. These
two dangerous elements threaten to extend. Israel will disappear from
the surface of the earth, like all nations who repudiate their glorious
past, like nations detached from the maternal breast of humanity, which
live an exclusive life exhausting and extinguishing themselves. Israel
has great need of regeneration."

"And you expect to be the regenerator?"

"I count only on indicating the work. What reason should hinder me from
putting my hand to the task for which I have prepared myself with
assiduity and perseverance. The will is an immense force.

"After my visit to Mann, my cousin asked me what impression I had
formed of this man whom he knew better than I. He sought, no doubt, by
this question to better understand my humble self.

"'I found him,' replied I, 'so occupied that it was a trouble to
receive me.'

"'Did he not receive you well?'

"'Yes. But'--

"'Bah! You must not attach importance to his reception. He is a boor
whose grossness is only partly concealed. At heart he is an honest and
excellent man.'

"We arose from the table, the ladies passed into the _salon_, and my
cousin led me to his study, where he drew from me a detailed report of
my visit.

"'I am young,' added I in finishing, 'and I have therefore nothing to
seek. At all events, I have no desire to see him again.'

"'On the contrary! On the contrary! You must go to see him often. Shake
off your timidity. With men in general be bold without impertinence.
The less you treat them with respect, the more consideration they will
have for you. Abase yourself, and they will put you under their feet.'

"'You are right,' replied I; 'nevertheless I cannot change myself; I
cannot be bold by reflection nor calculation, nor humble by interest.
It is unfortunate to have so little control over one's self, but it
would be in vain for me to attempt to change my nature.'

"'Then you will never amount to anything. In the world, in order to
succeed, one must play a continual part; one must know how to be humble
when one is really proud, and to show one's self valiant when paralyzed
by fear. Otherwise one is exposed to impositions, dominated over and
crushed. You must crush or be crushed; which would you rather do?'

"'So wretched a rule of conduct,' said I, 'will never be mine. My
principles are absolutely different. I look on life as a grave and
serious mission; as for yourself, excuse my frankness, it is not a role
learned in advance for the theatre.'

"'Oh, I do not mind,' said he; 'but our two systems differ because you
have too good an opinion of men. Yours is fine in appearance,
detestable in results. Open your heart, unveil your inmost thoughts, it
is to deliver them voluntarily as food for men whom reason commands us
to despise as our natural enemies.'

"'I would rather,' cried I, 'regard them as brothers!' My cousin
laughed ironically and stroked his beard.

"'My dear,' added he, 'it matters not what you prefer, but what really
exists. I have never supposed that you were so innocent. All the
bucolic pictures of mankind are very well in paintings, tapestries, or
screens, but in practical life to believe in Utopia is always to remain
a dupe. At times man is good and honest, but he inclines more
frequently to evil. Is it not worth while to lean on a normal state
rather than on exceptions of short duration?'

"'But humanity will perfect itself.'

"'When? How? All nonsense! Industry will advance, implements will be
perfected so that we may be nourished and clad, commerce will develop,
but not man. That which makes life easy for the masses is a benefit,
and yet the question is not determined whether all this progress
corrupts or elevates mankind. The question is not settled. We must use
men like tools to elevate ourselves, and not lose time by loving them
as a whole. The useless ought to be put out of the way without pity.
The capable we must learn to make use of. Behold my theory! Your's
leads to nothing. Sensibility is a disease, a malady of the worst
kind.'

"This terrible theory did not frighten me; I was prepared to hear it.
This was for me a decisive and memorable day. It brought together, and
at the same time drew apart, my mentor and myself. He continued,
looking me in the face:--

"'As I wish you well, not from a morbid sensibility, but to make of you
a man who may be useful to me, I will give you one more word of advice.
You have a habit, as if to distinguish yourself, of boasting
continually of being a Jew. It is ridiculous, and will injure you
seriously.'

"'It would, I think, be still more ridiculous to wish to conceal it,
and that I will never do,' replied I, 'for I am strongly attached to my
race and to my belief. By simple calculation, even, would it not be a
hundred times better to declare my origin than to conceal it, that it
may afterward be thrown in my face as an insult?'

"'But why recall your origin everywhere you go?'

"'Because I am proud of it.'

"'Proud, and why? That is inconceivable. Judaism was, perhaps, in
former times our shield and buckler, but it is no longer so.'

"'But our religion,' commenced I.

"'Our religion! What is it more than other religions? They are all
alike. So much milk for babes. You believe, then, that it is wicked to
yoke together an ox and an ass for labour, or to mix blood with milk,
or silk with wool, and that whoever does not keep these old rules and
reply Amen to them will go to hell?'

"'I respect even these old ordinances of my faith, difficult as they
are to explain. I see the reason in the law of Moses of the order not
to mix grains in the fields: it is a wise agricultural measure. To
forbid two animals working together, one of whom is much weaker than
the other, is a protection for the beasts. Not to mix blood and milk is
probably a good hygienic law. Not to wear silk and wool at the same
time can pass for a sumptuary law, designed as a lesson against
superfluous luxury. In general, all these prohibitions against mixing
species are symbols of the necessity that there is for Israelites not
to mix with other nations. I respect these rules even when I cannot
explain them. The 'Amen' in the schools is a duty, for not to assent to
the rabbins is to show unbelief.'

"My cousin listened, astonished at the enthusiasm of my answer, then he
shrugged his shoulders.

"'You had better get rid of these prejudices,' said he.

"'If they were prejudices, you would be right, but you cannot call
respected traditions prejudices. It is to put our faith in danger."

"'What is faith?'

"'The definition is unintelligible to those who do not feel the need of
it.'

"'It is easy to recognize, in listening to you, the teachings of your
first fanatical masters.'

"'I do not dream of shaking off the teachings of childhood. They have
made me a member of God's chosen people. Leave me my convictions.'

"'Keep them, if you will. Your whims will depart of themselves. All I
ask is that you keep them to yourself. Actual society is tolerant, but
it does not like fanaticism, for that always denotes a narrow mind or
an unhealthy state. Truly none of us forgets that he is a Jew, but it
is unnecessary and injurious for one to be perpetually clothed in his
Judaism.'

"The life of my guardian conformed in all things to his principles. He
was guided by cold reason, sometimes also by passion, which he knew
well how to bridle, but never by sentiment, of which he was either
destitute, or from which he strove to deliver himself. I know not if he
was fashioned thus by nature or by education, but each one of his steps
was regulated by self-interest. He put calculation above all things. He
loved his daughter, but in his own way; he had disposed of her, as he
thought, excellently, and had brought her up to conform to his ideas.

"A terrible despot under a benign form, he had a conservative instinct
to undertake nothing that was not certain to succeed. Fighting against
obstacles, where to draw back would have been an avowal of his
weakness, he almost always succeeded where other men failed.

"He now endeavoured to widen the circle of my acquaintances. In spite
of my distaste to pushing myself on in this way, he did not cease to
preach to me that I must take men by storm. He often took me to visit
people who were odious to him; for these he reserved his most gracious
smiles, his most cordial protestations. He turned a deaf ear to all
offensive allusions, and did not appear to notice the indifference of
this one nor the ostensible malevolence of another. He had such control
over himself that things which completely upset me did not seem to make
the least impression on him. He contented himself with biting his lips
and smiling. But afterward the reaction was violent, and the more his
irritation had been restrained the more violent was his hatred when he
had taken off the mask. Reason, which always predominated with him, was
the only thing which kept him from passing the bounds prescribed by
prudence.

"From the first year of my sojourn in Warsaw he initiated me into the
world of speculators, where one must know how to defend one's self in
order not to be crushed. Every day I felt myself less adapted to
such a life. What shocked me most was the continual lying; hardly any
one thought of speaking the truth. I adopted a different line of
conduct,--an audacious frankness.

"Men, who always judge others by themselves, imagined that I played an
easy part, and that I acted thus by calculation. I succeeded well
enough in business, but in the midst of rogues of all kinds I passed
equally for a rogue, an impostor of a new school who played with truth.
I acquired the reputation of being a good actor. This troubled me a
little, but it gave me the measure of men of our epoch who have for
their motto: '_Mundus vult decipi ergo decipiatur_.'

"Mathilde, in these early days, was my only consolation. You already
know that I loved her; you know that our love resembled a flower
concealed in the grass. For her, at least, I was neither a knave nor a
comedian. A sentiment clearer than reason gave her confidence in my
words. Our conversations were not like those of lovers. By an
inexplicable mystery Mathilde's heart had not been chilled by her
education. Many things were not alluded to in our discussions, which
almost always took place in the presence of her governess. I did not
like to let her know my opinion of her father, for whom she bore a
lively affection, which it was not my wish to disturb. I also loved him
in spite of his perversity. Some allusions from Mathilde made me
understand that he also had suffered in his youth.

"My guardian knew how to gratify his desires without infringing the
strictest propriety or the most severe decorum. It was known, perhaps,
but no one ever saw the least impropriety in his conduct.

"For a year he spoke to me no more of religion. At the end of that
period, accidentally, perhaps, rather than by deliberation, he renewed
the conversation. No doubt he wished to know if my prolonged sojourn in
Warsaw had modified my ideas and calmed my enthusiasm. Finding me
absolutely unchanged, he abruptly changed the subject.

"Some days after, he mentioned to me houses where I ought to pay
frequent visits, hoping that the influence of those I met at them would
act on my sentiments and ideas. He recommended to me a family very
important among the Israelites. This family was descended from the
tribe of Levi, and numbered several members living together in perfect
harmony, although one remained a Jew, another had embraced
Protestantism, and a third had become a Catholic. My cousin approved
this family as a model of indifference in religious matters. Pleasing
to him, the spectacle scandalized me.

"The melancholy which reigned in Mathilde's soul I discovered also more
or less developed in most of the women of her race, who can be divided
into two categories: frivolous women without principle, and women
obliged to conceal their noble instincts, knowing them forbidden."

The entire day was passed in conversation which gave Ivas much to think
of, and although the friends rode on their donkeys, and two days had
passed since their departure, they were yet not far from Genoa.

Night found them in a little village on the sea-shore, near hills
crowned with cypress, palms, and orange trees; the huts were covered
with ivy and surrounded by myrtle and laurels.

They sought a lodging, and engaged one in a narrow street whose houses
were built over ancient arches sunk in the middle of a hillock. In the
distance a travelling-carriage without horses announced a hotel.

"What a meeting!" cried Ivas. "Unless the Italian carriages resemble
each other like drops of water, I swear that is the one which carried
Monsieur and Madame Segel from Genoa."

Jacob stopped short at the same moment. He recognized Mathilde's
husband standing at the door of the inn near a woman who, from her
height and figure, bore no resemblance to his wife.

"It is a hallucination! It is not possible!" exclaimed the Jew.

"There is no doubt. It is Segel; it is he!" said Ivas.

Jacob's heart beat violently.

"Yet," added he, as if to explain the reality, "they should be far from
here, even supposing some accident had happened to their carriage. It
is singular.--Yes, it is Henri--perhaps she is ill, she--Let us seek
another inn. It will be awkward for all. Ivas, go and assure yourself
of this thing."

The Jew seated himself near a cafe bearing the motto, _Del Gran
Colombo_. A quarter of an hour later the messenger returned. He seemed
surprised.

"Well, how is it?" asked Jacob.

"Very strange. It is he, but--it is not she."

"You dream! Your eyes deceived you, without doubt."

"No, I never forget a face. This one is a young Italian, fresh and gay.
Impossible to compare her with Madame Mathilde: she is heaven, this one
the earth."

"Then the man cannot be Henri!"

"Certainly it is he."

"Are they alone together?"

"All alone, like turtle-doves. Madame or mademoiselle eats peaches,
throws side glances at Segel, laughs and sings."

"I must see it with my own eyes," said Jacob.

The friends approached the inn, and Jacob soon assured himself that it
was Henri, accompanied by an unknown woman with all the fascinations of
an opera-dancer.

He was about leaving when Henri Segel saw him, saluted him gayly, and
drew near.

"Is that you?" cried he. "You have caught me in _flagrante delicti_.
Poor Mathilde is sick. She returned to Genoa after having accompanied
me as far as Nervi. She will remain there quietly for a fortnight. As
for myself, I needed distraction, and, by chance, I met an old
acquaintance, la Signora Gigante, a French opera-dancer, who is the
best of company. Bored and wearied as I am by the monotony of life, I
seized this occasion to enjoy myself. One must laugh sometimes. Gigante
is as simple-hearted and gay as a child. You have no idea how amusing
she is. She has drawn me from the monotony of my existence."

He confessed all this naturally and without embarrassment.

Jacob, stupefied, could hardly believe his ears, and knew not what to
reply.

"Mathilde," added the husband, "as you know, is the most beautiful and
accomplished of women; but such ideal creatures are fatiguing. It is
not always agreeable to talk of serious things in a solemn tone. A man
occupied as I am needs sometimes to breathe easily. Gigante is an
admirable clown in petticoats. Come, come, you will sup with us. You
will laugh! You will be amused, I assure you."

Jacob felt a great wrath grow in him. He laughed savagely.

"I accept willingly," said he ironically; "life is made only for
amusement."

Gigante, no longer able to repress her curiosity, drew near in order to
ascertain who the two strangers were that examined her with so much
curiosity. Her attention was bestowed principally on Jacob, as Ivas,
poorly clad, promised little. She tripped toward them singing, and the
refrain echoed in the street in bursts of gayety.


           "Je suis seule depuis longtemps,
              Seule, seulette.
            Eh, je suis veuve en mon printemps,
              Veuve et fillette;
            Pas d'espoir d'horizon vermeil
              Pour moi seulette,
            Il manque a mon ciel ton soleil,
              Veuve et fillette."


Segel began to laugh on hearing this couplet, which she accompanied
with very expressive gestures. Without finishing the song she began to
sing another, the melancholy words of which clashed with the joyous
air.


           "Elle a perdu son tourtereau,
              Pauvre tourterelle!
            Elle erre seule au bord de l'eau
              En trainant son aile;
            Elle fuit les nids aux chansons
              Que l'amour epele;
            Elle fuit les fleurs des buissons
              Sans attrait pour elle;
            Et se baigne dans le ruisseau
              Seule mais fidele.
            Quel tourment! plus de tourtereau!
              Pauvre tourterelle!"


By a lively pantomime she acted the poor turtledove. The lost
turtle-dove was, without doubt, Henri Segel, who almost burst his sides
laughing. The signora after this exhibition drew near her cavalier, who
presented the two gentlemen.

"Ah! Signori Polachi! I like the Poles exceedingly," cried she, turning
toward Jacob. "_E Viva la povera Pologna!_ Ah, ah, ah! Is it true that
in your country it is so cold that sometimes the fowls freeze in
winter, and do not thaw out until spring? Bologne--Pologne; same thing,
isn't it? Have you been at Genoa? Did you go to the theatre? I dance
and I sing at Carlo Felici. I am at the head of the chorus. I am
promised before long the role of mezzo-soprano. Have you seen me play
the sorceress? No? That's too bad."

"Dear Gigante," interrupted Henri, "if you tell everything at once
there will be no more to say."

"I know more songs than any one else," replied she gayly. "I have a
throat full. And if I can find no more to say, I can look at these
gentlemen. That will drive you wild with jealousy."

"But I am not jealous."

"How! Not jealous? You ought to be if you love me. That is a part of
the role."

"We will love each other--until Lucca."

"What matters it? Before we arrive at Lucca you will be dead in love.
And you, messieurs, artists who go on foot, where are you going will
you permit me to ask?"

"We go to Pisa."

"To Pisa? A dead city, a great cemetery. The Arno is like a dirty old
ditch. You had better come with us to Lucca. There I will give you all
three a fig and adieu."

Then she commenced to sing again a merry song.

Jacob listened, and a feeling of weakness came over him; his brow was
clouded, and, without replying, he left this joyous company, giving a
headache as an excuse, and leaving Ivas to listen to Gigante. He was
overcome with rage and emotion.

The husband of the poor forsaken Mathilde giving himself up to such
distractions! It was easy to guess from this scene what her life was.
Jacob suffered for her, and experienced a sensation of chagrin that he
had not remained in Genoa where he could have been alone with her.

But soon he blushed at the thought that he would have dared to profit
by the absence of Henri. "All is for the best," thought he. "I ought
not to trouble her repose by my presence, for that would open old
wounds in her heart, as in mine. Destiny has separated us. Great duties
are before me. Her sadness increases. We have no right to glide into a
paradise the entrance to which is forbidden. Fate urges me with an
implacable lash. Let us go!"

Ivas returned to his lodgings late that night, after copious libations
and a thousand jokes with the coquette, Gigante, who could not conceive
any one indifferent to her, and had tried to interest them both at the
same time. Signer Enrico, during his little affair, had given himself
the name of Don Fernando, so as to pass for a Spaniard. He was very
proud of the conquest, and acted as foolishly as his companion.

Ivas carolled, as he entered, a verse of a song he had learned from
Gigante. He was troubled and ashamed when he saw Jacob reading the
Bible. It was his custom when he was sad to read the Prophets, the
Psalms, and the Book of Job.

Ivas went to bed, but Jacob continued reading until at last the feeble
light of the lamp forced him to cease. He arose and walked up and down
the room, lost in deep and painful thoughts.

Ivas could not sleep. Sympathy with his sorrowing friend and a little
shame on his own part kept him awake.

"Have you been in Dresden?" asked Jacob.

"Yes," replied he, without understanding the reason of this question.

"You have then seen a poem of Israel's past, a sorrowful poem of which
the foolish debauchery of to-day awakened in me a remembrance. I speak
of the 'Jewish Cemetery,' by Ruysdael."

"I have seen that picture," replied Ivas. "It terrified me, but I could
not comprehend it. It is an enigma that fills one with sadness."

"One can remain hours before the canvas," said the Jew, "contemplating
it with an impression of wonder. It is so sad, and, like the story of
Atrides, stamped with the seal of an inexorable fate. But I love better
the tears that one sheds at the sight of this work of a great artist,
than the laughter which came out of the mouth of the debauched Henri,
representative, as he is, of a generation stupefied by riches,
petrified by gold. Marvellous creation, this piece of canvas where
nothing appears at first but sombre clouds and black trees torn by the
tempest! Examine it more closely: a lowering sky, some rocks, a group
of mysterious trees, a brook which forces its way over the uneven
ground. The picture reproduces only common things, but with an
inconceivable force of expression. This wonderful artist, Ruysdael,
this painter of rocks, ruins of convents and chateaux, of forests and
lakes, has never better proved his genius than in his 'Cemetery,' where
he rises to the height of an epic poem. No other painter has such
eloquence, such beauty, such majesty; not even the brilliant Claude
Lorraine, who plays so skilfully with light and shade; nor Salvator
Rosa, with his striking caverns and brigands. The 'Jewish Cemetery' is
like a page out of the history of a people who do not find repose even
in the tomb. Two figures only are faintly delineated; nothing else but
the oaks, and the torrent which carries away on its bosom the bones
torn from the earth.

"Fate pursues the Jew even in his last repose. Wishing to give an idea
of the misfortunes of these people, the artist could not have done
better than by showing us this graveyard, where, praying in a dark
corner, two men wait until the fury of the tempest shall cease and the
sun reappear. A single white flower springing from the soil gives hope
of the return of springtime.

"At the end of the seventeenth century, when this masterpiece was
produced, the sun for us had long rested behind the clouds, and the
poor flower, emblem of brighter days, had scarcely budded.

"The picture is a history of the Israelites in Europe in the past.
To-day our history is the bourse, and it were better to weep over the
tombs than over our waning dignity."

The next day Ivas awoke early in order to prepare for their journey,
but did not find his friend. The woman of the house told him that he
had gone toward the sea at daybreak with a book in his hand. The
morning was superb. Over the tranquil sea glided the fishing-boats with
drooping sails. The sun gilded the waves, whose brilliant azure
transported the imagination to the land of fairies. Seated on a rock
not far from the inn, Jacob, forgetting his book, pensively
contemplated the beautiful scene.

Ivas felt some hesitation about interrupting a revery which drew him
from the world, but the heat was already increasing, and it was
necessary to set out before the morning was further advanced. After an
instant of thought he wished his friend "Good-morning!" Jacob raised
his head.

"What need is there," said he, "of such haste? Why not remain, at
least, a day on this beautiful shore? We can rest here, and go on with
fresh energy."

"As you will. Our journey will be only one day longer. You ought, like
Antaeus, to draw new strength from our common mother, Earth and Nature.
I will not conceal from you, however, the impatience that grows upon me
to return to that land whose sorrows I prefer to the delights of any
other. There no one awaits me; there is nothing for me but shadow.
Nevertheless, my soul is on fire when I think of my native land."

"The sentiment is not strange to me. I, also, love your fatherland."

"Why, then, do not your brothers think as you?"

"A difficult question. Think how sad was the situation of the Jews
there in the last century, and even recently. Like lepers, we were
distinguished by our costume, we were banished to the interior of the
country, and all the rights of man were denied us. All Christians were
at liberty to molest us without punishment; injuries and outrages were
showered on us. Such conditions could not develop in the Jews, love of
a country or its institutions. It even restrained in our hearts love of
humanity in general,--that humanity which would not receive us, but set
us aside as if under a ban."

"I am no admirer of the Middle Ages," said Ivas. "But tell me, where
have the Jews had an easier existence relatively than in Poland?
Nowhere; and the proof of it is that they are more numerous there than
elsewhere. They come from distant lands to settle among us. Persecution
has sometimes attacked them, but, in general, the law has protected
them. Polish fanaticism has been intermittent, and not continual as in
other parts of Christendom."

"I admit all that. But whence comes the abatement of persecution? It is
because we are to-day much less Jews, and you less Christians. Extreme
religious ardour produced horrible results; who knows if the complete
absence of belief will not be more pernicious still for humanity. My
desire is to preserve the people of Israel from the malady of the age.
Yesterday Henri showed us where freedom from all duty leads. This man
deserts his sick wife, and runs over the country with a silly woman. A
weakness, you will say, perhaps. No; for in that case he would have
been ashamed of his conduct, and he did not even blush when, by chance,
we met him with his Gigante. As he sees things, it is all simple and
perfectly natural. A being capable of acting thus and affecting such
cynicism is deprived of all moral sense."

After a moment he continued:--

"I have travelled over the Old World. I have visited Palestine and the
Orient; I have slept in the tents of the Bedouins. I have visited the
Musselmans in the cities. Irreligion is creeping in even among the
pilgrims to Mecca. Many make the pilgrimage more from ostentation than
from piety. Among Christians there are fewer believers than traders in
beliefs. In France, Catholicism is the tenet of a lame political party,
but is not carried out in their actions. Its defenders are the
_condottieri_; they combat for a faith which they do not carry in the
depths of the heart. They confess, perhaps, for the sake of example,
but surely they do not pray. In revenge, they fling the worst insults
at their adversaries, the advocates of free thought, all in the name of
religion. Social order is in ruins. It will be replaced by something
better, I hope; but while waiting, the old structures will waver, the
columns will be overthrown, the altars will fall. Once the past is
destroyed, we will need a Messiah, a Saviour!"

"You are pitiless," cried Ivas. "Ruins everywhere, it is true; I, also,
believe there will be a new order of things. But it will come by
progress and not after a cataclysm by a Saviour that you already see,
and that you announce."

"Let us change the subject," said Jacob. "The future is God's secret.
Our destiny, unfortunate mortals, is to live in an era of transition."

"To return to our journey. Shall we rest here or push on farther?"

"Remain here. I am fatigued to-day. I need to draw new strength from
reading, talking, and thinking. I will listen to the dashing of the
surf upon these rocks; the ocean, perhaps, will tell me something."

"You are ill. I am sorry; far from gaining, your malady increases; it
is easy to guess the cause. You regret not having remained in Genoa,
where languishes your beloved."

"That is to judge me very base. I could not have offered her my
society. My sadness comes from the conviction that her husband is
unworthy of her. I know how she must suffer, and what her existence is,
chained to such an animal."

"Alas, there is no remedy!"

"Then it is better not to speak of it."

Jacob closed his book, and returned to the inn with his companion.

The day was passed in various discussions. They saw no more of Henri
and his danseuse. The couple had left for Spezia, a new reason for
Jacob to rest on his route so as not to encounter them.

In the evening they went again to sit by the sea.

"I am not yet," said Ivas, "completely satisfied with your history;
have you no more to tell me? You have given me only the detached
leaflets."

"Why? Because the book is not worth the trouble of being read entire.
That would take too much time. There are many details that would
fatigue you. Be content, then, with the principal facts and the
reflections which they suggest; but I will go on, as you desire it.

"I worked in the counting-house during the greater part of the day. I
found it necessary afterward to cultivate my relations with society, to
extend my study of the world and of character. I went out almost every
evening, and often Mathilde and her father accompanied me. A part of
every night was consecrated to the study of the Bible and the Talmud.
From the first days of my existence in Warsaw, one man attracted my
regard and inspired my sympathy. This was my guardian's brother, Simon
Borah.

"The brothers had no love for each other. Simon was not a practical
man; he had lost a part of his fortune, and his business did not
prosper. For the reason that he was obliged to aid his brother
occasionally, my guardian disliked him still more. In a word, these two
men had not one single point of resemblance.

"Simon, though incredulous like his brother, was sentimental,
whimsical, full of heart. He formed attachments easily. Frivolous, and
even at times childish, he redeemed himself in the eyes of the world by
a sarcastic wit and caustic argument; his satire attacked every one,
even his brother.

"Simon had been married twice. Both of his wives were dead. He was
still gallant toward the fair sex, and he was in great demand in the
_salons_, for it was difficult to find a more charming man. He was
feared a little also on account of his caustic tongue. Without religion
himself, he sought those who were believers. He spared no one, but at
heart acquitted all men, a tear in his eye and a smile on his lips. He
let himself be ridiculed by men who were far from being his equals, and
thereby carried his point; he resembled in these moments some monstrous
animal which could not contain itself. Full of contradictions, he was
logical with himself. Christian with the Jews, and Jew with the
Christians, it pleased him to appear paradoxical. Impressionable in a
high degree, he interested himself deeply to-day in things to which he
was completely indifferent to-morrow. He had one great quality, that of
never lying. When he could not answer frankly he covered his words with
adroit sarcasm, or often was silent.

"My guardian, who observed all the proprieties minutely, wrangled
continually with this original who revolted against all restraint.

"Small of stature, with mean features and yellow skin, with a quick
step, he was very ugly, but of an expressive and intelligent ugliness;
such is the physical portrait of Simon Borah.

"He took a great fancy to me in spite of my religious sentiments, which
I did not try to conceal. I knew he watched me closely, and I wished to
deserve his good opinion. Each day his friendship increased. His
penetrating glances soon divined my love for Mathilde without my ever
having spoken.

"One day when we were alone he suddenly turned to me and said he wished
to ask me a question.

"'What is it, Father Simon?' said I.

"'You are sorrowful?' asked he.

"'No, I assure you.'

"'I can read love in your eyes. Who is the object? Is it the English
governess, Miss Burnet? The thing is not improbable; they say that
withered flowers exhale the sweetest perfumes. Still there is another
charming person in the house.'

"He saw that the blood rushed to my face, and continued:--

"'Between ourselves, I know your secret. Let me recall to you an
official phrase of our very august sovereign, Alexander II., in his
interview with the Poles: "No brooding over the past!" Your guardian is
a practical man and has high aims.'

"'It is you who dream, Father Simon.'

"'Don't try to deceive me! You are in love, my boy.'

"'Well, if I am, that will be--but that is not so'--

"'Very fine. I know what you wish to say. Believe me, the best thing
for you is to get over it as soon as possible. Do not play with fire,
for


           "This fruit so sweet
            Is not for you."'


"'Never has such an idea come into my head.'

"'I should say the same if I were you. You will be wise to renounce all
hopes.'

"Our conversation ceased there. He left some days after for the baths,
and when he returned he found Mathilde betrothed. When he saw me he
looked at me out of the corners of his eyes, and read probably on my
face the resignation and the suffering so well concealed, for he shook
my hand without saying a word.

"Two days after he met me on the street, and whispered in my ear: 'The
law of nature is that the most beautiful fruits shall be eaten by the
worms.' Then he went away before I could reply. He loved Mathilde very
much, and foresaw her fate, but he well knew that it was useless to
speak to a brother who did not allow sentiment to interfere with
calculation.

"I devoted myself to business assiduously, hoping to forget my sorrow
thereby. In the mean while, an unexpected change came to me. I could at
last obtain the independence so long desired.

"As I owed all to my guardian's bounty, I had been obliged to conform
my life to his ideas, and to obey his orders. Study was full of
attraction to me, but I had no time to devote to it except in the
evenings. My cousin intended to send me soon to some foreign post,
where I would be employed as a correspondent in the office for one of
his partners. To travel, to observe, would instruct me, and I was not
averse to going; but I would have preferred to travel at liberty.
Therefore you can well imagine that it seemed like a special grace from
heaven to be delivered like a miracle from my chains, and to become
master of myself and of my actions. It was near the time of Mathilde's
marriage, when word came from my guardian to come immediately to his
office.

"I feared some misfortune, when I saw him walking up and down the room
with a cloudy face.

"'Do you know what has happened?' said he.

"'I have heard nothing new.'

"'Then I will be the first one to congratulate you. Your distant
relation, Moses Hermann, of Berlin, who has no children, as you know,
has died and left you all his fortune. Ought I to rejoice? No, I regret
it, for I lose in you a man that I wished to form on my own ideas.'

"I remained stupefied.

"'What do you think of it?' asked he.

"'I can hardly reply. For a long time I have desired to travel, and I
hope to set out soon.'

"'You are at liberty to do so. I am happy to have given you an
education which renders you worthy of this unexpected fortune. It is
wonderful! Moses saw you only once or twice.'

"He shrugged his shoulders, and I hastened to my room to think over my
good fortune and to collect my thoughts. The news had already travelled
abroad, and persons in the city who had never noticed me before
received me now with cordiality, and proffered me the warmest
friendship.

"Mann kissed me publicly on both cheeks and predicted a splendid future
for me. He even invited me to breakfast, a thing he had never done
before. Others tried to persuade me that they had loved me from the
depths of their hearts from time immemorial. From a nobody I became a
marked man and a welcome guest.

"The will of Moses had made a great change in my life. This Moses
Hermann had been in Warsaw some months before. A near relative of my
mother's, he was unknown to me, and I then saw him for the first time.
My guardian, knowing that he was a widower and without direct heirs,
had some thoughts of a marriage between him and Mathilde, but this
union was distasteful to an old man of seventy years. During his stay
in Warsaw I saw him every day. Under his reserve, I thought I had
discovered in him an Israelite of the old school. Born and brought up
in Germany, he was a type almost unknown among us, of an educated and
polished man who was not at all ashamed of his Hebrew origin. In many
respects he was a German. It is well known what an important role the
Jews play in Germany, in literature, music, the sciences, and politics.
He belonged to this group, grave, serious, a thinker, where thought is
not stifled by practical life. He loved poetry; he even devoted some
leisure moments to the muse himself, but did not write in the style of
Henri Heine, whose genius he nevertheless admired. He informed me of
the actual situation of our co-religionists, and of their waning faith.
My guardian had recommended me to him ironically as an ardent
Talmudist, which was an exaggeration. The visitor was curious to
examine me on this subject. I answered him with entire frankness, and
unfolded to him my convictions and my programme for the future.
Irritated by the sneers of my guardian, I explained to him all my
thoughts on Judaism, perhaps with some exaltation. Moses listened to me
attentively, though he said nothing, and we did not resume the subject,
for he left suddenly the next day.

"Great was my astonishment at this bequest. In the will there was not a
single obligatory clause. The wording was short and concise. The motive
which was inexplicable to others was clear to me. It was a sacrifice
made to the ideas which he approved and shared.

"My guardian, who had expected this fortune himself, spoke of the
deceased with bitterness and accused him of ingratitude.

"On this memorable day I met Father Simon.

"'It is too bad,' cried he, 'that the honest Moses did not die some
months sooner. To-day it is the mustard after dinner, is it not?
Nothing comes in time. However, perhaps it is for the best. I
congratulate you, and I hope you will not be intoxicated by your sudden
fortune.'

"Really the surprise did intoxicate me somewhat, in spite of myself.
Men appeared to me from a new point of view; their baseness disgusted
me, since now that I was rich they treated me so differently from when
in poverty. It was impossible for me to accept all their invitations or
to escape their attentions; I repelled them, however, with great
interior contempt.

"As my guardian had told me that I was free to dispose of myself, I
resolved to go abroad. Since then I have travelled, and I return home
with the firm determination of serving my brothers and my countrymen."

Ivas sighed.

"You are happy," said he; "free, rich, and at liberty to do as you
please. Your education, your character, your force of mind, will enable
you to accomplish great things."

"Listen," cried Jacob, taking his arm, "we will labor together to serve
our countrymen. I am prepared for it."

A light shone in Ivas' eyes, but he repressed the transports of his
soul.

"I thank you," replied he at last, with a sad smile on his lips, "but
it will first be necessary to return to Poland. Our country is on the
eve of important events. Impatience devours me."

"Me, also," said Jacob. "Yet I do not share your presentiments. There
are some events that I would rather avoid than hasten. We will speak of
this later."

The next day they continued their journey. Restlessness incited them.
At Spezia they took the diligence and gained a railway station. They
travelled quickly through Italy and Austria, and soon arrived at the
frontier of what is called the Russian Empire.

It is to-day the only European State, if one can call it thus, where
there exists no security for any one. If one goes on foot, one is
exposed at the caprice of an administration, on the least suspicion, or
from a false accusation, if not to death, to imprisonment of long
duration, spoliation, or torture. It is better to fall into the hands
of Calabria than into those of the functionaries of the Russian
government. A country where, with the exception of the rights of the
strongest, there are no rights; where reigns a band of beings, a little
polished but not civilized; where the insatiable tools of brute force
do not make any account of man, of his dignity, of his age, of his
merits, of his sufferings; is it not rather an immense and frightful
dungeon? The unfortunates who have escaped from its prison doors become
the sport of the towns and villages. Before entering, a man was a man.
He is now no more than the subject, the slave, not of a single
autocrat, but of some hundreds of ferocious despots, each individual a
greedy representation of the unlimited power of the Czar. On its
Russian barriers one can read the inscription of Dante: "_Lasciate ogni
speranza voi ch'entrate_." "Who enters here leaves hope behind."




                             CHAPTER VIII.

                              THE SABBATH.


A small hamlet near Warsaw. A spacious, empty market-place, on one side
of which is a modest church and long cemetery wall; on the other a row
of old and new houses of wood and brick, inhabited chiefly by
Israelites. One of these, more conspicuous, rises above the others with
a certain arrogance. On the ground floor, a grocery. On the front two
lions, recalling by their sculpture Assyrian art. In their paws a vase
of flowers and the figures 1860, no doubt the date of the restoration
of the house. An eating-house with an open door is at the side.

Almost all the business of the village centred about this dwelling, a
sufficient proof that the proprietor was an important person. It was a
Friday evening; on the upper floors preparations were being made to
celebrate the day consecrated to God in the Old Testament.

Provisions of all kinds covered the kitchen table. Women kept watch
over a roast goose, a baked fish, while pastry and other dishes were
cooking in the blazing oven. The chambers were being set in order,
brooms flourished everywhere, and the candlesticks were filled with
candles.

Already the venerable Jankiel Meves had returned from the bath. He
hastened to put on his best garments, although the sun was far from
setting; he had eaten little during the day, so as to do more honour to
the blessed supper. While waiting, he reviewed in his memory all the
events of the past week, seeking any violation of the sacred laws so as
to efface them by sincere repentance.

Jankiel was an Israelite of the old school. It would have been very
easy for him to have gained a more elevated position, owing to his
wealth, his intelligence, and his connections; but he refused to put
off his costume and to abandon his religious observances. The noise of
women's jests came to his ears from the kitchen below. His wife,
Rachel, fat, mature, and rosy, kneaded three little white loaves, some
of which she was careful to reserve apart for the Khallah. The good
woman, after having washed her hands, had carefully taken a portion of
the dough, whispering the prayer used on such occasions: "Praised be
Jehovah our God, King of the world! It is from thee that we have
received our sacred laws, and it is thou who hast ordered us to keep
the Khallah!"

As there was only one family and one baking, Rachel threw only one
Khallah into the fire. In another part of the kitchen was in
preparation a stuffed pike, a favourite dish of the Israelites,
recommended by tradition for the Sabbath day. At the same time roasts
and other dishes were cooking. On this day of rejoicing economy is not
thought of.

The master of the house inspected himself the freshly washed dishes,
the shining knife, and the clean stewpans.

The hour arrived for the preparatory prayers of the celebration, with
the Ten Commandments in Hebrew and in Chaldaic, a chapter of the
Prophets applicable to the day of the year, and the 93d Psalm.

What a profound impression can be produced on an oppressed people by
this last song of the Psalmist, which commands patience, and promises
God's vengeance against oppressors.

Jankiel recited the prescribed prayers, and, as he had yet time, he
opened the Talmud and fell on a passage of the Book Berakhat. The
reading plunged him in meditation. His thoughts went back to the days
of intense persecution; he wept, and thanked God that, in spite of
captivity, dispersions, tortures, and oppression, He had miraculously
preserved His people until the present day. Whence came this miracle,
from the observance of the law.

The time of prayers over, custom wills that the master of the house
shall throw a last glance on the festive preparations; and, although he
had entire confidence in Rachel, the Jew visited the kitchen, touched
the dishes, and blessed in thought the nourishment about to be served.
Then he returned to his chamber and read the Song of Solomon.

The sun disappeared, and the candles were lighted. The solemn hour of
the coming of the Sabbath approached.

The table was carefully set, and Rachel appeared in a toilette of
velvet ornamented with pearls. Her daughters were dressed less
elegantly, but with much taste, and the servants even were in their
best.

The time came to go to the synagogue, and Jankiel descended the stairs,
Rachel following him with an enormous volume under her arm. Her
daughters accompanied her, and behind came the servants. That no one
from this house must miss service was the rule of this Israelite.

The crowd filled the court in front of the temple; rich and poor,
devout followers of Mosaism, were mixed together, and the chorister
intoned the prayer Achre.

The service was long. Jankiel's face wore an expression of sad
preoccupation, and when he returned home he had, in spite of this day
of rejoicing, a clouded brow and a discontented air. At times he looked
at Lia, his younger daughter, who awaited with fear and trembling her
mother's commands.

She was a charming girl, whose features expressed innocence and
sensibility of heart. Her eyes sparkled with the fires of youth, though
they were now clouded by recent tears, and she looked at her father as
if frightened.

Rachel recited with her elder daughter the prescribed prayers while
lighting the candles. Other prayers followed, some whispered, some
uttered in a loud voice. The sacred songs echoed through the
brilliantly lighted house, and the women read Hebrew books.

Jankiel absented himself to return to the synagogue, and Rachel
assisted her daughters to finish the preparations for the feast. She
placed on the table, covered with a white cloth, two white loaves made
by herself wrapped in a snowy napkin, in remembrance of the manna of
the desert, the napkin representing the dew.

Returned home, Jankiel pronounced several invocations, and his two
daughters besought his blessing. He extended his hands to the elder,
but when the time came for Lia he hesitated a moment, and his voice
trembled faintly in pronouncing the benediction for the second time.

"May God make Rachel and Lia like Sara and like Rebecca!"

The mother in her turn blessed her children, embraced them, and shed
some tears, which she tried to wipe off, unobserved, on a corner of her
embroidered apron.

Before going to table a new prayer was addressed to the angels by
Jankiel, then a second repetition of the Song of Solomon, and reading
from the Talmud a verse chosen at random. Then followed the
consecration of the wine and the blessing of broken bread, the pieces
of which were distributed to the guests. It was thus they commenced the
repast; but, in spite of the command of Moses to be merry during the
Sabbath, the father seemed to be deeply afflicted. His glance sought
Lia, and the young girl was so confused that she would have liked to
conceal herself under the table.

Carried out according to tradition, the feast had a solemn character.
The supper was half prayer, half offering, and bore no resemblance to
the fashionable feasts from which God is banished and to which one does
not dream of inviting the angels. Jankiel, a scrupulous observer of the
law, pronounced a last prayer at the end of the repast. After that they
separated. Rachel went to her bedroom, where Jankiel soon joined her.

"I am alarmed," said she to her husband; "you appear ill. You are not
in your usual spirits. You have not the tranquillity of the Sabbath.
What is the matter with you?"

"Oh, it will pass away! Do not speak of it now. It would sadden this
blessed and holy day."

His wife said no more.

It is thus that the Sabbath is kept in houses where the old customs are
strictly observed. In most Jewish families the ritual is abridged, and
this tends to destroy the ancient and patriarchal character of this
consecrated day.

Opposite Jankiel's dwelling was a wooden house; it was comfortable and
convenient, and belonged to David Seeback. It was toward the windows of
this house that Lia, alone in her chamber, turned her beautiful eyes.
She sighed deeply, and seemed lost in thought.

David Seeback, father and son, had for many years followed the
profession of money-lenders, a business which was called usury until
the moment when political economy decided that to profit by the need of
another is legitimate; and that interest, mutually agreed, no matter
how high, is a permissible thing. These financiers were neither Jews
nor Christians. They kept in appearance the Jewish laws and customs,
but they attached to them no real importance. David, the father, gave
himself out as a believing Jew to his co-religionists, but ridiculed
all their observances when he found himself with the _Khutars_ and the
_Goimes_.

He ate anywhere that he happened to be, and travelled on the days set
aside for prayer and repose. In a word, he had shaken off tradition and
found nothing to take its place.

David the younger had received his education in Warsaw and abroad; he
bore no trace whatever of his origin. Well educated, but very corrupt
at heart, he found in his insatiable cupidity many ways of gaining
money. The father was proud of his only scion, and predicted for him a
high destiny; and this time the proverb "like father like son" was
right.

While the solemn ceremony of the Sabbath was being kept in the house of
Jankiel, the two Davids lighted their candles and ate their supper, but
forgot the prayers and the offerings of bread and wine. They were
alone.

Long time a widower, Seeback had no other child but David. A weak
character, he jested under all circumstances, and loved to make a trial
of wit with his son. David the younger sometimes lent himself to this
paternal whim, but, in general, he assumed a certain gravity, so as to
impose upon people by an affected wisdom. Hypocrisy was developed in
the family from one generation to another.

With all his indifference to religion, David the elder felt, on the
days consecrated by custom, a certain remorse for having abandoned the
pious customs; he was uneasy and unhappy. Sometimes he glided into an
obscure corner, and murmured a portion of a prayer that he considered
ridiculous to repeat aloud. He believed that by these clandestine
practices he might repel some imminent danger. He had lost all respect
for Jehovah, but he feared him still. Several times on this evening he
arose from the table, and, at the risk of incurring his son's sneers,
muttered in his sleeve some prayer. He had even simulated the blessing
of the wine when he presented it to his heir, who, with a certain tact,
feigned not to notice all his grimaces. The younger David had a
distinguished manner, but his features expressed pride and foppery.

The father increased these faults by praises, and his admiration almost
reached idolatry. He asked nothing in return but filial gratitude. The
young man made very little account of his father, and reproached him
continually for infractions of the laws of good society and for his
ignorance. The old man at first essayed to justify himself, but always
finished by bowing to the superior wisdom of David, junior. This
insolent coxcomb was seated at table in a dressing-gown, with a cigar
in his mouth. He wore gold spectacles, though they really hindered him
from seeing. Fish was served, the only vestige of traditional customs,
then a roast and tea. The old man cut the bread, muttering some
unintelligible words; but he perceived a look of disdain from his son,
and did not finish the prayer. There was a long silence, which the
father broke by asking the young man, who had stretched himself out in
a chair:

"What do you dream of? Of the Sabbath?"

"All that I know of the Sabbath is," replied David the younger, "that
formerly they celebrated it. Today it is foolish, a foolish custom, and
it is old Jankiel alone who observes the ridiculous ceremonies.
Unfortunately, ridicule makes no impression on him."

"Would you, then, mock him?"

"Why not? This wretched, vulgar Jew feels for us only malevolence and
repulsion."

"What matters it? He cannot injure us. His ill-will cannot make us lose
one thing or another."

"That is true. And I would not have even noticed his aversion had he
not such a pretty daughter."

"How now! What are you thinking of? Do not forget that you are already
married, although you do not live with your wife. Do not plunge
yourself in a love affair. There are plenty of girls who will suit you
better than that lass. Even if you wish to be divorced, you must not
dream of her. We can easily find for you the daughter of some Polish
proprietor. If you take a second wife, you must look as high as
possible, and for one not a Jewess. Am I not sufficiently rich to buy a
property grand enough to make all the neighbouring aristocracy
jealous?"

"I do not want land. Why invest in property that does not return four
per cent., when we can now get twenty or thirty?"

"You are right, and you are wrong. Our capital brings in, it is true,
the interest you name, but at the same time we run the risk of losing
it. When one has acquired so immense a fortune as ours, it does not do
to expose all of it in the same speculations. Land cannot run away. The
banks give four and a half per cent.; but even the banks can fail. One
cannot sleep easy with much money in the banks. The public funds? They
are depressed. I continually fear a declaration of war. Land is really
the safest investment."

"Not as safe as you think. The land can be taken from us."

"By whom?"

"We are not in France, or England, where property is sacred. Our
government offers no security. No one is secure here."

"A very profound political thought, and one worthy of being remembered.
I render homage to your perspicacity; but suppose even that half of the
land was confiscated, the other half would increase in value. That is
indisputable, while paper may be worth nothing to-morrow. Let us return
to your future marriage. The first was unworthy of you; it must be
dissolved. But why the devil do you dream of Lia? She did well for
herself to fall in your way. She is a Jewess, and, though she is not
bad looking, beauty is not everything. What a figure she would make in
your _salon_, this country maiden who knows not how either to stand or
to sit. Your second wife must be a woman who has received a refined
education. She must be of noble birth, that she may shine at court. And
could Lia do that? A simple country girl!"

"Nevertheless," objected David, "it is not for my _salon_ that I wish
to marry. I myself prefer a simple and innocent girl to all the
fashionable ladies of Warsaw, who, having had eleven adorers, marry the
twelfth."

"You talk foolishly. To think thus is the part of a common Jew, who
only dreams of multiplying and filling the earth according to the
command of the Bible. Your wife ought to push your fortunes. Through
your education and your fortune you cannot fail to become a celebrated
man. And what would you do then with Lia? Take her to a ball, or to the
theatre? Truly, she would do you honour! If some great person noticed
her, she would be confused and embarrassed, sucking her apron to hide
her face. There are hundreds of Jewesses like that. You must take an
educated wife, German or French. With your brains, and my money, you
can aspire to anything. It would not be astounding for you to become
minister, and then"--

He threw out his arm, and extinguished a candle. He arose to light it,
but, suddenly remembering that this was the Sabbath day, a
superstitious fear came over his spirit. He remained standing, not
knowing what to do.

Seeing his father's hesitation, his son left his chair, and was bold
enough to relight the candle. After this act of courage he reseated
himself, and puffed his cigar with a malicious air.

His father loved to smoke, but, as he dared not infringe the law, he
always deprived himself of that pleasure on the Sabbath, under pretext
of some trifling indisposition. When the candle was relighted, an
infraction of the Jewish law, he at first regarded it with fear, but
soon regained his normal state, and continued to explain his theories
on marriage.

"Lia cannot hope for a great fortune," said he. "Estimating Jankiel's
wealth at its highest,--house, manufactory, and shop,--he scarcely
possesses a hundred, or a hundred and twenty thousand roubles. What is
that? A mere trifle to us!"

"And we," asked the young man, to tease his father, "have we not enough
money?"

"How can such a word come out of your mouth? Has one ever enough? With
money one does as he wills; without it, with all the intelligence in
the world, one is only a fool. I will try to find you a rich wife.
Think no more of Lia."

"What if I love her?"

"Love her? Your love will only be like a fire of straw; the faster it
burns, the sooner it will die out. A sensible man does not marry for
love and for the bright eyes of a young girl."

David, junior, burst out laughing, and his father was exceedingly proud
of this mark of approbation from one who was usually so disdainful.

Satisfied with themselves, they were about to retire to their rooms,
when they heard loud knocks on the outer door.

The thing was so extraordinary at this hour of the night, that the old
man experienced a sensation of anxiety and foreboding, which changed to
one of surprise when he saw at the door a man of fine appearance and of
commanding stature, whom he did not recognize at first sight.

"Messieurs," said the stranger, "I hope you will pardon this intrusion
on a holy day, and at so late an hour."

"Why, this is Monsieur Jacob!" cried the old man.

"Our holy law," replied the new-comer, "forbids all business
transactions on the day consecrated to God, but the law permits us, on
such occasions, to succour even a beast in danger of death; how much
more, then, a man."

"Dear Monsieur Jacob, we do not belong to that superstitious class who
dare not touch the fire or sew on a button during the Sabbath. Be
seated. What can we do for you? But pardon me; my son David, Monsieur
Jacob, who is a distant relation, and of whom you have often heard me
speak," added he, presenting his son to the visitor.

David, junior, only knew that Jacob had been the sole legatee of a rich
banker of Berlin, but that was sufficient to cause him to receive him
with distinction. They invited him a second time to be seated. Jacob
excused himself with a certain impatience.

"Perhaps you have not yet supped?" asked the master of the house.

"I reached your town somewhat late, and hastened to fulfil my religious
duties. I have been to the synagogue, then I ate a little at the inn."

"Ah, you go to the temple!" and turning toward his son, the old man
said:--

"What a good example! Monsieur Jacob, well brought up and intelligent,
observes the law!"

"Yes," said Jacob, "a Jew I shall always remain. No doubt in captivity
and exile we have added many ceremonies to the Mosaic law. These are
both sweet and bitter souvenirs. It is good not to let them be
extinguished."

The elder David visibly rejoiced at these words; his son smiled and bit
his lips.

"Every one ought to follow the dictates of his own conscience," said
he.

"But tell us to what good fortune do we owe your visit?" asked the
father.

"I come to you on account of our relationship, to demand a service. I
met in Italy a young Polish exile who suffers so much with homesickness
that I brought him here with me. He was poor and ill. My conscience
urged me to aid him. He fled from Poland several years ago, fearing to
be implicated in a political plot."

"Political affairs; bad business," grumbled the old man shaking his
head, while his son said nothing.

"He has succeeded in obtaining a passport under an assumed name,"
continued Jacob, "and he was determined to brave the danger, and
accompanied me to Poland. At the frontier he would not accept my offer
to go on with him. For fear of compromising me if he was arrested, he
preceded me so as to enter his native land alone. Honest youth! Happily
he passed the frontier, as I learned on arriving two days later.
Scarcely had I passed the custom-house when I heard that the police had
discovered that he was travelling under an assumed name. I hastened to
rejoin him at the station where he was detained, and secured his
release. I come to ask you to shelter him in your house, which is not
suspected by the police, until I can obtain amnesty for him or find
some other means to rid him of his pursuers. Otherwise the unfortunate
boy will be sent to Siberia, and perish like many others of his
oppressed countrymen."

The silence with which the two Davids answered his request showed that
they were not inclined to harbour the young Pole. The appeal to their
sentiment of humanity fell on deaf ears. It was the elder who, with a
frown, finally spoke.

"This is a most delicate business," said he, "and very dangerous. Why
not be frank with a kinsman? This is not a Jewish affair. What have we
to do with the Poles, or Polish complications? They have nothing in
common with us. The government does not persecute us, or, at least, it
could persecute us much more. We are believed to be loyal and devoted.
Why, then, should we expose ourselves and alienate this favourable
disposition, by aiding, our former oppressors, the Poles? Why should
the Jews meddle with politics? It is not our business."

"You and I differ in regard to that," replied Jacob. "If we wish to
enjoy the same rights as other inhabitants of this country, we ought to
commence to take an interest in politics and in the welfare of the
land. It is only thus that we can expect to live on a footing of
perfect equality. The government has decided to crush out the
intelligent and educated Poles. It certainly belongs to us who eat
their bread to make common cause with them against their oppressors,
who are only conquering intruders. Let us remember our own captivity."

"Did you not say that the Jews ought to observe the law above all
things? You contradict yourself, for the law commands us to protect
ourselves, and it is contrary to our interests to take part with the
Poles."

"How do you know that? Can you read the future? The iniquities
committed against this nation cannot always remain without vengeance.
God has permitted the chastisement, but the measure is full. The sins
are washed away by tears and by blood! The day of justice draws near!
In the day of terrible retribution it will be better to be with those
who have been purified by divine punishment, and not with those who
have incurred the wrath of God."

"In my turn let me ask, how do you know all this?" said the elder
David. "Is it your prophetic spirit that tells you? Have you remembered
the sins of these Philistines, the extortions and the miseries with
which they afflicted us? Do you know that there still remains much to
expiate?"

"It is not just to make a single nation responsible for the crimes of
all Christians. The Jews have been persecuted everywhere, and in many
lands much worse than here."

"What good is all this discussion?" cried the younger David, rising
from his chair. "It is nothing to us who obtains the upper hand. I do
not care to decide who are the better, the Russians or the Poles. At
least I know how to take a Russian. He is always easily bought; at
first he is brutal and insulting, then he holds out his hand, and you
have only to oil it with a few pieces of silver, and he becomes sweet
and obliging; but your Poles do not inspire me with so much
confidence."

Jacob would listen no longer; he arose, and cried indignantly:--

"Then, as such are your convictions I will not insist. I see, with
sorrow, that you, as well as others, choose a selfish policy, and
always take sides with the strong and not with the right."

"The right? The ancient rulers of the country have not respected us,
have they?"

"If I admit that, is it any reason why we should imitate them to-day?
The elect people ought to be more virtuous than the people they live
with, and set them an example."

The younger David began to whistle, and then said:--

"Who speaks now of virtue and right? In the world of to-day
self-interest is the sole right. Virtue! Right! Grand words, in which
one no longer believes."--

The old man bowed before his son's superior wisdom, and threw a glance
full of pride at Jacob, which seemed to say:--

"How can you reply to that, eh?"

The friend of Ivas calmly surveyed the young man, and replied in a
grave voice, dwelling on each word:--

"Unfortunately, you appreciate our epoch at its true value. However,
that which now is cannot always be. Truth still exists. Our law,
thousands of years old though it may be, is not worn out. Open our holy
books, and you will read therein truths which have never ceased to be
truths, and which will never cease until the end of the world. Men are
corrupt; faith has diminished. God will rectify this state of things.
Let us be followers of the ancient law, and not of present errors. If
you have gained by your education nothing more than the reasoning that
you affect, I sincerely pity you."

On this Jacob ceased, and the old man, before so calm, became agitated,
and looked at his son for a reply. The serenity of spirit of this man,
so firm in his belief, awoke in him a fear similar to that which had
kept him from relighting the candle on the Sabbath.

David, junior, replied coolly:--

"Do not trouble yourself about me, I beg of you, Monsieur Jacob. Every
one to his own opinion. Do not go yet. Perhaps I can find a way to
satisfy your demand without incurring any risk."

"Thanks. It is weak of me to implore you again to help an unfortunate
whom you so little wish to succour. Still a few more words. The country
is on the eve of a revolution. The result is doubtful, but it is an
opportunity for us to gain equal rights by the sacrifice of our blood.
Let us profit by it. Many of my race think as I do."

"Many? How many? Who are they? Do you know the intentions of the
Emperor Napoleon? Are you in the secrets of Lord Palmerston? Have you
received the confidences of the Rothschilds?"

"I can only tell you one thing; it is, that here the most sensible men
are of my opinion."

"And the richest?"

"Yes, the richest also," replied Jacob, with an involuntary smile.

"In that case," said the old man, "we must take the affair into
consideration."

"As for the object of my visit, I regard it a failure. I can only
excuse myself for disturbing you at such an hour."

Then he turned to go, when the old man called him back.

"Wait!" cried he. "A glass of wine. David, bring the three rouble
Bordeaux. Deign to taste it, Monsieur Jacob. Isolated, as we are, in
this little village, we know not how the wind blows. Tell us, is there
anything in contemplation?"

"You had better find out for yourselves, and then you can decide which
party you will aid."

"Those incorrigible Poles! I fear they are engaging in some new
pranks."

"I know nothing," said Jacob. "I can only surmise. The Muscovites
themselves have the air of hastening the explosion of this foolishness
to divert that which threatens their own country, 'holy Russia.' Since
the emancipation of the serfs, the situation has been critical. By
kindling a fire in Poland, they relight the national hatred, and turn
away the public thoughts from Petersburg and Moscow towards the
provinces. It is the only way, now that the peasants give proofs of
discontent and the revolutionary idea is propagated, the sole method of
reaffirming the authority of the Czar."

"What admirable teachers!" cried the old man. "Profound wisdom like
that is the gage of certain success. Certainly, that is the side we had
better take."

"As a nation," said Jacob, "we have been conquered more than once.
Always in place of attaching ourselves to the triumphal chariot, we
have remained faithful to the cause of God."

He then rose to leave for the second time, but the elder David was
ashamed to let his visitor depart thus.

"What, then, is your proposition?" asked he.

"To shelter under your roof an outlaw. This village being isolated, the
risk is not great."

"Very true," said the younger man; "but in a small place like this,
where every one is acquainted, the arrival of a stranger would be
remarked."

"Then say no more about it," said Jacob, turning to go. "A thousand
excuses for disturbing you."

This time he really took his departure.

"I am sorry," said the father to the son when they were alone, "that we
did not find some way to arrange this affair. Jacob has excellent
connections. What will he tell them of us? Truly, he cannot have a very
good opinion."

"Bah! I am, perhaps, of your opinion, but we could not do otherwise.
Let us to bed."

The protector of Ivas returned to the inn, and did not awaken his
companion, who was wrapped in a deep slumber. He threw himself on the
bed, and his thoughts kept him awake the greater part of the night. He
arose early to seek an interview with Jankiel, whom he did not know
personally.

Having introduced himself to the old man, he took part in the morning
prayers, and then told him frankly that he had long desired his
acquaintance, and that he addressed him full of confidence in his
well-known sentiments.

This frankness pleased Jankiel, who placed his hand on his visitor's
shoulder, and replied kindly:--

"I have heard of you as a man on whom the people of Israel can lean
with confidence, for, in spite of your known learning, you guard the
ancient faith, customs, and practices, and honour old age. In all this
you differ from many of our young men. May the God of Isaac and Jacob
bless you! Learned men abound, but pious ones are rare. Our customs are
neglected; they spit on the tombs of our ancestors, and on all that
past ages have taught us to respect."

"I fear I am not possessed of all with which you credit me, but I try
not to disgrace my ancient faith and lineage."

"And where do you come from now?"

"From foreign parts. I have visited almost all countries inhabited by
the Jews, and everywhere I have verified their deplorable misery."

"Have you visited the land of our fathers?"

"Yes, but even there the Jews are not at home. They are strangers even
in their own country."

At this moment Jankiel remembered a citation from the Prophet Jeremiah,
to which Jacob replied by the following passage from the Talmud:--

"'The hands of the divine mercy are always outstretched under the wings
of the Seraphim to receive the repentant sinner.'" (Pesakhim 119. a.)

Jankiel was enchanted to hear the young man quote the Talmud, so
neglected by the present generation. He blessed him, with emotion, and
said:--

"My heart goes out to you, and I would be glad to give you a proof of
my sympathy. Speak, and tell me what service you require of me."

"I come to you with a petition that I have already, but in vain,
addressed to David, your neighbour."

At the name of David the old man frowned, but quickly replied:--

"That need not deter you. I am listening."

Jacob related the history of Ivas, and asked Jankiel's advice.

"The circumstances," replied the old man, after a moment of thought,
"are difficult. We ought, however, to side with the persecuted and not
with the oppressor. 'Among birds the strongest always attack the pigeon
and the dove, which are the most acceptable offerings to the Lord.'
(Baba Kama, 93. a.) Unhappy Poland! We have lived with her people on
the same soil for five hundred years. We ought not to forget that. It
is true she is not of our faith, but God does not command to kill even
infidels. 'Be at peace with all thy brothers, with thy neighbours, with
all men, even the Pagan.' (Barakhot, 17. a.)"

"Beautiful words! If all observed them the world would be better."

"Unhappy nation! She has passed through the most frightful calamities,
and greater horrors still threaten her. She wishes to break her chains,
and at each attempt these chains are more tightly welded. God has
humiliated her because she has counted more on human strength than on
divine clemency. Her pride is not yet broken. Poor country! If we are
unable to help her, at least we can pray God to protect her. Where is
the young man? What do you intend to do with him?"

"Ivas is with me, but I can keep him only with great trouble. In his
ardour he would throw himself into the hands of those who seek him. I
desire to procure him shelter for awhile. But where? Will he be prudent
and obedient? I hope I can persuade him of the necessity."

"If you had not first appealed to David, I would have received him into
my house. Now I dare not. I have a room in the attic where he would
have been in safety, but it is too late. An accusation is to be feared.
I could buy myself off, but he would be lost."

"Do you not know of some house, some friend, in the country?"

"Ah! yes; I see my way out of this embarrassment. I know some honest
men who live in the depths of a forest. Early to-morrow I will take him
to them in my wagon. But he must be on his guard."

Jacob embraced Jankiel with effusion.

"Never mind thanking me so warmly," said the latter with emotion. "I am
happy to oblige you, and also your friend, who loves his country and
liberty as we formerly loved Judea. However, in the name of Heaven, if
you have any influence with the Poles, try to restrain them. The enemy
lies in wait for them, and already rejoices in anticipation of the
spoils and the cruelties he will accomplish when the anticipated
insurrection has been crushed. There is nothing gained by setting fire
to one's own house in order to drive out invaders. They must be wary
and use strategy."

"Your words are full of wisdom, but men are rarely guided by reason.
Suffering and misfortune are bad counsellors."

Jacob informed Ivas of the result of his visit, and added:--

"I have done all that I could. Now it is for you to be careful not to
fall again into the claws of the Muscovite. You will be informed if you
are in danger, so that you can leave your hiding-place."




                              CHAPTER IX.

                      THE EVE OF AN INSURRECTION.


After his absence of several years, Jacob was surprised at the aspect
which Poland presented. An extravagant and foolish hope and excitement
prevailed everywhere. The most improbable rumours were accepted without
question. All hearts rejoiced, and for the second time all hands were
outstretched toward that France, which was, however, transformed into a
sort of machine, obeying the capricious will of one man. Wonders were
announced from Russia. The Muscovites were preparing an outbreak, and
from this terrible uprising would come a reconciliation with Poland.

The tolerance of the government, a feigned and calculated tolerance,
passed for weakness and impotence. Russia, it was said, had changed;
she had weakened, and was no longer capable of repressing a patriotic
rebellion. She was afraid, and the fear was believed on account of easy
concessions, which were really made in order to precipitate the
revolutionary movement. All this was to the secret satisfaction of the
Czar and his ministers, who directed a course of action full of
ambuscades and of deceit.

The propaganda of Hertzen, Bakounine, Ogaref, Golovine,
Dolgorouky,--legatees of the ideas of the Decabristes,--had not been
entirely unsuccessful in the cause of true Russia, the ancient
Moscovie. They had worked on the youth of the universities, they had
penetrated the army and the navy, they had sprung up even in the
garrets and in the country. The government had been obliged to
capitulate before them. They were so strong at present, that it was
hoped by the precipitation of the Polish insurrection to divert the
public attention from the greater danger which threatened St.
Petersburg and Moscow. Thus the poor Poles were unconsciously led on to
their own destruction. It was permitted to the Katkof and to the
Aksakof to turn insidiously the aspirations for liberty into a current
of national hatred.

In the last repression of Poland, the Russia of Alexander II. was more
barbarous, more pitiless, than the Russia of Catharine and of Nicholas.
As for Europe, which was formerly agitated at the sight of these
crushed people, she regarded with cold indifference the hanging of
Mouravief, and the wholesale exile of the people who strewed the route
from the Vistula to the Lena with corpses. Such is the sympathy of
Europe in this mercenary age, when self-interest is too highly esteemed
to be endangered by taking the side of the oppressed.

At times Jacob refused to believe his eyes and ears, men seemed so
different from what he had imagined them. Their language and their
deportment were no longer the same. His first visit in Warsaw was paid
to his former guardian. He found him absent, and it was rumoured,
engaged in important enterprises. On returning from his house he met
Henri Segel, for whom his aversion had augmented since, on the route
from Genoa to Spezzia, he had encountered him in company with the
danseuse Gigante. He recoiled and blushed on hearing the joyous voice
of Mathilde's husband.

"Really, this is a surprise," said Henri. "You are more astonished to
see me here than in Italy? Well, we live in changeable times. Mathilde
did not like Italy, and was determined to return to _la cara patria_. I
consented to come, for urgent business made it necessary for me to do
so. How delighted I am to see you again, Monsieur Jacob! I am on my way
home, and willingly or by force you must come with me. I am anxious to
show you my new residence. It is a lovely house; a jewel, comfortable,
elegant, and in good taste. Come and help me amuse Mathilde. Always sad
and weary, she communicates to me her sadness. She is an
incomprehensible woman; in fact, all women are incomprehensible. My
wife wants for nothing. She has only to ask in order to obtain silks,
jewels,--everything that would make most women happy. But she is always
discontented; an unhappy disposition! Come, let us go!"

"Truly I have not much time. I have only just arrived, and I have
business to attend to."

"Your business will keep. Mathilde will be delighted to see you. You
will be doing her a special favour. Come, then, I pray you!"

Jacob felt that he ought to refuse, but the temptation was too great.
To see her again! Duty forbade it, his heart demanded it, and his heart
led him.

Henri took his arm as if to prevent his escape, and conducted him to
his home.

"Look well at Warsaw," said he gayly. "What changes everywhere!"

"It is true," said Jacob. "These transformations I feel, but I cannot
explain them."

"Enormous changes! The general exaltation is complete! The hand is on
the trigger. A revolution is imminent."

"May God preserve us from it!" said Jacob.

"It is inevitable, or else I am a fool. I can smell powder; but, in any
case, it cannot hurt us. Naturally, there will be many victims, and it
behooves us to man[oe]uvre not to be caught in the wheels of this
machine, which rolls and crushes. We have everything to gain, whatever
be the result, whichever be the conqueror."

"I avow that I do not comprehend you."

"From either side we shall obtain civil equality. That is certain.
Afterward we shall not be ruined, even if we throw millions into the
abyss. Our capital is not seizable like that of the landed nobles,
whose estates can be so easily confiscated, but our wealth is portable;
gold and jewels chiefly comprise it. We shall save our fortunes, and
there lies our strength. The Muscovites will prevail in the end; the
odious class of proud Polish nobles will disappear, and we shall be the
aristocrats to whom the country will belong."

"The truth of your calculation may be proved, perhaps; its cruelty is
unsurpassed. With what indifference you discount the misfortunes of
those who form the basis of your argument!" said Jacob.

"What else can I do? Can I prevent this uprising? Ought we not to
profit by circumstances? Believe me, the Jews hold to-day in their hand
the future of Poland. Yesterday despised, soon we shall be the masters!
Look at the nobility! What is it? A band without strength, who guard
their pride of birth, their arrogance, their corruptions, their
eccentricities, and foolish indifference; they have all the faults of
their ancestors, and none of their virtues. It is a caste surely fated
to die. Such a caste cannot exist now-a-days. And if society still
demands a sort of modified aristocracy, who will replace the nobles?
Who but we?"

"You know that I am a Jew, heart and soul," said Jacob; "but I pity
Poland if your prophecy is accomplished."

"And why?"

"Because we are not ready for the role you lay out for us. We have not
deserved, by our conduct, to be the arbiters of this country. And to
tell the whole truth, our community is more corrupt than the nobles; it
is already worm-eaten."

"Not so bad as they, though."

"Our malady is different from theirs, but it is as dangerous."

"Oh, no! Because we know how to acquire and preserve this wealth, while
the nobles do not know anything of business, nor how to manage their
vast estates economically. The strength of money, the strength of
capital, is the only real power in this century."

"An opportunity, as you have remarked," said Jacob, "is presented to
the Jews of Poland to play an important role; as important as the one
they already hold in Germany. Will they understand their advantageous
position? Will they be worthy of it? Two questions to which God alone
can reply."

Segel burst out laughing.

"You are a pious Jew," cried he. "In everything you mix the idea of
God. These old superstitions are completely worn out."

"And that is precisely what afflicts me. We have torn our belief to
tatters, but under them is gold."

"What use of speaking of the _debris_ of a past which will never
return? There is my house; it cost more than a half million. I will do
the honours, and we will go afterward to find Mathilde."

He looked at his watch.

"_Saperlotte!_ I am expected at the Bourse in half an hour; but I have
still time to stay a few moments with you; then you can await me with
Mathilde. I will despatch my business at a gallop."

The mansion was spacious and elegant, but with a vulgar display of
wealth. No taste, refinement, or sentiment for art. It was built on one
of those plans which serve at the same time for private houses or
hotels. Superb mirrors with gilded frames, furniture covered with
velvet hangings of great price, wonderful inlaid floors, rare
bronzes, crystal chandeliers, porcelain from China and Japan, costly
bric-a-brac, and a general tone of vulgar display; such was the
dwelling, where, in the least details, one could see that the
proprietor had everywhere sought to dazzle his guests, and confound
taste with costliness.

During the inspection he several times spoke thus:--

"This _bibelot_ cost me a hundred ducats; this vase is worth a thousand
roubles."

The ostentatious mansion was worthy of a dethroned king or of a prince
_in partibus_. The general air of the house, nevertheless, was that of
solitude and _ennui_. The rooms seemed uninhabited. In spite of their
proportions, there was something wanting. Nothing seemed homelike or
cheerful.

Segel even conducted Jacob to the pretentious kitchen, provided with a
constant flow of running water. There was a tank filled with fish, and
many other inventions more or less ingenious.

As soon as his host had left him to go and inform his wife, Jacob threw
himself on a couch; he was overpowered with fatigue and disgusted with
all this show, and pitied Mathilde more than ever.

Madame Segel soon entered slowly; she was very pale, and was almost
unable to walk alone. She saluted her friend with a sweet smile tinged
with melancholy. In her sunken eyes burned a strange fire.

"Welcome home from Italy, monsieur," said she, holding out her hand. "I
longed to return home; but what matters it, here or there, it is all
the same."

"No doubt life, regarded in all its gravity, is full of sadness
everywhere," said Jacob.

"Why the devil do you regard it thus?" cried Henri, offering Jacob a
little glass of brandy. "I almost forgot the Bourse. I have hardly time
to swallow anything. Dear Mathilde, be good enough to keep our guest
until my return. I confide him to you; do not let him escape. I will be
absent only a quarter of an hour."

He rang.

"Are the horses ready?" asked he of the servant.

"Yes, monsieur."

"That is good. _Au revoir_. Without further excuse I leave you with my
wife," said he, kissing his wife's hand. "If you are at loss for
conversation, she can play the piano or sing something. You will find
the daily papers on the table. Very poor reading, I assure you, but,
for want of something better"--

When he had gone they remained silent for some time, not daring to look
at each other. At last Mathilde sighed, and held out her hand to him,
murmuring:--

"Jacob, we are old and good friends, and nothing more, are we not?"

"Madame," replied he respectfully, "time has not changed me, and the
confidence you have in me will not be betrayed."

"When we seek to keep apart," said Mathilde, "fate reunites us. It is a
temptation. Let us remain worthy of ourselves and worthy of our past,
so pure. I cannot understand Henri. Ordinarily he is so jealous. He
does not like to leave me alone with men. And to-day he has acted so
differently. Is it confidence or indifference? I will ask him."

"What matters it? Tell me how you are, and why you left Italy so soon?"

"Because there is suffering everywhere, death everywhere. Since my
marriage I am stricken at the heart. I must suffer, here or there. I am
always suffering."

"And your health?"

"The soul alone is ill. But speak of yourself."

"I--I have neither the time nor the right to suffer. Man lives not by
sentiment, but by action. It is this which renders us at the same time
more miserable and more happy. In the struggle for existence, when
we receive a wound, we have no right to think of it, and we must
continue the combat. Even you, madame, why not seek a remedy for your
sorrow?--an occupation, some aim in life."

"Occupations, my dear Jacob, are very limited for a woman without
children. Without them, what object in life has a woman? Do you think
that to sew and embroider can tranquillize a soul?"

"Reading, music, and poetry are inexhaustible sources of enjoyment.
Believe me, madame, days well employed are not followed by satiety,
regret, nor remorse. Those who have not the creative genius can
assimilate immortal creations. It is a voluptuous life that draws away
from the cares of existence."

"Alas! to follow your advice it had been necessary to be initiated to
this manner of living, and to be accustomed to it."

"You can form the habit."

"I have already, thank Heaven, an occupation in music. It soothes me,
absorbs me, and passes the time. But music occupies only a little
corner in my heart, and cannot fill it entirely."

"Reading, then."

"Reading unveils to us too much the secrets of life. I speak of
romances, the drama, and poetry."

"In that case seek, and you will find, some more serious occupation."

"I will try. But enough of this. Speak to me, Jacob, of yourself. For
what have you returned? What are you going to do?"

"I return, heart and soul full of ideas, and more an Israelite than
ever. I bring back projects of reform, of labour, and of sacrifice for
my people. My views are almost presumptuous. I dream of being a Bar
Maimonides. There is so much to do for our poor race."

"Do you believe it? Do you think that you can unite these scattered
people?"

"Yes; provided that my strength holds out. The task will be difficult,
arduous, and redoubtable."

"Who will be your disciples? The believers remain attached to their
foolish superstitions. They will repulse you as a new kind of heretic.
The unbelievers and the indifferent will listen to you as to a mad
poet, and will ridicule you."

"The prophets have often been repulsed by the crowd, who have even at
times stoned them to death. But each one of them has left in history
traces of his passage, and the grain that they have sown has
germinated."

"Then you will have the courage of a martyr? You deceive yourself,
however, if you think that you will be riddled with stones in public
places where you preach. You will, instead, have jokes thrown at you;
you will be called a fool, and covered with ridicule. That will be a
shabby martyrdom, absurd and insulting. The stoning would be
preferable. Sarcasm is a mighty weapon."

"When a man is absorbed, inspired, and exalted, full of the truth that
is within him, he does not see the pygmies in the crowd. It is the
crowd, the mass only, that he sees. When so many of our people dream of
nothing but money getting, no matter how, it is absolutely necessary
that some one should take an interest in the moral elevation of souls,
and devote himself entirely to this holy mission."

"How happy should I be to be your pupil! but I fear I am not capable of
understanding such science, such wisdom. At times it seems as if I can
foresee the future, but, really, I am very ignorant. Write out your
thoughts and I will read them. I will learn them by heart, and I will
spread them among those of my own sex who are deprived of the
consolation of faith in God. Unfortunately, if you are a Barak, I am
not a Deborah."

Jacob was about to reply when the door opened, giving entrance to
Mathilde's father and husband, accompanied by Mann and Simon.

Henri had informed them of Jacob's arrival, and they were all invited
to dinner. The acceptance on the part of an important person, like
Mann, was extraordinary, for he usually made some excuse, and declined
all ordinary invitations.

Jacob's former guardian ran to him with open arms, and cried:--

"Welcome! I embrace you, and wish you much happiness, Rabbi Jacob."

Mann cried at the same time:--

"I am rejoiced to hold your hand after so long an absence."

"How do you return to us, Akiba or atheist?" asked the jovial Simon.

"Neither one nor the other. I am the same as ever, only a little more
alarmed as to the future."

"Then it was not worth while to leave Poland," replied Simon, "and you
arrived just in time to assist in a revolution."

"It is no laughing matter," said Henri.

"I am not joking," said Simon. "I am organizing, myself, a regiment of
Jewish gamins, that I shall lead to combat seated in a sedan chair. In
place of a gun I will have my umbrella."

"Such pleasantry is ill-timed," replied Mathilde's father. "We are on
the eve of grave events."

"It is every day more apparent. Alas!"

"Your 'alas,' Father Simon, shows that you condemn these revolutionary
tendencies."

"How can I approve them?"

"It is useless to oppose public opinion," remarked Mann; "these fools
will not listen to reason. When reason speaks they are deaf as a post.
The best thing we can do is to look out for ourselves."

"The safest thing," added Simon, "is to conceal ourselves during the
combat."

"Certainly. Why should we mix in it?" said Mann approvingly.

"To speak seriously," said Jacob, "there is, perhaps, another line of
conduct to follow."

"The catastrophe is not yet certain," observed Henri, "for there are
among them many reasonable men."

Mann rose from his seat and cried:--

"The catastrophe is certain. It cannot be otherwise with a clique of
proud and degenerated men guided by their passions and not by reason."

"Dear Monsieur Mann, and what of us?" asked Simon. "Are we neither
degenerate nor proud? Speak!"

"We are not to be compared with those men. We are worth much more."

"That is true. They are blind, we are only lame. The Jews are peaceable
men, suited only for business. When there is disorder in the streets
they close their shops."

"My faith! they are sensible to do so."

"Thus said my late papa," murmured Simon. "It is a sacred duty to
follow his advice."

"You are always joking."

"And you, the day when you joke I will abstain from it. If no one
throws a note of gayety into the conversation, they would say that
Heine carried all the Jewish spirit into his tomb. It is a service I
render you all. Mann, you do not know the efforts that you cost me."

The grave Israelite, wounded in his self-love, walked up and down the
room, puffing and grumbling.

"And how does the country seem to you, dear Jacob?" asked Mathilde's
father.

"Very much changed. How things have changed for us!"

"Why do you say _us?_" asked Simon. "The half, at least, of our people
do not take part in this with us."

"The question is much discussed by the press."

"But, in general, public opinion favours us."

"Yes, in appearance," replied Mann. "The Poles affect to be liberal,
but, at heart, they remain feudal aristocrats, incorrigible, and puffed
up with pride."

"Listen," interrupted Simon, "to a word of advice. Do not speak of men
'puffed up with pride.' It is inconsistent on your part."

The great man looked at Simon, and said scornfully:--

"You are only an old fault-finder."

"Fault-finder, if you will, but look at yourself in the glass before
you reproach others with being proud. Are you more approachable, more
cordial, more charitable, than L. P. K., or many other nobles? They
have their heraldry, you your millions. Two different causes, but both
alike result in pride."

"Hold your peace, you are insufferable," cried the rich man.

Then he murmured between his teeth, "What an impudent fellow!"

Henri and his father-in-law laughed heartily at his wrath.

"Dear brother in Israel," continued Simon calmly, "each time that the
nobles have a bad odour smell yourself. You will discover the same
odour. You are at heart an aristocrat, but you lack the title."

"Enough! Enough!" cried Mann.

"No! It is not enough. I must get rid of my bile. If I do not I shall
stifle, and that would be sad for me at first, for you afterward, if
you wish to pay my debts. We were speaking of pride. Very well. If we
have not crests surmounted with coronets, nor three hundred years of
nobility"--

"Enough, I say! Enough!"

"Certainly, if you insist." And at last Simon consented to be silent.

Mann sulked awhile, then said to Jacob:--

"What news do you bring from Jerusalem? What is the condition of the
Jews there? How do they live?"

"In misery. They ask our aid to help them emigrate to foreign lands.
They await the signal of regeneration from us. We ought to listen to
their appeal."

"You wish, then, to direct the world?"

"I have not that pretension. Akiba, however, was only a shepherd before
he became a sage. I might, perhaps, follow his example."

"It is the contrary with which you are threatened, if you do not change
your conduct," cried Simon. "From a sage you will become a shepherd."

His guardian laughed good-naturedly, and said:--

"Simon predicts the future well. Instead of reforming humanity, apply
yourself to business, and leave God, in his wisdom, to direct the world
according to his own plans."

"Can we not become the instruments of God? Ought we not to try and
accomplish his designs? I have no wish to amass wealth. I am
sufficiently rich."

"If your whim is to be a second Akiba," replied Simon, "I doubt if you
will succeed. From the ashes of Akiba have sprung up Boerne and Heine.
The precepts of Heine in a book are fine; in flesh and blood,
inconvenient."

"I do not like Heine," said Jacob.

They all exclaimed against this sacrilegious prejudice.

"Why do you dislike him? He represented in his day the true
contemporaneous spirit of the Jews with the Kladderadatch."

"I do not like him, because his spirit is a spirit of destruction,
debauchery of thought, debauchery of language, irony, scepticism, and
abasement of human nature. All these are scattered among the pearls and
diamonds. It is no less corruption though the author be remarkable for
talent and genius. It is from this very corruption that we should free
ourselves, for it is a presage of death; it is the death-rattle."

"Then," finished Simon, "_Judaeorum finis_."

"Yes. _Finis Judaeorum et Judaismi finis_. The people of Israel
resemble a man who, having preserved intact a treasure during a journey
of a thousand leagues through forests full of brigands, lost it in a
puddle at the door of his house. This treasure is our faith, and it is
in danger."

"Dear Jacob, why do we always speak of religion and morality? You
really believe, then, that they exist somewhere?"

"If they are dead, we should employ means to resuscitate them."

"Decidedly he is mad," muttered Mann to himself. Then he added in a
loud voice:--

"I should be proud of such an honour, but I am unworthy."

"'And I," said Simon, "I advise you to devote your energies to a task
less likely to prove disappointing. For example, seek in the Talmud
the things forbidden to a Jewish stomach. Maimonides has counted
twenty-four. With a little perseverance you can get it up to thirty.
What a glorious discovery that would be!"

"What matters the number of dishes," said Jacob. "Yet the prohibition
has produced good results, because it has set a limit to gormandizing."

"If you only knew, dear friend," said Simon, "what a savour there is in
a sausage! A wealthy proprietor of Volhynie, although originally an
Israelite, ate them to satiety, and afterward said: 'I stuff myself
with sausages, for I eat them for myself and for my ancestors, who
never tasted them during many generations.'"

"Truly," cried Henri, "the conversation takes an agreeable turn, thanks
to sausages."

Mann, wearied with the lamentations of Jacob and the jests of Simon,
started a new subject.

"Has any one here," asked he, "been at the house of Count A. Z.
lately?"

The count was a person whose popularity increased daily, though it
might be fleeting.

"I," responded the indefatigable Simon.

"And you were received?"

"Why not?"

"Very well. What did he say?"

"Always the same sobriety of words. His theory, like that of all the
nobles, is that the Jews ought to work to obtain their rights,--like
apprentices, in order to pass their companions and masters."

"He is right, up to a certain point," said Jacob.

"How is that?" asked Mann angrily. "Have we not, we who were born on
the same soil, received from nature the same rights as these men? In
what are nobles our superiors? Have we not gained our rights of
equality by humiliations endured during ages?"

"Nature," replied Jacob, "has created us all equal. I do not deny that;
but on the side of rights there are duties. If we do not share all the
burden we shall not merit all the rights."

"But we could not escape the expense, that I know; and, with their
usual haughtiness, the nobles do not welcome us to the Agricultural
Society."

"Until the present day," said Jacob, "we have not had a single title to
aspire to it. Yet I admit that the nobles are wrong to be so
exclusive."

"Certainly. It is wrong for them to act thus; and, tell me, what is the
object of the societies the nobles are organizing? It is to deprive us
of our commerce."

"Perhaps that would be rendering us a great service, for with this
single occupation we are losing prestige. It would, perhaps, be for the
best if we were obliged to seek our means of existence elsewhere. Why
should we always remain traders? Besides, thanks to our experience and
ability, we have not much to fear from their competition, for they know
nothing about business."

"But they will monopolize commerce. Their societies are directed
against us. Their Agricultural Society is a conspiracy, a plot against
the Jews. Everywhere we meet evidences of their hatred."

"And I do not think that on our side there is very much good-will
either."

"And why should we like them?" interrupted Henri. "Though they are very
polite, and sometimes even familiar, they exclude us from their
intimacy and never accord us their friendship."

"We do the same."

"But with us it is different," replied Mann. "We have an excuse, for
they have never ceased to render themselves odious."

"Then," concluded Simon, "we have a right to detest them, and their
duty is to return love for hatred. Eh! If we slap them on one cheek,
they must offer us the other! Besides, the Christian religion teaches
that, does it not?"

Simon looked as serious as an owl as he spoke thus, but Mann continued,
without smiling:--

"These nobles are fools! Their confidence is extravagant. They believe
in the promises of Napoleon III.; they count on England, on Italy, on
Hungary and Sweden, and even on Turkey. They await a revolution in
Germany,--a revolution of potatoes, no doubt! They also hope much from
troubles that are to arise in the interior of Russia. And from all this
will infallibly come out the resurrection of Poland! What blindness!"

"In the meanwhile," observed Mathilde's father, "we are in a very
disagreeable position. It is equally foolish for us to be on either
side. Russia will prevail, that is certain; but during the combat the
Poles can crush us and do us much evil, perhaps send us out of the
country.

"You are mistaken," cried Henri.

"Yes," agreed Simon. "One has only to sit on two chairs to be sure that
if one fails he can sit on the other."

"Naturally."

"One thing is clear to me," said Jacob. "It is, that we ought to side
with Poland and share her fate, however disastrous the consequences may
be. Self-sacrifice should be our watchword, and no matter what happens,
our efforts will not have been in vain."

"In this," said Mann, "Jacob is not altogether wrong. In the proud days
of the Polish republic many noble families were so divided that part of
their members were for the king, and others against him. These took
part in the insurrection; those sustained the government. They had a
foot in each camp, and, whatever the result, the one saved the other.
It is a good example to follow. It is necessary to keep the middle
path: these are the ideas that should be scattered among our people."

"No, no!" cried Jacob. "Not the middle path! We must share the fate of
Poland, without reservation."

Mann struck him on the shoulder and said:--

"You are very young."

"Yes, yes, he is young," repeated Simon, "and he ought to listen to the
advice of those who have had some experience. It is for old fellows to
tell young ones what to do."

Just then a lackey in livery and white gloves announced at the door
that dinner was served. Mathilde, who had absented herself, appeared
and took her father's arm, and Mann eagerly rose and hastened toward
them.

It would be useless to dwell on the elegance of the table and the
gastronomic perfection of the repast.

Henri ordinarily contented himself, in spite of his wealth, with a bit
of bread and a glass of brandy. But when his vanity was affected
nothing was too costly. He was full of apologies, pretending that this
was an impromptu repast, and that he was afraid they would not find
enough to eat. It was really a dinner for diplomats, and the _menu_ was
on rose- paper bordered with silver.

Mann affected a nonchalant air, so that his lack of education might not
be noticed. He tied a napkin around his neck and ate in silence. The
conversation turned on the gossip of the day.

Suddenly Mann addressed himself to Jacob in Polish, and said:--

"Although you are an orthodox Jew, you have infringed one of the most
important laws of your religion."

"Oh, let us drop Judaism," said the master of the house, in French.
"Avoid this subject before the servants."

"But what sin have I committed?" asked Jacob.

"A sin so great that you do not deserve to be called a man in the sight
of the Lord."

"What is it, then?"

"How old are you?" said Mann.

"Twenty and over."

"Very well. Since the age of eighteen years you have been in sin, for
you have not married, and that is the first duty of every Israelite. If
you do not hasten to do so, Dumah will catch you one of these days, and
throw you into the depths of hell!"

"I do not deny that youthful marriage is a duty," replied Jacob, "but I
believe that our law tolerates some exceptions. As for myself, I have
not the least wish to marry."

"How thoughtful Mann is!" cried Simon; "he wishes to put a halter
around your neck, because misery loves company."

Jacob replied simply:--

"I cannot marry without love."

As he said these words he threw an involuntary glance toward Mathilde,
who grew pale and looked down.

"What a rogue!" continued Simon, with a forced gravity. "To wish to put
the sugar of love on the bitter dish of marriage, is to seek hypocrisy
where one ought to expect duty and care only."

"Father Simon, we are so accustomed to your jests that your last remark
can pass for one. It contains, however, many truths. Yet I venture to
ask you if it is not permitted to aspire here below to a little joy and
happiness? And true love can procure that."

"No; not in practical life. Romance has perverted your imagination."

"It is, then, forbidden to hope for a little poetry in this prosaic
life?"

"Poetry! The Jew ought not to speak of it. Calculation should be our
business. Two and two make five, because to admit that two and two make
four implies a loss of interest. But to return to your marriage."

"Rather let us drop the subject."

"Very well," said Mann. "I assure you I will bore you about it until
you decide. Unfortunately I have no more unmarried daughters. But I can
recommend to you a charming young woman with a portion of a hundred
thousand roubles."

"A hundred thousand roubles!" cried Simon. "You had better take her,
Jacob."

"Thanks for your interest in me," said Jacob coldly, when Mathilde
spoke in her turn.

"My uncle and cousin are right," said she, fixing her large, black eyes
on him. "You ought to marry."

"What!" cried he sadly. "You also? You are in the plot?"

"Yes; because I desire to see you tranquil and happy."

"Singular receipt," murmured Simon.

"We had better leave the subject of marriage to the managing mammas.
After all, we are meddling with something that does not concern us, and
some day Jacob will be claiming damages and interest for having
marriage put into his head," laughed Henri.

They arose from the table, and all the men save Jacob grouped
themselves together.

"What do you think of him?" asked his former guardian of Mann.

"He is a remarkable man. He could be very useful to us if it were not
for his religious whims. They are very well for the ignorant, but
useless for enlightened men."

"Yes," replied Simon; "religion for you is cabbage soup for the poor.
You prefer turtle soup."

"This mania will pass," added Segel; "the principal causes are his
youthful enthusiasm, his poetic and devout spirit. Let us persuade him
to engage in some useful and lucrative business; it is the best way to
keep him from proclaiming himself Jew so often."

New visitors arrived; Mathilde was at the piano, and Jacob listened,
all absorbed.




                               CHAPTER X.

                       THE PURSUIT OF A HUSBAND.


A short distance from the mansion of Segel, separated only by their
gardens, was a pretty little stone villa covered with ivy and other
climbing vines. The low windows opened on a veranda, and sculptured
ornaments of wood and stone gave it an attractive appearance, although
it was a little deteriorated by the dampness, and there was about it a
general air of neglect.

The proprietor of this villa was a man who could not live in it on
account of the expense he had incurred in building it. His puerile
fancy had ruined him, and he was reduced to living in a garret. The
plaything was let during the summer, and during the rest of the year it
remained empty.

This dwelling lacked a master who would love it and care for it; such
was the air of neglect it had taken on.

For several months it had been occupied by Madame Wtorkowska and her
daughter. This lady was the widow of a speculator who had been
unfortunate in business, and had died in debt. His wife had succeeded
in concealing from the creditors some portions of the estate. She lived
on this with a certain elegance, and aspired to move in the best
society. She went sometimes to Ems, to Spa, or to Paris, and hoped
everything from her only daughter, whom she considered a marvel.

Mademoiselle Emma was really charming. She was twenty-two years old and
owned to twenty, but no one had yet offered her his name and fortune.
Although the mother was persuaded that a king or a prince of the blood
would have been fortunate to possess such a treasure, the simple
gentlemen found that this pearl was exacting, and had luxurious tastes
a little too costly for men of moderate fortunes.

That was why, in her despair, Madame Wtorkowska, _nee_ Weinberg, went
back to her Israelite friends, among whom she hoped to find a rich
merchant who would marry her daughter.

Emma was very beautiful, of that ideal type taken by the painters for
Rachel or Rebecca. She was a dark-eyed blonde, with a snowy complexion,
features which were like sculptured marble, large, black eyes full of a
mysterious fascination, and rosy lips whose charming smiles displayed
teeth of pearl. Nature had made her an actress, and her mother had
developed in her the art of simulating all emotions and playing all
roles.

This mother knew excellently how to appear a literary woman, without
having read much. She gave herself out as an accomplished musician,
though she hardly knew the notes. She posed as a lady of high degree,
although she had seen the best society only _en neglige_ at the baths
and in some salons of doubtful distinction, and she masked her poverty
under a deceitful elegance and an appearance of wealth.

Emma, of which the Polish is Emusia, called herself, for short, Musia,
which she further transformed into the French, Muse, which gave her a
stamp of originality, and expressed by a name her diverse talents and
her dazzling accomplishments. At an early age she learned to play the
piano, and initiated herself in light and easy literature. Provided
that the book was written in French, in an elegant style, her mother
asked no more; as for the morals they inculcated she was utterly
indifferent. "This is not suitable. That can harm you. You must guard
yourself well from this or from that." These were the rules of conduct
that Madame Wtorkowska gave to her daughter, who soon became
accomplished in all her refinements: the art of dissimulation, habitual
and unblushing falsehood, elegant and perfumed deceit. She had a great
natural talent for music. At six years she passed for a little prodigy,
at twelve she played in public, and at eighteen she was proclaimed
Chopin's most clever interpreter. She had so enchanted Liszt at Ems, to
believe her mother, that he would have married her then and there had
it not been for the double obstacles of the princess ... and his
priesthood. Muse, the better to attract attention, had adopted a very
beautiful, although somewhat eccentric, toilet. Her mother lost no
occasion to show her beautiful daughter at the theatre, at charity
concerts, at the industrial exhibitions, and at the art galleries. She
also added the publicity of the press, by procuring, from time to time,
a flattering mention of the beauty and talents of Muse in the _Courrier
de Varsovie_.

In spite of all, she had no luck so far; all the artifices of coquetry
had not obtained a proposal of marriage worthy of being taken into
consideration. Two aspirants only had presented themselves in a
legitimate and honourable manner: a youth of eighteen years all fire
and flame, and an old man foolishly in love. As neither of them had any
money they were quickly refused.

At the baths of Spa or Ems a count also had offered himself, but this
noble had ruined himself by a dissipated life, and, as he could not
return to Warsaw on account of his debts, lived "by his wits."

In a moment of discouragement Muse thought of becoming an actress.
"With my beautiful voice and charms of person," said she, "success is
certain, and I shall soon be rolling in gold." But this idea was
extremely distasteful to her mother, whose ambition was for a solid
establishment, and not for the precarious life of the theatre. She
wept, and implored her daughter not to think of it, and assured her
that their pecuniary resources were sufficient to keep them in luxury
for another year. Much might be accomplished during a twelvemonth. They
were sure to secure a rich husband by that time. Why not wait before
leaving the social sphere to which they were accustomed? The scenic
career would always remain open.

The same day that Jacob dined at the Segels Madame Wtorkowska returned
from the city to her villa in radiant humour, and found her daughter at
the window reading one of Feval's novels. She contemplated her a moment
with admiration.

"How lovely you are to-day," said she; "more beautiful than ever! That
is right; your beauty is your capital. I have a magnificent project. We
must succeed. Conquer or die is our motto!"

"What has happened now?" asked Muse, throwing down her book and giving
a side glance in the mirror.

"I have just learned that Jacob, your old acquaintance, has returned to
Warsaw. He will be your husband. I have a presentiment of it. A natural
presentiment never deceives. You know the proverb: 'That which a woman
wishes'"--

"'The devil wishes,'" replied the girl laughing. "You are in great
spirits, but you need not waste your wit on me."

"I have already said that twice in public with great success."

The mother kissed her forehead, and said in French:--

"You are sublime! But listen to me: you must proceed cautiously with
this Jacob; you must be prudent, calculating, dignified, and full of
tact."

"Never fear," replied the daughter, "I remember him perfectly. I know
his peculiarities, and shall not make a false move."

"Be careful when you are near him not to be too gay, too witty, too
brilliant. Be grave, modest, and poetical; quote much ideal poetry to
him; such are the strategetic man[oe]uvres which will serve you."

"Do you know, mamma, I have been told that he has been already in
love?"

"And with whom?"

"With Mathilde, or she with him; it is the same thing. I do not know
whether this love still exists or has vanished."

"Several years have passed since then. She has had time to fade, to
grow ugly; and, furthermore, she is married, so that she is no obstacle
for us. His love for her proves that he is capable of passion. So much
the better. Now-a-days, men have become veritable icebergs. They resist
an enchantress like you, and let themselves be devoured by the
demimonde"--

"Yes, they do not think of marriage. It is the spirit of the age."

"Jacob, of whom I have heard much from people who know him well, is a
serious young man, sentimental, pious, and even fanatic. When you are
with him, you must seem to bear the burden of the sufferings of two
thousand years; you must sigh, and pretend to be full of tender and
elegiac poetry."

"Dear mamma, do I need these lessons?" said Muse, a little piqued.

"No, my child; but a mother's heart is always full of fears. A better
match would be difficult to find. Use every means to captivate him;
meet him as if by chance, and invite him here. He loves music. We will
give two or three entertainments where we will have Kontski and
Doprzynski, and you and those two singers will make an adorable trio.
Then will come the supper, when you will be irresistible from the
charms of your toilet."

Muse shrugged her shoulders.

"O mamma," said she, "leave it all to me! I know well how to play my
cards."

"Listen once more," said Madame Wtorkowska, drawing near her daughter,
blushing and a little embarrassed. "We will play our part well. Jacob
is a man of honour, sensitive and conscientious. With him, but with him
alone, dear Emusia, one can resort to extreme measures to force him
into the last intrenchments and bind him to us. He is young,
passionate. It would be very easy to awaken in him--you understand me?
I would not advise you to go so far with another, but with him it is
different."

"Of course I understand you; why not? I am no longer a child," replied
Muse, with an offended air. "The means are heroic, but might succeed
with a perfectly honest man like Jacob. There was real genius in that
idea, mamma."

The mother blushed at this praise, for the idea appeared brazen even to
herself, coming from a mother who should have instructed and guided her
daughter.

"Our desperate situation only has made me suggest such a thing."

"Why speak of despair? Have we not the theatre as a last resort?"

"To see you an actress; that would be a great sorrow for me."

"And Malibran, and Pasta, and Schroeder, and Grisi, and Sontag, and
many others. La Sontag, did she not become a countess and
ambassadress?"

"I don't care for that. I do not wish to see you on the stage. I would
prefer"--

"Do not fear, mamma."

"I have already apian," replied Madame Wtorkowska calmly. "Jacob dines
at the Segels to-day. You are a friend of Mathilde's. She lives near
here; dress yourself quickly and go to see her. You can feign ignorance
of the circumstances. I will not accompany you, a servant alone will
follow. We must take advantage of each favourable moment. To arrive at
dessert or at coffee will be best. After a repast men are in good
humour; you will produce a lively impression on Jacob. Modestly dressed
and not expecting to see company, you must blush, draw back, and wish
to retire. They will beg you to remain. You will remain. What follows I
leave to you."

Muse rose quickly, like a soldier whom the clarion calls to battle, and
embraced her mother, who kissed her and said:--

"One more word of advice. Do not put on any powder, your complexion
does not need it, and he might think you had lost your freshness; and
how will you dress?"

"In black lace, modestly, poetically. You can depend on me."

A half-hour after, while Muse was at her toilet, Madame Wtorkowska's
eagle eyes at the window saw carried from Segel's kitchen into the
dining-room a sumptuous roast, then ices; she ran to her daughter and
cried:--

"Now is the time. Hasten, I beseech you!"

Muse was all ready. She might have served for a painter's model to
represent a contemporaneous elegy; her usually mobile features were
changed completely. By a profound study before the mirror she had given
them an expression of sweet melancholy. She was enchanting; with an
infinite art she concealed art, and seemed natural, and no one would
have imagined she was playing a false role.

Women attract and conquer men sometimes by gayety of spirit, and
sometimes by a mystical reserve; nothing awakens ardour in a man more
than an enigma to solve. When he has arrived at the last page of that
book called woman, it is necessary that she be a marvellous masterpiece
for him to commence the reading with the same interest as before.

Muse was a living sphinx with such an attractive and finished beauty
that it would have been difficult for the most clever observer to
discover the least defect in her person, either physically or morally.

She wore a black lace dress, light and _negligee_; for ornaments, a
coral bracelet and brooch; nothing more save a white handkerchief and a
flower in her hand. To her mother, even, she appeared in a light so new
as to draw from her enthusiastic exclamations:--

"Oh, my Ophelia! You are charming!"

Muse smiled proudly, kissed her mother, and with a calm and composed
mien left the house as if to keep an engagement, and not to engage in a
struggle where her object was to capture a man's heart. Her heart had
never yet spoken; it surprised her that men in general were so little
susceptible to passionate love, and that she herself had never felt
this emotion. Her feelings were in her head, and if at times her brain
had been inflamed, this flame had never descended to the heart. Love,
as she dreamed of it, presented itself to her imagination covered with
silk and diamonds in a superb _salon_, amid a royal court.

Did her heart beat on the way? Her black dress could alone tell us, but
her face did not reveal a single sign of inquietude. The chronological
reckoning of Madame Wtorkowska had been so exact, that Muse arrived
just at the moment when they were taking coffee, and, as the piano was
opposite the door, Mathilde saw her enter and then draw back as if to
go. She arose at once and ran to her, and drew her into the room. Jacob
was near her, but she passed him without recognition.

"But this is Monsieur Jacob, an old acquaintance of yours," said
Mathilde.

"Ah, really! He has returned from his travels, then. How he has
changed! I should never have recognized him. I am charmed to see him
again."

The first step was of great importance. She appeared at first to be
altogether indifferent; she played her first lines admirably. As for
Jacob, he felt no emotion whatever. There exist in some men certain
instincts which warn them, if they are not under the empire of a brutal
passion, to avoid danger. Beautiful as she was, Muse did not attract
him. Her beauty was for him like that of a statue or a lovely picture,
no more.

She had more success with the group of men who were drinking coffee.
They all praised her beauty. Henri alone dared not openly express his
admiration, for fear of being heard by his wife.

"Delicious girl!" said Mann. "A dainty enough morsel for a king!"

"A morsel for a king!" added Simon; "but one must have golden teeth to
chew it."

Mathilde's father, a great admirer of women, remarked in a low voice:--

"My word for it, she is well worth a thousand ducats!"

"Oh, much more!" cried Mann.

"Wait, gentlemen," added Simon; "put off the sale until after the
marriage."

"How clever those women are," said Mann. "Madame Wtorkowska is not
worth a sou, and look how they dress, how they live."

"I suspect the object of this visit," whispered Simon. "It is a chase
organized against Jacob. I pity him if he falls into their hands."

While they were talking, Muse drew near the piano and looked at the
music before Mathilde. It was a composition of Schumann's, and as Jacob
was near her she asked him:--

"Do you remember our promenades with Mathilde? Are you as serious as
ever?"

"Always the same, mademoiselle, with the difference, perhaps, that age
has augmented my failing."

During this conversation Mathilde felt her heart beat violently. Father
Simon made from afar some warning gestures, and finished by approaching
the piano. Muse greeted him coldly as an enemy, but just then some one
asked her to play something.

"With pleasure," said she; "I love music, and I never refuse to play.
Above all, I love Schumann the best."

She executed one of those fantastic reveries where grief gushes out in
poignant notes like drops of blood.

She played admirably and with much expression. An actress even in
music, she expressed ravishingly the sentiments which she could not
feel.

She was warmly applauded. Mathilde, who was herself an excellent
musician, found new food for thought in this manner of interpreting a
composition that she loved. Jacob praised, but coldly. Father Simon
took him by the arm and drew him aside.

"Do you know Muse?" asked he.

"Yes, I used to see her often."

"Do you know the mother?"

"Very little."

"Then learn that they are two very dangerous women. The daughter,
reared in luxury, without being worth a sou, seeks a rich husband. Take
care of yourself. They will catch you, if possible. They are setting
their cap for you already."

"Why, I have only just arrived!"

"The mothers of these days have, such a scent that they smell from afar
the marriageable young men. Take care of yourself. This Muse is
enchantingly beautiful and versed in all deceit."

"Very beautiful women do not please me."

"She can make herself anything you wish, for she can divine your
thoughts."

Seated by the mistress of the house, Muse turned her head. She
immediately understood that Simon was acting the part of Mentor to the
young Telemachus, and called to him familiarly:--

"I have a favour to ask of you, Monsieur Simon, and I feel that I am
very fortunate to meet you here."

"A favour! Of me?"

"Yes, monsieur, on the part of my mother. She dotes on your witty
repartees and wishes to see you sometimes in her _salon_, if you will
so honour us."

She had counted on gaining Father Simon over by her seductive flattery,
but the old rogue only bowed courteously, smiled maliciously, and
withdrew hastily to the other side of the room. He went up to Jacob and
whispered:--

"She has been trying to burn me with incense right under my very nose.
What a siren! To avoid her snares, stuff your ears with cotton, shut
your eyes, and save yourself."

"For me," said Jacob, "there are neither sirens nor witches."

"There have been, however, many more than those in the Odyssey."

Muse knew better than to show too much interest in the man she was
seeking to ensnare. She had Mathilde ask him to tell them something of
his travels. Thanks to this diplomatic stratagem, Jacob joined them,
and engaged in a lively conversation.

She saw that he was absorbed in Mathilde, and felt that he did not
listen to her. Finding further efforts useless she arose to take leave.
With a cold and polite tone she said to the young man only, that she
would be happy to see him at her home, as if it was out of compliment
to her friend.

"Man of ice," thought she, "in vain you seek to escape me. I shall
subdue you. You will belong to me. Then we will square our account."

She left the room modestly, almost timidly, Madame Segel conducting her
to the door. When she returned she said to Jacob:--

"Well, how did you like her?"

"She is wonderfully beautiful, but there is also something disagreeable
about her."

Some of them protested.

"She is the least natural woman I have ever met," said Jacob. "My ideal
is a true and sincere woman."

Mathilde fell into a revery. During this time Henri had escorted Muse
to the street. It was easily seen by his sparkling eyes that this pearl
pleased him. On her part Mademoiselle Muse found Segel to her taste
also, but she could not compromise herself with a married man while she
sought a husband. Otherwise these two souls were sympathetic, and
seemed created for each other. Henri's last glance was so ardent, that
it almost compensated Muse for Jacob's coldness.

Her mother impatiently awaited the result of this first attack.

"You have seen him?" asked she.

"Yes."

"Well?"

"Preludes, as you have often said yourself, dear mamma, are always
tiresome. I played for him one of Schumann's fantasies as I never
played it before; I felt inspired; I showed myself at the same time
bewitching and indifferent. I threw him furtive glances, neither too
ardent nor too cold. By slow and insidious steps, by proceeding with
much caution I can put him off his guard and take him captive. I am
sure of him, I think."

"Then you do not think it will be an easy matter?"

"No, probably not. He has something else on his mind."

"And can you not by your magic art draw from him that which is rooted
in his heart?"

"I will try, but it is a difficult part to play."

"I am chagrined to see you doubtful of success so soon."

"Oh, if I absolutely will it, I can succeed! But I shall be obliged to
compromise myself. Not in the way you suggested this morning, however.
It will suffice to expose myself in the eyes of the world. For the
rest, that which Count Alfred said of the chase applies perfectly to my
situation. It is not necessary to make any plans in advance to draw on
the game. The plan will develop when the time comes. But I have some
news for you. Henri is desperately in love with me."

"What Henri?"

"Our neighbour, Segel."

"What, has he dared?"

"If you could have seen him squeeze my hand; if you could have heard
him sigh when he escorted me to the street! Oh, it was droll!"

"Unfortunately, he is married."

"Yes, but Mathilde has a bad cough. They say that her lungs are
affected. She is not yet twenty-five years old; at that age phthisis is
fatal. But may God preserve her!"

"You are truly a genius! Your foresight is admirable. If we could keep
him in reserve it would not be bad; however, I prefer Jacob. Men of
Henri's calibre never become seriously in love. Their sentiment is not
love, it is passion. Every year they change their mistress. It is the
theatre that furnishes them."

"Bah! That is the custom now-a-days!"

"Believe me, you had better hold Jacob. There is something horrible
about counting on a death."

"I will do all I can to satisfy you. I am very sorry for poor Mathilde,
yet one can see death in her eyes."

"Do not think of her, then; think rather of Jacob."

"We will see. As for me, I like Henri better."

The mother frowned and said no more.




                              CHAPTER XI.

                          A POLITICAL MEETING.


The same evening Jacob set out to seek a friend of Ivas, who had been
his comrade at the university, and had become a very important person
in the present agitation. This man, a modest employe of the government,
exercised a powerful influence on the young men and in circles where
politics were the order of the day. He possessed superior intelligence,
rare executive ability, great energy and activity, and his character
was at the same time pliant and firm. Without being leader of any
party, he went from one to another, and the timid as well as the bold
bowed everywhere to his incontestable authority. Yet no one could have
said that Kruder--that was his name--belonged to the fire-eaters, to
the liberals, or to the conservatives, nor if he was red, blue, or
white.

With the excited he was all fire and flame; with the cool reasoners he
was calm and logical; with the prudent and timorous he was full of
discretion and consideration.

All listened to his objections; all followed his counsels. He knew how
to smooth all difficulties, conceal divergences, and to lead to the
same end contradictory views.

Amid such diversity of opinions he alone could maintain order, and
command sufficient confidence to subject all differences of opinion to
discipline, in advance of the coming revolution; for to do this was his
ambition, his only ambition.

He had friends in both camps; these precipitated the movement, those
retarded it. His intimate relations with both parties put him in the
way of hearing the opinions and knowing the situation thoroughly.
Nothing could happen without his cognizance. In his work of
centralization it was important to be well informed, so as to prevent
errors, or to correct them as well as he could.

To attract less notice and to more easily escape suspicion, Kruder
inhabited an unfrequented neighbourhood. He usually remained at home
until ten in the morning, the hour at which he went to his office. When
he had finished his government work, he commenced his active and errant
life, and this was prolonged late into the night. If he had to meet any
one, he made an appointment, sometimes at a _cafe_, sometimes in a
friend's house. To meet him, Jacob went to the dwelling of a young Jew,
Bartold by name, the proprietor of a manufactory and a hardware
merchant. His place was full of visitors every day, a fact which could
be easily explained by the importance of his business.

Well brought up and honest, he was not, however, a believer like Jacob.
In religious matters he was satisfied to select the morals and
repudiate the dogmas, but yet he proclaimed himself a Jew with a
certain boastfulness. It pleased him to say: "If the European
aristocracy are proud of tracing their origin back to the Crusades, I
ought to be very proud of mine, which goes back much farther. I am a
descendant of the tribe of Levi. That takes the place of arms or
crests. My ancestors guarded the Ark of the Covenant in Solomon's
temple; it is, at least, as great an honour as to have fought with the
Saracens."

Public agitation naturally increased the number of visitors at
Bartold's, and he had put at their disposal two large rooms of his
house. It was a neutral ground for political discussions. It was a
place of reunion sheltered from the police. Bartold took a great
interest in these meetings, for, in spite of his Israelitish genealogy,
he was a Pole at heart. He was thirty years old, tall, muscular, and
well formed. His eyes shone with more than ordinary intelligence. His
manner disclosed the serenity of an honest man who followed the right
path, and whose conscience was clear. He loved to laugh and to joke,
but under all this he concealed a warm, humane, and charitable heart.
He received Jacob with cries of joy and open arms.

"You could not have come to us," cried he, "in a more opportune moment.
You come to advise with us, do you not?"

With Bartold and Kruder there was a young Pole belonging to the most
advanced party of patriotic enthusiasm.

Kruder took his hat to go, but Jacob detained him.

"Pardon, monsieur," said he; "will you wait a moment? I have come to
seek you here, I have something to tell you."

"If it is not a personal affair you can speak freely before these
gentlemen. We are all friends here."

"Do you know Ivas?" asked the Jew abruptly.

"I know him well. He was with me at the university at Kief. What has
become of him? Have you met him anywhere?"

"Yes, in Italy. I brought him with me to the Polish frontier."

"And where is he at present?"

"In a hiding-place that I found for him, but he insists on coming to
Warsaw. I fear that would be dangerous for him. They are seeking him,
and his description is known."

"I do not agree with you. He had few acquaintances, and after some
years of absence he must have changed enough not to be recognized. We
could easily find an asylum for him here where he could escape the
police. It would be prudent, however, for him to secure a communal
passport."

"May he soon join us," said the young man of the extreme party. "He
will be very useful to our cause. We will undertake to conceal him. I
have often heard of him; he belongs to the Lithuanian provinces.
Nothing could be better. We will send him there to make converts to our
cause. What can we do to bring him here?"

"And," asked Kruder, looking at Jacob, "what are Ivas' feelings? You
see that here we are all fire, all flame."

"I fear he has too much fire," said Jacob. "Deleterious fire, alas!
This flame is, to my mind, the flame of despair. It will drive men to
unreasonable acts."

"Behold a cautious man!" cried the young Pole, paling with wrath; "the
sentiments of your race can be expressed in two words,--self-interest
and logic. We Poles, on the contrary, are led by what you call folly.
Is heroism folly? Then it will be by folly that we shall triumph."

"I am not," replied Jacob, "an exclusive partisan of cold reason. Logic
leads one astray at times. In a question of life or death for the
country's salvation we should not depend entirely on cold reasoning,
nor wholly on enthusiasm. Reasoners and enthusiasts are equally at
fault, are both on the wrong path."

"Would you, then, have a mixture of folly and reason?"

"Precisely. And I wish it for the common good. In it you will find the
veritable national instinct."

"No, no! Popular opinion aspires to a revolution which will accomplish
our deliverance."

"The revolutionary agitation is only at the surface," said Jacob. "In
the bottom of all hearts there are forebodings of the evils which may
arise from a premature explosion."

"If such are your opinions, I present you my compliments, and I salute
you."

"Wilk," interrupted Kruder, "do not allow yourself to become so angry."

"Why does he irritate me, then?" replied the young enthusiast, a little
appeased.

"However, I withdraw my brusque adieu and will remain."

"Be seated, gentlemen," said Bartold. "We are going to serve tea, and
you, Kruder, you must not go yet."

"I am expected at ten meetings."

"You can shirk five of them."

"I cannot, however, miss my interview with Count A. Z., nor the meeting
of the Agricultural Society, nor the University debate, nor the
Association for Popular Publications, nor"--

"You are verily a much-sought-for man, but, if I were you, I would
throw from my shoulders a good half of these burdens; childish bluster,
rhetorical competitions, a war of words of patriotic agitation, behold
to what you are invited! You wish to direct everything and everybody;
take care that you do not become a blunted tool in the end."

Kruder shook his head as if to say, "It will never be." But at heart he
felt that in his friend's warning he had something to fear.

After a general conversation he left the room with Wilk, and they
talked over the measures necessary to secure Ivas' safety.

Alone, Jacob and Bartold embraced warmly, for they loved each other
like brothers, despite the rationalism of the one and the piety of the
other.

They had an animated discussion on the situation of the Jews in Poland
and throughout the world. Jacob, as was his custom, spoke at length on
the apostleship he intended undertaking.

"You will lose your time and your efforts," said Bartold; "the era of
religious convictions is passed. We live in an age of reason, where it
is useless to wish to resuscitate the beliefs of antiquity and of the
Middle Ages. The structures which sheltered the wings of the cherubim
have crumbled away and can never be raised."

Jacob listened attentively, but his convictions were not shaken. He was
persuaded of the necessity of a reform in Judaism that should
reestablish the authority of the Mosaic law.




                              CHAPTER XII.

                                A SIREN.


After some weeks of sojourn at Warsaw Jacob met in the street Luci
Coloni, accompanied by Gromof, her Russian cavalier of the grotto at
Sestri. He was hastening to salute them, when he perceived that the
lady and her companion turned as if to avoid him. Why this mystery?
Jacob was puzzled, and paused on his way.

Ivas' affairs were soon arranged; it was no longer necessary to watch
over him, and, freed from that anxiety, he dreamed of commencing his
Judaic reform. He realized that he had two formidable obstacles to
encounter,--on one side indifference, on the other, superstition. The
superstitious would regard him as an atheist, the indifferent, as a
bigoted fanatic.

Discouraged for the moment, as almost all reformers have been, he
sought to regain his former enthusiasm by reading the Bible and the
Talmud. To this end he shut himself up for several days, and came out
determined to make converts, not among the old, whose convictions were
settled, but among the youth, who were still animated with noble
instincts. These it was whose opinion he would strive to form. Weary
with his long meditations he was going out to walk in the fresh air,
when he was handed a note from Madame Wtorkowska, written on satin
paper, the contents of which were as follows:--


We shall be very happy to see M. Jacob at our house this evening. There
will be a few friends and a little music.

                                    Benigna Wtorkowska.


Jacob was not in the humour to accept, but he reflected that it would
be impolite to refuse, and that perhaps he might meet Mathilde there,
so he accepted the invitation.

The little villa occupied by the Wtorkowskas was a masterpiece of that
modern art which transforms real misery into lying luxury. Nothing had
been paid for, from the servants' livery to the satin robe worn by the
hostess, and the lace-covered velvet dress of the charming daughter.

The refreshments, the bonbons, the flowers, were all obtained on
credit. Twice a week Hermann and Grossmann demanded the money for the
Pleyel grand piano, but in vain. The shabbiness of the furniture was
concealed by new covers, the broken places in the frames of the
pictures and mirrors were twined with ivy.

With all these frauds and ruses the little house, seen by the light of
innumerable wax candles, took on an air of freshness and elegance. The
studied disorder of objects thrown carelessly on the table was the
result of long thought. Here, a French romance was displayed, to show
acquaintance with current literature; there, pieces of classical music,
to show the degree of perfection arrived at by the fair performer. On
one side lay a photograph album containing portraits of celebrated men,
implying a personal acquaintance with them.

Jacob arrived a little late. The company was too numerous for the
_salon_, and the room was crowded. The guests occupied the couches and
chairs, and some remained standing against the wall. There was heat and
noise, and to move about demanded much skill.

Madame Wtorkowska received Jacob with studied politeness. Muse advanced
toward him with a smile which she had practised before the glass. She
led him to a little group where Mathilde was seated. Madame Segel wore
a white robe, and on her breast was a large bunch of camellias of the
same colour. She was pale; on the approach of Jacob she lifted her
head, and greeted him with a slight blush and a melancholy smile.

After that the poor woman relapsed into a glacial torpor. Henri stood
behind the chair of Mademoiselle Muse, whose toilet was so _decollete_
that all admirers of certain feminine charms could feast their eyes to
their hearts' content. Her thick and glossy braids were twined around
her head in classic style, and served admirably to bring out the
splendour of her eyes and complexion. She had the lively and brilliant
expression of a lioness seeking whom she might devour. Her crimson
velvet dress, covered with costly lace, bought on credit, became her
admirably, and gave her a queenly air. On her lovely arm sparkled a
large bracelet set with rubies.

Mathilde resembled an aerial spirit descended in a cloud of moonlit
rays; Muse, a _bacchante_, full of sensuous vitality.

Henri whispered in Jacob's ear:--

"If I were free like you, I would not hesitate an instant; I would
propose to this siren."

"And if I were in your place, and had such a wife as you have, I would
not even look at her," said Jacob coldly.

Segel smiled ironically, pushed back his black hair from his forehead,
and drew near Muse.

"Can you guess, mademoiselle," asked he in a low voice, "what advice I
have just been giving Jacob?"

The charmer replied sweetly in an indifferent tone, although she
perfectly understood what had passed between the two men.

"How can I guess, monsieur?"

"I advised him to fall in love with you."

"What bad advice!"

"Why?"

"Because I can never love any one."

"No one?" asked Henri tenderly.

"You have said it. I consider love as a dangerous malady, against which
one should be on guard."

"A malady rarely fatal," said Henri smiling.

"No matter; I am afraid of it."

"A bad sign. It is said that there is much more danger of taking typhus
or cholera when one fears it. It is a bad omen! Jacob"--

"Why, monsieur, why do you speak to me of this philosopher, this
savant?"

"Hardly a philosopher: a mystic, a fanatic."

"Who flies from me," said Muse. "Help me, then, to tame him a little. I
would like to talk with this savage."

"What would I not do for you, mademoiselle? I will bring him to your
feet, be sure of that."

"You wish to marry him," thought Henri. "I will assist you, but I will
claim my reward."

The treaty was concluded without further discussion, without protocol,
between these two congenial spirits. Segel, wishing to hasten the
execution, went to Jacob. He took his arm and said:--

"Come, then, to the divine Muse, who wishes to talk with you about
Italy, with which her imagination is full."

"I fear I am not capable of doing justice to the subject," said Jacob.

"No matter. Come and try." So saying, he led him towards her, almost by
force.

"This Jacob," said he to Muse, "is the most conscientious of tourists;
he has travelled over Italy on foot while I went by the railway. He can
tell you about it a hundred times better than I. He can speak to you of
that land of art of which you have dreamed."

Muse, all smiles, turned to Jacob and said:--

"At last, monsieur, I have caught you, whether you will or not; you
must tell me of that Italy where I am always begging mamma to take me."

"I regret very much not to be enough master of my subject to give you a
just idea of that beautiful land. It is not sufficient merely to have
visited it, one must have lived there to fully appreciate its
beauties."

"Pardon me, but I do not agree with you. Travellers often know more of
a country than its inhabitants."

"Superficially, yes; but the spirit, the soul of a country, only
reveals itself after long study."

"Italy is delightful, is it not?"

This question was not a skilful one. But it was necessary to get Jacob
started on some subject, so that she could exercise all the feminine
seductions of a determined woman, resolved to succeed, and employ all
the resources of her consummate art, aided by her natural charms. What
an actress she was! An actress in every glance, every movement, even in
the inflexions of her voice! She spoke feelingly without the least
inner emotion; she spoke of feelings of which she only knew from
hearsay. Judging all men more or less vain, she sought by delicate
flattery to fascinate and subjugate them. By turns lively or
melancholy, sensible or careless, she was charming under all
circumstances.

However, she made no impression on Jacob, who remained cold and
impassible. As if to alleviate his enforced captivity, he at times
glanced at the chaste and pure woman who was seated not far from him
absorbed in melancholy, and who seemed to him like an ideal queen
covered with a saintly aureola.

Muse was exasperated by Jacob's invulnerable indifference, but desired
more than ever to bring him to her feet. She let her evident efforts to
enslave him be seen. Her mother surveyed the man[oe]uvres of her
daughter, which she found too bold, although she could not help
admiring the audacity with which the attack was made.

Jacob was obliged, at the request of Muse, to conduct her to the piano.
She took off her gloves slowly, and, coquettishly, radiant, continued
her conversation in a low voice, so as to give the idea that a sort of
intimacy was established between them.

"My dear," remarked Madame N. to Madame X., "Emusia is conducting
herself in a scandalous manner."

"Bah! Young ladies of her stamp always succeed in their matrimonial
pursuits."

Just then the mistress of the house came to them, and Madame X. said:--

"We have just been speaking of your charming daughter. She is really
enchanting this evening. Madame N. and I cannot take our eyes off her.
She turns the head of every one,--even the old."

"My Emusia," replied Madame Wtorkowska, "is all simplicity, all
candour, although sometimes her very simplicity and frankness look like
coquetry."

At this reply from the mother, her two guests exchanged glances behind
her back.

"Why, she has taken Jacob by storm," cried his former guardian to Mann.
"This Muse outdoes herself on his account. She did not trouble herself
to amuse him before he got his fortune. It was not worth while to
notice the poor beggar for whose education I paid."

"The Berlin banker's legacy has made him a desirable match. She will
finish by capturing him," said Mann.

"I don't believe it, for I know my Jacob. He is not at ease in her
society. You cannot catch all fish with the same hook. My son-in-law,
Henri, would have taken the bait immediately. Jacob is afraid of her.
He likes quiet women who are modest and timid. He is a poet."

"Certainly the creature is far from that, and I congratulate the man
who"--

Mann did not finish his remark, for suddenly the music ceased. Jacob
was free from the chains of courtesy. He seated himself near Mathilde,
who received him with a smile.

The pale moonlight streamed in from the windows which opened on the
veranda, and the light was softened by the leaves of the wild vines,
which, with their long serpentine clusters, climbed over everything.

They both wished to fly from this crowd, both wished to be alone; but
to put this project into execution was not easy.

Again Muse played, and under her skilful fingers the notes wept,
groaned, sang, murmured, and sighed. It was Liszt's music. Every one
was enchanted.

"She is wonderful," said Mathilde. "As for myself, when I have been a
half-hour at the piano I am fatigued. It seems to me that my tired soul
flies away with the sounds. But what power she has! She laughs at
difficulties, and rises even fresher and more radiant."

"It is there, truly, that one finds the difference between her playing
and yours. You put your soul into it. Her playing does not affect me at
all. It is as if the piano played alone. With you, the soul sings to
me."

"No, she is a true artiste. I am only a musician."

"I cannot admire the artists of the present day. They are but the
masters of their art, skilled workmen who know all the tricks of their
trade. The shepherd who by inspiration plays on his bagpipe a simple
air, be it very simple, very primitive, is much more an artist than
this or that fashionable performer. Like everything else, art has been
profaned in these days; it has become mercenary; it is a bread-winner,
and not a priesthood. The artist of to-day strives for the fame that
pays best, and not for the contentment of his soul. Who, then,
now-a-days would paint frescoes for nothing but piety and for the love
of God? Music, literature, painting, all at present go to the highest
bidder. Muse belongs to the modern school. She has art, but art without
soul. She plays Liszt and Walberg, but Chopin is inaccessible to her.
She seizes the _bizarre_ side of Schumann, but the pathetic side,
never!"

"You judge her a little too severely. There is in the depths of her
heart a little divine light, on her brow a little flame. But, alas! the
unfortunates are not sure of to-morrow's bread, and I cannot help
regarding with pity this woman and her daughter, for I know their
situation."

"Are they not rich?"

"No! They are poor, very poor, though they affect riches."

"This is frightful. This comedy of luxury is odious. The tears of dupes
will pay for it. Indigence with courageous labour is a hundred times to
be admired."

"It is true, but false pride"--

"That word tells all; it is real deceit."

"She pains me," said Mathilde. "Under the velvet there must be tears
and anxiety; at the door poverty waits while they serve a sumptuous
repast; to-morrow, solitude after the brilliant reunion of to-day. What
a tragedy! It pains me even to think of it."

Muse ceased to play.

Every one applauded, and Henri hastened to kiss the artiste's hand.
Mathilde, who was stifling in this atmosphere, said to Jacob,--

"Let us go out a moment and get some fresh air. No one will miss us. I
cannot breathe."

They passed through the crowd and reached the veranda. Muse followed
them with her eyes, and turned ironically upon Henri.

"I see," replied he to the mute question, "that my wife was too warm.
She has gone out on the veranda with Jacob."

"Then you are not jealous?"

"Near you, mademoiselle, I think of you alone."

"You have no right to talk thus."

"Do you not know that that which is illegal is most attractive to men?"

"You are perversity in person!"

"Alas! a god would succumb before you, how much more a simple mortal."

"Truly, monsieur, you flatter me."

"No, mademoiselle, I assure you."

Then he spoke to her in a low voice with much familiarity, and with a
perfect understanding.

When Mathilde left the _salon_ she gave her hand to Jacob at the
threshold.

"What is the matter, my child?" said he tenderly.

"I feel very happy," said she; "I know not why, and very calm. I desire
nothing. It seems as if my life were slipping away little by little.
You are by my side; I am sure of your affection. What further happiness
can I have?"

"There would be very few who would be satisfied with a chaste love like
ours. When I observe in the world the different personalities,
different characters, I think, mademoiselle"--

"Why do you call me mademoiselle?"

"I think, I say, that there are in each human being two powers who are
antagonistic, like God and Satan. The contrasts are often striking. For
example, you and Muse."

"Do not judge her so harshly; you should be indulgent to all."

"Very well. Who, then, are pure and innocent in the depths of their
souls around us? Life is short. Every one must taste the bitter cup.
Every one has his troubles, and most men, instead of seeking happiness
in their own souls, seek it elsewhere and find it not. The world
terrifies me with its variety of elements where evil predominates over
good. I cannot understand this predominance of evil."

"That is one of God's secrets, incomprehensible to our finite
intelligence. What good will it do us to try, like the Titans, by force
to pierce the closed heavens? Man seems to be the plaything of an
implacable irony. He bears within him the sparks of an ardent fire, but
he does not succeed in developing a large flame, for the wind of his
passions scatters the firebrands. In his heart exist noble sentiments
which are changed into gross appetite. Man grows more corrupt instead
of purer. All is surprise in life; all an enigma. Then this dream of
immortality and a future existence. Can we believe it?"

She smiled sadly, and Jacob listened. Under their eyes lay a superb
view. A light breeze murmured through the dark foliage of the old trees
in the avenue. In the sky, the moon glided through the deep azure, and
the stars twinkled as if to shake slumber from their eyelids. In the
distance could be heard the faint sound of the city.

"In contemplating creation," said Jacob, "do you not hear something
within you say that we shall live beyond the tomb? That thought should
destroy all fear for the future. Even if thousands of years of faith do
not confirm this hope, it shines in the reply of the soul like stars in
the depths of a well."

"It is impossible," said Mathilde. "In any case, the other life will
not be like this. My future will not be a continuation of this
miserable existence. Perhaps I shall come again to live on earth. Oh,
who knows anything about it?"

"This death, so terrible to most of us, is represented in our Hebrew
books as a sweet, an easy, passage to another existence. The Talmud,
Berakhot 5, calls it the kiss of God."

"How sorry I am not to have read those books, and to know so little of
the Hebrew language! I have been educated for the world. My soul has
not been nourished. The tempest of doubt has overthrown it."

"There is yet time, dear Mathilde."

"No, it is too late. Faith is the beverage of youthful souls. When
unbelief is developed, the ground is dried up and a new graft cannot
shoot forth. But God is full of mercy and pity. He will not punish us
when we are not in fault. He will make allowances for our education."

They were silent, but had no desire to return to the _salon_, where
Muse, at the piano, was playing one of Liszt's most brilliant
compositions.

"Come, Jacob," said Mathilde, "you must do your duty. Go and compliment
Muse. I will not be jealous. She is on the wrong path; you can convert
and save her."

"It is too late; that which you falsely said about yourself applies to
her. Her intelligence and her heart have matured, and her character is
already formed."

They entered the _salon_. Mathilde's first glance showed her husband
leaning on the back of Muse's chair, and his tender glances told that
he was very much impressed. She did not feel the slightest chagrin. She
was completely indifferent to Henri, and she rejoiced to think that he
amused himself elsewhere, provided he spared her all importunate
tenderness.

Madame Wtorkowska was very nervous; she feared that the entertainment
would not lead to the desired results. Jacob seemed absolutely
indifferent to her daughter's charms; as for the other young men, they
all admired her, but at a distance; and the marked attentions of Henri
Segel displeased her because they came from a married man. With music,
singing, cards, tea, and supper, the _soiree_ was prolonged to a late
hour. The elder guests took leave under pretext of engagements in the
morning. Mathilde went home, as she had a headache, and left the field
free to her husband. Jacob had accompanied her to her door, and had
received his orders to return. This thinning out of the rooms favoured
the charmer's plans.

The young man carelessly turned the leaves of an album; his conduct
during the evening had strictly conformed to the rules of politeness.
Yet this cold observation of the proprieties exasperated Madame
Wtorkowska, who resolved to undertake his subjugation herself. She drew
near him, and, as Jacob rose to give her his seat she said, taking his
arm:--

"Monsieur, let us walk a little, and tell me about yourself. Now that
you have returned to us, what do you intend to do?"

Surprised by these attentions, he replied:--

"I intend to study and lead a life of leisure."

"We have heard so much in your praise," said she, "that we were very
desirous of knowing you."

"I am infinitely obliged, madame."

"Especially, Emusia. She admires such men."

She could not find an adjective to designate exactly what kind of men,
and added after a moment of hesitation:--

"I mean superior men. For, you see, my Emusia is a young girl of
talent. What intelligence, what gifts! She devours an incredible
quantity of books. Her memory is prodigious. Her wit is of the finest
quality. In short, if she were not my daughter I would say that she is
a marvel."

"That is what I hear from every one," said Jacob politely.

"My situation," continued she, "is an anxious one, for I have a
mother's heart. To whom will my cherished one give herself? Will he
appreciate her? Alas, the young men of to-day are so frivolous!"

"Mademoiselle Emusia has but to choose."

"How little you know the young men, monsieur!"

For want of breath the mother stopped. She had commenced the battle
with so much impetuosity that she was already worn out. She could think
of nothing more to say. She was driven to her last intrenchments, and,
on his side, Jacob had exhausted all his praises. Notwithstanding,
after a moment of reflection she took breath and continued:--

"You, who are so great a connoisseur, what do you think of Emusia's
playing?"

"It is truly marvellous, madame."

"Liszt, the master, was stupefied with astonishment when my daughter
played for him his overture to _Guillaume Otello_. He watched her
execute this, that, all the most difficult parts, and was wild with
enthusiasm. It was at Spa. There was such clapping of hands, bravos
that almost shook the house, an avalanche of bouquets! What an ovation,
_mon Dieu!_"

"It was merited, no doubt."

"Oh, yes," said the mother. "An Erard piano fairly spoke under her
fingers. She has such strength and incredible power."

She was thus extolling her daughter when the young lady herself came to
join in the conversation. Her eyes shone wrathfully. The more
invulnerable Jacob showed himself, the more she was determined to bring
him to her feet. Henri had given her the key to the character of this
man, whom he called a religious fanatic. She resolved to read and study
the Bible, and even the Talmud, if necessary. Already she commenced to
play her new role.

"I detest these noisy pleasures," said she. "Reading, meditation,
quiet, they are the things that I love. And you?"

"I also love study and tranquillity," said Jacob.

"You men," said Muse, "have everything in your favour. You can, at your
pleasure, devote yourselves to intellectual occupations; you are not
slaves to the obligations of society, as we poor women are. You cannot
imagine what a humiliation it is for a young girl to be taken
continually here and there, and shown like merchandise."

"Mademoiselle, although what you say is partly true, I assure you that
the mothers and daughters exaggerate these pretended obligations. Our
poet, Krasicki, has said somewhere, 'Nothing ever comes of a dialogue
prepared with too much care.'"

"That is very true, monsieur. Also most matches that end happily are
made without thought, and as it were by a miracle."

"Yes, I am convinced of that."

"And it is probably by a miracle also," added the elder woman, "that
marriages are maintained."

"Have you been in the Orient?" asked Emusia, to change the
conversation.

"Yes, mademoiselle, and I bring back a sad impression. The land of
poetry is to-day the land of misery. The cradle of civilization has
become the tomb."

"But there are still traces there of biblical times, are there not?"
asked Muse.

"Certainly. The costumes, the habits, the landscape, all remind one of
the Bible. As in old days, Rachel still leads her flocks to water, and
the white-bearded patriarchs still welcome you to their tents."

"All that must be very interesting."

"Not for the children of a civilization, enervated and weakened. We can
no longer live this poetical life. It is rigid, painful, grave,
primitive, and laborious. It impresses us, notwithstanding its poetry,
with a strange emotion toward the fountains which now are dried up."

"And the old biblical traditions?"

"They clash on all sides. With us the old traditions are preserved,
like withered plants in an herbarium; while there they still live,
mixed with the daily existence. With what emotion one contemplates
stones taken from the aqueducts of Solomon, the ruins of the temple,
the places sanctified by the patriarchs! Christians and Jews both find
there the cradle of their faith. In Europe we are only colonists."

Emusia had taken a reclining attitude near Jacob, and listened with
great attention. The mother profited by the occasion, and left them
alone. Thus these two, in the midst of a crowd, found themselves alone.

Simple politeness forbade Jacob's retreat. Muse attempted to magnetize
him by her glances, by her gestures, by the sight of her gleaming
shoulders, by her beauty, while she idly played with her bracelet, her
rings, and her embroidered handkerchief, useless for any other purpose.

The young man scarcely perceived these affected and enticing airs.

"I know not," said she with hesitation, "if it be owing to the blood
that flows in my veins, but this Orient has for me a certain
attraction. It is thither that my desires tend. It has been torn from
us, and we have been forced to forget it. It is a source of sadness for
me that I know a mass of useless things, and that I am ignorant of that
which most interests me."

"What, for example?" asked Jacob, interested in spite of himself.

"I will tell you," replied she, in a low voice with a feigned alarm,
"provided mamma does not hear me. I am curious about all that concerns
us that is Jewish. A Christian nominally, I am of Jewish blood, and
Jesus has declared that he did not come to destroy the ancient law.
Mamma, like many of our race, avoids and forbids all allusion to the
past."

"If you really wish it, mademoiselle, you can easily become familiar
with our traditions; you have only to consult several books."

"Alas! I do not know Hebrew."

"There are translations in many languages."

"Really? Could you not secretly lend me one or two? I would be very
grateful to you; but it must remain a secret between us."

This was a skilful move. Mystery brought them together. Emusia quietly
put her little hand into Jacob's, and pressed it warmly as if to thank
him. This grasp produced on the young man the effect of an electric
current. He felt uneasy, troubled, and confused, as if he had committed
a sin.

"I will send you some volumes," murmured he.

"That is not all," said she sweetly, still keeping her hand in his.
"Guide me in the study for which I thirst. I have hours of liberty;
mamma goes out often, and I am at home alone. I depend on you to be my
master, my instructor, in the first principles of the faith of our
ancestors. This may appear a little odd on my part, but you will excuse
my ardent desire for light."

"I fear"--

"No scruples, monsieur! If I have appeared impressed by you, I assure
you it was only because I wish to learn from you something of Judaism."

A slight feeling of suspicion entered Jacob's mind, but he thrust it
away from him with contempt. He would not admit that acting could be
carried so far. He believed that Muse was sincere, and he arose to go
with a much better opinion of her than when he came. She seemed to him
more beautiful than before, and with something poetical about her. He
sought already in his imagination for the biblical type to which this
strayed lamb of the fold of Israel belonged. He felt no sympathy for
her yet, but his curiosity was awakened and his repugnance had
disappeared.

Emusia was radiant, and in her triumph said to herself:--

"I have hit Achilles in the heel."




                             CHAPTER XIII.

                                 AKIBA.


Jacob, admonished by Mann, bantered by Henri, lectured by his former
guardian, and opposed by Bartold, had, nevertheless, commenced his
apostleship. He essayed to group around him the youth of Israel, for
the old men were against all reform.

The most polished and the best educated did not like to recall their
origin, nor to hear of the religion of their fathers. This was
grievous. The disciples did not appear; all minds were absorbed in the
revolutionary movement. Jacob's activity became more and more
circumscribed. His co-religionists avoided him; but in spite of this
abandonment, in spite of his isolation, he still clung to his ideas. He
hoped to convince by his example, and to gain followers when calm
should succeed the present political agitation and society regain its
normal condition.

He was sadly afflicted to see the irreligion of the youth of Israel,
irreligion much more widespread than he had at first supposed. In the
desert around him any mark of sympathy would naturally move him, touch
him, and console him, and Muse profited by these circumstances.

She put herself in possession of Jacob's ideas, procured the books
recommended, and reading the ones he lent her, learned some things,
guessed more, and thus armed, went forth to combat with fair chances of
victory. Madame Wtorkowska had adroitly seized the opportunity of
drawing nearer him whom she already called, to herself, her son-in-law.
She took possession of the first story of a house of which the Jew
occupied the second. As there was nothing easier to ascertain than when
the recluse was at home, they sent to his rooms under pretext of
returning books or to ask the loan of new ones. Then they begged him to
come down to them. They also met him often on the stairs.

Emusia became a fervent and intelligent disciple, and the apostle felt
more and more flattered by this adhesion.

"Would you believe it," said she one evening to her mother, "the fool
imagines that I am nearly ready to embrace Judaism, while in reality
his Bible and his Talmud, with all their silly old legends and their
stupid stories, weary me dreadfully."

"Do you believe that the idea of marriage has entered his head?"

"Bah! I will put it there when I wish."

"In that case you had better do it as soon as possible."

"I am awaiting a favourable opportunity. With this man it is not the
senses, but the heart, on which we must count, and we must not be in
haste. Be tranquil, I lie in wait for the moment."

"How do you watch for it? Flirting with Henri? God knows that if you
were only safely married to Jacob I would not care how much you saw of
Henri; but as you are not, I think these badinages are very ill-timed
and take your mind off the principal business."

"I know what I am doing, mamma; the best tactics with Jacob are to
proceed slowly. If we try to hasten matters we may lose all."

"Well, work it your own way."

This phrase always terminated the altercations between Muse and her
mother.

The young girl's calculation was not destitute of judgment. Jacob did
not love her, but he was becoming accustomed to her. As for the thought
of marriage, it had never entered his head. His heart was filled with
Mathilde, this fading flower that charmed him more each day. One thing
only drew him to Emusia; it was the fervour that she manifested for the
Bible and the Hebrew traditions, nothing more.

The mother did not altogether approve her daughter's plans, and
shrugged her shoulders, saying:--

"If he escapes we are lost."

"Oh, no! It is not my Waterloo. I have not staked all on him. I have
still the stage," said she laughing; and she continued to simulate an
ardent admiration for the Jew and his doctrines, while at the bottom
she detested them all. With Henri, on the contrary, full of familiarity
and enjoyment, she was in her element.

The better to insinuate herself in Jacob's good graces, she flattered
his mania by suggesting to him the thought of giving lectures on
Judaism. He fell into the trap with enthusiasm, in spite of the
obstacles which he knew he would encounter. His friends, under one
pretext or another, refused to give their houses for this edifying
purpose. At last Bartold, against his will, but for friendship's sake,
put his at the Jew's disposition.

Israelites alone were invited. The only exceptions were Madame
Wtorkowska and her daughter, as was very natural. Many Jews, for fear
of being accused of superstition and ridicule, excused themselves at
the last moment, feigning indisposition.

The room was large and commodious. It had no Jewish features, for the
master of the house lived in European style, although without luxury.
Ostentation was nowhere to be seen in the dwelling of this descendant
of Levi, who, with all his boasting of his biblical nobility, was
really an honest and a modest man and a good Polish citizen.

That evening Madame Bartold had put her children to bed at an early
hour. She was dressed in good taste, and took great care that nothing
should be wanting in any direction.

The ladies were in the minority,--Madame Wtorkowska, Emusia, Mathilde,
and two others. Among the men were missing Mann and Mathilde's father,
who thought all this Hebrew nonsense the issue of a diseased
imagination. Kruder was there, for he desired admittance to all
reunions. Ivas also, and Wilk, who sought everywhere converts to the
revolutionary cause. Henri had come, ostensibly to escort his wife, but
really to converse freely with Muse. He often visited her; but her
mother was always present, and she frequently took advantage of his
attentions to her daughter to borrow money of the gallant visitor,
whose passion disposed him to pecuniary sacrifices.

At nine o'clock the room was full. Madame Bartold, crimson with
fatigue, and redder still with timidity, sought to give every one a
seat.

On a table loaded with books was a carafe of water, a glass, and some
sugar. All awaited the lecturer.

They commenced by serving tea to the company; then Jacob appeared. A
solemn silence indicated that his audience was prepared to listen
attentively. Not being accustomed to speaking in public, he looked
around him, and commenced in a weak and hesitating voice, which
gradually grew stronger.

"Ladies and Gentlemen: It is not without apprehension that as a Jew I
present myself before Jews, many of whom blush for their origin; before
Jews who know the history of France and England better than their own
history; before Jews who know more of Sanscrit literature than of the
Bible. From all sides we have been reproached for our spirit of
retirement and of separation. We have been constrained to it, and the
fault was not with us. How much more justly could men to-day make the
merited reproach of our having ceased to be ourselves, and of losing
our own identity without identifying ourselves with others. We are here
in continual antagonism with the country we inhabit, to which many ties
should unite us. It appears that even that does not suffice us, and we
have divorced ourselves from our own past.

"It is this past, with its poetry, that I would recall to you; for the
time has come to appreciate it, and I wish to show you some of its
characteristic beauties.

"Without culling here and there detached fragments of this treasure, I
prefer to relate to you the entire life of a man who holds a place in
sacred and legendary history. My hero is the celebrated Akiba.

"Akiba was so poor in his youth that he served as a shepherd for the
wealthy Kalba Chaboua. He became enamoured of his master's daughter,
and this love was the source of his wisdom. The young girl responded to
the tender sentiment, but she made it the spur of an intelligence of
which she had divined the value and the extent.

"'If you wish me to marry you,' said she, 'you must promise to devote
your life to science.'

"Akiba promised, and they were married clandestinely. Kalba Chaboua
discovered the secret, disowned his daughter, and drove them from his
house. They wandered a long time without shelter, sleeping at night
under the open sky. For a bed they had only a small bundle of straw,
and tradition relates that one morning the beautiful black hair of the
young woman was full of straws. Akiba drew them out gently, and
lamented their hard fate.

"'Dearest,' said he tenderly, 'if I could I would give thee rich
garments, and I would hang on thy neck a golden Jerusalem,'--an
ornament which represented the city of Jerusalem, and which was much
worn among the Jewish women.

"As he said the words he was accosted by a beggar clothed in rags.

"'Have pity on me,' cried he, 'and give me a handful of straw to put
under my wife's head. She is sick, and lying over there on the cold
ground.'

"Akiba gave the poor man what he demanded.

"'Behold,' said he, 'an unfortunate still more wretched than
ourselves!'

"Akiba, in order to keep his promise to his wife, decided, in spite of
his repugnance, to enter the school of Nakhum Gamsu. He was obliged to
leave his wife, who entered service, and never ceased during the twelve
years that separated them to write her husband encouraging letters,
completely forgetting her own discomforts.

"One day, pensive and sad, Akiba followed a solitary path. A little
brook attracted his attention. The water had pierced a rock by gradual
dropping, and flowed gently through.

"'If drops of water,' remarked the future sage, 'have such power, what
force will not then the human will have.'

"He presented himself before his teachers without weakness and without
false shame. He commenced with the letters of the alphabet, and in his
free moments he gathered wood and sold the fagots in the market-place.
Half of his earnings fed him, the other half clothed and lodged him.

"Akiba soon astonished his masters. From a scholar he became an eminent
professor. Thousands of disciples grouped around him.

"During this time his wife waited. A wicked neighbour insinuated that
he had abandoned her and would never return.

"'It was I,' replied the wife, 'twelve years ago, who begged him to
leave me and devote himself to science. If he prolong his studies
twelve years longer, it will be well.'

"Akiba heard of this advice, given indirectly, and profited by it.
After the lapse of this time he returned to his native place. His
renown had preceded him. All the population turned out to see him, and
his wife was in the crowd. The wicked neighbour asked her how she dared
present herself in rags before such an illustrious man.

"'My husband knows my heart,' replied she simply. Before she was
perceived, she ran out and threw herself at his feet. The pupils of
Akiba would have repulsed her, but he said:--

"'Let her come to me. She is my wife, and it is to her that you and I
owe much.'

"Kalba Chaboua at last forgave his daughter and his son-in-law, and
received them into his house.

"Akiba had two remarkable teachers,--Eliezer and Nahum. The former was
called the sealed vase, for he never lost a drop of acquired science.
The latter, subtle and penetrating, shone by the fineness of his
analysis. Their pupil united to the erudition of the one the critical
spirit of the other.

"When he commenced his teaching the Jews had many traditions
accumulated for ages and transmitted orally. He collected and wrote
them down, accompanying them with commentaries intended to reconcile
the legends with the sacred writings. He founded a school which
attracted universal admiration.

"At the epoch when he lived religious spirit fermented; by the side of
the philosophical sects of Greece, Christianity developed; Gnosticism
grafted its poetical reveries on monotheism, and differences
multiplied.

"Many Jews were converted to the gospel under one form or another.
Akiba remained faithful to the Mosaic belief. He was so profoundly
absorbed in the mystery of the divine essence, that the angels wished
to chastise him for his presumption in wishing to know all, to
penetrate all. God restrained the wrath of these messengers, and said
to them:--

"'He is worthy of meditating on my grandeur.'

"Devout as was Akiba, he excelled in modern science. He destroyed by
his criticisms many things which his contemporaries called miraculous,
rejected the prodigious pretensions credited by superstition, and was
pleased to demonstrate the immutability of the laws of nature.

                           *   *   *   *   *

"Contrary to the other rabbis, he rejected the belief in eternal
punishment. One day, when travelling, having with him a cock and an
ass, he arrived at a village, and went in vain from door to door asking
hospitality.

"'God doeth all things well,' said he. This was his favourite saying.
Then he entered a deep forest, where he sought by the light of his
lantern a place to repose. The wind put out his light, and he lay down
repeating, 'God doeth all things well.' Just then a wild-cat strangled
his cock and a wolf came and tore his ass in pieces; still Akiba
repeated 'God doeth all things well.'

"In reality, though he had met these misfortunes he had saved his life,
which had been surely lost had he slept in the village. His humility
and confidence in God were his chief characteristics.

"Once Akiba appeared in great spirits at the bedside of a dying man who
lamented his approaching end, and whose friends were weeping around his
bed. When asked the cause of his gayety,--

"'There is no man without sin,' said he, 'and I am rejoiced that this
one has expiated his during his life.'

"Another time it was a wise man who was tortured with frightful pains.
Three old savants, his friends, came to console him, and spoke in
praise of his wisdom.

"'Science,' said the first, 'is more useful to Israel than the dew to
the earth. The dew gives the earth temporary life, wisdom prepares the
soul for eternal life.'

"'Wisdom,' continued the second, 'is more necessary than the light of
the sun. The one guides us here below, the other conducts us to
heaven.'

"Then the third spoke thus:--

"'You have been to Israel more than a father and a mother. Our parents
give us earthly life; you, the life celestial.'

"When Akiba's turn came to speak, he said simply:--

"'It is sweet to suffer here below.'

"'Raise me up,' cried the dying man; 'I wish to hear the second time
these words, for they comfort me.'

"Akiba deemed suffering salutary for individuals and for nations. He
compared Israel, stained with blood by Vespasian and his successors, to
a white horse adorned with purple reins. He was not over-scrupulous in
religious observances. His prayers were short. He wore his usual simple
garments on holy days, notwithstanding the biblical command to array
one's self with particular care.

"'God,' said he, 'will more readily pardon sins committed against
himself than evil done a neighbour. The Israelite owes justice not only
to the Israelites, but to the pagans.'

"He loved to discuss morals under anecdotal form. Here is a specimen of
his method:--

"Two men were in the midst of a desert. They had only water enough for
one. What ought they to do? To share the water was certain death to
both. 'That is not the solution of the dilemma,' added Akiba; 'one must
sacrifice himself for the other, that one, at least, should live.'

"In advance of his times, the sage had a profound respect for human
life, and he was one of the first opponents of the death penalty.

"Having become rich, thanks to his father-in-law, he was a benefactor
to the poor and a promoter of all charitable associations.

"'Whoever,' he used to say, 'does not relieve a sick person, when it is
in his power to do so, is an assassin.'

"The destruction of Jerusalem and the temple did not weaken Akiba's
faith in divine justice. While Israel wept over the smoking ruins of
the holy city, he smiled and predicted a brighter future. He always
taught resignation to the divine will. But incessant persecutions
aroused in him a violent irritation against the Romans, and a thirst
for martyrdom. He lived in an epoch when the Jews were most
unfortunate. Domitian continued the horrors of Vespasian and of Titus.
They struck blows on all sides, and sought particularly a descendant of
David, of whom popular rumour proclaimed the existence, and who
intended, it was said, to avenge Israel's woes.

"Akiba converted many Romans to the Hebrew monotheism, Flavius Clemens,
a relative of the emperor, was put to death for having embraced this
doctrine, and his wife was, for the same reason, condemned to exile.
After the death of this Caesar, Israel breathed again during the two
years' reign of Nerva and during the first ten years of the reign of
Trajan; but they paid dearly for this short respite. The Jews of Syria,
of Mesopotamia, of Armenia and Persia, took arms in favour of the
Parthians, and drew on themselves the wrath of Rome, whose soldiers
massacred them in great numbers. They soon took up arms again upon the
Euphrates, and revolted at Cyprus and in Egypt. New persecutions and
repressions followed under the reign of Adrian.

"Akiba, a man of science, was changed by these troubles into a man of
action. He travelled over the different parts of the empire to prepare
a general uprising. He entered into relations with Simon, or Bar
Kokhba, called the child of destiny when he was in the height of his
prosperity, the child of lies after he had lost his fortune.

"This Simon, intrepid, daring, and of attractive manner, had with his
majestic height all the qualities required for the leader of an
insurrection. He pleased Akiba, who proclaimed him Messiah. The title
attracted thousands of volunteers, for the idea of a deliverer sent by
God was attached to the name of Messiah. Simon admitted to the ranks of
his army only the strong and vigorous, many of whom were able to tear a
large tree from the earth with their hands. Full of a confidence which
he communicated to others, Bar Kokhba often addressed to God this
strange prayer:--

"'If thou dost not wish to come to my aid, at least do not favour my
foes; for if thou dost not support them I will vanquish them.'

"To excessive presumption he owed his ultimate defeat after many
brilliant triumphs. The Roman governor of Palestine was completely
routed. Fifty cities or towns and nine hundred and eighty-five villages
fell into the power of the insurgents. Established at Bitar, Bar Kokhba
made that city his capital, fortified it, and coined money in his own
name. Adrian was troubled. The Jews everywhere refused to pay taxes. He
sent to Britain for one of his most able lieutenants, Julius Severus.
Severus advised patience; he attacked the Jews by detachments, and
finished by surrounding Bitar, whose inhabitants he reduced to famine.
Bar Kokhba defended his city until death.

"It is sad to remember that this valiant chief soiled his life by an
unpardonable act. During the siege, the wise Eliezer, Akiba's teacher,
gave himself up to fasting and prayer. This contemplative life in the
midst of general activity was called treasonable; the Messiah ordered
him put to death, and the devout scholar was killed. It is estimated
that a half-million of Israelites lost their lives in this formidable
revolt. After the combat the fugitives were pitilessly pursued. Many
died of hunger in the forests and caverns, the survivors nourished
themselves on the corpses of their brothers, and those who fell into
the power of the Romans were massacred or sold as slaves. Adrian
renewed the edict of Trajan, forbidding the Jews to perform their
religious rites or to teach their faith. All literature that might
maintain or propagate the national sentiments was suppressed. Jerusalem
was peopled with Romans, and on the site of the Temple of Solomon arose
a temple to Jupiter, adorned with his statue. They even changed the
name of the violated city, calling it [OE]lia Capitolina, from the name
[OE]lius. The Jews were forbidden to stay there, or even to enter. At
the gate which led to Bethlehem the head of a pig was exposed as a
permanent insult.

"After the peace, Akiba was not immediately molested in spite of his
participation in the insurrection,--a moral participation, perhaps, but
very efficacious. He continued, contrary to the imperial edict, to
explain the holy books. He was soon arrested, on the order of that same
Rufus who had conquered the 'child of destiny,' and who was the new
governor of Judea. The old man was shut up in a dark dungeon, and his
only nourishment was bread and water. Instead of drinking this water he
used it for the ablutions prescribed by the law. He was condemned to
torture and to death. In the midst of the most excruciating sufferings,
when the hour of prayer, called Chema, arrived, he began to recite in a
loud voice. The executioner was astonished, and asked him if he had
charms to banish his pains.

"'I have no charms,' replied he calmly; 'but I have always desired to
offer God the sacrifice of my life. My wish is granted, and I rejoice.'

"He continued his prayer, and reaching the words, 'There is but one
God,' gave up the ghost."




                              CHAPTER XIV.

                            ALEA JACTA EST.


The audience had listened attentively. The impressions produced were
different and not altogether favourable. Some faces expressed an
ironical disapprobation, others impatience and weariness. Nevertheless,
after the lecture was over they all hastened to thank the orator with
many compliments. After a while the critics commenced:--

"Fanaticism plays a great part in this historical lecture," remarked
Henri Segel.

"I do not like these legends; they are pure invention," said another.

"All these old persecutions appear improbable today," added a third.

"They can, nevertheless, be renewed with the most frightful details
against us or against other nations," replied Jacob. "Conquerors are
always savage in their vengeance, whether they are called Nero,
Domitian, Trajan, Adrian, or"--

He was interrupted by some one who asked:--

"What, in the nineteenth century?"

"Yes; in our own times. _Utinam simfalsus vates!_ Can I be a false
prophet?"

"But, monsieur," said Muse, "you owe us something more gay, more
agreeable."

"Hebrew literature furnishes certainly agreeable and amusing stories,
but the choice is difficult."

Jacob turned some pages of the Talmud.

"The Rabbi Gamaliel, who was put to death by Rufus in the same manner
as Akiba, related one day to a pagan prince the creation of woman in
Genesis.

"'If that is true,' said the prince, 'your God acts like a malefactor,
robbing a rib from Adam during his sleep.'

"The younger daughter of Gamaliel heard of the conversation.

"'Permit me, father, to reply,' said she.

"The rabbi consented, and she approached the prince supplicatingly.

"'My lord,' said she, 'I come to demand justice.'

"'What has happened?'

"'A robbery has been committed in our house: a thief entered the house
in the night and stole a silver cup, leaving in its place a golden
one.'

"'What an honest thief! Would to Heaven we had more like him!' cried
the prince.

"'Very well, then, my lord. Our God is a malefactor of the same stamp.
He took from Adam a part of his body, and gave him the beautiful Eve in
exchange.'

"'The comparison is ingenious; but your God had better have acted in a
frank and open manner. Why should he have employed clandestine means?'

"The young girl said in reply:--

"'Will you permit me to bring here a piece of raw meat?'

"'Certainly.'

"As soon as she had the meat the daughter of Gamaliel went to the fire,
cut it, and prepared it in the presence of the astonished prince, and
when it was cooked, invited him to eat.

"'My child, I know it is well cooked, but to have seen it done in
detail takes away my appetite.'

"'Behold why God did not wish Adam to assist at the preparation of his
wife. Perhaps he also would not have wished to possess her.'

"The Talmud," continued Jacob, "explains why God did not take the woman
from the eyes, nor the mouth, nor the arms."

"Suspend the conversation and conceal the Talmud. I hear knocks at the
door," said Henri.

"Why should I do that?"

"Perhaps it is a stranger; it is not desirable that he should surprise
us in full Judaism."

"Should we, then, be ashamed of our part?" said Jacob sadly.

Kruder, who had left the room, entered, pale and agitated.

"What is it?" asked Bartold.

"While you have been so quiet here there has been a massacre. The
military have surprised a political meeting, and it is said that many
were killed and wounded."

"Let us go!" cried Jacob. "Let us go where the blood flows, and where
victims are demanded. We should be found there;" and he seized his hat,
but Bartold withheld him.

"Wait," said he; "this is but the prologue of the drama. It is evident
that we should not hold ourselves aloof, there I agree with you; but we
must not act in an imprudent manner. The thing is probably over for
to-day. I propose that we consult together as to what is best to do."

"Where, where?" came from all sides.

"At Mann's. We can do nothing without him."

"When?"

"To-morrow morning."

Kruder threw himself in a chair. "_Alea jacta est_," said he. "Unhappy
Poland!"

The tragedy occurred on the street, at a time when the nobles had
arrived from all parts of the kingdom, for a general reunion of the
Agricultural Society. No one had foreseen the sinister event, no one
wished for it; but an invisible hand seemed to precipitate it.

After he left Bartold's, Jacob could not resist the temptation to visit
the scene of the catastrophe. A lugubrious silence reigned there.
Noiseless pedestrians hurriedly regained their homes, gliding silently
through the misty shadows. Here and there a sentinel was stationed. On
the grave faces of the soldiers he believed that he could read the
struggle between military honour and human duty.

Near the Hotel Europe Jacob met a group of nobles who came out of the
governmental palace; they were excited, and conversed in low voices. As
he passed on, by the door of the hotel, some one seized his hand, and
he recognized Gromof, the companion of Lucie Coloni. Taking his arm,
Gromof drew him into the house, and made him mount several pairs of
stairs without saying a word.

They entered the apartment of the Italian lady, and found her seated on
a couch. She looked at Gromof and left the room; alone with Jacob, the
Russian said:--

"You are young, monsieur, and you cannot be altogether indifferent to
that which is happening; you ought to know everything about it."

"Of what?"

"Of the intended revolution."

"I know absolutely nothing, I assure you."

"Do you take me for a spy, an informer?" asked Gromof.

"Be cool and wise, my friend. I have scarcely returned to my home. I am
a Jew, and, if you will recall it, in the depths of my soul an enemy to
all revolution."

"And why are you opposed to revolutions?"

"Because they lead to nothing, they are convulsive maladies, they
<DW44> the normal march of progress, and their cruel repressions push
the people to despair. I think that there are means more efficacious
than rebellions; but this discussion will lead us too far. I am not a
revolutionist, I repeat to you; but if this country, which is the land
of my choice, needs my blood and my life, I will give them willingly. I
will go with the others."

"You are a man of good faith. It is enough to see you and to hear you
to be convinced of it. I will then be as frank with you as I can,
without betraying the secrets of others. I am a revolutionist myself by
principle, for I am a Russian. My neck bears the mark of an iron
collar; on my arms are imprints made by chains; the stigma of slavery
is engraved on my thoughts, on my conscience, and on my words. I am
ready to sacrifice myself to overthrow the world, to shed torrents of
blood, at any cost to deliver my country from intellectual servitude,
from moral degradation, from a maternal slavery which makes me blush to
call myself a Russian in the eyes of the world. With us a revolution is
a necessity. Otherwise we shall never gain the rights of men; but in
this uprising we must be united. Wait until we give the signal; then
march united; if you engage in this combat against despotism alone, you
will compromise both your future and ours. Use, I entreat you, all your
influence to stop this absurd, tempestuous, and premature outbreak.
Russia will remain chained for a century yet, if your foolish
precipitation is not abated. If you rebel now, you will only be playing
into their hands; it is the very thing they want you to do; as in 1812,
they will appeal to the patriotism of the masses, and set them upon you
like wild beasts after their prey. An infamous bureaucracy will wallow
in the blood of vanquished Poland; oppressed and down-trodden, she will
find it difficult to rise again. There will be persecutions, murders,
and exile of hundreds at a time to Siberia. That is what awaits you if
you do not take my warning."

"Have you talked with any of our young men?"

"Yes; with some of the military; but scarcely had I opened my mouth
when they took me for an agent of the third section, and would not
listen to me. And yet, if these madmen would only remain quiet two or
three years, we Russian revolutionists would have time to work through
the army and to instil in all hearts a desire for freedom, to turn the
emancipation of the serfs made for the profit of the government against
this same government, and to spread from the shores of the Neva the cry
of freedom for Russia as well as for Poland. It is certain to come some
day; but your headstrong Poles will <DW44> it if they do not listen to
reason. Could you not arrange for me to meet some of the leaders of the
agitation?"

"Truly, I do not know them. A youth who has more enthusiasm than good
sense appears to be the leader in this movement."

"This youth is only an instrument, I think," said the Russian. "Where
are the serious men, the earnest ones?"

"I do not believe there are any."

"Young men are active in war, but need old men in counsel. How came the
country to be abandoned to such authority? You are mocking me, no
doubt. You do not trust me. You will not speak."

"If I had had suspicions, they might have been justified, for I hardly
know you; but I give you my word of honour that I do not belong to any
such conspiracy, nor to any secret society. I am ready, however, to
give my life when the hour of the supreme holocaust arrives."

"I believe you; but your heroism is inconceivable. To be willing to die
with those who do not confide in you is strange."

"It is not so strange, and it is not heroism. It will only be the
accomplishment of my duty, and a proof that there are some Jews who
deserve a country, and that some of us love Poland."

"Will you save her by your devotion?"

"No. And we ourselves will perish; but we shall have contracted an
alliance of blood with this country."

"All that is very fine and very poetic, but politics require something
else; they do not rely on sentimental pity. By her reiterated heroisms,
Poland has weakened herself and perishes. Calculation, opportunity, and
stratagem may save her. Why does she not seek to make allies of her own
oppressors, when nothing could be easier? Why has she given up her
place in the government of Russia to the Germans? Why has she not
sought to take up all governmental interests, to endear herself to us,
and to communicate to us her liberalism, her brilliant civilization?
Why has she not been more politic? She has furnished us only some
nobles with great names but without worth, lackeys in court dress; but
men of real importance, not one. They have all kept aloof. In one
century, since the first partition of your country, what has been your
influence? The Poles are much more enlightened than the Russians; could
you not have been benefactors? In a century so little has been done.
You have dissipated the years in frivolity, and each generation has
thrown itself entirely unprepared into a revolution, always cruelly
repressed, the result of which was exile and oppression. Wives have
left their luxurious homes and accompanied their husbands to Siberia.
You have harangued, written, and revealed to the Russian government
your own weakness, so that they know how to strike and how you will
take the blow. The Poles have the chivalrous instinct too fully
developed; you do not dissemble enough. My word for it, you must meet
intrigue with intrigue. If you do not, you will perish utterly, and you
will have deserved it by your candour."

"A generation will perish, perhaps," said Jacob, "but not Poland. Under
Russian oppression, under the knout and the gallows, she will learn to
be more serious, more persevering, and more wise. The cowardly will be
terrorized, but they will be the exception."

"Do you know what your spiritual writer, Rzewuski, said to a Russian
general?"

"No; I have not heard it."

"'I have a wonderful way of discovering the honesty of a Russian and
the good sense of a Pole.'

"'What is the way?' asked the general.

"'It is only to look in the palm of the hand to see if there are any
hairs there.'"

"That is true," said Gromof. "The Poles lack good sense and we lack
honesty. From the time of Ivan the Terrible we have been taught to lie,
to steal, and to kill for the public good. Such teachings for three
generations have naturally borne their fruit. As for the Poles, after
experiencing such misfortunes by their precipitation, they should have
acquired common-sense and judgment; but they have not, I regret to
say."

"What do you wish of me, monsieur?" said Jacob.

"I wish you to try and quell the passions of your youthful
revolutionists. Pray, supplicate, admonish, and entreat them to wait;
in the name of Heaven, to wait; and if you think your influence is not
great enough, introduce me to a leader, a chief."

"One word, monsieur," said Jacob. "How can I be sure that you are
worthy of confidence; you are a Russian; what proofs can you give of
being worthy of our confidence?"

"I assure you I merit your whole confidence," cried Gromof, "and I will
give proofs in writing and on my own body. I will show on my back
ridges left there by the knout, and on my arms the mark of chains. But,
no! no! they do not wish to believe me. Unhappy Poland will fail to
secure liberty, for her a forbidden fruit! The throne of the Czar will
be strengthened by those who thought to overthrow it. The court will
continue to suck the people's blood. Oh, what a satanic laugh does your
idiotic revolution provoke in me! I will be among the first to prey on
you, to avenge myself for my destroyed hopes. Yes, I will go to see you
all hung with pleasure, for you will have ruined our future."

"Be calm," said Jacob; "we have not yet commenced a revolution, and
perhaps it may be averted. These youth are only a handful; they may yet
be suppressed."

"No; if young men are at the head, neither themselves nor any one else
can hold them back. They will go to any length. Youth and the mob are
two inflammable elements. The sacrifice will be accomplished. There
will be a heap of corpses, and the bureaucracy will make merry with
their samovars and their brandy on the battle-field. I see your future:
the country ravaged, villages depopulated, cities pillaged, chained
galley slaves marching towards Siberia, bloody executions, an
insatiable vengeance, and everywhere ruins and ashes. That will be your
fate for having retarded Russian liberty by your premature revolution."

"Do not be so excited, I pray you."

"Not be excited! That is easy to say. Have you suffered as I have? Do
you know what exile is? Do you know anything about penal labour? I was
condemned to it for life, but I escaped. Such labour is very hard, but
exile is even more intolerable."

After a short silence Gromof continued:--

"Braving all personal danger, I come here to prevent, if possible, a
fatal precipitation; but I fear it is too late."

"But," said Jacob, "how can they commence a revolution without arms,
without money, without leaders or soldiers?"

"Your crazy youth would go to battle with sticks and staves. The
government, to encourage them, or rather to lead them into the snare of
their own destruction, have permitted the underhand introduction of a
small quantity of arms; they have been allowed to amass a little money,
and the government has seemed to have its eyes shut to a movement that
it has really instigated. Afterward they can repress it when they
desire. In the eyes of Europe, the first aggression will be on your
side. Your folly will have been heroic, but will only obtain a barren
sympathy. Europe will authorize by her silence the horrible cruelties
which Poland will again endure, and despotism, by this crafty political
stroke, will be reinforced for a long time."

Jacob did not reply, and Gromof grew warmer and warmer, when Lucie
Coloni came out of the next room, and, putting her hand on his brow,
said in a caressing tone:--

"Serge, calm yourself, or you will be ill."

"It will kill me!" said Gromof, hanging his head for a moment, then
raising it he cried furiously:--

"Bad luck to you! Bad luck to you, if our project is ruined by you
foolish Poles!"

Jacob drew out his watch; the situation was unpleasant and he did not
know what to do, what to say. The Russian looked at him reproachfully
as if he had thrown cold water on his hopes; he seated himself again,
and instead of acting like one possessed, Gromof suddenly became
pleasant and agreeable.

"Pardon me, Monsieur Jacob," said he, "for having revealed to you the
sufferings of my inmost heart. Savage blood flows in my veins, which is
repressed only by civilization. All my countrymen are the same; we
Russians are savages at heart, but you know now what I want of you or
any other person who has political influence in the present crisis."

They parted, and Jacob passing safely by the guards regained his
dwelling.




                              CHAPTER XV.

                         A PERILOUS INTERVIEW.


Returned home, Jacob found a note from Muse, who implored him, no
matter at what hour he returned, to come to her, saying she would wait
for him if necessary until morning.

Until now the grave young man, notwithstanding the marked devotion of
his lovely proselyte, had known how to maintain when in her presence a
respectful distance, avoiding all familiar and compromising relations.
The mother and daughter endeavoured in vain to put him in a
compromising position. More than once things were arranged so that he
was alone with the young girl, who then employed an insinuating
sweetness and provoking tenderness; but Jacob did not cease to be
respectful and dignified. There had been moments when this charming
creature, animated by a simulated passion, and recalling the Greek
bacchantes, had produced in him an involuntary sensation; but he
conquered it, and his love for Mathilde served as a shield to defend
him against temptation.

It was past midnight when the servant who had brought the letter told
him that he was expected on the floor below. Jacob hesitated; but he
thought that some urgent business had caused these ladies to appeal to
him, and he decided to go.

He found Muse in a light piquant yet modest dress, her beautiful hair
partly unconfined, her shoulders a little uncovered, as if by chance.
She held a handkerchief, and was all prepared for tears. When he
entered, she ran to meet him.

"Oh, Monsieur Jacob!" cried she, taking his hand. "What has happened?
Where have you been? You were no doubt mixed up in this affair. Oh, I
ask you, for mercy's sake, not to throw yourself in the fray. Does not
friendship permit me to ask this of you?"

She fixed her eyes tenderly on Jacob, who, perfectly calm, did not
reply. Muse continued:--

"I am all in a tremble about you. Do not misjudge my feelings, for I
have for you only the sentiments of a sister," and she pressed his hand
for the second time.

"I thank you very much, mademoiselle; but I give you my word of honour
that I know nothing of the events that have taken place, and I do not
intend to take part in the fray."

"In that case, why this prolonged absence?"

"By a singular chance a person of my acquaintance stopped me and the
conversation lasted long."

"It is useless, you cannot deceive me;" and saying this she seized both
of his hands and leaned toward him. He could hear the beating of her
heart, her breath fanned his cheek, and her eyes sought to magnetize
him.

"I will tell you, then, that I passed the rest of the evening with a
Russian," said Jacob smiling.

This smile, this coldness and complete presence of mind, displeased
Muse. She had hoped to see him succumb to her fascinations; but she had
deceived herself, and this angered her against him and against herself.
But the more difficult it was to inspire him with no matter what kind
of love, the more she was determined to succeed.

"Very well. I believe you; but look at me, monsieur," said she lowering
her voice. "Have I not changed? Hours of feverish anxiety for you are
graven on my face."

These words were murmured in his ear, and were scarcely intelligible.

"Truly, mademoiselle," replied Jacob, "I feel myself unworthy of such
anxiety on your part."

"No; you are not worthy of a sentiment that you have awakened without
even deigning to perceive it. You are so indifferent, so cold." Then,
as if she had said too much, she lowered her eyes and was silent.

Jacob felt sorry for her, and leaning towards her he kissed her hand.
Muse started as if he had applied a hot iron, trembled violently, und
buried her head in the sofa-pillow.

Then for the first the thought that Muse loved him struck Jacob. To
have allowed such a sentiment to develop seemed to him a great crime.
He was as horrified with himself as if his conduct had been that of a
libertine. He started from his seat and looked at her. This sudden
agitation could be interpreted in different ways. Muse did not prolong
the scene, for even if the desired end was not completely attained, she
hoped much for the future in the silence and troubled mien of the young
man.

"Go, monsieur!" said she. "I am ill. I do not know what I have said. My
head is confused."

Jacob hesitated a moment, looked at her pale face, saluted her
respectfully, and went out. He had hardly closed the door behind him
when the mother entered.

"Very well, what has happened?" asked she.

"He is stupid, very stupid," replied the adorable Emusia, shrugging her
shoulders. "He is a fool, but I will conquer him yet."

"I fear, on the contrary, that he is not enough of a fool for us,"
replied Madame Wtorkowska.




                              CHAPTER XVI.

                          THE JEWS IN COUNCIL.


A great number of the most influential Israelites assembled at Mann's
house on the following day. Mann, who was already proud of being
considered the chief of the Israelites of Warsaw, was delighted to
preside at a meeting of so much importance.

"Mann," whispered Father Simon to Bartold, "this poor Mann, resembles
this morning a bladder; look out, for he may burst."

"And even if he does, with what are we threatened? A little wind, and
nothing else," replied Bartold laughing.

This vain personage had really assumed a very pompous manner. He looked
around him from the height of his grandeur, and from time to time put
his hand on his empty head. Seated on a sofa which he occupied alone,
he opened the meeting majestically.

"Messieurs," he said, "we have met here to discuss future events, for
the situation is complicated. What, then, should be our role? That is
the question submitted to you. We have always been united; I hope it
will now be shown that we have not changed."

"Excuse me," said Simon. "But I vote a distribution of cigars before
the important debate."

"Have done with your jests," said Mann in a firm voice, handing him a
cigar. "This is no laughing matter; the times are grave and serious?
What attitude shall we take toward the nobles? What will they do now,
after this affair of last night?"

"The nobles will do nothing at all. They will dispute, argue,
vociferate, and threaten, and the result of their consultation will be
nothing," said the incorrigible Simon.

"Yes, that is usually the way; but this time they are forced to take
action. I will add that the nobles have almost always been hostile to
our race, and have often offended us by denying us justice."

"The nobility will always be the nobility," replied Simon to the
chairman, in spite of his efforts to silence him. "They look on us as
their stewards, their brokers, their innkeepers. They accuse us of
exhaling garlic wherever we go. But they are not at heart our enemies.
Let us speak of the other side of the matter, for, messieurs, the
nobles dream only of sacrificing themselves for their beloved Poland;
we do not enter into their calculations in that regard, and is it not
our own fault?"

"The revolution is imminent," said Mann.

"It is possible," observed Bartold. "But I believe the nobles would
like to draw out of this affair, in which the middle class are so
active, and into which they seek to draw us."

"Then we must let ourselves be drawn in," said Jacob, "in order to
become worthy citizens of the country that has received us when we were
outcasts."

"Jacob always returns to this refrain; we know his theories, but at
present we are occupied with practical things. What interest have we in
the past?" said Mann.

"Our first interest," replied Jacob, "in a country where we are so
numerous is to be admitted to a footing of equality. The opportunity
now presents itself; let us profit by it; let us unite with the middle
class."

"Nothing is so alluring as a sham compact at the outset, but afterward
there are sure to be mutual recriminations and quarrels," said Simon.

"Take a cigar to close your lips!" cried the chairman, who was weary of
the sentimentalism of the one and the everlasting jests of the other.

"I will give you a second cigar, if you will be silent," added another.

"I repeat my question," said Mann solemnly. "What role ought we to play
at present,--we Jews?"

"Excuse me," said a stranger. "There are no Jews here. We are all
Poles, of the religion of Moses."

A hearty applause showed approval of this expression uttered for the
first time.

"If this view is adopted it solves the question," said Jacob.

"Pardon," replied Mann, "a thousand pardons. This phrase does not
decide whether we will make common cause with the nobles, who do not
wish a premature revolution, or with the bourgeoisie, who are the
promoters of this movement."

"That's the chief point," cried Simon, always eager to give his advice.
"I vote for the nobles; by going with them we may succeed in obtaining
crests. I am very anxious to stamp on my seal three onions on a field
of gold."

"Cursed babbler!" cried Mann, striking the table with his fist. "Will
you keep silent or not?"

"I will shut up," said Simon.

"Let us be serious," replied Bartold. "Monsieur Mann has put the
question well."

"I do not think so," said Jacob. "To take sides with this party or that
is all that we should have to decide. The question is altogether
different for me. Here it is: What is the better part for us to take in
the interest of Poland, our adopted country?"

"Listen to me," cried Henri Segel. "We should be blind, indeed, not to
see that, if we join in a revolution lost in advance, it would mean as
certain ruin to us as to the rest of the country."

A small man with a consumptive look gazed around him, coughed, and let
fall, drop by drop, these words:--

"We have been long enough held in contempt and subjection. The time has
arrived to come out of it. Let us think of ourselves only. The peasant
does not like us, because he is stupid, and we do not inspire him with
fear. The nobles detest us and continually humiliate us. They will take
part in the rebellion; if they find it inevitable, they will consider
it a point of honour. The Russian government hates them, and will take
advantage of the opportunity to confiscate their estates and drive them
into exile. If we can be neutral during the crisis, what a prospect
opens before us! In every nation, whatever be the form of government,
be always on the side of the governing class. We are prepared to seize
a high position. We will become the masters of the country."

"This idea," said Jacob, "has been often advanced, and is nothing new.
But there is one objection: we shall save everything but honour. The
fact of having been sheltered from all danger will condemn us. The
nobility will not entirely disappear; many will remain. Russia, too,
has her own revolutionists, who may overthrow her in a few years."

"Yes, before many years," replied the little man dryly; "if we do not
make ourselves masters here, we are not worth a farthing. Already we
dominate more than half of Europe in money matters, and the German
press is largely at our service. France, also, has not escaped our
influence. Warsaw is called our capital, a new Jerusalem."

"My dear sir," said Jacob, "your prophecy is not yet ready to be
realized. We shall not attain our end by egotism. It would be much
better to seal our fraternity with Poland, and by a sincere devotion
gain her esteem by proving that the people of Israel are a noble
people, that they will not abase themselves by taking sides with the
strong or the oppressors. Never has the calculation of knavery been
preferable to that of honesty."

"What is that you are saying there?" interrupted Simon. "The Jew has
always been a trickster, and will do well to remain such."

"No, no!" replied Jacob warmly. "If servitude has taught us deceit and
falsehood, is it any reason why we should persevere in it, now that our
heavy chains are broken and the way is open to us? Let us march with
the right, our heritage during thousands of years. The glory of Israel
is very dear to me, but I rely above all on the laws of God and the
justice of our cause. Let us prove that we are worthy of being called
the 'chosen people of God.' There lies our grandeur, we do not need to
seek another."

"Fine words," said Mann. "And why shall we not exult over the defeat of
our enemies? They have kept us long enough in the mud at the gates of
their palaces; why should we not be glad to see them in their turn
humbled before us?"

"We reproach the pagans with love of revenge, and now do we wish to
imitate them? Our faith has been accused of inculcating that ignoble
sentiment; while, on the contrary, the Christians preach forgiveness to
enemies and laud it as a virtue."

"Virtue," said Mann, "is an excellent thing in private life, but when
the welfare of a nation or a community is threatened, it is not
expected that we should adhere strictly to virtue."

"An old and pernicious prejudice. The magicians recommend the use of a
soup made from the fat of corpses in order to attain happiness in life,
and politicians of the old school preach villany in the interest of the
public good. It is an error: a nation is never saved by evil."

"You are eloquent, Jacob; but you generalize too much. You forget that
the right of conversation is open to all. I refer you to the Talmud,
which you quote so often."

"The hour for the Bourse draws nigh, and we have decided nothing,"
cried another.

"That which is difficult," said Bartold, "is to decide, with the meagre
information we possess. One cannot foresee how things will turn out. We
must wait. I wish, like Jacob, to follow the right, but on condition
that it does not lead to a precipice; I admit the necessity of
sacrifices when something is gained thereby, but I do not approve of
useless sacrifices."

"All sacrifice bears its fruit sooner or later," replied Jacob.

"You return to your mysticisms. Our debate is ended."

"Result: nothing, as usual," concluded Simon.

"One word more," said Mann. "It has been said that we cannot foresee
how events will terminate. Some one of us should seek admittance to the
revolutionary meetings and observe what is going on; that may enlighten
us. Prudence dictates this precaution. Jacob, will you undertake it?"

"No, Monsieur Mann. I am not a revolutionist, and I refuse to lend
myself to the role of a spy even for our cause."

"What delicate susceptibility! We will send some one in your place."

Mann sputtered wrathfully, and continued:--

"Thus we shall be informed of the actions of the revolutionary party,
and if anything important occurs, my house is always at your service
for meetings."

"The Bourse, the Bourse; it is the hour!" cried several voices. And
they all hastened away.




                             CHAPTER XVII.

                         REUNION OF THE NOBLES.


Jacob, impressed by Gromof's words, sought an interview with Kruder or
Ivas. The first was out, and the second he could not find. Returning
from his search he learned that the people were assembled for the
funerals of the previous night's victims. An irresistible impulse
seized him, and he arrived, he hardly knew how, at the spot where the
five victims had fallen. The place, after the murder, had been
completely deserted. In the souls of the people surged an exaltation, a
virility, a confidence which only demanded a signal of authority to
become a revolution. They had lacked arms, but they had torn them from
the Russian troops.

Soldiers and officers seemed ashamed of the attack. The government
itself, after so cold-blooded an act, hesitated. Orders were received
from Petersburg to display a pitiless firmness, but they dared not
execute them. It almost seemed as if remorse had overtaken the
representatives of the Czar at Warsaw. Was it really remorse? No, it
was rather a ruse.

Clubs gathered in the open air and met everywhere without being
disturbed by the police. For the first time in Poland they enjoyed
under Muscovite rule a semblance of liberty. The capital was under the
control of its inhabitants; in the circle of commerce delegates were
chosen, whose duty was to present to Prince Gortchakof, Namiestnik of
the kingdom, the will of the people. This removal of the yoke of the
oppressor lasted for several days,--from March to April. Sad as its
beginning had been, the nation breathed; she was free for the moment.

Those who took part in the deeds of these days guard them in their
memory as the most memorable episode of their lives. I doubt if it has
ever been given a man to see twice, anything as imposing.

Jacob walked about the city, his heart filled with sweet emotions; a
single thought occupied him, that of the fusion of the Israelites with
the rest of the nation. The hour was propitious, the moment was
decisive. In spite of little sympathy for Mann, he realized that he
could undertake nothing without his influence. Mann had not been chosen
a delegate, for the Jews were represented to their satisfaction in the
person of the wealthy and honourable Matthieu Rosen, a man of rare
merit. He urged his people and their rabbis to join in the patriotic
movement, for by that means they would share in a union of sentiments
and aspirations with the Christian population and their clergy. A
similar union had occurred in 1848, at Cracow. At that time the coffins
of the massacred Jews were stationed before the church of Sainte Marie.
At present they must guard against the pride and fanaticism of the
Christians on one side, and the narrow-minded selfishness of the Jews
on the other. Jacob hastened to consult Mann on this subject, but found
him absent. But the young man's wishes, expressed at the late council
of his brethren, were soon realized by an administrative decree.

Jacob went to see the delegates, who in the silence of the night were
occupied arranging for the funerals. They had at this time all
authority concentrated in their hands. The Jew foresaw how fleeting
this authority would be. These men were honest, but without the energy
required for such a crisis, and they would in a short time lose their
wits and abdicate the popular sovereignty confided to their keeping.

The funeral details were arranged. Even the most intolerant of the
Christians felt the necessity, in spite of their prejudices, of uniting
for the time being with the Jews in perfect fraternity. Jacob passed a
sleepless night on one of the benches of the assembly room. At daybreak
he again hastened to Mann's house. He found him a little irritated that
the popular vote had preferred Rosen to himself, and he had retired
like Achilles to his tent. The pompous old fellow was awake and already
surrounded with visitors, although he had not finished his toilet.
Booted, but in his shirt, he presented a laughable spectacle on account
of his extreme corpulence. He, no doubt, noticed this himself, for he
interrupted himself in the middle of a heated harangue, to which his
visitors listened respectfully, to throw over his shoulders a cotton
dressing-gown.

"Ah!" said he, "our friends the nobles have become, then, meek as
lambs. It is they who first ask to embrace us. One sees that they know
the proverb,--


                 'Dans l'embarras
                  Va chez Judas.'


It is for us to remember the other part of the verse:--


                 'Plus d'embarras
                  Va t'en, Judas.'"


"The harmony is well established," said Bartold. "It is sincere; we
must take advantage of it."

"No; it is not peace, it is only a truce. The Agricultural Society,
representative of the nobles, continues to repulse us. Its secretary
has sent Matthieu Rosen a letter, which leaves no doubt of their
malevolence towards us. They wish, they say, that we should merit our
right as citizens, as if we had not deserved that title since we were
established on Polish soil. Feudalists, ultramontanes, fanatics, they
desire war; let them go to the war, then. Let us not mix with them.
Every one to his own interest."

Thus spake the fiery Achilles, Mann, whom Henri Segel tried to calm.

"You must admit, however," said he, "that Matthieu Rosen, though
treated with little consideration by the secretary of the Agricultural
Society, has been named a delegate. Let us strike while the iron is
hot."

"From this iron there can only come new chains for us," said Mann.
"They are incorrigible, these nobles, eaten up by pride of long
descent. We shall have conciliations when Dumah has thrown them all
into hell; not before."

"The Russian government agrees with you there," remarked Bartold; "but
the nobility is capable of regeneration, of amending. They commence to
understand their interests better, and if they hold out their hands to
us, we should not refuse them."

"No! the nobles are blind!" cried Mann, in a loud voice. "Give up all
thoughts of alliance with them. What matters it to us what happens to
them?"

"If we keep aloof now," said Jacob, "it is the same as taking sides
with the Russians. Let us go, my friends; when we are called in the
spirit of sacrifice, the cause of the weak and the oppressed ought to
be ours."

"It is utterly useless to reason with you, dear Jacob. Men of your
stamp go to their ruin and perish. I will not oppose you, though I
deplore your fate. As for the mass of our people, they should look out
for their own interests and for the country."

"Let the majority remain conservative, but not for that alone; they
should escape death in order to console and succour those who survive
the catastrophe."

"There will be time enough to speak of that," said Mann, with a
disdainful gesture.

"It is probable," replied Bartold, "that the burial of the victims of
yesterday will be a European manifestation of the regeneration of
Poland. Ought we to be indifferent lookers on? to take no part
ostensibly in the procession? in a word, to wash our hands of it all?"

"This burial does not concern us," cried Mann. "None of our people have
been killed. Why should we thrust ourselves into the quarrel?"

"It is not merely a burial, it is a grand political manifestation,"
said Jacob. "Before those coffins there will be a national appeal for
vengeance against the assassins; and we"--

"We? Let it suffice us to behold from afar that manifestation! And you,
Jacob, who preach with so much warmth a good understanding with the
Christians, as you are at the same time a fervent and orthodox Jew, you
cannot ask us to march behind the coffins, side by side with the
Christian clergy. That would be breaking one of our laws, which
commands all kohen to keep at a distance from bodies of the dead. How
much worse the impure corpses of men of another belief, another race."

"I know well that the kohenin ought to abandon even their dying wives,
if they are not of Jewish origin. Their contact becomes impure. But I
also know that the law, formerly so vigorous, and not without a wise
motive, is indulgent under exceptional circumstances. A kohen who, in
order to accomplish a good deed, touches a corpse is, according to the
conclusion of all rabbis, exempt from sin."

"I do not think that can be the opinion of all the rabbis. However, we
can easily ascertain."

By a strange coincidence, the door opened and admitted a dignified old
man with a long white beard, clad in the ancient costume of a Polish
Jew. All saluted him respectfully. He was a rabbi, generally esteemed
for his learning and his honourable and upright character. His face
denoted the serenity of a soul untroubled by terrestrial cares.

Mann hastened to repeat what he had said to Jacob, and, wishing above
all to have the approbation of the rabbi for his doctrine of hatred and
vengeance, he added:--

"Ought we to forgive the nobles? Ought we to overlook the evils done us
by them? The justice of God is implacable, and the hour approaches when
we shall be avenged upon our secular oppressors."

The old man listened attentively, then replied slowly and solemnly:--

"The Rabbi Ichochua ben Levi had for a neighbour a Sadducee, who had
insulted him in many ways. Weary of enduring these affronts, he
resolved to pray to God for vengeance. As he was preparing to go to the
temple to accomplish his design, he was overcome by a profound slumber.
On awakening, he said: 'The sweet sleep into which God plunged me so
suddenly is a warning from on high; a just man never invokes divine
vengeance against his enemies.'"

Then the venerable man arose, bowed, and went out. Mann shrugged his
shoulders, and was silent. His guests, most of whom were not very
devout, took their hats, considering the question decided by the text
of the law. In the Talmud, as in books of a character still more
sacred, each interprets as he wishes. The passage proved Jacob in the
right, but could have been perhaps contradicted by another passage
which would put him in the wrong. Mann, fortunately, was not
sufficiently familiar with the literature of Judaism to recall a text
adapted to his argument. Jacob, triumphant, rapidly followed the rabbi,
and kissed his hand with gratitude.

He returned to the city, where he found that there had been a change in
favour of the Jews. Their adversaries were silent, and public opinion
approved their admittance on a fraternal footing, although the nobles
still opposed it. Twenty-four hours had sufficed not to efface, but to
mask, the prejudices of both parties,--prejudices of which they were
ashamed, and which they concealed in an obscure corner of the soul and
dared no longer show in daylight.

The nobles were not in perfect harmony even with each other. Like the
Jews, they held diverse opinions. Those among them who were the most
obstinate were those who were not well informed as to the actual
situation, who had learned nothing, forgotten nothing, and who had
intrenched themselves in an exclusive adherence and devotion to the
past. These were called on the streets ultramontanes, on account of
their importation of foreign Catholicism,--a Catholicism which was
monarchical and legitimist, an enemy of progress. Essentially different
was it from Polish Catholicism, which was conciliatory toward
republican ideas, but did not take sides with either party, and, with
Copernicus, had left its luminous traces in the ascendant march of
humanity.

This group was Polish in its own way, perhaps by its attachment to the
privileges of the nobility; but it was by no means patriotic in its
alliance in heart or spirit with the political reaction in Europe,
which weighed so heavily on Poland.

It was not easy to be conservative in Poland. It was to condemn one's
self to incessant contradictions of conscience and of conduct. How can
one be at the same time a patriot, and submit to a foreign yoke? to be
a Catholic, and prostrate one's self before a foreign authority which
persecuted Catholicism? Weary of conflict, the conservative finishes by
thinking only of saving his fortune and his social position, and pays
no attention to the rest.

Jacob, in wandering over the city from house to house, with the
familiarity which always prevails in times of revolution, entered a
circle of ultramontanes. The master of the house, who was seated in an
easy-chair, which he never quitted on account of an incurable malady,
had still more nerve and energy than most of the visitors assembled in
his rooms. Here were genuine counts, specimens of the ancient
aristocracy of orthodox Catholicism, and many young nobles fresh from
the Jesuit colleges of Belgium and Bavaria. Among all these the most
remarkable was a man of gigantic height, of irreproachable character,
of rare eloquence, who, on account of his habit of repeating the
popular proverb, _Jak Boga Kocham_ (as true as that I love God), had
received the not very euphonious sobriquet of Boakoam.

He was a descendant of a very aristocratic family, deprived of its
former splendour by the prodigality of its ancestors. He lived
ordinarily in the country on a small estate, all that remained of his
fortune.

The conversation was on the events of the day, and the social equality
accorded to the Israelites.

"In a hundred years," said Boakoam, "the Counts Z., P., and B. will
have become coachmen, and their palaces will have passed into the hands
of the R.'s, the K.'s, and the E.'s."

"It is possible," replied the master of the house, who belonged to one
of the families designated; "above all, if we make many more false
steps like this one. It will be our own fault. We shall foolishly ruin
ourselves. We have an aversion to work, while the Jews are economical,
laborious, and persevering."

"Thus, that the Jews may not devour us, my dear count, you wish we may
be transformed into Jews. Pretty advice! If we must perish, let us
perish at least as we are. Experience has demonstrated to us our
inaptitude as financiers. To what end have come our navigation
companies, or our industrial or commercial associations? We have lost
money on all our undertakings. Distasteful as it is to admit, I must
confess that we have arrived at a point of irresistible decadence. We
have organic vices, we have attained the height of moral weakness. I
would, nevertheless, like to believe that we shall yet regain our
old-time vigour."

"To rise again," said a country gentleman, "we must have several
chiefs, several guides in whom we can place confidence, as in you,
Monsieur le Comte."

"You could not have a better chief than Count Andre Zamoyski, whose
name is on every lip. Virtue, reason, grandeur of soul, patriotism, all
these qualities he possesses."

"Certainly Count Andre is the right man, he is honourable and worthy;
but let us talk no more of politics just now," said Boakoam.

"God preserve us from this mania of politics, unreasonable and
inopportune! We can gain nothing by it, and it has already been the
cause of many evils. True politics are agriculture, science, economy,
and the amelioration of morals."

"You are right, Monsieur le Comte," said a listener. "But what is to be
done when, in spite of ourselves, the youth and the city rise in arms
and draw us in?"

"Youth has courage and action. Imitate them. If you do not wish a
revolution, proclaim it loudly; not in any half way. I understand
perfectly the blind but heroic ardour of these young men who offer
their blood for their country. It is necessary that we have equal
energy to arrest this patriotic uprising, that we do not give them
encouragement by our inertia, our weakness."

"Then we are lost," cried a voice.

"Oh, not when we have just concluded an alliance with the Jews!"
replied Boakoam. "The Jews will certainly save us."

This pleasantry caused a ripple of laughter.

"That which is certain," gravely replied the invalid, "is that they
have more sense than we. They have proved it."

"They will not lend us their good sense as they have loaned us their
money," remarked Boakoam. "They know that it is a capital which we
lack, and on which we could not pay them interest."

"Where is the time when we did not know the Jews save as stewards and
brokers! One could then pluck the extortioner by the beard."

"Those times, alas! will never return," said one of the company in a
sad voice.

"The world is degenerating," added another.

"Have you remarked, gentlemen," said a solemn personage with black hair
and the Oriental type, "that everything is being gradually monopolized
by the Israelites? They are the masters of the Bourse. Now the Bourse
directs the world and governs the State. Without it, no loans and no
wars. They manage public opinion through the press, the principal
organs of which belong to them. In Prussia, in the rest of Germany, and
in Belgium, journalism is in their hands. In France every newspaper has
one or more Jews connected with it. Many have seats in Parliament and
the German Reichstag. Some are ministers or ambassadors."

"The reason is easily to be seen," replied Boakoam. "The Polish nobles
could not exist without Jewish factors, and took them everywhere with
them on their travels. Europe is like us, morally and physically
declined; the governments are in decadence, and the factors do as they
like."

"French masonry," added the country gentleman, "and democracy have the
Jews for their firm supporters."

"But that does not agree with the Bourse, whose principals are far from
revolutionary," objected some one.

"They are," replied the gentleman, "both liberals and conservatives,
but only in a measure. Liberals when they wish to undermine
Catholicism, and conservatives when they have other ends to serve; but
when it is a question of war, they are always conservatives, for they
do not wish war at any price."

"Never," said Boakoam, "shall we be able to get rid of the Jews, and
they will yet ruin us."

"If one is ruined it is usually his own fault," replied his friend.

"True. But how can we change now? We, who are accustomed to a life of
ease and to liberty of action, is it possible for us to become
tradesmen? The Jews understand business, have money, skill, and
avarice. And we? Nothing!"

"Let us try to acquire these qualities."

"How can we? The government oppresses us and seeks to crush us out of
existence. We are weakened by this cruel oppression; where can we find
strength for the struggle?"

"In a sentiment of duty."

"Too late to lift the burden now. I know not if the _Finis Poloniae_
will be accomplished, but the end of the Polish nobility is certain. I
am afraid that we are doomed."

"Listen to me, messieurs," said the master of the house solemnly. "I
have not long to live. Every day death draws nearer to me, as you
perceive. As the time to leave the world approaches, a man does not
lie. Well, on the border of the tomb I adjure you not to lose faith in
yourselves, for you who prophesy your own fall are the ones who hasten
it. What have the nobles done since 1791? Where are their labours,
their efforts, their sacrifices? Behold them unbalanced, their
fortunes, activity, existence, entirely and foolishly dissipated in
libertinage and idleness. Immutable laws regulate everything in nature.
Once withered, the leaf falls; once unfaithful to its mission, every
class of society is condemned to disappear. If, as you predict, the
Jews are destined to supersede us, it will be owing to our improvidence
and their superior virtue."

"Frightful perspective!" cried the country gentleman piteously. "Do you
say that my son may perhaps become steward for a Kronenberg or a
Rosen?"

"Perhaps he would be lucky to get that position. If I were a Kronenberg
or a Rosen I would not think of employing so incapable a steward as
your son."

Boakoam put an end to the conversation by this sally, which was a
little brutal. Jacob, unable to contain himself longer, believed it a
duty to reveal his identity.

"Messieurs," said he, "pardon me for interrupting this discussion, but
I feel it my duty to confess that I am a Jew."

All eyes were turned toward him in astonishment. The least surprised
was Boakoam and their host. The former burst out laughing, and cried:--

"In that case, my dear sir, you have heard many curious things about
your race."

"Very curious, and I shall profit by them. As for your pleasantries,
they have not wounded me. I could form some idea of how you spoke of
us, by the way that we speak of you at our meetings. For compensation,
you have finished by praising our qualities in such a manner as to make
me very grateful. But your praises are more than we deserve. If we
possess some good qualities, we have also many faults, and I ought to
acknowledge them. This alliance with us seems repugnant to you; but,
believe me, it will be for your advantage in the end. It is repugnant
to you because, as some one here has said, we smell of garlic and old
clothes; but just now you cannot have too many friends and allies."

"As true as I love God," cried Boakoam, "your morals are golden. But I
do not believe that we can trust in your friendship. You will be with
us as long as we are standing, but you will go over to the enemy when
we fall. You will then feel only contempt for us, and the thirst for
vengeance will awaken in your hearts."

"Never! I promise it in my name, and in the names of those who think as
I do. We will remain united in misfortune as in fortune."

"So as to profit equally by our success or our misfortunes? I am frank,
and now that we are on this subject, permit me to finish. I am ready to
acknowledge my fault, to avow all the vices and all the errors imputed
to the nobles, but I cannot see that your rich men are any better. You
accuse us of foolish vanity and aristocratic pride; your bankers have
as much. The Count Andre, who comes from a long line of illustrious
ancestors, is much more polite, more affable, more simple, than"--

"I do not deny it. Money often renders men impertinent. I have only one
excuse to offer for my co-religionists: it is, that repulsed by the
elegant society, overwhelmed with sarcasm, we have not had the
opportunity to profit by the same schooling as yourselves. You must
civilize us by your good examples."

"Hear! Hear!" cried Boakoam. "We will teach you our refined manners in
return for your practical spirit."

"I consent," replied Jacob smiling. "One word more: you have alluded to
some of us as rude and having repulsive manners. Very well; even among
these men, vain, proud, and gross, there are some who are benevolent;
though their appearance does not indicate it. I have not finished. In
the presence of the representatives of the past I know not whether I
shall be permitted to express my ideas. Behold them, if you will be
kind enough to listen. Humanity will not retrograde. She has ceased to
be led by a privileged class; she feels her strength and will walk
alone. The feudal privileges are dead, very dead."

"You avow, however," said the dark man with Oriental features, "that
society, freed from privileges and belonging to itself, will still
admit a certain division of classes."

"Yes; but admittance to these classes will be given by personal merit,
and not by birth."

"Then we shall all be in the same boat," cried Boakoam
laughing,--"peasants, Jews, gypsies, bourgeoisie, pell-mell with us the
fine flower of the aristocracy."

"Modern theories, fatal doctrines born of revolutionary folly,"
remarked a pupil of the Jesuits, fresh from Belgium. "I believe neither
in progress nor a new order of things. All that I see in this accursed
age is the hand of God, which chastises us and plunges us into
confusion and chaos."

Saying this the disciple of Loyola took his departure, furious. Many
followed his example, while Jacob was making his final remarks thus:--

"We are new citizens, but rest assured that in recovering our rights of
citizenship after so long ostracism we will not refuse the accompanying
duties. If until the present the Jew has not considered himself a Pole,
the fault has not been with him nor with Poland herself, but with the
barbarity of past ages, to the shadows of a prolonged epoch of
darkness. 'Light, light, still more light!' as said the dying Goethe,
and the world will move on in the sight of God."

"As true as I love God," said Boakoam, "these are holy words. And I
must save myself, for my confessor would refuse absolution because I
had dealings with the Old Testament, in the absence of the New.
Good-evening."




                             CHAPTER XVIII.

                         THE COUNTRY WILLS IT.


Events precipitated themselves with frightful rapidity. Veiled promises
and secret encouragements on the part of Napoleon III. contributed
largely to the development of an insurrection whose instigators were
too confident in the diplomatic intervention of France, England, and
Austria. A bitter disappointment was the result, as we know. A brutal
reply from the Russian government sufficed to make Europe fall back,
and rendered harder than ever the fate of Poland.

At the point whither our story has carried us, all hope of preventing a
fatal catastrophe was not lost. Several men of influence, whose
foresight was better than that of the foolish masses, made heroic
efforts toward this end. Among these was our Jacob, whose interview
with Gromof had resulted in enlightening him as to the fatal
consequences of a premature revolution.

The most of the Jews rallied around the Marquis Wielopolski, a
double-faced man, half Russian, half Polish, with equivocal politics.
He was clever in appearance, but deceitful at heart, and sought to
please both sides. This policy was not pleasing to the nobles, whom he
held of little account; it alienated the ultramontanes, and irritated
the revolutionists, whom he tried to reduce by violent measures. The
marquis, much more authoritative than liberal, wished to inaugurate
that which he called the legal progress; but not leaning on either
party, he soon had every one against him. The Jews, however, sustained
him for some time with ardour; but he soon displeased them, like the
others, by an absolute want of tact in his conduct toward them.

Men of exalted opinions, whose only wish was to benefit humanity, and
who desired to maintain a just moderation, were alienated and were left
alone.

Jacob, although of an entirely different character from Wielopolski,
was equally unfortunate. In his political role he was no more
successful than in his character of religious reformer. Admitted to all
the meetings, he perceived that he had no influence whatever.

He displeased the revolutionists by his wise warnings; the
conservatives, by his transports of spirit; and the partisans of legal
progress, by his spirit of independence. He had no communication with
the Russians, with the exception of Gromof.

Among his own people, Mann detested him because he refused to bow down
to him and admire him; for vanity was this individual's ruling passion.

Mathilde's father was devoted body and soul to the palace of Bruehl,
which was Wielopolski's seat, and received his former pupil coldly, for
he did not wish to be ranked under the same banner. For the same reason
Henri Segel, a zealous servant of the marquis, looked on him with pity.
Bartold, less servile, nevertheless adhered to the new regime to a
certain extent, and was surprised that Jacob did not follow his
example. Ivas, whose relations with his friend were growing cooler,
accidentally met him one evening.

"Jacob," said he, "the moment approaches when the country will need all
her children's services. I was coming to ask you to pay your tribute,
and I will give you the receipt. You have only to fix the amount
yourself."

"I do not dream of refusing to make all necessary sacrifices," replied
Jacob after a moment of thought. "But in giving I wish to know why I
give. Will you give me your word of honour that it is not to aid the
revolution?"

"It is truly to buy arms."

"If it is for that, I refuse. I am ready to sacrifice half, or more
than half, of my fortune for Poland, but not one cent to light the
torch of incendiarism."

"Man of little faith and frozen soul, how can you be presumptuous
enough to suppose that you can hinder patriotic sentiments, or strong
enough to overthrow all obstacles! Am I not right? We are sure of the
people; we have the Catholic clergy, thanks to the marquis, who has
also reconciled the masses; and we count on the greater part of the
Israelites. We shall force the nobles to come out of their
intrenchments and join us. In Russia the revolution ferments. Garibaldi
promises us champions; Hungary, arms, men, and money. Austria is a
beneficent neighbour; and, to finish, France and England will
undoubtedly aid us."

"Softly! Softly! Repeat your enumerations one by one."

"If faith does not exist in you it is useless for me to talk further. I
will listen to nothing. Will you give me the money? Yes or no."

"For the revolution, no."

"But the necessity is urgent, my dear Jacob. We must have money to-day;
you cannot refuse us."

"I refuse; I have said it."

"I have been your friend and defender, and I am still; but above all, I
am a revolutionist. Do you know to what you are exposed by your
opinions? To death, perhaps; certainly infamy."

"Infamy, never! A man can only render himself infamous; others cannot
imprint this stain upon him. As for death, I do not fear it. The
preservation of life or of fortune by the sacrifice of profound
convictions is unworthy of a true man, is cowardly. You can obtain
nothing from me by threats; kill me if you wish; I firmly believe in
the justice of God and the immortality of the soul. And so I am
tranquil."

Ivas laughed, and was a little touched.

"You are a great child, my dear Jacob," said he, with an air of
compassion. "I pity you, for you are not a man of this century. I
regard you as a phenomenon, as a mortal who awakes after a thousand
years of sleep into an epoch entirely different from his own.
Nevertheless, I esteem you."

Jacob held out his hand silently.

"You cannot change me," said he. "It will be useless for you to try it.
I feel that the world which surrounds me is not with me; however, as I
am here, and I exist, it must be with some special design of
Providence."

"I return to my pecuniary wants."

"Ivas," said Jacob, "tell me, what sum do you require, for yourself?"

"Nothing for myself; all for the country."

"And it is expressly to buy arms?"

"Yes; my conscience does not permit me to lie."

"And mine commands me to refuse."

"You are the first who has refused me so decidedly. Your conduct is a
bad example. A rigorous condemnation awaits you. I leave you in sorrow,
for, Jacob, you will die."

"I am not at all afraid to die, and your threat will not make me break
my word."

"I beg of you, my friend."

"Do not supplicate me; it is in vain. Tell me that you will use the
money to save men pursued by the Russian government, to facilitate
their flight, and enable them to live, and I am ready to reduce myself
to poverty for that; but for your insane revolution, not a rouble."

"I do not insist, but"--

"Very well. Have you seen Gromof?"

"Twenty times."

"What have you replied to his argument?"

"That he is a Russian; consequently, ardent in words, and timid in
action. For the Russians the opportune moment never arrives. Their
former conspiracies were broken up by a word from Nicholas; a word
sufficed to calm a popular disturbance. A weak-kneed race, they are
still as cowardly as then. I believe Gromof to be an agent of the
police. He is suspected."

"What he says accords with the actual situation."

"I am one of those," said Ivas, "who will not listen to reasoning. Good
sense, circumspection, are empty words for us. Hurrah for blessed
exultation! Hurrah for ardour pushed almost to folly! We will march
against the troops with our batons, convinced of being victorious."

"You are heroes," said Jacob, "and I admire you; but have you counted
the cost? How long will this exaltation last? How many are there that
feel as you do?"

"A hundred, or a million, what does it matter? The masses will follow
us."

"The masses will be reduced to a handful of men, most of them
adventurers who will do more harm than good."

"Stop, you weary me. Adieu, egotist, I wash my hands of what will
happen to you."

"But before leaving in this hostile fashion, give me your hand as
formerly, Ivas, and may God's will be done!"

Ivas hesitated.

"No," cried he. "I have ceased to be your friend, and in the future I
will be your enemy."

"Are you insane, Ivas?"

"I belong entirely, body and soul, to the cause of the revolution; no
more friendship. Good-night."

"Wait a moment."

"You will give us the money?"

"Impossible."

"You persist in not sacrificing your personal feelings to the interest
of the country?"

"Not contrary to my convictions, my principles, never!"

Ivas was carried away by his enthusiasm, but was at heart honest and
loving. At the threshold of the door strong emotion seized him; he
returned and stood near Jacob.

"After all," said he with tears in his eyes, "I esteem you. Let us
embrace."

They threw themselves into each other's arms.

As he was on the point of leaving he said in a grave voice:--

"But if to-morrow I receive the order to kill you for your disobedience
to the revolutionary committee, I will come with cold blood to stab
you. The country above everything."

"Blind heroism, which I respect without sharing. These are frightful
times we are living in. How horrible is the regime which inspires
hatred, and familiarizes honest souls with crime, and transforms an old
friend into an assassin! What will not be the responsibility before God
of governments whose tyrannous acts have engendered such despair!"

Ivas, without replying, left him with emotion.

Jacob expected to receive on the morrow his sentence of death, but it
did not arrive either that day or later on. Ivas spoke on his friend's
behalf, and he was not even declared a traitor to his country. All the
revolutionists there understood Ivas, and ceased to have any relations
with Jacob, who was considered from that day as a man from whom the
revolutionary party had nothing to expect.

                           *   *   *   *   *

All this is true. The entire scene is scrupulously authentic. Author's
note.




                              CHAPTER XIX.

                           A FATHER'S GRIEF.


Two days after the dramatic scene that we have just related Jacob was
alone at his house, when he was surprised by a visit from Jankiel
Meves, he who had furnished Ivas his first shelter. The old man, who
appeared to be very sad, commenced by saying that he had profited by a
sojourn in Warsaw to once more see Jacob, for whom he had the greatest
esteem and whom he considered the hope of Israel. Then he spoke of the
troubles of the country, and Jacob told him of the situation, and of
his vain efforts to restrain the impetuous youth of the city from
certain defeat; he added that he was discouraged, for his advice had
been rejected with contempt, indignation, or rage.

"That is no reason," replied the visitor, "for abandoning your mission
of peace, which is a divine inspiration. All truths," added he, "are at
first badly received by men, but they soon take root, and often the
very ones that shrugged their shoulders and refused to listen are the
ones who become the most fervent converts."

"Thanks for your consoling words," replied Jacob; "you reawaken hope
within my heart."

"Alas! I seek consolation from you," cried Jankiel; "I am an
unfortunate father, a prey to the greatest sorrow. In my house shame
and mourning are unwelcome guests. A serpent has glided secretly into
my home, and has left his venom."

"I dare not ask you to explain your words," said Jacob.

"But I wish to tell you all. It is no secret; evil is difficult to
conceal when the malefactor is proud of it. Of what use to me is the
wealth that I have amassed by the sweat of my brow? To-day my most
cherished daughter is no more to me than a stranger, and Lia is dead to
her father! You know the David Seebachs, father and son. Accursed
house, where the holy laws are neglected and ridiculed! Why has my
daughter looked towards that dwelling? Would that she had died rather
than that. Lia, my Lia, has been seduced by the younger David, who
afterward abandoned her to her shame. And I--I ought to refuse her a
refuge under my roof, so that she may not contaminate her pure and
innocent sister, who laments the poor unfortunate in the most abandoned
grief. My coffers are full of money, but Lia, perhaps, will be tortured
with hunger! David was married; it was not known, for he lived apart
from his wife. You saw Lia when you were at my house. Poor child, she
believed in him; she was beautiful, but now she is a wreck; so young,
what will become of her?"

With these words the old man wept bitterly, and in his despair tore his
hair.

"You are," continued he, "honest and good; do not repulse me. Aid
me. I am her father; honour demands that I keep aloof from my fallen
child,--I who press the chaste lips of another daughter. My heart is
broken, and I come to you."

"I am at your service," said Jacob gently. "Where is the unfortunate?"

"Here in Warsaw. But I am not permitted to see her; she dares not
appear before me. The vile seducer has left her dishonoured. Who knows
to what degree of misery she may fall! I have brought money for her;
but, for her as for myself, there must be silence as to whence it
comes. Will you take charge of it?"

"Certainly. I am at your service."

"I have the money with me. Take it and procure for her a shelter and a
tranquil existence, where she at least can mourn in solitude, far from
mocking sneers. Let her want for nothing. This is the service I beg you
to do for me."

The old man took from his pocket a wallet, and tearing it open with
trembling hands placed on the table several bank-notes of value, and a
piece of paper bearing in Hebrew Lia's address.

Then embracing Jacob, "I leave for home to-day," murmured he, his voice
broken by his sobs. "The air of this city oppresses me. Write to me.
No, no! don't write. I will return. You will tell me all. Save her. The
child is weak and accustomed to tenderness. Now she must meet misery,
labour, suffering."

"Cease from lacerating your heart," said Jacob. "Trust me, I will be a
faithful friend."

"Do not spare expense," cried the poor father. "Don't think of economy.
I will supply you with more, but I beg of you not to let her know where
it comes from; rather let her believe that distant relatives have aided
her, that God has touched their hearts in her behalf."

With these words Jankiel raised his eyes to heaven. A passage of the
Psalms came to his mind, and he recited a prayer. Jacob was affected
almost to tears.

"I thank you for your confidence," said he. "I feel honoured by it, as
you know me so slightly."

"I have heard much good of you," replied Jankiel, "and I was called to
open my heart to you as to a compassionate physician. Farewell!"




                              CHAPTER XX.

                     MUSE CULTIVATES THE RUSSIANS.


Since the evening when Jacob had shown himself so much like Joseph in
his interview with Muse, the relations between him and that young lady
had gradually cooled. This resulted from an understanding between
mother and daughter. They saw that his capture was not probable, yet
resolved not to break entirely with him, but to keep him as a reserve.
Henri Segel, although married, was much more promising. Muse did not
deceive herself as to the nature of his love for her. It was a love
which was not likely to prove lasting, but often led, when at its full
height, to great follies. Madame Wtorkowska, again unsettled, insisted
on the necessity of enlarging their circle of acquaintances, and said
to her daughter:--

"These idiots do not appreciate you at your true value, and I am
inclined to seek acquaintances among the Russians. They love society,
and are better judges of grace and beauty than these foolish
Varsovians. Let us attract them to us."

"An excellent idea, mamma. With the Russians an accomplished woman
endowed with talents is a rarity; with us she is more common, and must
have all kinds of accomplishments. With a man like Jacob all efforts
are thrown away. He is an honest man, but utterly insensible. Why, I
almost embraced Judaism, but that did not melt him. This acting
fatigues me, and I have no desire to prolong it; we can never obtain
anything from him; never! I proved it in our last interview. Without
having any particular affection for Henri, I avow, mamma, that I count
on him. He is mine. Mathilde gets weaker every day. She fades before
our very eyes; but suppose she recovers--she is no obstacle. She has no
children. Divorce is common with the Jews. Here is a husband for me
worth having."

"My dear child, the honeymoon would be sweet; but afterward would he
make you happy? He does not altogether please me."

"As for me," said Muse, "I am not afraid. I know how to manage him; and
as for Jacob, he wearies me. He is too good, too pathetic."

As the result of this conversation, Colonel Sofronof and the Major
Ierasimofskoy were introduced into the house of Madame Wtorkowska, who
essayed to dazzle them by the elegance of her receptions. Muse
captivated them both. Sofronof fell seriously in love, but as he was a
practical man, much occupied with politics, he resolved to "kill two
birds with one stone," and find out as much as he could in regard to
existing affairs. He questioned Muse as to the opinions of her friends,
ignorant that although she cultivated all, she had none. She had
adapted herself to circumstances, she had sung patriotic hymns; but
with the same ardour she had learned the Russian songs "_Boge tsara
Khrani_" ("May God preserve the Tsar") and the "Red Sarafane," and on
her piano lived in harmony, Polish inspirations and the official
compositions of Lvof and Glinka to the glory of holy Russia.

The assiduity of the colonel led the mother and daughter to affect
conservative opinions. They mocked at the revolutionists and the
patriots, and all this accorded well with their aristocratic tone and
manner of living.

Sofronof was a man of consummate cunning. Before he knew these ladies
well he had believed them ardent Poles, and was very careful not to
shock the opinions which he supposed they held. He spoke with great
respect of the glories of ancient Poland, with pity of the sorrows of
Poland of today. At the beginning of his passion for Muse he had been
tempted, practical Russian as he was, to implicate the young lady in
some political intrigue, and to have her imprisoned for two or three
months in the citadel. Then he could pursue in the gloomy shadows of a
cell the first chapters of his romance. The thing would not be
difficult, the arrest easy; he had so many friends in the council of
war. After some reflection, however, he abandoned this fine project,
which had already been more than once put in execution by the gallant
officers of the Tsar. Russians are so eccentric that their love-making
even is somewhat original.

After some visits the colonel decided that he could be frank in his
language with these ladies, without danger of wounding their Polish
susceptibilities. Madame Wtorkowska spoke with enthusiasm of the
reigning dynasty, and was pleased to recall memories of the reigns of
Nicholas and of Alexander I., from whom her mother, as she said, had
received a present of an amethyst necklace. She did not say for what
service it was given; one could divine it. Muse, as liberal in words as
it is permitted to be under the Russian _regime_, approved the
emancipation of the serfs, and exalted the other reforms of Alexander
II. Like her mother, she was careful to condemn the revolutionists.
Sofronof understood, after having listened to these ladies, that the
_salon_ where his good fortune had led him could easily become the
centre of an active political reaction.

On intimate terms with Muse, a good musician and an ardent dilettante,
he pursued a plan of conduct in which he did not forget the possibility
of eventual marriage. With the usual blindness of men newly arrived in
a strange country, he was thoroughly deceived as to Madame Wtorkowska's
social position. Neither they, nor their manners, nor their borrowed
elegance opened his eyes to their true character. He took for real
their false luxury, their pretended relations with the great world. Yet
he was a little surprised, without knowing why, with the silence and
the smiles that always followed the name of Wtorkowska; but he
attributed this to Polish malevolence at the Russian proclivities of
the ladies.

Muse knew well how to attract, encourage, and put her visitors at ease.
After each visit the colonel was expected to return the next day. It
was a commission with which he was charged, some desired information,
or some promised anecdote. The mother could not have been more
accommodating. She often made the cares of housekeeping a pretext for
leaving them alone, and when she did remain, she appeared a little
deaf. Sofronof was delighted with her.

At the end of some weeks he one day found himself alone with Muse.

"Mademoiselle," said he, "pardon me if I inflict on you a serious
conversation, for I wish to express all that is in my heart. I wish to
tell you of an occupation which absorbs me. You and madame your mother
can, I believe, have a happy influence on present events. Why not
profit by it? The revolution is imminent. We are here, yet we are, in
spite of the military forces at our disposal, in an almost unknown
country, and we are embarrassed to know the right way to maintain
public order. You can be of great use to us."

"How?" cried Muse. "We are only women."

"Women play a primary role in Poland. They are involved in everything."

"But those are women of the lower class, not of the higher order, the
aristocracy."

"Why should not a woman of the upper class who has opinions suit
herself?"

"Women who are _comme il faut_ cannot compromise themselves in the
streets."

"They can act without leaving their homes."

"But why plunge us into these political questions?"

"In ordinary times it would be wrong for you to take any part, but in
troubled periods like these it is your duty. The government has the
right to ask your aid for the general good."

"And in what way can we be useful?"

"By enlightening us as to the situation. I swear to you that I have the
good of the country at heart, within just limits and a firm union with
Russia. Unfortunately, I and others can find out nothing."

Muse understood what he wished. She blushed at the suggestion, but the
blush faded away rapidly. Lending herself to the colonel's views would,
she thought, give her great power. It would raise her to great heights.
Her imagination transported her almost to the steps of the throne, to
the imperial dais. She looked at herself in the glass, and thought that
her dreams of being at court had now some chance of being realized; and
under this impression she replied:--

"Dear colonel, speak to me with entire freedom, I will listen."

"Be my counsellor and my guide," said Sofronof. "You have many friends.
You see much society. Aid me to understand them; walk with me hand in
hand."

Muse blushed, but said nothing and hung her head.

"I do not like politics and its embarrassing complications," said she.
"However, if, as you think, I am capable of making myself useful, I
will devote myself to the work heart and soul. But taking part in
politics is like playing with fire,--one is often burned. In my
situation as demoiselle, above all, this occupation might ruin my
reputation and destroy my future. It is so easy now-a-days to fall
under suspicion."

"Why entertain such fears," replied the colonel smiling. "You will come
to Petersburg. There you will have the best reception. And every man on
whom you deign to throw a glance from those irresistible black eyes
will esteem himself happy, no matter how high his rank."

He paused; the hidden meaning of his words had been rendered
intelligible to Muse by some foreign overtures. She judged that it was
not worth while to be too particular at this crisis, and replied
gayly:--

"Now, then, my dear colonel, you have not understood me. I merely
wished to say that politics often cause much trouble."

Without further discussion they came to an understanding.

Some days after, Madame Wtorkowska's _salon_ was thrown open with pomp.
The assembly was, indeed, a motley one, and had been gathered from all
classes; there were all kinds,--white, gray, red, blue. This was
according to Sofronof's advice, and in this way was formed a neutral
ground whereon all might meet on an equal footing. Jacob was there, and
found himself more of a spectator than an actor. Since that famous
evening when Muse reproduced scenes from the Bible, she had been very
cold towards him. She no longer invited him to little games of cards,
she sent him no more notes, and engaged him for no sentimental
promenades. This change suited Jacob better than the attentions of
former days. Henri Segel, also, was a regular visitor, and in the midst
of the Russians was in his element; he paid court to them, accepted
their invitations to dine, and invited them to his house. Mathilde, who
under Jacob's influence had risen to a higher sphere intellectually and
morally, was much disturbed by these incessant amusements. But her
power was very limited, almost nothing. Absolute mistress of her own
apartment, surrounded by her flowers and books, she lived a stranger in
her own house. Her husband simply announced to her that such guests
would dine with them that day, and often presented them to her without
asking her consent. At table, the turn of the conversation was often
displeasing to her. Her husband perceived it, but did not care.

Jacob, absorbed in the political situation, came rarely, as he was now
sure to meet the Russians, whose frequent appearance at Mathilde's
house was repugnant to him. He could not expect frankness from them;
and he could not, in his turn, express himself freely before them, and
this constraint put him in a disagreeable and trying situation.

Presumption and obstinacy usually accompanies a civilization as
imperfect and superficial as that of the Russians. To appear
progressive and liberal, they often, in conversation, express advanced
ideas which they do not dream of putting in practice; to sincerity they
reply by falsehoods.

Mathilde's life became more lonely and more isolated; she wasted away.
Her cough increased, and she was consumed with fever. She passed entire
days with her music endeavouring to forget her wearisome life. This
distraction weakened her strength, but she refused to submit to any
treatment. At night she read, creating thus an artificial imaginary
world. Her only consolation, her only joy, was to talk with Jacob, in
whom alone she had confidence; but he liked to come only when Henri and
some of his new friends were amusing themselves. Then Jacob hastened to
make a rapid examination of the progress of the malady which seemed to
be consuming the young woman, and she looked attentively at him to
discover if his brow was more gloomy, more care-worn. Afterward they
pressed each other's hands, and separated.

It happened one evening at tea that no one was near Mathilde when Jacob
arrived but the old English governess, who had become a friend of the
house. He found Madame Segel very much changed.

"How rarely you come," cried Mathilde. "I know it is not indifference
on your part, but if I had not perfect confidence in you, I should
accuse Muse of depriving me of your society."

"Why do you speak of her?"

"Because it is evident that she has given entertainments in your
honour."

"In my honour and in honour of a dozen others; Colonel Sofronof, and
also Henri, your lord and master."

"I am not surprised that her fresh and blooming beauty pleases Henri
more than my pallor and fatigue. There he finds smiles and songs, here
sighs and tears. I do not wonder that he prefers her."

"Well, I do," said Jacob.

"If he were more devoted, I should reproach myself for not loving him.
He is just as I wish him to be, polite, cold, and he leaves me entirely
alone. It is some time now since Muse captivated him, but why should we
care? What matters it to us?"

"Henri's conduct is indelicate"--

"What matters it, when I do not love him?"

Jacob walked up and down the room, and then stopped near Mathilde and
looked at her fixedly.

"Pardon me," said he; "but a wild idea has just come into my mind."

"What idea? Tell me quickly."

"Divorce."

"No, no!" cried she. "I do not wish to bring to one whom I love with
all my soul the miserable remains of my life, a broken heart and a sick
body. Your idea is wicked and foolish. We have no right to seek
happiness through scandal. Happiness gained thus will soon cease. Are
we not happy as we are? What more can we wish? We can see each other
often, talk, and press each other's hands, and we ought to be
satisfied. To come nearer would, perhaps, prove a disenchantment for us
both. Let us not renounce a supportable existence for dreams.
Humiliated, faded, and weak, I am no longer the girl you formerly
loved. No, no! Jacob, in the name of our love, never mention that word
again. Do not tempt me; do not make me dream of happiness that can
never be realized; it is impossible."

"The impossibility is only in your imagination. The thing is very
feasible, dear Mathilde. What is there to bind you to your husband. He
is as indifferent to you as you are to him. You have no children."

"Do not make me blush, Jacob. A woman should belong to but one man;
whatever be her lot, happy or unhappy, she should submit, and be humble
and resigned. I cannot commence life over again, and, moreover, I am
standing on the threshold of the tomb, while your life has just begun."

"I thought that you loved me, Mathilde, as much as I love you!"

"More, for I have courage to sacrifice myself for your happiness. You
cannot imagine how this idea of belonging to you has troubled my
spirit. I assure you it has tempted me more than once, and I have
always put it from me, as I do now. Have pity on me, do not oblige me
to weep. I am weak, do not take advantage of my weakness."

"But this man is unworthy of you."

"Unworthy or not, I married him."

"And if he himself desired the divorce, would you hinder him?"

"Have you any reason for saying that?"

"No."

"Very well, then, say no more. Even if he desert me, I will refuse to
be yours."

"This is folly, Mathilde."

"No, it is love. The true love of a woman who can love chastely. To
give you my hand would be to put you in his place. After him; oh, no!
that would be too humiliating."

"You are an angel, but I wish you to be a woman."

"Let us seek rather to elevate ourselves above this idle humanity."

"Perhaps you can attain this ideal, but I cannot."

"I can understand," said Mathilde with a slight blush. "I can
understand an instant of aberration, a sudden and unforeseen fall; but
I have no sympathy with the profanation of conscience by a designing
woman. She who has pressed two men to her bosom, becomes afterward like
an inn open to all. One only! only one for life and death!"

"And that only one, Henri!"

"No, it is not he! It is you, Jacob; he has only my body, you have my
soul."

After a moment of exaltation she continued:--

"Tell me," said she, "do you really believe in the immortality of the
soul and a life beyond the tomb?"

"Yes, I believe it. Otherwise man would have been an aspiration that
God would not have realized. How else can we account for the desire for
immortality that each one bears within his soul? Why should we suppose
that this presentiment, this divination of a future existence, should
be an illusion? As to the conditions of the future life we are
ignorant. Man dreams that he will awaken the same as when he closes his
eyes here below. That is perhaps an error; but one sure thing is, that
the soul will not lose acquired virtues nor the reward for suffering,
courageously endured. Certainly there is another world."

"You throw balm on my spirit; I desire to believe, but it is in vain
that I search for faith in books. They puzzle me, and I always end by
being confirmed in an ignorance which can be expressed in these words:
I know nothing."

"Yes; but one does not draw faith from books, it proceeds from an inner
voice."

"But this uncertainty; everywhere this dreadful uncertainty. Virtue,
science, reason itself are so many spider webs which are torn by every
wind. Yet it is frightful to die with this idea of annihilation in
one's heart."

"Belief in God warrants us in this hope for the future. God cannot be
unjust. He could not have implanted in us such strong and persistent
hopes to make a cruel mockery of us. It is inadmissible if one believe
in him. Have confidence in God and keep his commandments."

"But where is this law of God? In the books called holy? They differ;
some of them are supposed to be revelation, others simple popular
legends. How uncertain everything is, cold, empty, frightful!"

With these words she trembled, as if the spectre of death had appeared
before her. Then she went to the piano, and played one of Chopin's
touching fantasies, while Jacob listened. Some one put a hand on her
shoulder, and Mathilde gave a little cry of fright. The dream was over.
This was reality. Henri, with a cigar in his mouth, appeared before
her.

"You have at last deigned to remember us," said he jokingly to Jacob.
"You haven't been here for a long while. Mathilde, will you order the
tea? What time is it? Nine o'clock. At ten I must be at the chateau. I
have scarcely time to dress and to take tea, which is much better than
I get there, in spite of their golden cups; but how can you stay in
this room, it is freezing."

"I have not felt cold," said Jacob.

"The music has warmed you, then. Have you heard Muse play Liszt's last
fantasie? It is stupefying."

"Muse's execution is marvellous, but she plays without expression."

"Profane blasphemer!"

Jacob said no more, and Henri looked at his watch.

"That which exasperates me is the white cravat; but one meets the best
society at the chateau. The Namiestnik is one of the most courteous men
in the world."

"Good-night," said Jacob, taking his hat.

"Good-night."




                              CHAPTER XXI.

                                  LIA.


Jacob sought for two days the place where Lia had concealed herself. He
at last obtained some information about her, and found that the poor
girl's misery was horrible, but that she had endured it uncomplainingly
and with angelic patience. She lived in the _rue des Jardins_, called
thus because of the gardens which formerly abounded there, most of
which had long since disappeared. The house was old and in bad repair,
but it still possessed a small garden planted with fruit-trees. Under
the shadow of the apple and pear trees grew beets, carrots, potatoes,
and onions, also strawberries and raspberry bushes. In the centre rose
a magnificent linden-tree, the pride of the proprietor. This tree gave
shade, as well as some profit from its flowers and its bees. In many
places the old and ruined house was propped up to keep it from falling,
and the shingles on the roof were covered with a thick moss. In the
lower part lived Jewish families blessed with many children; Lia lived
on the floor above.

At the door Jacob met the landlady. She was very fat, and muffled up in
an apron of foulard, on which the portrait of Napoleon I. was printed.
At his first question regarding the lodger he sought, she looked at him
suspiciously, and replied:--

"The woman for whom you ask lives here, but she receives no one. If,
however, monsieur, your business is important"--

"Yes; I come on business."

"In that case you will find her in her room. She occasionally comes
down to the garden, and sits under the shade of our linden. She has no
right to the garden, but she is a poor girl, sweet and quiet. I pity
her. Do you know her, monsieur?"

"Very little, hardly at all; but I have been sent by the family," said
Jacob, somewhat embarrassed.

"Her family! At last, then, they have remembered the poor abandoned
one. Oh, my good monsieur, she has suffered greatly! Go! Take the
stairs. You will find a bell near her room; but if you prefer it, I
will announce you. Your name? Perhaps she will refuse to see you."

"She will not recognize my name," replied Jacob.

"In that case, do as you think best, monsieur; to the right."

The staircase was old and dirty, with broken and uneven steps, and in
place of a balustrade a rope was strung from one end to the other.
Through the open doors of the rooms he could see large chinks in the
walls through which came the heat and rain in summer, the cold and snow
in winter.

Jacob knocked two or three times at the door; receiving no response, he
decided to open it gently. The spectacle which met his eyes was
heartrending. A chamber, or rather a miserable garret, destitute of
furniture, was dimly lighted by a little window sunk in the wall. In
one corner was a pallet, and by its side an old broken-down cradle
which had done service for several generations. With her head leaning
on a table a young woman slept. She had evidently been overcome
suddenly by fatigue, for she still held in her hand some coarse cloth
on which she had been working. Her feet touched the cradle in which
reposed a feeble and sickly babe. The nourishment that the poor little
thing drew from the maternal breast was not sufficient to develop its
strength and vitality.

Lia opened her eyes, swollen with slumber; she believed that the
intruder had made a mistake in the room, and remained silent and inert.
Her sunken eyes and sad but calm expression denoted habitual suffering
with resignation to misery.

Jacob stood on the threshold, undecided. Lia spoke at last and said:
"Monsieur, what do you wish? Why do you come here? Who are you?"

"I come from your relations."

"I have no relations; I am an orphan," replied she apprehensively.

"I am sent for your good," said Jacob. "Do not be afraid. I do not
bring bad news," said he tenderly.

"I do not expect news from anybody," cried she; "leave me, I implore
you!"

With these words her terror increased, yet her slightest movement was
graceful, full of candour and charm.

Jacob commenced by speaking of her native place. She began to weep
bitterly.

"They have forgotten me there," murmured she. "Oh, do not try to
deceive me! Yet," added she, looking at him fixedly, "you have the
appearance of a good and honest man. Why should I fear you?"

"You have no occasion for fear, my poor girl."

Just then the babe awoke and commenced to stretch out its little arms.
The mother forgot her sorrows and the presence of a stranger; she
leaned over the cradle, over the only link that bound her to life, and
caressed the frail creature, smiled, and spoke to him in a language
which listeners do not comprehend, but which is intelligible to babies
before they can speak. In this dark picture it seemed like a ray of
sunshine. The infant soon slept again, soothed by his mother's
caresses. During this scene Lia's beautiful hair became unloosed; it
fell over her shoulders in thick tresses whose length denoted that she
was unmarried, for the Jewish law obliges married women to wear their
hair short. She blushingly repaired the disorder of her toilet and
offered her visitor the only chair in the room, while she sat down
timidly on the edge of the bed.

In the meanwhile Jacob had examined the room; a few iron pots on the
little stove showed that Lia did her own cooking; stretched on a ladder
against the wall some linen was drying. In spite of poverty the room
was exquisitely clean, and from the open window could be seen the
trees, while the birds sang in the garden.

"Your family have sent me," said Jacob. "Your friends have perhaps been
too severe, but they still love you. You are in want of"--

"No, I am very well where I am. The house is quiet, no one disturbs me,
no one questions me; at first it was a little trying, but now I am
accustomed to it."

"If not for yourself, it is necessary for your child that you should
leave this unwholesome place. That is the object of my visit; you must
take a better lodging and a maid to help you."

Lia looked at Jacob, and her eyes filled with tears.

"But I desire nothing," said she.

"I bring you money," replied Jacob.

"I will not have it. I refuse this charity. I can work for my baby and
myself."

"Your work will kill the poor little one who is dying for want of
nourishment."

"Why should he live with my shame graven on his brow? He is my
consolation, my only joy, but how much better would it have been for
him never to have been born!"

"Do not despair; have confidence in divine goodness. You have been
deceived by a wicked man."

"Wicked! Ah, yes, very wicked! I, who believed his words; I, who loved
him so--perhaps he has sent you?"

"No."

"Swear it!" cried Lia.

"I swear it," replied Jacob.

"Then who is the charitable person?"

"It is enough for you to know that it is not he. As for the person from
whom I come, it is a near relation, but you must not ask the name; I am
not permitted to tell you. Confide in me. I will find you a quiet house
where you will be protected."

"Oh, no! no protector, I wish to be alone."

"As you please; but at least you must leave here, and permit me to
leave you a small sum for your immediate expenses."

"God is merciful, but man is wicked! I cannot believe that I can find a
better place than this, where I am concealed and ignored; elsewhere
they may be curious."

"Do not fear. I assure you I will find an asylum as retired as this,
but more commodious."

"God is merciful!" repeated Lia. She kissed the infant's brow, and held
out to Jacob a wasted hand, wasted by fatigue and poverty.

"I have been deceived once," said she; "but notwithstanding all that, I
have confidence in you. Some one has thought of me enough to send you;
perhaps they weep and love me still; but if it were not for my baby I
would not leave this place. I cannot earn enough for two. I have had
frightful days: only a cup of water, a crust of dry bread, and not a
cent for milk. I knew not where to find work. I lost my head. I wished
to die, yet the child demanded life. What terrible nights have I passed
in cold and hunger while the child tore my heart with its cries. Oh,
you cannot imagine greater torture!"

"You will be delivered now," said Jacob gently. "But one thing that I
cannot understand is why you did not demand of the seducer aid for his
child."

"I!" cried she. "I accept anything from that wretch! Before doing that
I would a thousand times rather die, and see my child die. He wished to
give me an income for life, and I threw his money in his face. He is a
stranger to me, and my child shall never know him; he would have reason
to blush for his father. Never shall my lips utter his cursed name, and
I will efface it from my memory."

Jacob soothed her, and gradually reassured she asked:--

"Have you come from my house? Have you seen the old man whose name I
dare not utter, the old man with a white beard, and the afflicted
mother, and the sister who suffers for my shame, and the house where
all were so happy before my folly converted it into a house of mourning
and covered it with shame?"

"No, I have not been there recently."

"I believe I recognize you now. I saw you once when we were all so
happy. You came one Sabbath, did you not? and you had a long and
serious interview with the aged man."

"Yes. And I have not been there since that time."

"But he lives, does he not? They have completely forgotten me?"

"Yes, they are all living. God is pitiful, and his pity will extend to
you."

"His greatest mercy for me and for my child would be for us to die."

"Life may yet have many pleasant things in store for you."

"Never!"

Jacob tried to divert her thoughts, and rose to go, saying:--

"To-morrow or the next day I will return myself or I will send for you.
I will seek a more commodious lodging and a servant for you. Here is
money for your urgent expenses and for new clothes."

He placed the money on the table. Lia was really so poorly clad that it
was unpleasant for her to show herself on the streets.

"Cheer up," added Jacob; "I will look out for you."

Lia became frightened again; she wished to speak, but the words died on
her lips, and her heart beat violently; her doubts returned, and Jacob
divined it and said:--

"All that I have told you is absolutely true. I will never trouble you;
it will be from a distance and invisible that I shall protect you. I
beg of you do not misjudge me."

He bowed respectfully, and Lia, seeing that he had read her thoughts,
repented of her unjust suspicions, and bowed in return. After he had
gone she returned to the cradle and embraced the sleeping infant.




                             CHAPTER XXII.

                            THE OLD MOTHER.


Carried away in the whirl of active city life, Jacob, since his
residence in Warsaw, had had little communication with his family, who
had remained in his native province. Twice a year he received, by
letter, his mother's blessing, and news of his sister and elder
brother. Despite the intellectual distance which education had put
between him and his relations, he did not forget them, and he
scrupulously acquitted himself of his duties as son and brother. Since
the recent political disturbances he had been deprived of a
correspondence from which he always derived much pleasure, and to the
regularity of which he was accustomed, and he felt a certain inquietude
in consequence.

One day, on returning home, he was informed by his servant that an old
woman, dressed in strange fashion, who said she was a near relation,
waited to see him. In saying this the servant seemed a little
embarrassed.

"I knew not what to do," added he awkwardly; "I told this person that
monsieur was absent, but she was obstinate and would not go. She raised
her voice, and the noise attracted the attention of the servants on the
floor below, and it would have created a disturbance if I had, as I at
first intended, ordered her out. So there she is, monsieur."

"Who is this woman?" asked Jacob.

The servant, judging his master by his own way of seeing things, dared
not reply.

"I do not understand who she can be," muttered he. "She did not
pronounce her name distinctly. I believe she has come to ask for help.
I am not positive."

As soon as he opened the door Jacob saw a woman who was walking up and
down the room, examining everything with curiosity. She was dressed in
the ancient costume of a Polish Jewess. She wore a black dress of
strange but simple fashion, and around her throat a necklace of pearls
with a large gold medallion; a long black mantle completed her costume,
and her face was sprinkled with patches, following the ancient fashion
for Jewesses.

Jacob divined, rather than recognized, his mother, and with a cry of
joy threw himself at her feet and covered her hand with kisses. The old
woman was so agitated that she could hardly speak, and her eyes filled
with tears.

Jacob seated her on the sofa and ran for a glass of water. In his haste
he ran against the servant who was peeping through the key-hole, and
who had no time to conceal himself.

"Go for water!" cried Jacob. "You gave this lady a fine reception! It
is my mother!"

"That is just what she told me," murmured the man; "but"--

"Not another word! Get some water, I tell you!"

When he returned, he found his mother much calmer.

"God of Israel, how great has been thy goodness to my child! Oh, if his
father could have seen the elegance with which he is surrounded, he
could not have said enough prayers to express his gratitude! God of
Moses! Alas! I can only thank thee by my tears."

"The most precious gift of God for me," said Jacob, "is the joy of a
mother's heart."

"Your prosperity is the celestial recompense for your father's virtues.
This recompense has not been accorded to all my children. Sarah is ill.
Miriam's children are dead. I could not resist the desire to embrace
thee once more before I die. I said to myself, 'Perhaps he will be
ashamed of his old mother;' that kept me. Afterward, I thought that at
the worst I should have seen thee, if even from afar, and given thee a
secret blessing."

"How couldst thou, dearest mother, think me capable of such vile
ingratitude, and such forgetfulness of the commandments of God?"

"O my Jacob, I know the world! Your eldest brother respects me,
although I am not his mother, but only his father's wife. He is a good
man; yet if I go to his house poorly dressed, when he has elegant
visitors, I can see that he is ashamed of me. But don't be afraid, my
son, I will not show myself before your fine friends."

"Then you will cruelly offend me," cried Jacob. "Never shall I be
ashamed of my mother, nor my father, nor my race, nor my religion, nor
anything holy. To conceal one's origin is a foolish pride, a criminal
lie."

Just then the servant entered, much disturbed, and said:--

"One of monsieur's friends is here; shall I show him in?"

"Certainly," said Jacob.

It was Mathilde's father. He did not recognize his relative, and was
surprised to see an old Jewess seated on the sofa. He had suspected
Jacob of entertaining a visitor of another kind.

"Mother, you remember Monsieur Samuel, our cousin, and my guardian?"
said Jacob. "I owe everything to him."

"After God, it is to you that I am most grateful," replied Jacob's
mother.

Monsieur Samuel was somewhat embarrassed; he succeeded, nevertheless,
in addressing some words of courtesy to the good woman, and to relieve
himself of his embarrassment he drew Jacob aside under pretext of
pressing business.

"I came to consult with you," said he; "but we can leave it until some
other time. Now let me ask you, what will you do with your mother?"

"The name of 'mother' is my only reply."

"A beautiful phrase; but do not be sentimental, I beg of you, dear
Jacob. Do not compromise yourself in the eyes of the world. This
queerly dressed old woman, if she is seen with you, will hurt us
socially as well as you. You cannot brave public opinion."

"I do not care to cultivate the acquaintance of those who mock my
affection for my mother," said Jacob. "This will prove their worth;
thus I can tell the gold from the baser metal."

"A truce to poetry! Let us look on life as it really is. As soon as the
world scents a Jew, it will tolerate him only when his perfume is
sweet; the odours of the iarmulka are obnoxious."

"I will make no concessions to the prejudices of the world," said
Jacob.

"Well, then, spare me the honour of receiving a visit from your
mother."

Jacob grew pale and his eyes flashed.

"You have been my benefactor," said he slowly. "Do not make me forget
it."

"Excuse me, there are degrees in Judaism; for example, I give myself
out as a descendant of rich German Jews."

"Why do you prefer the German Jews," asked Jacob with a smile of pity.
"Are they any the less Jews?"

"Perhaps not. But they rank higher, and their past is different. Will
your mother live with you?"

"I hope so. I shall be very glad to have her near me."

"I see that it is useless to reason with you. I cannot convince you;
but if you have thoughts of Muse, I advise you to be careful."

"I do not dream of Mademoiselle Wtorkowska."

"There have been rumours"--

"These rumours have no foundation."

"The presence of your mother in your apartments will shock many
people."

"So much the worse for them. I do not intend to offer my mother as a
holocaust."

"Has she brought any more of the family?"

"I believe that she is alone. Poor old woman! to see me she has
undertaken a long and wearisome journey."

"She had better have sent for you to come to her, instead of suddenly
appearing at Warsaw."

Then Mathilde's father returned to the _salon_, saluted the old woman
politely, and took his leave.

On the first floor of the house the news of the arrival of a Jewess in
the ancient national costume was circulated from mouth to mouth.
Jacob's servant had no secrets from the Wtorkowska's maid, and he soon
told her all about it; she carried the news to madame, who, inspired by
Paul de Kock, her favourite author, arranged the story in her own
fashion and went to relate it to Muse.

"It is nothing to me," cried the young lady. "Jacob is no longer on my
list."

"Alas," replied Madame Wtorkowska, "to be so rich and to remain such an
obstinate Jew!"

"Mamma, would you have any objection to Sofronof, if he declares
himself?" asked Emusia.

"Do as you wish. Provided that you marry, your choice will be mine. Yet
be on your guard with this Sofronof. These Russians have no scruples,
no delicacy; to break a woman's heart is for them a pleasure, something
to glory in. Under apparent splendour, they are often penniless
adventurers who come to Poland to replenish their purses. I know the
Russians well. Many of them parade about in a brilliant uniform and
live in poverty."

"Mamma, Sofronof has a fine property in the province of Kostroma."

"I have met these brilliant officers who boast of possessing hundreds
of peasants near Iaroslaf or Tambof. They lied, and this one may also.
Let us go to Kostroma. The government pays these colonels so poorly,
and even the generals, that they are obliged to rob to cut any figure."

"It is not called robbery in Russia. They give it another
name,--indirect revenue, I believe. The country is so organized that
the employes, civil and military, without exception, procure indirect
revenues to increase their salary."

"Yes, dear Emusia, I regret Jacob. Unfortunately, he has a mother who
is an impossible Jewess."

"If I willed it, nevertheless, I could make him leave father, mother,
and religion. I am sure I could overcome him; but I do not care to make
any more efforts in that direction. Jacob is not congenial to me. My
favourite, you know, is Henri."

"You always force me to repeat that he is married."

"The obstacle is Mathilde. She will soon die, and Henri would marry me
immediately."

"The grapes are too green."

"We will see, and as a last resort I have always Sofronof."

Some days after the arrival of Jacob's mother Henri Segel said to his
father-in-law:--

"This Jacob is intractable. He will never be a society man.
Presumptuous and obstinate, he refuses to see the world as it is. His
head is full of fantasies from the Talmud, of dreams of reform, strange
ideas of fraternal union. He is for Poland, and at the same time
against the revolution. He refuses to enter into relations with the
most important persons. He keeps to himself and is a real savage;
useless to the world, yet not deprived of intelligence. But he is of no
use to us."

"He always reminds me of the beggary from which I took him," said
Samuel. "He seems to be proud of it."

"It is too bad; with his large acquaintance he could have been of great
service to us. He has good manners and a sympathetic character. No one
would ever take him for a Jew, if he did not foolishly avow his origin
on every occasion. He is compromising in society. Men of his calibre
are destined to an evil end, and he makes himself disagreeable to all.
He must be blind, to act so much against his own interests."

"Have you heard about his mother?"

"Not yet."

"Imagine, then, a Jewess of the lowest rank suddenly appearing at his
house. He has welcomed her, and made much of her, and walked with her
on the public streets. He would have brought her to me, if I had not
begged him to spare me this ridicule."

"The same danger threatens me, I fear, and he is capable of choosing
the very day when I have the best society of Warsaw in my _salon_. This
eccentric has turned Mathilde's head. She will suffer no one to
ridicule him, and looks on him as a saint."

"They have indulged in a Platonic romance since their childhood; but I
will give you the means of breaking the charm which enchains my
daughter's spirit. Behold! he whom she takes for a saint pays his
tribute to frail humanity."

"How? I have never heard any scandal about Jacob."

"He has concealed it well; but I have a good detective who has told me
that this sage, learned in the books of Solomon, follows the footsteps
of that voluptuous monarch. Only they are not beautiful Midianites with
whom he shares his wealth. He has succumbed to a pure-blooded Jewess."

"Tell me about it, I beg of you."

"Well, you know that I like to look about me a little everywhere.
Sometimes I profit by it, and it always amuses me. Sometimes in one
direction, sometimes another, I have bloodhounds that I chat with. Of
late, that old man with a red nose, whom they call Trompette, has spied
about for me. One day I was occupied; he insisted on seeing me, and
came in with a mysterious air as if he had a state secret. He told me
that Monsieur Jacob,--you will never guess,--the pious Jacob, had a
mistress. She is a Jewess, whose father is very rich. The romance has
lasted a long time, for the result is a child, on account of which she
has been turned from her father's house."

"Well, well!" cried Henri. "Why, it is impossible!"

"At first he hid her with the greatest mystery in a little old house in
the _rue des Jardins_. Now he has established her, still secretly, in a
much more comfortable place in Saint George's street. He often goes
there in the evening. I know it to be so, and I am told that the girl
is pretty, graceful, and modest."

"How does he reconcile this proceeding with his principles?" asked
Henri. "Really, I am surprised."

Samuel laughed heartily, and added:--

"Yes; Jacob has concealed this intrigue well; but some day I'll tease
him about it. That will be great fun."

"I can hardly believe it yet," said Henri.

"There is no doubt whatever, I assure you. Jacob supports a pretty
girl, and she lacks nothing. If you think it is for love of humanity
and chastity, explain his motive."

"He is, then, a Don Juan disguised as an anchorite. It is a side of his
character that I have never suspected. I never dreamed of it."

"Do you wish to be convinced with your own eyes? Here is the address,
go and see for yourself; you are one of the family, and you might take
a little trouble about it. The thing ought to be cleared up. You will
not fail, with a little pains, to surprise the gay Lothario _in
flagrante delicti_. After that he will not talk so much about the
saints and holy writ. At heart he is no better than the rest of us."

"Alas, poor Jacob, where is your character now! Do you know how this
original romance commenced?"

"It is a secret that you will discover, no doubt. I can only say one
thing, that it is a secret no longer."

"But it is such a short time since he returned, that the connection
must have begun abroad. Who knows where? Perhaps at the baths."

Henri Segel, seemingly absorbed in thought, went in the early evening
to see Muse. This was for him the privileged hour for a charming
interview, when no one ventured to disturb them, not even Sofronof. She
had so well arranged her time that her favourites never ran the risk of
meeting each other. The early part of the evening was given to Henri,
who could then at his ease chat and joke with the siren and kiss her
lovely hands. Segel was so preoccupied that the young lady noticed it.

"What has come over you?" asked she. "Why are you so quiet? Have you
lost at the Bourse, or has your dancer left you for the epaulets?"

"How cruel you are, dear mademoiselle, to think that such selfish
preoccupations should cloud my brow."

"I think that you are a sensible and practical man, that is all."

"Well, this time you deceive yourself. That which troubles me is the
downfall of a man whom"--

"The fall of a man? That is curious."

"Very curious."

"Do I know the man?"

"Very well. He is one of your friends."

"Speak, then! Why distil your story drop by drop?"

"It is Jacob."

"A fall! His mother's visit, then?"

"No; better than that."

"What, then?"

"An original adventure, a strange story. Jacob, our saint, our
immaculate Jacob, has a mistress by whom he has a child."

"Pure calumny!" said Muse.

"At first I thought so too; but, alas! it is a fact; there is good
proof."

"This will destroy his character."

"Simple truth that all men are fallible," said Henri.

"I am dying to know the details!" cried Muse. "Is she young, pretty,
blond or brunette, poor or rich, well educated?"

"She is only a little Jewess, daughter of a merchant, but young and
very pretty."

"When did this intrigue commence?"

"I am ignorant of the circumstances. It was my father-in-law, whom
nothing escapes, who discovered it. At first I did not believe it, but
he soon convinced me. The girl lived in the _rue des Jardins_ for a
while, now in Saint George's street."

"And this offspring of which you spoke?"

"Did you not understand me?"

Muse smiled and did not repeat her question, she only added:--

"He played so well the role of chaste Joseph that no one would have
suspected him of this."

"Humbug! His character now appears to me in a new light. I must
commence to study him again; until now I was all astray."

"I," replied Muse, "was convinced that he was ice toward women. At last
I see that he is vulnerable." She was so impatient to repeat this
scandal to her mother that she dismissed Henri.

"At present," said she, after finishing her story, "this man seems to
me more inexplicable than ever. A common girl succeeds where I have
failed."

"He loves; that explains all," said her mother.

"He loves! That is no reason; it is no excuse. I am furious, now that I
see that his coldness was only assumed so as not to marry me."

Colonel Sofronof paid dear for Muse's vexation. She deprived him of
little bits of news that she had been in the habit of giving him, and
in order to irritate him displayed some patriotic songs. However, he
did not get angry, but only smiled, and said:--

"You are not feeling well to-night."

The calumny spread rapidly. Henri arrived home in good humour. Not
finding visitors, he resigned himself to tea with his wife. After tea
the Englishwoman read in one corner, Mathilde in another; finally Segel
broke the prolonged silence.

"Have you seen Jacob lately?" asked he.

"No; he has not been here for some time."

"Without doubt his mother's society"--

"Yes, he told me of her arrival," said Mathilde.

"Has he ever spoken of any one else?"

"Of whom, then?"

"Bah! It is useless to tell you. It is not worth while to destroy your
illusions. You have an affection for Jacob; let it rest."

The least curious of women have still a little touch of curiosity,
especially in regard to the man they love. Mathilde became uneasy.

"I am sure," said she with agitation, "that Jacob has done nothing to
destroy the good opinion that I have of him."

"If you are sure, so much the better."

"Do not torment me thus. As you have commenced, tell me all."

"Why should you take this lively interest in Jacob," said Henri
smiling.

"I love him as a brother; I have never concealed it. We were brought up
together."

"Well, this Jacob has committed no crime. He simply possesses a
mistress whom he conceals from public view." Then he repeated cynically
all he had heard, with a malicious irony.

"If you do not believe me," added he, "ask your father. He is the one
that discovered the secret."

During this narration Mathilde had grown red and pale, and listened
with bowed head, trembling nervously. Suddenly she raised her head and
said boldly:--

"It is a lie! I believe neither you nor my father. It is an unworthy
calumny."

"And why do you say that?"

"Because it is not possible."

With these words, instead of going to the piano as usual, she went and
shut herself up in her room, where she could give free vent to her
tears. Until then she had been so proud of the man whom she had made
her ideal. Her idol was overthrown from his pedestal and was reduced to
the level of ordinary men.

Then she said to herself:--

"No, it cannot be possible." An inner voice replied: "They are all
built on the same model. The whole world is corrupt."

Life now appeared so empty, so sombre, so odious to her that she would
gladly have died. The next day when she seated herself at the table,
her face bore traces of the great suffering she had endured. She was
very pale, and her features were drawn and pinched. She replied
indifferently to her husband's questions, and pleading a violent
headache, hastened again to her chamber. She wished to be alone with
her sorrow.




                             CHAPTER XXIII.

                           RUSSIAN POLITICS.


Russian tyranny increased the number of the revolutionists, for often a
cause which has at the outset few adherents rapidly develops when blood
has been shed.

Jacob, who had been opposed to those who incited the country to a
revolution, modified his sentiments in its favour when the government
displayed bayonets and erected scaffolds.

At the head of the saviours of Poland by terrorism was the Grand Duke
Constantine, brother of Alexander II., and the Marquis Wielopolski.
These two would probably have adopted another system if Petersburg had
not forced them to employ the traditional remedies of cruelty and
tyranny, banishment, the penalty of death, Siberia, and penal
servitude.

Jacob did not protest against resistance to arbitrary enlistment
accomplished in the most outrageous manner. From the Polish nation,
wounded in its dignity, rose on all sides the cry of revolt. "Rather
death than be slaves, kissing under the knout the hand of our
executioners!"

Jacob was willing to do anything he could, but his former prudence had
alienated him from the revolutionary party. So he employed himself in
publishing a Jewish journal in the Polish language, in which he
continued to maintain his ideas of Jewish reform; but for such a
propaganda the moment was not opportune. New troubles also awaited him.
His articles, written in elegant style with warm conviction, attained
recognition from his co-religionists only on their literary merit. To
some it was superstition, to others fanaticism, and so he remained
alone in politics as well as religion. He was too much Jew or too
little Jew, too patriotic or not patriotic enough. The society of his
mother was a great consolation to him at this time. He had installed
her in his apartments, and often walked out with her, and his filial
devotion had put him under the ban of the wealthy Jewish society. He
was avoided by all. He perceived it, and renounced all relations with
these narrow-minded men. He even ceased to go to Segel's on account of
Henri's coldness. Mathilde gave another explanation to this voluntary
ostracism; in it she saw confirmation of the rumours she had heard. The
poor girl suffered greatly.

One evening Jacob was tempted to visit the Wtorkowska's, hoping to meet
Mathilde. In the midst of an assembly composed almost exclusively of
Russians appeared a new-comer, the Count Bavorof, counsellor of state.
He was scarcely thirty years old, and was said to be a great favourite
of the Grand Duke Constantine, and above all he was a bachelor.
Naturally, Muse wished to count him among the number of her adorers,
and had already tried on him the irresistible combination of beauty
joined to wit.

Jacob approached Mathilde, who was seated at one side, alone. Her
deadly pallor shocked him.

"Are you suffering?" asked he, in a low voice.

The young woman threw on him a glance of profound compassion, and
replied:--

"No. I feel no worse to-day than usual."

"I have not seen you for a long time," said Jacob.

"That is true."

"It is my fault; but I cannot impose myself on men who repulse me."

"Rather, is it not you who repulse them?"

The remark sounded like a reproach.

"How? I? They avoid me because my dear old mother, who is endowed with
many excellent qualities, is not an elegant and fashionable woman. Is
that any reason why I should not love her and cherish her? The
ridiculous snobbishness of my so-called friends will not regulate my
conduct."

"Is it your mother alone that keeps you from us? Perhaps there is
another person who absorbs your time?"

Jacob opened his eyes, astonished. There was something in his look so
open and reassuring, that she felt shaken in her conviction. She
blushed, and was too embarrassed to prolong the conversation, so she
rose and went to sit near Muse. She took her leave soon, bowing to
Jacob from a distance.

The latter was downcast. He sought in vain the key to this enigma. He
understood that some one had calumniated him to his beloved, but who or
what it was he could not imagine.

In the _salon_ the conversation was animated. Colonel Sofronof, Count
Bavorof, Muse, and the Counsellor Pikulinski made most of the noise.
The recent recruiting, from which had burst out the first revolutionary
spark, was the subject of the discussion. Sofronof did not approve of
the measure, and commenced to question the genius of the Marquis
Wielopolski. The Count Bavorof, with his ideas fresh from Moscow, told
of the atrocious repressions, since perfected and adopted with so much
cruelty, which the journalist, Katkof, was disposed to raise to the
height of a system.

The Counsellor Pikulinski was one of those counsellors from whom no one
expects the least counsel. He was an absolute nonentity. The sole
thought which predominated in his poorly developed brain was the
perpetual fear of compromising himself. Like a doll that always squeaks
alike when it is struck in the stomach, at each instant he repeated the
word "yes," with an approving nod of the head.

It mattered little to Pikulinski if the "yes" accorded to one person
contradicted the "yes" offered to another. The essential thing with him
was not to oppose superior authority or its representatives. Thanks to
this invariable line of conduct, he had made a splendid career in the
bureaucratic hierarchy. Decorated with the cordon of Saint Stanislas,
the cross of Saint Waldimir, he enjoyed the entire confidence of the
government as a reward of twenty-five years of faithful service.

Despite his intrinsic nullity he displayed an enormous activity.
Official presentations, manifestations of devotion, addresses of
submission to the government, subscriptions of command, deputations,
wherever he could make himself conspicuous, Pikulinski appeared.

A kind-hearted man, he knew how to render himself agreeable to the old
dignitaries and to the venerable dowagers, and it was natural that he
should expect still further promotion in his civil career. The title of
senator and the order of the White Eagle could not escape him; it was
only a question of time. At each new favour from the government
Pikulinski was profoundly touched. He quickly put on his full-dress
uniform covered with decorations, and hastened to present himself at
the chateau, in order to return his humble thanks. He always returned
from these interviews puffed up with pride at the flattering words of
his chiefs.

"If every one," thought he, "would imitate my example, how many evils
might be averted. Unfortunately, most of my Polish compatriots are
wanting in tact and have little policy."

In Madame Wtorkowska's _salon_ he took no active part in the
conversation, but contented himself by throwing in here and there a
"yes" which was only varied by the inflexion.

"Russia," said Bavorof, "can say that she will act independently with
more justice than Italy. She will carefully refrain from an alliance
with perfidious Austria and feudal Prussia. Young and vigorous, she is
strong enough to make head against the whole Occident united."

"Yes," immediately assented Pikulinski.

"It would be wiser to avoid the conflict," said Sofronof.

"Yes," said the counsellor of state feebly.

"For my part," said Jacob, "I think it would be a sensible thing for
her not to engage in so formidable a combat."

"And why, then?" demanded Bavorof.

At this question Pikulinski accidentally let fall a "yes," which he
tried to smother by coughing.

"Poland," replied Jacob, "claims only the liberties guaranteed by
legitimate treaties of the past. It would be much better to give them
to her, than to reply by terrorism and false claims."

The counsellor of state could scarcely suppress a "yes," which was on
the point of coming out; then he feared that he had compromised himself
by merely assisting at this conversation; he was taken with pains in
the stomach, and took refuge in another part of the room.

"You are putting yourself in a bad light, monsieur," replied the count.
"We do not recognize any rights whatever on the part of Poland nor the
Poles, not even the inherent rights of men. Our first duty is to
repress this revolutionary tendency. Our strength sustains us; it is by
this that we live. Our sole means of existence are our swords."

"To say that Russia's only power is brute force," replied Jacob, "is to
avow her moral weakness."

"Until the present the empire has had no other foundation than force,
described by you as brutal. That may change, perhaps; but in the
meanwhile I repeat to you our gospel is the sword."

The count's cynicism shocked the colonel, who was more diplomatic.

"Monsieur le Comte," said he, "I cannot entirely agree with you. There
are certain hereditary rights which should be superior to force."

Pikulinski almost let fall a "yes," but judged it prudent to await a
better occasion.

"Passive obedience," continued Jacob, addressing the count, "seems to
be your principal axiom."

"Yes, for it is a national axiom, powerful as a religious dogma. Add to
that, money, official position, decorations, titles of nobility, and
all advantages which the government can give"--

"Then you speculate on human weaknesses, cupidity, vanity, ambition?"

"You have said it. All the science of statesmen worthy of the name is
summed up in working men through their vices. To speculate on virtue is
only a dream, a childish illusion. Why? Because in humanity vice always
predominates over virtue."

Muse, who practised after her own fashion the maxims of Bavorof,
believed, nevertheless, that it would look better for one of her sex to
appear shocked, and cried:--

"Oh, Monsieur le Comte, your ideas are really shocking."

"Pardon me, mademoiselle, they were not said for your charming ears."

Pikulinski let fall a loud "yes," being sure that he could not
compromise himself this time.

"You know, however," replied Muse, "that just now most of our women are
mixed up in politics. We are accustomed to hear everything, and our
influence is widespread."

"It is a misfortune. It does not well become your white hands to stir
up the filth of life, nor to penetrate, elegant and perfumed, into the
laboratory where are prepared the drugs for the maladies of humanity."

Pikulinski thought this remark merited a repeated "yes, yes."

"You think, then," asked Jacob, "that morals should have no part in the
government of nations?"

"Morals! There is no sense in the word. Politics exclude morals."

"If that is your profession of faith, all discussion is impossible
between us. I believe in morality, always and everywhere, and every
time that an injury is done to it I call on the justice of God."

"God! Justice! You believe in that? Are you a Catholic?"

"No; I am a Jew."

Bavorof had never met a Jew of this stamp. He looked at him in
astonishment, and asked:--

"German Jew?"

"No; Polish."

"Does Poland contain many Jews who think and reason like you?"

"I do not understand the question."

"I mean no offence. I wish to know if there are in Poland many
Israelites who are polished and educated."

"There are many better educated and more polished than I."

"Then so much the better. You can exercise a happy influence over the
people in curing them of their patriotism without a future, and of
their superannuated Catholicism. Eliminate the feudal spirit and that
of the nobility, and with these new conditions will come the fusion
between Russia and Poland."

"The Jews who are preserved, thanks to their religious faith, cannot
employ themselves by tearing out the hearts of others."

"I have, then, the pleasure of talking with a revolutionist."

"Not at all. Though there are circumstances when men who were most
opposed to revolution have taken part in them, in spite of themselves."

"Pardon me," said Sofronof, interrupting him. "The truth is that Poland
will never be satisfied. Give her autonomy. She would soon demand the
annexation of the provinces included in Russia, Prussia, and Austria.
Give them all that, and they would claim the ports on the Baltic and on
the Black sea."

"One thing certain," replied Jacob, "is that Russia never yet has tried
to satisfy Poland in any way."

"And Alexander I.?" asked Bavorof.

"Alexander I. promised much and performed little, and that little he
has taken back again by the hand of his brother, the Tsarevitch
Constantine."

At these words Pikulinski was thoroughly frightened; he was afraid to
breathe even the same air with this audacious man. He thought of
pretending to have the nose-bleed for a pretext to leave suddenly.
However, he remained.

"And Russia did wrong to promise and make those concessions," replied
Bavorof. "Since 1815 it has been necessary to uproot and overthrow
Polonism and Catholicism. They must be replaced by the Russian spirit
and the orthodox Greek church."

"But, Monsieur le Comte, did you not just avow that Russia's power is
in her material force? In that case, what is the Russian spirit, and
how shall she inspire others with a spirit which is actually
incompatible with strength?"

"The contradiction is not so apparent. Our spirit is to destroy all
those who do not think with us. We were wrong to deceive Poland with
fallacious promises; between us it is a battle to the death. Her
annihilation is our end, and always has been."

"And what will come out of the ruins?"

"An enormous Russia, a Russia semi-civilized,--paleoslav, democratic,
and social, with a Czar at the head. A republic, if you will,
_democ-soc_, as they said in 1848, with a hereditary president clothed
with dictatorial authority, and to the eyes of the ignorant masses of a
sacred and divine character. I am a noble; but to tell the truth, in
Russia nobility does not exist. It never has existed, and never will.
All Russians are equally under the knout."

This expression of the republic, _democ-soc_, even in the mouth of
Bavorof, sounded so badly to the ears of Pikulinski, that this time he
suppressed the "yes," and, under pretext of the nose-bleed that he had
in reserve, hid his face in his handkerchief.

Jacob, after taking the tour of the _salon_ two or three times, took
his leave.

"Who is this man?" asked the count. "Is he really a Jew?"

"Yes," replied Muse; "and there are many Israelites here who are as
well educated."

"And have they the same ideas?"

"Not by any means," replied Sofronof, who had some acquaintance with
Jewish society. "This man is an exception. He is an idealist, a
dreamer, a reformer. An original, he walks alone."

"A dangerous man," muttered Bavorof. "He is obstinate, no doubt, like
all men with convictions, imbued with a fervent mysticism and plunged
in the clouds of spirituality. He sets up a standard of morals and
right that takes with weak-minded people everywhere; above all, the
women. If he were a Catholic I would have arrested him and banished him
without further ceremony; but he is only a Jew, so we can have a little
patience."

"At Warsaw," said Muse, "the Israelites play a grand role. It is
difficult to distinguish them from the rest of society at first sight."

"But from what I have heard they are not friends with the feudalists."

"It is not so; they are reconciled."

"That is a pity. Then we must sow discord among them. Divide and
conquer is one of our maxims."

"You are a strange politician, dear count," said Sofronof; "you think
aloud."

"Like a celebrated minister. To-day it is the best way to deceive the
world. Men are always disposed to attribute to you ideas contrary to
those which you loudly proclaim."

Pikulinski confirmed this sentence with two loud "yeses," and went away
wondering if he could in any way have compromised himself.

One day, soon after, Bavorof said to Sofronof:--

"I recommend you, colonel, to warn the police not to lose sight of this
Jew, Jacob. He displeases me. He sees through our plots. There are only
two alternatives: to oblige him to serve us, or to send him to Penza."

"What good would that do? His is an open nature, from which we have
nothing to fear. He is wrapped up in the Talmud and his innocent mania
of playing the prophet."

"As for me, I despise his prophecy. Is he rich?"

"Very rich."

"So much the worse. Ambitious?"

"Not the least in the world."

"Still worse. Is he a coward?"

"I do not think so."

"In that case to Penza! To Penza!"

"But he is not a revolutionist."

"That is still worse. Sooner or later a revolutionist will change his
skin. A revolutionist can be dealt with; but a liberal, a legalist, a
moralist, who believes in men's rights, this is a dangerous animal.
Give me individuals like Pikulinski, malleable to our will, and I will
place them in the centre of our social organism. We can control them,
and, with the rabble at our feet, all will go smoothly. Hurrah!"




                             CHAPTER XXIV.

                              THE SEDUCER.


Jacob was absorbed in the study of the works of Maimonides, when his
servant brought him a visiting-card.

This servant had replaced him who had so rudely received his master's
mother, and who, on account of her, had left Jacob's service, with
tears in his eyes, but too proud to serve a country-woman in Jewish
costume.

The visiting-card bore a name engraved indistinctly. Without
deciphering the name, Jacob received his visitor. He frowned when he
recognized David Seebach the younger, the seducer of Lia. He was
dressed richly, but in bad taste, with a cane in his hand, an eye-glass
at his eye, and a smile on his lips. Jacob received him coldly, and,
with a wave of the hand, indicated a chair. David seated himself, put
the end of his cane in his mouth, adjusted his eye-glass, and spoke in
a low voice:--

"My presence at your house is perhaps a surprise, for you gained, I
fear, a bad impression of us on our last interview. We were very sorry,
my father and I, not to have been able to conceal that unfortunate
exile for you, but"--

"I do not blame you for that. Every one has a right to act as he
pleases."

"Since then I have thought it over, and I admit that I was in the
wrong. Your reasoning was just at all points. We must follow the
current; we must side with Poland. My father and I, however, do not
think alike, on account of his former relations. He remains in the
Russian camp, while I take the side of the Poles. Thus we are safe in
any case."

"As you please," said Jacob, in an indifferent tone.

"You are on their side, are you not?" asked David.

"I am for Poland, but I am not a revolutionist."

"As for myself, I have made the acquaintance of the principal
agitators. I attend all the meetings, and I will aid the
revolutionists, for there is money to be made by so doing. As a measure
of precaution I have put all my property in a safe place across the
frontier, so that in case I am taken the Russians can get nothing, and
my father can save me from the hands of the police through the
protection of the high functionaries with whom he is in favour. The
patriots will need capital to procure arms at the Austrian frontier. I
will accommodate them, and the profits will be worth running a little
risk."

"Excuse me," interrupted Jacob. "I do not wish to meddle in such
business."

"How is that? Have you not said that you sympathize with Poland, and
did you not reproach us for being opposed to it?"

"Listen to me, my good David. If I am Polish, it is not from love of
lucre, not for fear, but from conviction."

"I am equally patriotic at heart," said David. "I sing the recent hymns
which ask God to manifest his power against the secular enemy. I
believed that you would aid me to conduct my business to a successful
termination; for to speak frankly, as I am a new convert the patriots
have not yet entire confidence in me. Your recommendation would have
weight, and you can share the profits."

At these words Jacob rang, and the servant appeared immediately.

"You see this gentleman," said the master. "Look at him well so as to
recognize him."

"Monsieur, I will remember him."

"Very well. If he ever presents himself here again you will not admit
him."

David arose, frightened and furious.

"Be careful how you treat me, my dear Jacob," said he, as he left. "I
have your life in my hands, and I will be revenged."

After this scene Jacob's brow was bathed in a cold sweat, and he fell
on a couch nearly prostrated. He was aroused by the arrival of Lia's
servant, who said that her mistress begged him to come immediately to
St. George's street. He called a carriage and hastened to the dwelling
of David's victim.

Near the house he perceived a veiled woman, who seemed agitated on
seeing him, and leaned against the wall as if faint. Then she rapidly
disappeared around the corner. Something about this woman reminded him
of Mathilde.

What if it was she!

This thought could be imaginary only, and Jacob did not entertain it
for a moment. Lia, all in tears, ran to meet him for whom she had
waited impatiently.

"Oh!" cried she, "that wretch has been here; he has dared to look at my
child. Save me from him! He has threatened to return. I will not see
him. I do not know him."

"Be quiet. You have nothing to fear. Did he tell you why he came?
Perhaps he is divorced from his wife, and he wishes to marry you."

"Then I will refuse; but he cannot give his wife the Ghet, for he knows
not where she is. And as for me, I have taken an Issar. I have sworn
never to marry the man who caused the tears of my father and my
mother."

Wrath and contempt gave to Lia's face a wonderful beauty. She
continued:--

"May my child be among the Asufim, the Piggum, and the Schetukim,
rather than bear the name of his miserable father!"

Jacob made vain efforts to calm her, and said:--

"I do not approve of your Issar. The child needs a father, and the
marriage would justify you in your parents' eyes."

All at once they heard David's voice in the antechamber. Lia snatched
her child from its cradle and fled to another room, and Jacob was left
alone. The door opened violently and the seducer rushed into the room,
his face purple with rage. He was stupefied to find in Lia's visitor
one whom he had not expected to meet again so soon. After a moment's
silence his anger returned, and with drawn sword he rushed on his
enemy, but his coolness and the heavy cane which Jacob presented kept
him at a distance. He lowered his arm and muttered some unintelligible
words.

"Why do you come here?" asked Jacob, with a firm voice.

"And you?"

"I am here at the request of Lia's father, with all the rights of a
guardian."

"And I come to see my child."

"Neither the mother nor the child belong to you. Have you given them
your name? Have you shielded them from shame, misery, and malediction?"

"I intend to divorce my wife and marry Lia. I must speak with her. Why
do you hinder me?"

"I consent that she sees you in my presence, if she wish. Otherwise,
no."

"She ought to be willing, for I hold her fate in my hands."

He had hardly ceased speaking when Lia opened the door and entered, her
features convulsed with aversion and contempt. She was superb in her
scorn, and David trembled as he regarded her. She hesitated an instant,
then cried;--

"Between you and me there is no longer anything in common. I declare,
before this witness, that I will never be your wife, and I forbid you
to call yourself my child's father. May my tears, my sobs, my
sufferings, my sleepless nights, and the disgrace that I have brought
to my family bring down upon your head divine wrath! May you be
tortured by demons, and may Dumah invent for you new torments!"

In the midst of these imprecations her eyes became suddenly fixed in
her head. Her arm appeared paralyzed and her legs sank under her; a
froth came from her mouth, and with a convulsive laugh and piercing
cries she fell senseless.

David fled from the house, his face covered with his hands. The maid
ran for a physician, who, on his arrival, said that it was not an
ordinary fainting, but a dangerous attack of apoplexy. All remedies
used in such cases were employed, but the stricken one did not regain
consciousness until toward evening, when she heard her child cry. She
extended her arms to him, but her strength failed anew. Jacob watched
by her bedside until daybreak.




                               CHAPTER XXV.

                           BETWEEN TWO FIRES.


Overcome with lassitude, Jacob, after returning home, threw himself on
a couch, and was just going to sleep when the voice of Ivas awakened
him. The young man, despite the efforts of the servant to bar the
passage at such an early hour, had forced his way into Jacob's room. He
wore a heavy hunting-coat, and carried on his shoulders a haversack.
Heavy boots completed his costume, and his bearing expressed ardour and
energy.

"We are to-day," commenced he without preamble, "in opposite camps. But
I have not forgotten that I owe my return to Poland to you, and
probably my life also, for your helping hand drew me from the deepest
misery. I come to thank you for the last time, and to bid you an
eternal adieu."

"Why that?"

"To-day I go directly to the forest. Our insurrection may last some
days, and it may last for years. We shall march, armed with batons,
against the regular troops. The forests will serve us for camp,
fortress, and arsenal. We shall march, scoffed at by some and cursed by
others, and accompanied by the tears of the women who love us and whom
we love. We will advance with despair in our souls, ever forward!"

"Why are you so hopeless?"

"Because the young men who had confidence in us have been torn from us,
and compelled to put on the uniform of the Muscovite soldier. We must
save them or die! You see I have no illusions. I know that I risk my
life, and that perhaps in the future we may be accused of presumption,
of folly, of puerile enthusiasm. No matter. National honour commands
it, and I obey. For the last time, Jacob, I who am so near death adjure
you not to be a traitor to your country, not to work against us."

"Who has dared to accuse me of treason?" cried Jacob.

"This accusation has been circulated. Perhaps they wish to make a
striking example. I will no longer be there to defend you, and you will
fall a victim to your own obstinacy."

"Why I, rather than another? Have I ever made you any promises that I
have not kept?"

"You have enemies, and very dangerous ones. They accuse you of secret
relations with the Russians, here on the first floor, at the rooms of
your betrothed."

"My betrothed! I have none. She of whom you speak will never be
anything to me."

"But you go there, and you also go to Henri Segel's, who is in very bad
odour with us. You openly speak against us; and, lastly, you refused to
pay that money to us."

Jacob smiled sadly.

"Singular destiny," said he. "I have enemies, and many of them; I, who
am no man's enemy. But you, Ivas, you do not mistrust me?"

"No, I honour your character; I esteem you; I have defended you, and I
will continue to do so; but the great majority of my companions think
otherwise."

"Let us talk no more of me. I am prepared for the worst. But tell me,
is it not possible to delay the insurrection?"

"It is impossible, and in my turn I also ask you to speak of something
else."

He was just going, when Kruder, all out of breath, rushed into the
apartment.

"Ah! you are here," said he to Ivas; "at last I have found you. I see
by your accoutrements that you are off. It is too soon, too soon, do
you hear? In Heaven's name do not act prematurely and unreflectingly."

"I suppose you would advise us to wait until the Russians seize us?"

"You will all perish if you commence now."

"So be it. At least our blood will be prolific."

"Listen to the voice of reason."

"We prefer to listen to that of despair. Have you witnessed any of the
scenes provoked by the nocturnal recruiting, when our men have been
seized and forced into the Russian army? Have you heard the prayers of
the young men torn from their mothers' arms? Do you know what it is to
be a Russian soldier?"

"I know all; but this is a supreme moment, and your action will involve
the salvation or the loss of the country. Your passion is only a heroic
egotism. Once more I call you to reason."

"Say no more, Kruder. Folly is our reason, our watchword. And now,
farewell, Jacob."

Ivas and Kruder left at the same time, and Mann, who had just arrived,
met them in the antechamber. He was struck with the appearance of the
two men. The younger man's dress shocked him. It had been for some days
the sign of suspected revolutionists.

He sank down in an arm-chair, while Jacob, surprised in the midst of
his toilet, dressed himself.

"I come," said he, "as your guardian's friend and your well-wisher,
although I know you dislike me, to give you a salutary warning. It is
useless for you to try to deceive me, or to resort to falsehoods."

"I never lie, either to you or to any one else. Learn this, monsieur;
it is true that I do not see the necessity of boasting to every one,
but I never say anything I do not mean."

"If that is so, perhaps we can come to an understanding. I will show
you my hand. You are, without flattery, a prominent figure in Jewish
society; your education and your fortune assure you an enviable
position. That is why you are not absolute master of your acts, of
which the responsibility belongs to the class you represent. In
compromising yourself, you compromise us. The government watches men of
your stamp, and we are judged by your conduct. Every one is talking of
your discussion at Madame Wtorkowska's with Count Bavorof and Colonel
Sofronof. Pikulinski has spread it in the city. And what did those two
men want that just left here? Evidently you are being induced to take
part with the revolutionists. What folly! If it only endangered
yourself it would not matter so much, but it can injure us who belong
to the same society as you."

"Is that all?" asked Jacob impatiently.

"It is enough, I think. What was the tenor of your conversation with
Bavorof, the remembrance of which has made Pikulinski's very hair stand
on end?"

"Do you know the counsellor of state?"

"Certainly! He is an ass in every sense of the word."

"And you take notice of his judgment?"

"Because Bavorof, also, thinks you a dangerous man. And this young man
in revolutionary costume, with his great boots, what was he doing here?
A conspirator, probably."

"You are mistaken. He came to warn me to be on my guard, for I am
threatened with death from his party. You see how that agrees with your
accusation."

"That proves that you lack tact. You are, then, suspected by both
parties."

"It is often the fate of a conscientious man to bring upon himself the
condemnation of all, because he tells the bitter truth to both without
shrinking under their threats or trying to gain favours. I am one of
those men who act according to their convictions, and I will not
abandon them to please you." Then he added in Hebrew:--

"'Happy he who dies as he was born, pure and without stain.'" (Baba
Mezzia, 107. a.)

Mann threw upon him a look of ironical compassion that might be
literally translated: A fool you have lived, a fool you will die.

"Really," said he, "there is nothing to be done with a man who quotes
the Talmud when one is talking business. You wish, then, to be
incarcerated in the citadel? And we shall suffer more or less from
having been intimate with you. That is the worst of it."

"What can I do?"

"You say that you are not a revolutionist?"

"Truly, I am not."

"Very well, take sides with those who oppose the revolution."

"But they are not content with fighting them legally. They add to it
arbitrary terrorism," said Jacob.

"Of two evils choose the lesser."

"Yes; the evil is in the two extremes, or rather the two extremes meet
and form one evil. Despotism above, despotism below. I will serve
neither the one nor the other. I am between the two."

"I congratulate you on the excellent means you have taken to ruin
yourself. I am really sorry for you. The best thing for you in your
frame of mind is to depart for foreign lands."

"You would advise me, then, to desert, when my duty orders me, in this
difficult crisis which has overtaken Poland, to remain and do what I
can for truth and justice. If I embarrass you," added he laughing, "you
can blow out my brains for the public good."

"Unfortunately that is not practicable. We should be implicated in an
assassination. Well, if you will not go away, at least shut yourself
up, and do not go on the streets."

"Then they will say that I am a conspirator."

"Meet only Russians."

"I will irritate them by my remarks."

"Be silent, then."

"I must speak."

"May Dumah and a million devils catch you at last!" cried Mann, rushing
toward the door. "Farewell!"




                             CHAPTER XXVI.

                          THE RECONCILIATION.


It was a sad day for Jacob, for many reasons. His friend had left him
for almost certain death. A rude person had come to weary him with
reproaches and complaints, and then followed a message from Saint
George's street to hasten, as the invalid was in the last extremity.
When he arrived, she was no longer of this world. Lia had breathed her
last.

There remained the orphan: what should he do with him? To whom confide
him? Jacob thought of his mother at first; the good woman blushed; she
attributed the parentage to Jacob, and in order to satisfy her
scruples, he was obliged to relate to her the whole sad history.

"I believe you," said she; "but will others believe it? Seeing the
child under your protection, what calumnies, think you, will be
circulated?"

"Is it necessary, then, that I leave this poor innocent to hirelings?
And ought I to refuse to do my duty for fear of unjust criticism?"

"The child will never again find a mother, but I will place him in good
hands. I will not hinder you from doing a good action, but I will save
you from the blame which might attach to your good name. You may leave
it to me," said his mother.

In his present mood, Jacob felt instinctively drawn toward Mathilde,
and late in the evening he directed his steps to her house. The
servants, accustomed to see him enter unannounced, opened the doors of
the _salon_. He waited there for some time, looking at the closed
piano, the stiffly-arranged furniture, and the withered flowers in the
vases. Everything bore that air of desolation found in houses that have
been closed for some time.

Clad in a long, trained peignoir, Mathilde appeared, gliding like a
shadow, with slow and measured steps. She was very much changed since
he last saw her. Her eyes shone with a feverish fire, and her cheeks
were sunken. Her former soft lassitude had become a torpor. She offered
him a cold, trembling hand. Jacob understood by this reception that
here as elsewhere he had been slandered; but, happily, he was one of
those characters whose clear conscience fortify them against all
contumely.

"Have I come at an inopportune moment?" said he. "In that case, I will
go."

"No. You could not arrive more opportunely. I was anxious to see you,
monsieur."

"You are ill."

"Not the least in the world."

"Well, Mathilde, so many unfortunate things have happened to me lately,
that I come to you to comfort my tortured heart."

"Your heart? It is in the Old Testament."

"I do not understand you. Do you doubt me?"

"Ah! I do not know. This doubt is killing me. I wish to know all the
worst; then I can die. You used to be frank and sincere. Why do you
deceive me now, like the others?"

"This is too much, Mathilde," said Jacob.

"Oh! I have proofs of your deceit," cried she. "Would it not be better
to confide in me as a sister, and say, 'I love another, I am tired of
contact with a corpse. I wish a living creature? I would have answered
you thus: 'Go, be happy!' In losing you I would at least have kept my
respect for you."

"Why do you not respect me now?"

"What! you dare to deny it?"

"Mathilde," replied Jacob gravely, "I assure you I have done nothing to
merit these reproaches. I have never been guilty of forgetting you."

"How explain, then, your mysterious adventure; that woman, who is she?"

"You shall hear the truth," said Jacob. "Listen!" He then related the
dark drama of which Lia was the heroine, not omitting the scene of the
previous evening and the morning's death. The poor girl's fate made
Mathilde weep, but at the same time she felt proud and happy. Her
beloved was worthy of her deepest respect. When he had finished she
could hardly refrain from throwing herself at Jacob's feet and asking
pardon for her unjust suspicions.

"Forgive me," she cried, "for my foolish credulity. But the calumny was
so well devised that it had all the appearance of truth. It was
repeated to me as undoubtedly true."

"One thing astonishes me: it is that you did not come to me about it
immediately. You were wrong not to demand an explanation."

"A long and frightful torture has punished me for my hesitation. The
days that have passed since then have been the bitterest of my
existence. Your supposed infidelity poisoned all remembrances of the
past, and I tried to tear your image from my heart."

"I could not have foreseen that a good action would have had such
direful consequences," said Jacob sadly.

"How happy would I be could I adopt the orphan! Unfortunately, in this
house I am a slave, a prisoner. I am respected, it is true, and the
master surrounds me with luxury to gratify his vanity; he strews
flowers on my path to dazzle the world; but in the midst of this
perfumed atmosphere I am a captive, and very often envy the working
women who live by labour, or in their poverty beg upon the streets. For
a long time I have been abandoned. Henri Segel divides his days between
the Russians and Muse. When I feel very ill the physician comes here.
Sometimes a beggar appears, and, you will not believe it, under this
exterior wealth I am often without money, without a sou to give for
charity."

She sighed, and continued:--

"To-day I live again; my soul is at peace once more. I have been given
back the only man in the world who makes me love humanity and believe
in virtue."

Their conversation was continued for a long time. Tea was served at the
usual hour, and the Englishwoman arrived, but she had a bad cold and
her presence was a constraint. Absorbed in each other, they forgot the
world. Mathilde went to the piano, which had been closed for several
days, and the celebration of their reconciliation ended with the
polonaise of Chopin (A-dur).

When Jacob found himself some distance down the street he went back to
look at the house he had just left as if he had a presentiment of not
returning.




                             CHAPTER XXVII.

                            JACOB IN FLIGHT.


Warsaw presented a strange sight. From all its doors the population
hurried toward the forests. The combat had been precipitated, and they
rushed eagerly to death.

The Russians paid no attention to this exodus. They did not wish to
oppose it.

At the Chateau de Bruehl they repeated the saying: "When the abscess is
ripe it must surely burst!" The cold-blooded authorities did not say
that this abscess was the result of a purulent malady, engendered by
unbridled oppression. They cared neither for the suffering which it
produced in ripening, nor for the blood which was lost in bursting.

In the interior of the capital everything seemed to be in a normal
condition. Only the initiated recognized in the streets the gladiators
vowed to death, for the fever in their souls was concealed by a
deceitful calm. From time to time, rumours were secretly circulated
that companies had been formed under the very nose of the Russian
troops, that Muscovite detachments had been beaten, that the insurgents
had taken such a village, that here and there the national flag had
been ostentatiously displayed and the revolutionary government
proclaimed.

Gromof alone persisted in declaring the revolutionary movement
premature, and sought to check the torrent. Vain efforts; the dikes
were broken, and the rallying word was "Liberty or death!"

Thoughtful men, however, foresaw the imminent explosion of Muscovite
vengeance. A barbarous and savage repression began, like that of 1794,
in the time of Kosciusko. Then some concealed themselves in the
thickets, while others fell into the hands of the police. Houses were
searched, and in some cases destroyed, during the hunt for insurgents.
Roofs were broken in and floors pulled up, and often, in default of
finding the guilty, the innocent were made to suffer in their stead.
The citadel was crowded with prisoners. Every day files of the
unfortunates, including nobles of high degree, left for Siberia, and
chains commenced to be lacking, so many were imprisoned.

And during these horrors the groves put forth joyously their green
leaves, the turf was carpeted with flowers, and the lark sang in the
clear azure heaven; but the doom of the destroyer was over all.

Russia prepared her saturnalias to celebrate a definite victory. By
hundreds of thousands the soldiers tracked the insurgents, who were
scattered in bands without camps, without money, without arms or
powder. Yet victory was delayed for a whole year.

One might attribute the rage of the Russian government to the
humiliation of the army, if the slowness of the man[oe]uvres had not,
as we have already said, been premeditated. The Russians wished to
crush Poland, but they wished it to appear as if the revolution had
been entirely a surprise. Since 1863 her vengeance had increased in
ferocity, redoubled under a thousand pretexts. Her cruelty had now
become systematic. And the civilized world assisted at this frightful
execution by looking on with cold indifference at such sufferings.

Jacob saw in his imagination the dark future of Poland,--a future
become a perpetual present. He was almost desperate at his impotency to
stay the impending disaster. To despair, succeeded apathy. What good
was life, thought he, without high aim. And, alas, all the ways towards
this end were closed to him! He tried vainly to become absorbed in
reading, but his brain seemed congealed. A heavy slumber like a
lethargy overtook him. When he opened his eyes the lamp was out, and
the morning light filled the room. He opened the windows. The sky was
sad and sombre, like his soul. In the silence of the new-born day he
heard steps on his staircase; some one knocked at his door. He opened
the door, and a man quickly entered. A long cloak covered him
completely, and his hat was drawn over his eyes. It was Kruder.

"You know all, do you not? Then you are all ready?" cried he.

"All--what?"

"There's not a minute to lose. It is four o'clock. You have an hour and
a half, or two hours at the most, before you."

"What is it, then?" asked Jacob.

"There is no use beating about the bush with a man like you. In two
hours they are coming to arrest you."

"Why?"

"One never knows why in these times. I bring you a passport. I procured
it yesterday, before the authorities at the chateau had warned the
police against passports. Come, do not tarry!"

"Where shall I go?"

"Where you will."

"Would it not be possible for me to wait, and prove myself innocent?"

"You jest! They would answer you by sending you to the extreme borders
of the Russian empire. They are doing it every day."

"Be it so! They would send me back."

"And you would submit to Russian brutality when you can avoid it?"

"To leave my country at such a supreme moment would be to compromise my
Israelite acquaintances, which Mann has recently reproached me for. I
would be accused also of cowardly motives, of excessive prudence, of
calculating egotism, and my flight would justify the accusation."

"The moments are precious. Keep yourself for better times. Captivity
would ruin you, and unfit you for the future. The insurrection is
strengthening. No one can foresee the result. European diplomacy may
interfere. It is true that the uprising is premature, but it is
possible that this time they may obtain some concessions. You can be
useful to us. Keep your intelligence, your relations, and your fortune
for Poland."

"Intelligence falsified by mysticism. Every one says 'relations,' but
with whom? My ideas are always in contradiction with those around me;
there remains to me only a fortune. Alone, whom can I serve?"

"Come on! This is no time for pessimism. You must decide."

"My resolution is taken. I will go and make my farewells to my mother,
and leave her in charge of the house. I will go far away, and there
reflect as to what is the best course to pursue. I can give myself up
to the gendarmes at any time, but not just yet. I will accompany you.
Do you know of a safe place for a few hours?"

"Yes. Come with me."

Jacob lost no time in changing his clothes and ran to embrace his
mother. He filled his pocket-book with bank-notes, and a quarter of an
hour later was in the streets with Kruder. By many devious ways they
arrived at the poorer quarter of the town. The fugitive had for a
moment entertained the idea of seeking the hospitality of Segel, of
Bartold, or of his guardian, but after reflection he feared to
compromise them.

"We are going to the 'Kafarnaum,'" said Kruder smiling.

"The Kafarnaum? What is that?"

"A sobriquet of my own invention to designate the place where the
revolutionists meet."

"You belong to them, then?"

"I belong to everybody and to nobody," answered he. "I enter, I listen.
I give my advice and I engage in arguments, and I wait. With me you
will be welcomed at the Kafarnaum."

"Is it a safe asylum?"

"Excellent, no one suspects, and therefore it has nothing to fear from
the police. It is in the house of the _commissaire_ of the ward."

"Let us go there, then."

Kruder turned into an alley. It was growing light, but the city was
still quiet and deserted, and the only people abroad were the milkmen
and the hucksters. They stopped before a house. At the entrance were
some gendarmes, police, and individuals in citizens' dress. By a
staircase which opened on the court they ascended to the second story.
The house was new, and the apartment at the door of which they stopped
had a fine external appearance. A servant who was half asleep let them
in, and without question indicated a second door. This led them to a
spacious _salon_. Two men were writing at a large table by the light of
a lamp. The couches and easy-chairs were occupied by young men, whose
fatigued air bore witness that they had passed a sleepless night.

Kruder whispered some words into the ears of the two men at the table.
These persons, whose faces were somewhat familiar to Jacob, offered him
their hands.

"Here," said they, "no one can come to seek you. As we have no secrets
from honest men, we will continue our work before you. We conspire even
in the open air, in the public streets, and as yet we have not fallen
under suspicion. Be seated, take part in our deliberations, give us
your advice,--we ask it. Today it is necessary to combine all our
forces to arm, to rouse enthusiasm and practise strategy. Do not be
disturbed, monsieur; do as you would in your own house."

Kruder, whose custom was to take no sides, went from one to another,
read the order of the day over the secretary's shoulder, listened to
short dialogues between different persons, and then hastened to some
other meeting.

Jacob, left there by his friend, assisted at a strange, and to him
novel, spectacle. Every instant the door opened; it was a continual
going and coming of individuals of all ages and of all ranks of
society. Among them were women, children, Jews, and ecclesiastics. Some
brought good or bad news, messages and money, while others came to
receive orders or to bring letters, and in this crowd appeared some in
uniforms which bore the insignia of high rank in the army. They showed
by their faces and bearing traces of a long and fatiguing military
career. The breasts of many were covered with decorations gained in the
Caucasus or in the Taschkend. In contrast with these officers were
workmen, artisans, idlers, and vagabonds. The movement was incessant,
and the crowd was continually changing.

A youth who had been wounded came to relate the particulars of the
combat, where he had received a bullet in his leg. He asked for a
surgeon to extract it, and seemed impatient to return to the seat of
war. His face was lighted up with heroism, and the fever of his
patriotism exceeded the fever of his wound.

A workman came in haste to announce that the police had made a raid on
a clandestine printing-house where he was employed, and from which he
had escaped through the roof. Immediate decision was taken to establish
another printing-office in another hiding-place.

The revolution displayed an immense activity which, notwithstanding,
was defective. Necessary funds were not forthcoming, in spite of the
threats and prayers employed to procure them. Every moment there
arrived from the insurgents scattered in the forests complaints of lack
of arms, powder, ambulances, medicines, and surgeons. There were
rumours that this or that emissary had fallen into the hands of the
Russians, or that a knavish contractor, who had been paid in advance,
had delivered a cargo of guns which proved to be utterly useless, the
refuse of the Austrian arsenals. These difficulties did not daunt the
committee, for it was composed of men of unheard-of audacity and
bravery, who had already accomplished miracles with their scanty
resources. Russian surveillance was relaxed, and this fact, which
should have made the revolutionists suspicious, encouraged their
efforts. Their confidence increased daily. From all the Polish
provinces, and even from the districts incorporated with the Russian
empire in 1772, came assurances of warmest sympathy, but each
accompanied by an urgent prayer to delay the uprising. It was too late.
The duchy of Posen, annexed to Prussia, and Galicia, with the city of
Cracow, which was subservient to Austria, viewed the situation with the
deepest interest, but did not revolt for fear of drawing down on Poland
two more adversaries. These remnants of the old republic sent
volunteers and money, and at the same time procured some arms from
Austria, not always openly, though the government at Vienna closed its
eyes and let them pass.

Gromof had the right of entrance to the Kafarnaum. Here he continued to
oppose the insurrection, and excited general ridicule.

"Instead of blaming our enthusiasm," replied they, "do something for
us. Work the army. Work the dissenters from the orthodox church."

"Alas!" replied Gromof, "that is what we are doing. But our people do
not respond to the first appeal. We have yet to instruct them and teach
them their rights."

"And you desire us to remain inactive and wait for these babes to grow
up? Oh, no! You cannot expect that any more than for us to return to
the Greek calendar."

"But you are going to your own destruction. You are on the brink of an
abyss."

"An abyss! To hell! rather than your yoke," cried an impetuous youth.

This argument was interrupted by a woman who came to tell that her son
had been sent to the citadel, and that she had succeeded in saving some
very compromising papers that he carried on his person. After the woman
came a youth almost a child. He told how he had fled from the soldiers
who had seized him for the Russian service.

Amid this noisy crowd came and went women chatting tranquilly, carrying
important despatches hidden in their stockings or their corsets, and
messengers waited while cobblers drew the nails from the heels of their
boots where messages had been inserted.

Jacob saw before him an admirable tableau of devotion. To him the
spectacle was most pitiful, for he was convinced that all these efforts
could only result in a final catastrophe. Kruder returned. He informed
his friend that one hour after their departure the police had invaded
his dwelling, searched his papers, demolished stoves, had even taken up
part of the floor, and carried away as sole trophy a pocket pistol, a
prohibited weapon. The house was placed under strict supervision, and
the search for Jacob was now going on in the streets.

There remained to him the choice between flight or prison; but whither
should he fly? He thought of some obscure streets where the poor Jews
lived. He had among them many friends whom he had aided in their
distress. He had often penetrated into these houses of misery with the
idea of devoting himself some day to their total extinction. With this
end in view he had organized a Jewish school, for in his opinion
popular instruction was the basis of moral reform and material
improvement.

One man in particular in this quarter he knew well. A certain Rebe
Schmul, a petty merchant who had been on the verge of bankruptcy when
Jacob had set him once more on his feet. His back loaded with old
clothes, he walked in the cold or the heat crying in the streets,
"_Hendel! Hendel!_" ("Old clothes! old clothes!") Nothing escaped his
glance or his hearing. He heard the calls from the garrets, and
introduced himself into the courts at the risk of being harshly
treated. It was a laborious business, and often scarcely sufficed to
sustain existence. At the most it permitted him to buy a little fish
and a morsel of white bread for the Sabbath.

Rebe Schmul and his wife were growing old; they had five daughters, two
of whom were married, while three remained at home. In all, five mouths
to feed. To do this it was necessary that each day, in all seasons, the
pedler should tramp from early morning until nightfall. He must also be
careful not to make a bad bargain in buying old clothes, which often
appeared so well that a hole would pass unperceived. There lies the
danger of the business, and Schmul, although experienced, had been
taken in more than once. Tall and thin, he did not look his age, for,
as he said, he had no time to think of it. In this business, which he
had followed for more than thirty years, he had become a keen observer
of men; and from this study was born in his soul not contempt, but
compassion, for his fellow-creatures. Although he was very poor, he
often found some one more unfortunate, who drew from him the last sou
in his pocket in charity. Besides this sensibility, he was
distinguished by a jovial humour. His natural gayety served him well in
trading. A smile always attracts, and he by his bright ways encouraged
men who were obliged to sell their best garments, and softened the
bitterness of the sacrifice. Schmul always had a joke to tell, and a
smile on his lips, when he left home in the early morning or when he
returned weary and footsore at night. He treated his sick wife with
pleasantry; by pleasantry he consoled his daughters in their chagrins;
and lastly he fortified himself thereby, when he felt that a sigh was
likely to escape his breast.

No one celebrated with more enjoyment the feast of the Sabbath than did
Schmul, in his narrow and crowded lodging, by the light of a tallow
candle. His business did not prosper, although he worked so hard. This
was a disappointment to him, for he had dreamed of enlarging his stock
by the addition of blacking and matches; but circumstances had not as
yet permitted the realization of his hopes. Then he bought tickets in
the lottery, and each time hoped to gain the grand prize. In vain did
his wife beg him to renounce this delusion, and use the money in buying
the necessaries of life for his family. When she had scolded him well,
his only reply was that he must not shut his door against the good God.

Schmul lodged with his family on the third floor of a large house
inhabited by many other Jewish families, all equally poor. This
building, it is needless to say, did not shine with neatness. It was
constructed in a rectangle with a narrow front, and opened upon a
court. On each story a wooden gallery served for the workroom of the
household. Here they washed and dried the linen. Here they split the
wood, and cooked the food, and dressed the children. What did they not
do here? Old clothes of all kinds were stretched on ropes, and the
odours of the cooking, the steam from many wash-boilers, the waters
from which ran through the court, produced a perfume which the lodgers
endured from force of habit only. The inhabitants were like one family,
many of whom had been born and were destined to die in this receptacle
of misery.

Schmul occupied three dark rooms, where the air and the light came only
from the court. You can imagine what air and what light! Both had to
filter through the wet clothes and the rags which hung on the ropes
stretched from one gallery to another.

One of these rooms served for a parlour, and possessed a rickety sofa
and two old arm-chairs. The other apartment was the bedroom for the old
couple; the third, the chamber of the three girls. It was here that the
Schmul girls cleaned, patched, and mended the old clothes. A memorable
event happened here. The father loved to tell of it as a proof of the
protection of Providence.

Ten years before, the pedler's position was desperate. He had been so
unfortunate as to buy some clothes that proved to be stolen. He was
obliged to give back the goods, beside paying a large fine. To raise
the money for this he had appealed to several friends in vain. Seeing
no way out of his embarrassment, he had gone out and had succeeded in
selling an old cloak for a few florins. He had just returned home when
a soldier came and wished to sell him an old velvet waistcoat. He
refused to buy it; but the man insisted, and seizing him by the arm,
made such a noise that Schmul gave him a small sum for the garment. He
soon perceived that he had made a poor purchase, for it was nearly
worthless. He gave it to one of his girls to patch, who presently
uttered a great cry of joy, for under each button she had found a piece
of gold, the total of which was sufficient to pay the fine.

The waistcoat contained also a paper written over closely, but the
writing was almost effaced and indecipherable.

It was not possible to return the garment to its owner, for the soldier
had evidently stolen it. Nevertheless, Schmul did not believe it right
to appropriate a sum which seemed to have been sent from Heaven; he
considered himself the depositary, and distributed the whole in small
sums to political prisoners. This act describes the man. Unfortunate
though he was, he paid his debt to an unknown. He often showed pieces
of the waistcoat when he had occasion to relate the story, and returned
thanks to Providence, for he was very pious.

He always left home early in the morning and did not return until dark.
He carried an old umbrella, formerly blue, but become by long usage an
indefinable colour. It was less to shield himself than to shelter his
merchandise from the rain, the snow, and the sun. His breakfast was
invariably composed of a raw onion or a smoked herring, with a morsel
of bread and a small glass of brandy. In the evening he loved to find
some hot dish awaiting him, and seated at the table he related the most
amusing incidents of the day, to which his family listened attentively.
Then came the prayer before going to bed.

The pedler was generally loved on account of his good character and
jovial spirit. People were surprised that with his intelligence he had
not already made his fortune. He replied by likening himself to a pair
of scissors. Be they ever so sharp, they were no use without something
to cut. Gold was the something that God, in his wisdom, had not given
to every one.

Jacob arrived at the staircase which led to the Schmuls' lodging. He
ascended without seeing the pedler, who, returning from his work,
followed him, and stopped at the same time before the door of his
lodging, on which was graven the name of God. Following the custom, he
touched it with his hand and afterwards kissed it. It was then that
Schmul recognized him.

"_Salem alekem_," said he.

"_Alekem salem_," replied the fugitive.

"Rabbi Jacob, tell me why I am honoured by your presence?" asked
Schmul.

"I am in trouble," replied Jacob.

"Can I do anything for you?"

"Yes, and easily, I hope."

"Even if it were not easy you may count on me to do all I can."

They entered; the old man dusted the sofa and the table in Jacob's
honour, and begged him to be seated. The prettiest and the boldest of
his daughters, Rosele, came to help him. Notwithstanding their poverty,
she was dressed neatly and in good taste, and her beautiful black eyes
indicated a certain coquetry.

"Now that you are seated," said Schmul, "I will listen to you."

"In a moment. Rest yourself first, you must be tired."

"Oh, as for that, yes! I cannot say how many stairs I have climbed
to-day. I have done well. There are some young Poles who sold their
last fine shirts to buy thick warm garments. I did not have to make
myself hoarse to-day by crying '_Hendel!_ Everybody called to me. They
sold at any price. I had not enough money, and was obliged to borrow of
old Mortchel."

"I am obliged," said Jacob in a low voice, "to leave Warsaw. The police
paid a visit to my house this morning."

"To your house? Is it possible? Are you then, Rabbi Jacob, one of those
madmen who tempt God?"

"No; but the Russian government often arrests innocent people."

"This is true. They do it every day. No one is secure here, nor ever
has been under Russian rule."

"Do you know any one who can conduct me in safety to the first post
station?"

"Certainly. Under this very roof dwells Mordko. As every one must live
by some means, he is a smuggler. Merchandise, papers, men, he gets them
all across the frontier. Thus, by exposing his head every day, he feeds
his stomach."

"Can I trust him?"

"Entirely. This Mordko is a queer fellow, and when you see him you will
not doubt him. Half mute, almost blind, he can scarcely say four words
or take three steps. He has such a stupid and innocent air that he is
never suspected. I will go and find him."

Madame Schmul came in to keep Jacob company, and at the half-open door
the three girls peeped at him with admiration. Rosele said to herself:
"What happiness for me if I could please this rich man. But, alas! I
must not think of it. I am called beautiful, but no doubt I should not
satisfy a man such as he."

In a few moments Schmul returned with a very shabby individual. He
looked at Jacob from head to foot attentively.

"He already understands the situation," said the pedler. "You need make
no farther explanations."

"I wish to leave at once," said Jacob.

"To-night? No!" replied Mordko. "Too dangerous! Morning will be
better."

"But I cannot sleep here, there is no room, and the hotels are
surrounded by the police."

"I know a place where you can sleep quietly. I will return in a moment,
and conduct you to it."

As soon as Mordko had gone, Schmul said to his visitor:--

"Your flight gives me great sorrow. When will you return? No one knows.
Your absence is a misfortune for the Israelites. You are the only one
who could restore our old purity of religion. No one else, and now you
are taken from us."

"If I am really useful to our cause, be sure that the God of Israel
will protect me," replied Jacob.

"Then you will return, safe and sound. I have a presentiment. And
waiting here we will drink the bitter cup to the dregs."

Mordko returned, and Jacob, under his guidance, went to a small hotel
in the suburbs, where he was given an isolated chamber. He soon slept,
and for several hours the fugitive was oblivious to the world.




                            CHAPTER XXVIII.

                            LOVE OF COUNTRY.


It was not an easy thing to travel in Poland in the time of the
revolution. The country was scoured by bands of Cossacks, and
battalions of regular troops inundated the cities and villages, took
possession of any place they fancied with impunity, and committed all
kinds of excesses. In the ravaged fields the unfortunate farmers beheld
both their friends and enemies tear from them the nourishment of their
wives and children.

Mordko brought Jacob safely by a circuitous route to the post station,
whence a carriage took him to the village where Jankiel dwelt.

Here he learned that the two Davids were absent. The elder lived in
Warsaw, under the protection of the Russian governor, and the younger
took some part in the insurrection, and had acquired the name of an
ardent patriot.

Jacob surprised Jankiel, all alone, bent over a large book. He saw how
suffering had emaciated the old man, who, not divining who his visitor
was, did not raise his head, but signed with his hand that he wished to
finish his pious meditation. At the end of a few moments he closed his
book, and recognizing Jacob, received him with great cordiality.

"Do you bring me bad news?" he asked.

"No, I will tell you all frankly. I have been threatened with arrest;
for what, I know not. I have been advised to absent myself, and I come
to you to shelter me a little while from the storm."

"The storm is still far from its end. The clouds thicken; but come what
will I receive you with all my heart, and my house is at your service."

"I am at present at the hotel."

Jankiel rose, went to the door, and called by name a Jew who was
passing, and who came running to him.

"Go and get this gentleman's luggage at the hotel, and bring it to the
chamber opposite mine.

"I will not permit you to dwell away from me," said he. "There is in
this village a regiment of soldiers, who search every traveller. You
will be safe here. But much as I desire your company, and you know how
welcome you are, yet believe me it will be better for you to leave this
place. There will soon be trouble here. The Russians are letting the
revolution grow, so as to have a greater chance for pillage. I have
been through all this before, in 1809, 1812, and 1831. What the result
will be now, God only knows; but I fear the worst."

After a moment of silence and visible embarrassment, he added:--

"My wife is ill, my daughter is ill, and our house is in mourning. Only
the holy books help me to bear my sorrow. Those people," he pointed to
the house of the Davids, "are gone. One to the city, the other, it is
said, to the insurgents. I do not congratulate them on the acquisition.
Unhappy is the cause which is upheld by impure men!"

Jankiel and Jacob were reading, when suddenly there was heard in the
silent street the sound of horses galloping over the uneven pavement.
From the window they saw in the square below a group of Cossacks and
several carts. There were savage cries, and then, in a vibrating voice,
came an order for silence from the commander.

Jankiel sent out for information. A detachment of Russian soldiers, the
advance guard of several regiments, escorted a chief of the rebels
taken in a bloody combat, wounded and dying. The straw bed on the cart
where the man lay was soaked with blood, and yet, if alive, he would be
hung on the morrow! Such was the story told by the soldiers, who soon
spread themselves through the dwellings of the village.

Jankiel foresaw that some of the officers would be quartered upon him,
and, fearing what might follow, went to hide his daughter in her
mother's room. He disposed of his money in secret places, known only to
himself, keeping in his pocket a sufficient sum for urgent necessities.
The precious vessels had already been carefully put in a place of
safety. With perfect presence of mind he warned the servants to say
that Jacob was his son-in-law, and then seated himself quietly to await
events. The village was full of soldiers, who received orders to form a
camp in the market square. The officers alone installed themselves in
the private houses, and the night was advanced when the colonel of the
regiment arrived at Jankiel's dwelling.

He was not a barbarous-looking man; his manner and bearing were those
of a cultured person. Notwithstanding, the man was not necessarily a
gentleman. For in the Russian army, as in Russian society, superficial
culture often covers the most base corruption. Men who are charming in
the drawing-room are often cruel and brutal in the exercise of
authority, as if they wished to make up to themselves for the restraint
placed on them by the requirements of society. The colonel bore a
German name, Tendemann; his extraction was a mystery to every one, and
perhaps to himself.

He was pale, excited, and angry; the reason for which was the
responsibility which rested on his shoulders. He was no longer a man;
he was a Russian in the full sense of the word. He entered without
saluting any one, and without informing the proprietor. All he thought
of was to lodge comfortably. At the door of his sick wife's room
Jankiel barred the way respectfully, and said:--

"This is my wife's room, who is sick in bed."

The colonel, without noticing the old man, opened the door, examined
the place indicated, looked into the next room, and then descended in
silence to the lower floor. There he stopped, and said that he would
stay for the night. His men soon spread themselves over the house,
demanding loudly a samovar, a fire, candles, and hot water. In a
spacious chamber several officers were engaged in boisterous
conversation; from above it sounded like the noise of a storm
accompanied by peals of thunder.

Jankiel and Jacob were seated alone, watchful and anxious. Information
gathered from the servants verified the first reports. A Russian
detachment, sent in the pursuit of a troop of insurgents, had surprised
them in the middle of the night, surrounded and captured them. The
Poles defended themselves with their usual heroism, but they lacked
ammunition, and they were soon beaten. Their young chief fought
valiantly until he fell grievously wounded. It was this hero whom they
were taking to be hanged, a proof of his distinction, for the other
officers who were captured had been simply shot on the spot. The
colonel of the detachment watched this prisoner with great care, that
he might not escape the scaffold, and ordered him placed in a
neighbouring house under a strong guard,--an unnecessary precaution,
for the unfortunate could not move and his case was a desperate one.
His name the Russian soldiers mutilated after their fashion. Like most
of the revolutionary chiefs, he went under one that was assumed.

The sufferings of the unknown, for whom a scaffold was being erected on
the market-place, moved Jacob's sympathies strongly. If he could not
serve him, he believed it his duty to at least console him. He
communicated his desires to Jankiel.

"The thing seems very difficult to me," replied the old man; "but I
will try and see him. After all, I do not risk much at my age."

Then Jankiel put on his long black coat, took his _czapka_, descended
the staircase, and begged the guard at the door to announce him to the
colonel.

The latter was lying on the sofa, his legs stretched out, with a cigar
in his mouth, when Jankiel entered and stood respectfully at the door.

"What do you want?" asked the colonel brusquely.

"I wish to know if your lordship lacks anything."

"If I wanted anything in the house, I would take it without your
permission. These are times of war."

"Certainly."

"What do they think here of the rebels?"

"Nothing, that I know of."

"Have they passed by here?"

"No."

"You all reply the same way, for you are at heart their friends. Jewish
dogs!"

"We have always been loyal to our sovereign."

"And why, then, do you not chase the insurgents, and give them up to
the authorities?"

"That would not be natural for Jews. We are peaceful men and have a
horror of war."

The colonel rose and walked up and down the room. Jankiel bowed low,
and said to him in a low voice:--

"Your lordship knows, perhaps, that, following a custom of our
religion, when a man is sentenced to death, it is the duty of the Jews
where the execution takes place to offer a repast to the condemned."

"What is that you are saying? The custom of which you speak no longer
exists. You have invented it. Why do you wish to see the prisoner, and
how dare you lie to me?"

The custom did not really exist; Jankiel had imagined it in pious
thought, but how could Colonel Tendemann know about it? That is what
the Jew asked himself, fixing a scrutinizing glance on the officer.

"Why do you look at me thus? What do you mean?" cried the colonel.

"It is admiration, for your lordship must be deeply learned to know
what the Talmud does and does not contain. You have then, no doubt,
read that which the rabbin Ichochuah said of prisoners."

The colonel, pale and trembling, listened to the old man. There seemed
to be a struggle going on within him; his lips trembled, and a mist
came over his eyes; the voice of Jankiel made a strange impression on
him. He tried to force himself to be cruel, but in vain,--an invincible
sentiment held him. The old man remarked this emotion, but did not know
how to interpret it.

After a short silence the colonel wiped his forehead, and said in an
angry tone:--

"Why do you remain here? What are you waiting for? Go away! Go away! Do
not think of the condemned. His hours are numbered."

"May your lordship"--

"Go away before I do something to you!" cried he. At the same time he
approached the Jew, and whispered in his ear in German:--

"Go away. I will come to you soon."

In the German pronunciation of the colonel, as well as in his features,
there was a barely perceptible trace of Jewish origin. But why suppose
this Russian officer to be a child of Israel? Jankiel refused to admit
the thought. Nevertheless, he could not forget it, and was thinking of
it when he entered the room. He said nothing to Jacob, who went to his
chamber, a prey to the deepest anxiety.

About a half-hour later a step was heard on the stairs. The Muscovite
entered, his face as white as snow. He glanced eagerly around the room,
the Jewish character of which seemed to fascinate him; books,
inscriptions, portraits of rabbins, all attracted his attention. He
held out his hand to Jankiel, and said to him:--

"_Salem alekem_."

"_Alekem salem_," replied the old man, amazed.

No more explanation was needed. Without doubt the colonel was a Jew.
His father, or he himself, in order to enter the service of the
government, had adopted the orthodox Greek faith. Nevertheless, the
fire of the belief of his ancestors and of his repudiated race burned
beneath the ashes.

The colonel seated himself. Jankiel observed him thoughtfully.

The Russian's figure trembled with the remorse of apostasy. He was one
of those numerous Jews who have adopted the belief, the customs, and
the prejudices of the country in which they live, but have, in spite of
themselves, often after several generations, irresistible longings for
the faith of their fathers.

By a sign he indicated to Jankiel the sacred word inscribed on the
door, and, approaching with veneration an open volume of the Talmud,
turned the leaves respectfully. For many years he had not come in
contact with the Hebrew characters and the language of the
commandments, but he remembered the days of his childhood, when his
father taught him secretly to read that language which had come upon
earth from the mouth of God. At first he could hardly read the letters,
but little by little light dawned upon him, and with intense delight he
read on, oblivious to all around him; the day's combat, the tragedy of
the morrow, his military rank, Russia, his Czar, and the entire world
were all forgotten.

His eyes, unused to weep, were full of tears, of regret or of
consolation it would have been difficult to say which; probably the two
sentiments were united.

By chance his eyes fell upon this prayer for the dead:--

"God of mercy, deign to remember the men who have been more swift than
the eagles and stronger than the lions in the accomplishment of thy
holy will, and do not forget to show thy vengeance on those who have
shed the blood of thy servants."

Jankiel contemplated with emotion that which seemed to him a miracle.
The colonel, after reading for some time, seemed overcome, and leaned
back in his chair. His host said to him gently:--

"God will be merciful to those who repent."

"I do not know," answered the servant of the Czar, "which I ought to
regret more,--what I have been, or what I am; but is it my own fault
that I am a renegade? My father chose for himself and for me. I belong
to-day to an alien race. I weep when I remember Israel, until a wild
madness possesses my spirit; then I tremble lest they may recognize
under his new skin the cursed Jew. I tremble for fear I may betray
myself by pitying a brother Jew. My children do not know that the blood
of Jewish rabbis flows in their veins. Ah, may they never know that
they are the children of a traitor, of an apostate!"

"Brother," said Jankiel, hastening to take advantage of his softened
mood, "what are you going to do with the prisoner?"

"Do not speak of him. He is condemned by superior orders. To-morrow
will be his last day on earth. I am sorry, but I can do nothing."

"It is a pity. Perhaps he has a mother, a sister, or a wife. I wish I
could be permitted to see him."

"What is he to you? What have we Jews in common with the Poles? Have
you forgotten their conduct toward our people?"

"I do not forget that we are born on the same soil," said the old man.
"And our immortal lawgiver orders us to raise the burden from the weary
beast. Should we have less compassion for a man, even if he were a
pagan?"

"I am under the surveillance of a thousand evil eyes. You can, however,
buy my soldiers with brandy or money. For money these wretches would
sell their own father and mother. And then you may do what you can for
the unfortunate man."

"You will permit it? I will send my kinsman in my place. He will be
safe, will he not?"

"I permit nothing. I will shut my eyes, and I wish to know nothing of
it."

Jankiel left the colonel for a moment to tell Jacob, and found him
dressed ready for any emergency. He had already arranged a plan with an
old Jew named Herszko, nicknamed the Madre. He put on his old clothes,
with two bottles of rum in his pockets, and they went out on the
street. The hour was late, the soldiers snored, and the sentinel walked
slowly on his beat. Before the house where the prisoner was shut up an
under officer watched, seated on a bench. He cursed and swore between
his teeth. Fortunately, he was a confirmed drunkard, by name Fedor
Michailovitch Chelmenko. As soon as he saw the two Jews in the distance
he immediately thought that this might bring him a rouble, or at least
a glass of brandy.

"Good-evening, officer," said the Madre; he saw that this was only an
underling, but gave him the full title, hoping thereby to tickle his
vanity.

"Pass thy way, Jew!" cried Chelmenko.

"You must be weary, seated on this bench."

"Certainly it is not very pleasant."

"Then why do you remain here?"

"What is that to you?"

"Excuse me, mere curiosity."

Herszko mischievously showed the neck of the bottle as if it were about
to leap out of his pocket; Chelmenko saw it; the very sight of it made
his mouth water.

"Let me taste it, miscreant," cried he.

"You guess what it is? No? Well, it is the genuine Jamaica rum, worth a
rouble and a half a bottle."

"Let me see, quick!"

Madre handed him the bottle; the officer put it to his lips and
swallowed some of the rum with great enjoyment, then said:--

"Now tell me what this means?"

"Officer," answered the old man, "my companion is a Jew, as well as
myself. We have heard, but perhaps we are misinformed, that your
prisoner is called Baikowski; if so, he owes a large sum of money to my
companion, who wishes to see him, and get his money, if possible."

"Rebels, rascals, knaves, get out of here! Don't you know that no one
can see the prisoner? It is strictly forbidden."

Without hesitation Madre deposited on the bench the other bottle, and
beside it three roubles.

"No one. I cannot let any one enter," murmured the Muscovite; then
after a moment of reflection he added:--

"Follow me."

"Not I, but my companion," said the old man.

"Which you like. It is nothing to me."

Chelmenko, already tipsy, conducted Jacob to a door which he opened
with a key. He pushed him into the room and shut the door after him.

The dark apartment was lighted by a single tallow candle, which hung in
a lantern suspended from the ceiling. By this uncertain light Jacob saw
stretched on a straw pallet in the corner a human form with one arm
extended. From the breast of the man came deep and broken respiration
like that of the dying.

The condemned made an effort to carry his hand to his wounded leg, but
he fell back heavily with a sharp cry. His head was a little raised,
and by the ray of light which fell on his face, Jacob, with a great cry
of sorrow, recognized Ivas.

With disordered hair, foaming mouth, and wild eyes, the young man
raved:--

"I am ready. March! A ball in my leg! No matter! Down with the
Muscovites! Let us attack them!"

Then silence.

"Ivas! Ivas!" cried Jacob. "Don't you know me?" The sick man turned,
his eyes toward him.

"You? Who are you?" said he. "Pole or Russian? A spy, perhaps. Yet that
voice! Aqua Sola! Lucie Coloni! Paris--the boulevards! Who are you?"

"Jacob, your friend Jacob."

"Ah! Jacob the patriarch. Are you also a rebel? Oh, my leg, my leg! It
is terrible!"

"Ivas, try to collect your thoughts," said Jacob. "Perhaps I can be
useful to you."

"Certainly! More arms, more ammunition. Give them to me!"

"My brother, you are wounded; a prisoner condemned."

"Ah, yes! I remember. We were concealed in the forest. Beaten! Wounded!
How dark it is here! Is it a hospital or a tomb? Can they not at least
bury me decently?"

"Have you any wish to have carried out, anything to confide in me?"
asked Jacob.

"The Cossack told me that I would be hanged to-morrow. No matter! I
will return to the world in the form of a mad dog to murder them.
Towianski teaches the transmigration of souls. He is right. If there is
a God, where is he? Is he afraid of the Russians?"

"Ivas," repeated Jacob, "rouse yourself, and tell me if you have any
last instructions to give me."

"Liberty or death! Have they all perished? The scaffold awaits me. A
cord of hemp. After that, nothing! It will hurt my throat, like strong
tobacco. Were you ever hanged, my Jacob? No? Who knows; perhaps you
were, under another form, according to Towianski. It will, I think, be
the first time for me. I haven't the least idea of the thing, but I
will be calm; I am no coward."

"Ivas, have you any relations, any friends? tell me."

"None! My mother died a long time ago. There is no cross over her
grave. She was too poor; I was a little boy. With pebbles I designed a
cross. My father? I have never seen him. Other relations? They turned
the cold shoulder to me because I was poor. My will? Behold it. To
arms!"

"Nothing more?"

"Nothing," replied Ivas, who had somewhat regained his mind. "Nothing.
I have no one in the world. Ah, yes! there is some one. You remember
that old house that I showed you one day in Warsaw? On the fourth floor
lives Marion, sad and thoughtful. She is a laundress, but in her former
life she was, I am sure, a queen. But she has forgotten it. I think she
loves me. Tell her that I thought of her when dying. She made me two
shirts for the journey. Her hands are large and red, but she has the
heart of an angel. Or, rather, tell her nothing. That will be better.
She will forget me, and console herself with a Russian officer. The
poor girl!"

"Ivas," said Jacob, "my time here is short, we shall never meet again.
Be calm, and think if there is anything you wish me to do."

"I ask you to avenge me. How hot I am! Ah! Ah! An immense cemetery.
They dance. The earth is freshly broken up at the sound of a violin.
Some bears are dancing. The good God is looking at them from heaven
through a little skylight. He strokes his mustache, and marks the
measure."

"Ivas," cried Jacob, "be calm, I beg of you."

"Yes, I remember there were millions. We were a handful, and they
attacked us, but we fought them. We did our duty! All dead!
_Requiescant!_ Is this death? Provided my soul does not enter into the
body of a Muscovite, I do not care."

Jacob tried, without success, to make Ivas realize his situation. As
soon as the dying man became more conscious, the pain of his wound was
so extreme that, to prevent himself from crying aloud, he buried his
head in the straw; then the delirium returned. It was a heartrending
spectacle.

"Do you wish a priest?" asked the Jew.

"A priest? There was one in our band. Brave frater! A ball in his head,
he is dead. A priest for me? What good? I have not confessed since my
mother was no longer here to make me kneel and pray. A priest! I want
none. It would do no good, for God has gone on a visit to St.
Petersburg, and no one knows when he will return. They do not confess
the dead, and I am already dead, although I can still speak."

Then he continued his raving.

"Do you think they could have taken me alive? Never! Tell Marion that I
had one of the shirts on, and the handkerchief around my neck, and also
the medal of Notre Dame de Czestokowa, but the mother of God did not
aid me! They have killed me!"

Jacob tried to revive him with some cologne that he had in a little
flask. He bathed his forehead and temples, and poured several drops in
his mouth; but it was useless.

"You perfume me," said the poor boy. "I smell it. I cannot go to the
ball, I cannot dance."

He grew worse and his ravings continued. Snatches of songs, military
commands, fragments of prayers and oaths, were all mingled together in
an unintelligible manner.

Jacob was kneeling, holding the burning head of his friend, when
suddenly some one struck his shoulder. It was the officer.

"Enough of this! Get up and come away!" said he.

"Dear Ivas," cried Jacob, without paying attention to the man; "one
word more, dear Ivas, your last word!"

The condemned raised himself, threw his arms around his friend's neck,
and with an expression full of love and enthusiasm, cried:--

"My country!"

Then he fell back weeping and laughing at the same time. The delirium
had returned. The officer took Jacob by the shoulder and forced him out
of the room.

Madre awaited him, and before he let them depart the officer extorted a
present.

Before retiring, Jacob knocked at Jankiel's door.

"Have you seen the poor man?" asked his host.

"Yes."

Then he detailed the interview with Ivas which terminated with the
thrilling words, "My country!"

During this sad recital, in the silence of the night they could hear,
on the square below, the blows of a hammer. It was the gibbet of the
young patriot which they were finishing in the centre of the
marketplace. They passed the rest of the night in prayer.

Ivas died before daybreak, and as they were unable to execute him
living, they hanged his dead body. The Russians having thus proclaimed
their victory quitted the village, leaving their souvenir of terrorism.




                             CHAPTER XXIX.

                           THE GORDIAN KNOT.


The same morning that Jacob left his house for fear of arrest, Henri
Segel returned to breakfast. It was only at meal-times that he saw his
wife, and then for but a few moments. He usually went away so early in
the morning that Mathilde rarely saw him until evening.

This day the poor woman, consoled by her explanation with Jacob, had
more colour than usual, and appeared to have recovered her health.

"I am really distressed," said Henri, seating himself at table, "and
you will share my anxiety when you hear that Mann's prophecy has been
realized. They have tried to arrest Jacob."

Mathilde grew very pale, and cried:--

"Arrested? Did you say arrested?"

"Why this emotion?" replied her husband smiling.

"Answer me! I beg of you!"

"He was warned in time, and has eluded the police, but they have
searched his house."

"I breathe," said Mathilde. "Is that all you know?"

"Provided with a passport he will probably leave for Austria or
Prussia. He is a strange man, I never could understand his character."

His wife smiled. Henri was annoyed at this mocking smile and said:--

"It seems to amuse you that he should, be an enigma to me."

"Not at all. It is very natural. Your characters are so dissimilar,
that you could not possibly understand each other."

Henri replied, with some bitterness:--

"You are very flattering. If this man, so opposite to me, has all your
sympathy, what sentiment then have you for your humble servant?"

"My sentiment for you," replied Mathilde simply, "you already know. It
has satisfied you, and you have never tried to awaken any other."

Henri looked at his watch, took his hat, and started to go; then he
returned, and said in an offended tone:--

"My dear, if you are tired of our conjugal tie you have only to say so.
It is very distressing to me to be the cause of your regret and of your
secret sorrows."

Mathilde looked at him with an air of dignity.

"You wish to say," asked she, "that you do not find the situation to
your taste?"

"How can it be agreeable for me to contemplate without ceasing the
statue of melancholy? Is this happiness? I think not. You must at least
admit that I bear my fate heroically."

"You reproach me?"

"Your sadness, your gloomy looks, say plainly that you are not happy."

"You believe, then, that the honour of being your wife ought to make me
happy? What can we do? We cannot change anything, can we? We must bear
it, for we have taken before God a sacred vow, and must drink from the
same cup, be it bitter or sweet."

Henri grew excited, while his wife's face remained as calm as marble.
He shrugged his shoulders, and hastily left the room. The carriage
awaited him, and he was driven alone to Muse. She was all alone, but
ready to receive company. She was elegantly dressed, perfumed, and in
charming humour, and she greeted Segel warmly.

"Have you heard the news?" asked he.

"What news?"

"Jacob has fled."

"How could I, living in the same house, be ignorant of it; and I
trembled for him, from what I know of Colonel Sofronof and Count
Bavorof."

"He is now almost an outlaw," replied Henri. "More than once I have
attempted, but unsuccessfully, to make him listen to reason. What
eccentricity! He has often argued with the Russians and told all his
thoughts, and the Russians did not like his sincerity; they required
that men's convictions should bow to them, or else be concealed. I pity
Jacob; but he is incorrigible and destitute of all prudence or policy."

Several visitors arrived. There was as usual a mixed crowd, and on one
side Mann harangued a little group of friends.

"I avow to you, gentlemen," said he, "that I am delighted to be
delivered from Jacob. He was a most compromising person, who belonged
to neither party. He stood entirely alone, and such individuals are
naturally victims of their narrow individuality; but after all I hope
that nothing very bad will happen to him."

"Provided that he is not drawn into the revolution," remarked some one.

"I do not fear that," replied Mann. "Jacob is not a man of action. He
knows how to think and talk only."

Just then Mathilde's father came in; he was much disturbed.

"What has become of Jacob," asked he.

"He has gone."

"Where? That is what I wish to know. He was the cause of a pretty scene
at my house. His old Jewess mother came there in her ridiculous costume
early this morning. She caused a general laugh in the house. That is
not all. Unfortunately there arrived just then an aide of the Grand
Duke Constantine. She was seated in the _salon_. Groans, tears,
lamentations; judge of my situation! I had great trouble to rid myself
of her. What a foolish visit! The good woman does not know where her
son has gone but she is sure he has not crossed the frontier."

"We shall, no doubt, soon hear of his exploits," said Henri. "The
laurels of Berko will prevent his sleeping. He dreamed of the picture
of Kossack, and of giving the artist a new subject. That which is most
deplorable in this adventure is that it prejudices the government
against us all. It will be necessary for us to be very circumspect, and
to furnish fresh proofs of our devotion and of our loyalty."

During these remarks from Mann the fascinating Muse questioned Colonel
Sofronof about Jacob. He feigned surprise, and vowed that he had not
heard of Jacob's flight, with an assurance that proved that he knew
more about it than any one else. He questioned right and left,
expressed some chagrin, and promised to make some inquiries, and from
his face even Mann guessed that the source of the denunciation was well
known to him.

"In these days," murmured Sofronof, "it is wise to be doubly prudent as
to what we say. Jacob did not weigh his words. I think, however, that
he is not threatened with anything terrible. Perhaps temporary exile to
the borders of Russia. He will not be executed."

After the visitors had gone, Muse was going to the piano when her
mother came to her.

"Let us have a chat," said she.

"Well, say on, dear mamma."

"In all probability Jacob will never return."

"No matter, he is crossed off my list."

"Against whom, then, are your batteries directed?"

"Against Henri first. Failing him, Sofronof."

"I wish to talk of this Muscovite. Under his polished exterior I can
discern the Tartar; his fortune is problematic, and his character is
amiable enough in society to be disagreeable in private life. I do not
like him. He is a cold-blooded animal. Why do you not repulse him?"

"Alas! It may be necessary to take him as a last resort."

"Henri gives us very little hope. He will not divorce Mathilde, and she
obstinately lives on. She is not consumptive; her physician has told me
so. Her malady is only _ennui_ and weakness. She may live for years."

"Never fear. Henri becomes more amorous each day. He has no secrets
from me, and he has decided to divorce her; but, can you believe it,
mamma, she does not wish it. As she loves, I thought the idea would
please her; but no. She has I know not what strange notions of the
sanctity of marriage, the marital tie, and marriage vows, such
ridiculous ideas! The English governess, who often hears the
conversation of the lovers, has related to me these sentimental scenes.
It is a Platonic love taken from some old romance, and not from the
romances of to-day,--a mystical and unintelligible love. What fools
they are to refuse their own happiness! Mathilde has even told me of
her theories. I adroitly led the conversation to the subject. Poor
woman! I could scarcely keep from laughing in her face. Henri seeks
his own desires and mine. He dreads only the explanation with his
father-in-law."

"If you have gone so far with Henri, I must hesitate no longer," said
the mother. "We cannot wait in this suspense until the judgment day."

"These Russians, Bavorof and Sofronof, have played me a villanous trick
in forcing Jacob's flight. He would have been of great use to us. Henri
counted on his presence when he put the question of divorce before his
father-in-law, for Samuel would be disposed to consent on condition
that Mathilde would marry Jacob immediately after the rupture. No
Jacob, no divorce. We counted on him, and now he is gone."

"What a misadventure," cried Madame Wtorkowska, wringing her hands.

"Bah! We can arrange it. I will have Henri. The others? I am disgusted
with them."

Her mother said in a low voice:--

"To marry Henri will be the same as to marry a widower, for a divorce
is almost the same thing."

"What has that to do with it? I wonder how many times most men have
been widowers before marriage."

"That is true. Then that is no objection; but you must hasten things,
my child. Be quick about it."

"Ah! I understand that there is no money in the house. I will borrow
some of Henri."

Madame Wtorkowska thanked Heaven that had given her so practical a
daughter.




                              CHAPTER XXX.

                            THE INSURGENTS.


                                               "H----, July, 1863.

"The Russians had scarcely vacated the village when the insurgents
arrived. They marched through the streets, bearing a banner on which
the national colours were surmounted by a white eagle painted on wood.
They were a small band of men, armed for the most part with scythes and
pike-staffs, while some had only heavy sticks with pointed iron ends.
There were no uniforms. Each one was equipped and clad as circumstances
had permitted at the time of his enrolment. Their forms were strong,
and their faces expressed energy already clouded by dark despair. All
knew that they were marching to certain death, and knew not what
torture or misery awaited them.

"The body of Ivas had been cut down after the execution, but the gibbet
still presented its gloomy front to the market-place. The chief of the
insurgents saluted it, and inclined his head, and all his troop
followed his example. It was a mute and solemn homage rendered to a
martyr.

"I could not help feeling for these men a sentiment in which was
mingled compassion, sympathy, and respect.

"The young commander recognized me, for he had seen me with Ivas at
Warsaw. He was much affected to hear from me that the condemned man had
been our mutual friend. 'One of our bravest,' murmured he; 'but our
country demands such sacrifices. Oh, if only we were better armed!'

"Our conversation was not of long duration. The detachment had entered
the village only to recruit, and succeeded in gaining a dozen
volunteers. They also found some guns and swords, dating from 1831,
covered with rust.

"This heroism in poverty transported me back several centuries to the
times when the Israelites rose against Roman oppression. Here was the
same self-sacrificing spirit, the same love of liberty. My eyes filled
with tears, and thoughts came into my head that I had not before
entertained.

"Let us go with them, thought I. Let us die in the ranks of these
heroes. It is glorious to shed one's blood for his brothers.

"Yesterday I would have hesitated. To-day I felt around me such an
empty void that the future appeared aimless, and the thought of action
inspired me. I, who had refused money for the revolution, I would offer
my life. This seems strange, does it not? But do not condemn me without
reflection. It is necessary to seal the act of alliance, contracted
between the Israelites and Poles. My example will prove that this
alliance is accomplished.

"This letter, friend of my youth, is like my last testament.

"I recommend to you my mother. Let my brother Israelites know why I
have taken this step. I owe to the mission that we have received from
God to return again to the past of an elect people. This mission is, to
be more noble, more devout, and more loving than other men.

"Farewell! You already know all I wish to say, for you have always been
the confidante of my inmost thoughts. It is you who have inspired me
with the resolution I have taken. If you had left me the shadow of a
hope, I would, perhaps, have valued my life more; but you said one
evening that a woman ought to be the wife of one man only, and as at
the same time my brother Israelites have refused to listen to my voice,
I am convinced that I am useless here below.

"Do not regret me. God will give me grace to meet death joyfully.

"To-morrow we leave here. I am well equipped. I have bought a horse and
arms; I shall serve as a private soldier, for there are already too
many leaders.

"God is great; the soul is immortal, and pure spirits may, perhaps,
meet again in another world."

The reader has already divined that this was a letter addressed by
Jacob to Mathilde. We have suppressed the commencement, which related
to events spoken of in the preceding pages.

Henri Segel received it in his mail, and hastened to take it to his
wife.

"What can it be?" asked he.

"A letter from Jacob," she replied, without hesitation, recognizing his
writing.

She read it hastily.

"What has become of him," asked Henri again.

"He has joined the insurrection."

"Ah, it wanted only that! He has done us a great injury. The government
will imagine that we are all more or less implicated in his folly. But
is the thing certain?"

"There is no doubt whatever," and Mathilde read with a trembling voice
a passage from the letter. The husband seeing her so agitated left her,
and himself became thoughtful and gloomy.

The news spread from mouth to mouth over the city. Some refused to
believe it, while others rejoiced at it. Jacob had no warm friends, and
few were sorry for him.

The same evening Sofronof went in triumph to Muse.

"Well! He has joined the insurgents, this man that you accused me of
suspecting without motive!"

"You jest. Was he not the enemy of the revolution?"

"Yet he has enlisted under their banner. The Poles are all the same.
The sight of their eaglet always has an irresistible attraction for
them."

"It is nothing to me," replied Muse; "but I will not believe it without
more ample information."

Just then Henri Segel arrived and confirmed the news. He had a dejected
air, and was careful not to speak of the letter the colonel had had in
his hand that morning. He well knew that all suspicious letters were
read before the distribution of the post.

Mathilde's father also was much chagrined on hearing the news. Without
deep feeling, he had, nevertheless, a certain affection for his cousin.
Perhaps, also, he counted on him for restoring to health his daughter,
whom he saw daily fade before his eyes. Without saying anything, he
hastened to Mathilde at the hour when he was sure to find her alone.
The servant said to him that she was ill, and had given orders to admit
no one; but the father, using his authority, went straight to her
bedroom. He found her with disordered hair, eyes red with weeping, and
cheeks burning with fever. Mathilde was no longer the marble statue,
cold, resigned, impassable, inert.

At the sight of an unexpected visitor she blushed with the timidity of
a child. But her education had inculcated a respect, almost a
veneration, for her father, who had repelled all familiarity, all
confidence; she tried, with a forced smile, to conceal the violence of
her grief.

"I pity Jacob," said the father abruptly. "He courts his ruin; I wish
to save him."

"But how can you?" asked the daughter.

Samuel did not reply immediately. He took several steps about the room.
It cost him something to be, for the first time in his life, frank with
his child. Suddenly he stopped before her, and, looking at her fixedly,
said:--

"Your secret is known to me. Common sense has until now commanded me to
close my eyes. But the time has come to treat the wound by severe
cauterization. Now or never. You love Jacob, and he loves you. This
love has not died out. I believed that your childish affection would
disappear, but, contrary to my expectations, it has remained permanent,
and surpasses all my ideas of love. You are unhappy with Henri; he was
not made for you; his spirit is earthly, and yours is exalted in a high
degree."

"Nevertheless," said Mathilde, "I have nothing to say against Henri."

"You mean that he observes the proprieties; and yet he has let himself
be fascinated by Muse, who deceives and despoils him. Do you wish to
save Jacob? You can do it; you alone. I will arrange a divorce with
Henri. He is anxious for it. Give your consent, and the thing is done;
then I will marry you to Jacob, who will make you happy. You can live
in Italy, and in a few years, when the country is again peaceful, you
can return to Poland. I will obtain Jacob's amnesty; I have influence
enough for that."

Mathilde kissed her father's hand, and said:--

"Dear father, I have never seen you as you are today, so sympathetic
toward your child, so thoughtful for Jacob. Do not be angry, do not
tell me that I am foolish, but it is impossible."

"Why? Why?"

Mathilde replied with timidity:--

"I love him too well to throw myself in his arms. I, a poor faded
creature, broken and soiled by another. Do you understand me?"

"No! Truly! This is refinement which is beyond my comprehension, a
morbid sentimentality. You say you love him? The devil! What more do
you want?"

Mathilde, sighing, replied:--

"I have dreamed of a different kind of happiness."

"Give up these reveries, and content yourself with the reality. Do you
accept my proposition? Yes or no?"

"Read his letter," said she, drawing near to the lamp. "Here it is; I
will reply afterward."

Samuel took the letter, and commenced to read it attentively. Mathilde
retired to the next room, which was not lighted. She sank into
meditation. She was torn by two conflicting feelings: her unworthiness
of becoming Jacob's wife, and the desire to belong to the man she
loved. In her perplexity she seemed to hear an inner voice which said,
"Let your father decide." At the same time she accused herself of
weakness, and her heart beat violently.

"The letter," said her father, "confirms me in my opinion. You alone
can save him. A strange dreamer is your Jacob; but, after all, he
possesses that which most of us lack,--firm principles and profound
convictions. One esteems him in spite of one's self."

Not caring to appear in the full light, the young woman murmured in an
agitated voice:--

"I am proud of you, my father. Dispose of your child as you please."
Then she threw herself at his knees, and Samuel felt awaken in his
heart feelings which he had not believed himself capable of indulging.

Lifting her up tenderly, he said, smiling:--

"I will attend to the affair. Sit down and write to Jacob that you are
free. He has only to equip fifty or a hundred soldiers to replace him,
and excuse his retirement."

He spoke with a rapidity and warmth that surprised himself, and he
experienced a sensation of happiness altogether novel to him.

When his daughter had finished the letter, he kissed her tenderly, and
whispered in her ear:--

"Not a word of this to Henri. I will manage everything, and spare you
needless annoyance."

Soon after Samuel appeared at the _salon_ of the Wtorkowskas. The siren
was at the piano, surrounded by her Muscovite gallants, who, listening,
forgot their administrative cares. Under cover of a general movement,
he quietly drew near Madame Wtorkowska.

"I have something to say to you, madame," whispered he. "It is about an
important matter that concerns you."

"Very good!" replied she, rising and taking his arm. "Come to my room."

When they were alone, Samuel asked:--

"No one can hear us, I hope? I wish to speak to you with entire
frankness."

"Do as you would in your own house," replied she.

"To play a part is disagreeable to me, and so to open the matter I will
tell you, without reserve, that I know that you are ruined, dear
madame."

"Softly, softly!"

"Softly, softly! I am aware that your only fortune is your debts. Your
only hope is your daughter. To find a rich husband is not so easy. I am
sure that these are your opinions."

"We have several persons in view, monsieur."

"Who are they?"

"Count Bavorof."

"Bah! A Russian who has no fortune but his position. Beside, he is
married. His wife lives in Paris, and has no wish to be free, and in
Russia divorce can be obtained only by special influence. I do not
think you would be willing to give Muse to the count."

"What nonsense you are talking."

"Who next?"

"Colonel Sofronof is madly in love."

"In the Russian fashion. Sofronof lives by his appointments and thefts.
He possesses some land, mortgaged to its full value. Let him pass.
Next?"

"The counsellor of state, Pikulinski."

"What! that old fool?"

"For a husband it does not matter."

"That is true. In marriage, foolishness is at times a good quality; but
his little property is pledged to the Credit Foncier. Your counsellor
is a nobody. His emoluments are too slender. Another?"

Madame Wtorkowska sighed deeply. She was at the end of her list, for it
was hardly worth while to mention, after the counsellor, two petty
officials who possessed only their titles and their brilliant uniforms.
Naturally she dared not suggest Henri Segel to his father-in-law.

"Why, madame," replied Samuel, "are you lacking in sincerity, when I
come to chat with you in the most confidential manner?"

"And whence comes, monsieur, this suddenly friendly guardianship for my
daughter and myself?"

"Your question is logical. It may be possible that I am myself
interested in the affair, and that may be the cause of my solicitude to
serve you. Confess, then, with an open heart. Do not hesitate to
mention the name of my son-in-law, whom you have so entangled."

"What do you mean? I cannot shut my door on Monsieur Segel."

"I know your plans, dear lady," replied Samuel laughing. "Let us show
our cards and be friends. You have speculated--own it--on Mathilde's
phthisis. You have even wished that her physician would confirm your
hopes. Bitter deception! And during this time you have endeavoured to
ensnare Henri, and you have made an easy conquest. Now, listen to me,
madame. My daughter cannot be happy with him. I cede him to you. Take
him. Try and persuade him to demand a divorce; the initiative will
never come from Mathilde. You will have me for an accomplice. I give
him up freely. Do what you wish, provided you rid me of him. Do you now
understand the cause of my solicitude for you?"

Madame Wtorkowska was stupefied. She stood still a moment. Then her joy
overcame her. She threw her arms around Samuel's neck, and kissed him
several times; but, as he did not enjoy the caresses of elderly
matrons, he freed himself from her embraces, and said:--

"Twenty or twenty-five years ago this exuberance of affection on your
part would have charmed me. To-day it is too late. I am too old. What
do you think of my proposition?"

"Dear benefactor," replied she, wiping the perspiration from her face
with her handkerchief, "I cannot reply without consulting Emusia. In a
few moments my rooms will be empty; she will see you herself. Wait
here."

"With pleasure, madame; but I will light a cigar if you will permit
it."

"Ten if you wish," replied the mother, closing the door on Samuel.

There were still some visitors in the _salon_. She made a secret sign
to her daughter, and a few moments afterward Muse complained of a
headache. Her admirers regretfully took their hats and left the house.
The particulars of the interview were soon learned, and her delight was
equal to that of her mother.

Nevertheless, before going to meet Samuel, she assumed a calm and
dignified mien.

"Your mother has no doubt spoken of my proposition. Let us discuss,
then, without restraint," said Mathilde's father.

"But, monsieur, the subject is so delicate, so embarrassing, so
painful."

"Painful, mademoiselle, in what way? Not for you; nor for me, I think.
Delicate. Yes! Let us treat it with delicacy."

"I like Mathilde so much," said Muse.

"Then you will give her a real proof of your friendship by delivering
her of a husband who does not suit her, who will suit you, and who
loves you."

Muse tried to appear very much embarrassed.

"Dear mademoiselle," said Samuel, "we can dispense with acting; you can
gain nothing by it. I ask of you entire frankness. If you wish to
succeed, you must act. Make Henri believe that Sofronof is a dangerous
rival. I will tell everywhere that the colonel wishes to marry you at
any price. Henri will be in despair; then push him to the end of the
wall; exact a divorce, and advise him to take Mann for an intermediary
between him and me."

"That is admirably planned," cried Madame Wtorkowska.

"Yes, the plan is excellent," added Muse, putting aside all
embarrassment. "I am sure I shall play my part to the satisfaction of
its author."

"Well, I will be obliged to you if you do not make the play long. I am
anxious for the end."

"I will do my best."

"I do not doubt that you will accomplish wonders," said Samuel,
gallantly kissing her hand. "And now, mademoiselle, do not fail to tell
me if I can be in any way useful to you at any time."

He then took his leave. Madame Wtorkowska conducted him to the
antechamber, and then returned to throw herself in her daughter's arms.
She laughed and wept by turns for very joy. Muse was more quiet, but no
less delighted, and she passed part of the night making plans for the
morrow.

The news soon spread through their circle of acquaintances that
Mademoiselle Wtorkowska was soon to marry Colonel Sofronof. At first
Henri shrugged his shoulders; but he heard it from so many different
sources, with details added by this one and that one, that he grew
uneasy, and, wishing to hear the rumour denied, hastened to Muse.

She received him coldly, and was so reticent on the subject that it
seemed as if she were on her guard, and afraid of committing some
indiscretion.

Segel thought that there must be some truth in the rumour. He became
furiously angry, and the ingenious coquette soon brought about a
quarrel. He took his hat, and she did not detain him; but at the door
he paused, then returned, threw his hat on the floor, and seated
himself again, filled with wrath.

A violent scene ensued. Her mother appeared as the _deus ex machina_.
She reproached Henri with compromising her daughter, and called him
selfish and heartless. The comedy waxed pathetic. Finally, Henri had to
choose between a dismissal or a divorce. Vanquished and subdued, he
promised to take at once the steps required by them.

Muse then feigned to shed tears, and he tried to console her. Her
mother disappeared, leaving the lovers alone. Segel obtained some
kisses, and advice to take Monsieur Mann as an intermediary, and he
promised to see Mann at once. Mann, well instructed, at first resisted,
moralized, and deplored the situation, but ended by consenting.

And yet, when Henri returned home, he experienced a strange feeling of
repentance for his haste. Mathilde presented herself to his mind as
calm, sweet, and pure; Muse, on the contrary, under a menacing aspect.
The one he did not love, but esteemed; the other he loved, but did not
esteem. He loved her, if a passion which was entirely sensual merits
that name.

He saw himself in the future bound to a new companion, full of coquetry
and schemes, and endowed with an unendurable mother-in-law. He saw the
luxury with which he would have to surround them, and the slavery to
which he would be doomed. He shivered with dread at the very idea.
Unhappily for him, it was now too late to draw back.

Mathilde looked for an outburst the next morning at breakfast; but none
came. Henri was unusually reserved, almost timid; he looked at his
watch often, and under pretext of important business soon left the
house.

Mann came to dinner, and informed Segel of the happy result of his
negotiations. At table the couple, already morally divorced, seemed ill
at ease. Mathilde taciturn, Henri almost mute, let Mann and two other
guests do the talking. At dessert came Samuel, who amused the company
for some time with his witty sayings. On leaving the table he took his
daughter by the hand to lead her to the garden. He insisted on her
putting on her hat, saying the sun was yet warm; then he conducted her
to the street, where a carriage awaited them.

"My dear child," said the father, "we will take a short ride. It will
do you good, for the air is fresh and agreeable this evening." A
half-hour after, the carriage stopped at the door of her father's
house.

"Here," said he, embracing Mathilde, "is your home. You will not return
to Segel's. I have had your old room prepared for you."

The gordian knot was thus severed with the greatest simplicity. The
young woman saw no more of her former husband. Aided by the English
governess, she occupied herself with household cares. With what secret
satisfaction she renewed her former life! Her springtime revived. But
she was at times a prey to deep anxiety, for Jacob had not written
since his letter of farewell, and all traces of him were lost.

The revolution, contrary to all expectations, took on larger
proportions daily.

Owing to the assumed names which the chiefs and soldiers of the
insurrection bore, all steps to ascertain Jacob's whereabouts proved
fruitless.

Mathilde was almost in despair, yet she seemed to hear a voice say to
her:--

"God will give him back to you."

From that time she believed in God.

Each day she questioned her father, who, without giving her great
hopes, encouraged her not to despair. Weeks and months passed. At last,
early one morning, he entered her chamber, and, in spite of his
endeavours to conceal his feelings, appeared much agitated.

"Prepare to leave to-day," said he. "Jacob is at Cracow, wounded, but
not dangerously."

Mathilde gave a great cry, and fainted, but soon came to herself, and
on the morrow was with her father at the bedside of her beloved.




                               EPILOGUE.


In the year eighteen hundred and sixty-five a numerous company were
reunited at the Albergo della Grotta, where we will finish, as we have
begun, our veracious history.

To-day the company assumed a more cheerful aspect than at the first
meeting. It was composed only of persons whose appearance denoted
wealth or competence. Here were no unfortunates who fainted from want,
like poor Ivas, and on whose faces could be seen traces of misery and
care.

In the privileged corner of the grotto, near the murmuring fountain, a
sumptuous table was set for the most distinguished travellers.
Instinctively Firpo, the host, gave their titles in advance to Monsieur
le Comte and Madame la Comtesse. The choicest wines, the freshest
fruits, and a tablecloth whose snowy whiteness was only excelled by the
brilliancy of the polished silver knives, forks, and spoons, were for
them. The other tables were already occupied by the guests, here
singly, there in groups. All belonged to the class usually called
aristocratic, who lead an easy and luxurious life.

The day was warm; the blue Italian sky shone in all its splendour. The
sea sang its immortal symphony. The trees rustled harmoniously, the
laurels exhaled their perfumes, the golden oranges contrasted with the
dark green leaves, and the fresh sea-breeze sweetly refreshed the
limpid air.

Alone at a table a man was seated. He was the same who, some years
before, travelled this way in company with the sprightly dancer,
Gigante. But he was no longer in joyous humour. He was Henri Segel; but
how changed!

Equally isolated and bored we find our Tsigane, Stamlo Gako, whom the
reader has not forgotten. He is more yellow and blacker than ever, and
he has grown stout, heavy, and somnolent.

There is another solitary traveller. It is Gromof, who is not now
accompanied by the charming Lucie Coloni. He carries his head high, as
if to brave destiny. But his irritation betrays itself in every
movement. He amuses himself by making little balls of bread crumbs, and
throws out of the window the fruit that he has scarcely tasted.

These three do not converse. The Russian and the gypsy have met before,
as we have seen, but they do not care to renew the acquaintance. As for
Segel, he has never spoken with either Gromof or Gako.

A sumptuous equipage entered the court of the inn. The host and the
servants hastened to meet it. A lady filled the whole interior of the
vehicle with her white robe, and one scarcely perceived in one corner
hidden under the immense crinoline, which was then so fashionable, a
little, thin, withered-looking man.

They were no doubt husband and wife. She was in all the splendour of
her youth, charming, elegant, confident of her beauty, proud and
victorious. He, as one soon perceived, was the most humble servant of
her who bore his name and disposed of his fortune.

He jumped out of the carriage, and with all the manner and gallantry of
a young man, despite his fifty and odd years, presented his hand to his
queen to aid her to descend. She raised herself with indifference, and
gathered together the train of her rustling robe.

At sight of this beauty, whom he immediately recognized through the
window near which he dined, Henri rose as if he wished to avoid a
disagreeable meeting, but a retreat was impossible. To go out he must
necessarily pass them. He made an ironical grimace and reseated
himself.

The reader has recognized Muse, now actually Baroness Von Kreig, the
wife of a wealthy speculator, whose nationality was a mystery to all,
for he carefully concealed his Jewish origin. He did not give himself
out as a Pole, although living in Poland, but passed sometimes for a
Russian, oftener for a German. Where and how did he steal the title of
baron? No one knew. It might have been, said some, the recompense of a
great financial operation. He wore on his travelling coat several
ribbons and decorations.

The reader doubtless expected to hear of the marriage of Muse and
Henri, who were supposed to be so much attached to each other; but in
consequence of the fickleness and calculation of the lady, the marriage
had not come to pass. Henri, for her sake, had divorced his wife, had
proposed, been accepted, and passed for her future husband everywhere.
Muse introduced him to all her friends, and he was proud of his
betrothed. It was then that the Baron Von Kreig met the enchantress on
the street. He had known the mother of old, but avoided her because she
had the bad habit of borrowing money which she always forgot to return.
The baron had just lost his second wife, and he required for his third,
above all, good health. He was struck with the blooming beauty of Muse,
and fell in love at first sight. The next day he went to pay her a
visit. Muse immediately coolly sat down, when she was alone, and
compared him with Henri. Von Kreig was ten times richer, a baron, and
could introduce her into the most brilliant circles of society. He was
well educated, and, although old and dried up, was an excellent match.
Muse put forth all her powers of fascination, and soon succeeded in
bringing the baron to her feet. The marriage with Henri was delayed
under pretext that the lace had not arrived from Paris. In the
meanwhile the baron gained over the mother by consenting without demur
to the most advantageous settlements for the daughter, imposed by
Madame Wtorkowska. The engagement was accomplished quietly. Then there
remained the rather unpleasant task of breaking with Henri, who
believed himself master of the situation, and laughed at the attentions
of the baron.

It puzzled even the genius of these two women to find a plausible or
decent excuse for the rupture. In the intervals of his life, as a
betrothed between the acts, as it were, Segel sought distraction at the
theatre. He was tied to the gauzy apron-strings of a sylph, or, in
plain words, a danseuse. This connection had lasted for more than two
years, and the evenings away from Muse were passed with the beautiful
danseuse. He made no secret of it, and his carriage was often seen at
the door of the ballet-girl's dwelling. It was with this, as a pretext,
that Madame Wtorkowska sought to break the engagement. In vain Segel
asked for pardon. He was dismissed, and received back the ring he had
given Muse. For this engagement ring he had paid ten thousand francs,
in Paris. It was a superb solitaire surrounded with smaller diamonds,
each half a carat in weight. It was shown, as if by accident, to the
baron; he felt the sacrifice, and with noble emulation Von Kreig
replaced it by another which cost thirty thousand francs.

Segel stormed, but the baron solemnly conducted Muse to the altar. The
newly married couple started on a wedding trip, which was to be the
grand tour of Europe, including all the large cities, baths, and
fashionable resorts.

The blackest ingratitude awaited Madame Wtorkowska. Her son-in-law paid
her debts, and settled on her a beggarly pension; then took his leave
courteously, and forbade more than rare communications with her
daughter. The poor woman, who had calculated on managing everything,
travelling with them, and spending money lavishly, prayed, begged, and
threatened. The baron was inexorable, and replied by silence only. The
daughter sacrificed her mother with Roman stoicism, playing the part of
a humble and obedient wife.

Madame was at first disheartened and fell ill; then, as one must live,
she rented an apartment in the faubourg, and, to augment her income,
set up an _ecarte_, taking care always to have around her many pleasing
young women to add to the attractions of the place. The house soon
became well known, although no one cared to avow openly that they
visited it. Sofronof, Bavorof, and others remained faithful to the
unfortunate.

As may be supposed, this meeting between Muse and Henri at the inn was
equally distasteful to both. The moment the baroness entered the grotto
her eyes fell on her old lover. Notwithstanding her usual presence of
mind, she was confused. More master of the situation, Segel saluted her
respectfully, and smiled bitterly.

At the same time there arrived another couple. They were quietly
dressed, yet with a certain distinction which is not always, as some
think, an exclusive possession of birth. They were the distinguished
guests expected by the host, Jacob and Mathilde. They came in, thinking
themselves unknown. The husband was relating his first visit to this
fairy grotto; the wife replied laughing. The sound of her voice came to
Henri's ears; he believed it at first a hallucination; he listened
attentively, and could not doubt the reality of his first impression.

There seemed to him a strange fatality in this simultaneous meeting of
the two persons, one of whom recalled his lost peace, the other his
vanished hopes. He could not see Mathilde, and the sound of her
well-known voice seemed to descend from the clouds. Curious to know if
it were she, he went to the end of the grotto, where, in an isolated
corner, Jacob dined with her. She seemed rejuvenated, and her face
shone with happiness. Her husband kissed her hands, believing himself
unobserved.

Segel experienced a feeling of wrath; his lips curled under a sardonic
smile.

"All happy!" said he. "And I"--

Then he returned to his place. The silvery voice of Madame Jacob
attracted the attention of the baroness also, and she, likewise, drew
near under pretext of examining the grotto. She gave a cry of surprise.
The couple turned and recognized Muse, who tenderly greeted the old
friend whom she had so often wished dead.

"Ah, my dear Mathilde," cried she, "what a happy and unexpected
meeting!"

Truly it was a romantic encounter, rarely met with in real life.
Chance, however, often plays us tricks altogether unforeseen.

Mathilde did not share the apparent joy of Muse, for whom she had no
great affection. But their acquaintance dated back to the time when
they both wore short dresses, and the remembrances of childhood are
always pleasant.

The proprieties required observance, and Jacob had his table carried to
the grand _salon_, where their friends were dining; he certainly did
not expect to see Henri Segel, and Mathilde saw him first. She drew
back, for all her involuntary unhappy experience with Henri appeared
before her. Her husband, although much annoyed, encouraged her to shake
off her distress.

Segel understood that his presence was disagreeable to all; therefore
it pleased him to impose it. It delighted him to see all countenances
grow pale and abstracted at sight of him. He affected a cynical gayety,
drank a glass of wine, lighted a cigar, then turned toward Jacob and
Mathilde.

With well-simulated indifference Muse watched the meeting. Her husband,
playing the young man, had risen quickly and received his wife's
friends with much courtesy. He was very polite to Jacob, and entirely
ignored the revolutionary role that he had played.

Von Kreig detested Henri, but he deemed it proper for a baron to
disguise his sentiments, and he was very courteous to his vanquished
rival. The scene was highly dramatic. There was no outward appearance
of excitement, however, for men of the world do not show their feelings
in public.

Gromof, roused from his meditations, looked around and perceived Jacob.

"How strange," said he, "to meet you again at Sestri."

"Yes," replied the latter, "a real accident. I am the same as ever, you
see, but not so gay as then."

The baron asked in a low voice:--

"Who is this person?"

"A Russian," replied Jacob.

Von Kreig, taking Gromof for a prominent official of the imperial
court, was going to ask for an introduction, when Jacob whispered in
his ear:--

"An outlaw."

The baron drew back and, as he was a strict conservative, thought:--

"What kind of company have we fallen in with, anyway?" Then he said to
Jacob:--

"Madame and yourself are travelling for pleasure, are you not?"

"We are obliged to leave Poland," replied Jacob. "I joined the
revolutionists, was wounded and was taken to Austria, whence orders
came for me to leave the country. My wife and I seek a retreat where we
may dwell peacefully. It is not so easy to find. Nowhere in Europe,
except in Switzerland or England, is there much security for exiles. In
Saxony they are given leave to remain only temporarily. In Bavaria they
are not given leave to remain at all. In France an arbitrary expulsion,
authorized by the law, always like the sword of Damocles, is suspended
over their heads; and in Belgium they are also unwelcome."

"But I think, monsieur, that you can better your position. The Russian
government is magnanimous; it has proclaimed a general amnesty."

"Yes, I could have obtained that amnesty by solicitation. Unfortunately
the pardon granted to-day does not always do for to-morrow. In Russia
the despotism of caprice is the only law."

Von Kreig frowned.

"The state of siege exists now," said he, "but will not last always."

"To ask permission to return is to avow a fault," said Jacob, "and to
return to Poland now would be to act against my conscience."

The baron knew not how to reply. Gromof relieved him of this
embarrassment by joining in the conversation.

"I told you," said he to Jacob, "what would be the result of your
insurrection."

"Yes, but it could not be avoided. It was written that Poland should be
bathed in blood. It was a trial or a chastisement of Providence; it is
not for me to say which."

"You still believe in Providence? What an incorrigible child! All
Europe suffers from your folly. You have revealed to the world the
weakness of England, the nullity of the imperial government of Napoleon
III., and the abasement of the moral level of all society. Formerly
other countries at least sympathized with nations that were so
oppressed, and looked with disfavour upon the cruel tyrants who caused
such suffering. Under Louis Philippe France did nothing for Poland, but
the two chambers at least protested against her being utterly crushed.
To-day policy reigns, and they bow before superior force. Formerly many
hearts beat at the words 'liberty' and 'fraternity.' To-day these words
provoke only a smile. Lord Byron, when he risked his life for the
independence of Greece, passed for a Don Quixote. And the country of
these heroes has legislators who pretend that humanity is not a family,
that there is no union among the people. Every one for himself! Every
one for himself! Behold a summary of the actual moral situation!
Neither you nor I will ever see the sun of liberty!"

Von Kreig, terrified, whispered in his wife's ear:--

"This Russian is a red revolutionist."

Henri interposed. He changed the subject of the conversation, and from
Poland passed to the Jews. Segel maintained that the Israelites ought
to profit by the situation of things, without caring what became of
Poland. Jacob held to his opinion that it was better to be with the
oppressed against the oppressors. Segel, laughing heartily, replied:--

"This is romantic, poetic, heroic, magnificent; but it is not
practical."

"Whatever you may think," replied Jacob, "it is our duty to convince
the Christians that our morals are not inferior to theirs, that love of
one's neighbour is taught in our books as in their Gospels, and that
between the Mosaic law and the Christian law there is accord and not
contradiction."

"Words, empty words," said Henri, "nothing but words! Material interest
should be the motive of nations as well as individuals. Liberty,
equality, fraternity are a triple aberration of mind! Behold their
result: fields strewn with dead men and bones!"

"Yes; but the dead will rise, the bones will be reanimated as in the
vision of Ezekiel."

Jacob commenced to recite the passage, then, remarking that no one
listened to him, turned gayly to his wife and asked:--

"Is not Italy beautiful?"

"It never seemed so lovely before," replied Mathilde tenderly.

"And what do you think of it, madame?" asked he of the baroness.

"Bah!" replied she. "I suppose one must conform to the fashion and
admire Italy. It is a picturesque country; but, all things considered,
this land filled with tombs and ruins has nothing agreeable for me.
Prosaic as it is, I prefer Paris."

"Now, I do not like Paris," said Jacob.

"Is it permitted not to like Paris?" cried Von Kreig. "You are joking,
monsieur."

"Not at all. The same places do not suit all characters or all
dispositions. To dreamy and poetic temperaments I recommend Italy;
Germany, to those who are positive and prosaic; England, to men of
enterprise and activity; and Paris, to high livers, and to ladies who
love the excitements and gayeties of society."

"And Poland?" asked Henri.

"To those who thirst for martyrdom," replied Jacob sadly.

"But now-a-days every one laughs at these Polish theories of suffering
and of sacrifice!"

"Oh, dear and charming Paris!" cried the baroness.

"One vegetates elsewhere, one lives only in Paris," added her husband,
"and perhaps a little in London."

"Do not compare London with its fogs to my dear Paris," replied his
wife.

In the midst of this desultory chatting Henri remained obstinately
near, until the veturino which he had ordered was announced. He could
not deny himself the bitter pleasure of seeing side by side her who had
been his wife, and her who was to have been. He seemed unable to leave
the place.

Meanwhile the dinner drew to a close. The dessert was brought in,
consisting of figs, spoiled pears, green grapes, and musty peaches.

"No comparison is possible," said the baron, "between these wretched
fruits and the delicious fruits we get at Paris."

"These are horrible!" added his wife, biting into the bad part of a
peach. Then she turned to Mathilde and asked her if she should return
to Genoa.

"Yes; but not until evening," she replied.

"Well, we must make haste, for we are going to the theatre," said Muse.

They all arose from the table. The baron offered cigars to Jacob and
Henri Segel, but he hastened to quit their society. One appeared to be
compromising, the other altogether odious.

Gromof and the Tsigane chatted together. Muse drew Mathilde into an
obscure corner of the grotto to ask her this question:--

"Are you happy?"

"Above all expression," replied she. "I have only one sorrow,--to see
our native land in such an unhappy condition."

"And Jacob?"

"He is the best of men; he is my ideal."

"What do you think of that horrid Henri?"

"I had to summon all my courage when he looked at me so fixedly, a cold
sweat came on my forehead. He is capable of killing both of us."

"No! He is not susceptible of so violent an emotion. We ought to pardon
him, for he suffers keenly."

"Oh, no! I know better than that. He will easily console himself."

The baron was impatient to depart, and coughed to bring back his wife
from the grotto. At last the two friends separated, saying farewell,
and Muse bowed to Henri from the distance, with a grave dignity. The
brilliant star entered her carriage and disappeared in a cloud of dust
on the highway. Jacob conducted his wife to her room in the inn and
descended to the grotto.

Gromof and the Tsigane came to talk with him. The Russian saw the
future outlook dark and gloomy. Jacob was rather optimistic.

"Man," said he, "ought never to abandon himself to despair. If he
object to his own individual lot, it is narrow-minded and weak. If he
complain of the lot of humanity, it is blindness or error. In the
annals of the world human events are submitted to a normal development,
an intelligent fatality which is not arrested by the stupidity and
malevolence of men. The law of destiny, whatever we may do, will
prevail. Patience, and the storm will disappear."

"And we,--we cannot expect to live to see the sun appear!"

"Our children will see it, perhaps. In the collective existence of
humanity there is a cohesion of facts which do not exist in the same
individual existences. Individuals are only the stones of a vast
edifice."

"You are a happy man from all points of view," declared Henri. "You
have faith in the aim of life, you possess serenity of soul; nothing is
lacking."

"And you? Can you not acquire the same happiness?"

"No. I have squeezed life like a lemon. There remains to me only the
bitter peel. I exist aimlessly; I believe in nothing; everything seems
to me senseless or ridiculous. It is the malady of the age. Your dreams
are worth more than the reality."

"They are not dreams. For me it is the living reality. Your materialism
is what is false. You will soon return to Poland; there is much to do
there. Do your duty there, and life will have a new meaning for you."

Henri laughed ironically and said:--

"In the meanwhile I have another work on hand. I am going to attach
myself to Muse. I shall follow her everywhere. She will see
continuously my mocking face. I will be the skeleton at the feast, and
I will enjoy this revenge to satiety. Every one to his taste! I really
believe that Satan cradled me, and that this nurse has injected into my
blood some of his own character."

He gave an infernal laugh, took his hat, and left them, saying:--

"I will join Muse at the theatre."



                                THE END.








End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Jew, by Joseph Ignatius Kraszewski

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