Soloveitchik stood at the door for some time, looking up to the
starless sky and rubbing his thin fingers.
The wind whistled round the gloomy tin-roofed sheds, bending the tree-
tops that were huddled together like a troop of ghosts. Overhead, as if
driven by some resistless force, the clouds raced onward, ever onward.
They formed black masses against the horizon, some being piled up to
insuperable heights. It was as though, far away in the distance, they
were awaited by countless armies that, with sable banners all unfurled,
had gone forth in their dreadful might to some wild conflict of the
elements. From time to time the restless wind seemed to bring with it
the clamour of the distant fray.
With childish awe Soloveitchik gazed upwards. Never before had he felt
how small he was, how puny, how almost infinitesimal when confronted
with this tremendous chaos.
“My God! My God!” he sighed.
In the presence of the sky and the night he was not the same man as
when among his fellows. There was not a trace of that restless, awkward
manner, now; the unsightly teeth were concealed by the sensitive lips
of a youthful Jew in whose dark eyes the expression was grave and sad.
He went slowly indoors, extinguished an unnecessary lamp, and clumsily
set the table and the chairs in their places again. The room was still
full of tobacco-smoke, and the floor was covered with cigarette ends
and matches.
Soloveitchik at once fetched a broom and began to sweep out the rooms,
for he took a pride in keeping his little home clean and neat. Then he
got a bucket of water from a cupboard, and broke bread into it.
Carrying this in one hand, the other being outstretched to maintain his
balance, he walked across the yard, taking short steps. In order to see
better, he had placed a lamp close to the window, yet it was so dark in
the yard that Soloveitchik felt relieved when he reached the dog’s
kennel. Sultan’s shaggy form, invisible in the gloom, advanced to meet
him, and a chain rattled ominously.
“Ah! Sultan! Kusch! Kusch!” exclaimed Soloveitchik, in order to give
himself courage. In the darkness, Sultan thrust his cold, moist nose
into his master’s hand.
“There you are!” said Soloveitchik, as he set down the bucket.
Sultan sniffed, and began to eat voraciously, while his master stood
beside him and gazed mournfully at the surrounding gloom.
“Ah! what can I do?” he thought. “How can I force people to alter their
opinions? I myself expected to be told how to live, and how to think.
God has not given me the voice of a prophet, so, in what way can I
help?”
Sultan gave a grunt of satisfaction.
“Eat away, old boy, eat away!” said Soloveitchik. “I would let you
loose for a little run, but I haven’t got the key, and I’m so tired.”
Then to himself, “What clever, well-informed people those are! They
know such a lot; good Christians, very likely; and here am I…. Ah!
well, perhaps it’s my own fault. I should have liked to say a word to
them, but I didn’t know how to do it.”
From the distance, beyond the town, there came the sound of a long,
plaintive whistle. Sultan raised his head, and listened. Large drops
fell from his muzzle into the pail.
“Eat away,” said Soloveitchik, “That’s the train!”
Sultan heaved a sigh.
“I wonder if men will ever live like that! Perhaps they can’t,” said
Soloveitchik aloud, as he shrugged his shoulders, despairingly. There,
in the darkness he imagined that he could see a multitude of men, vast,
unending as eternity, sinking ever deeper in the gloom; a succession of
centuries without beginning and without end; an unbroken chain of
wanton suffering for which remedy there was none; and, on high, where
God dwelt, silence, eternal silence.
Sultan knocked against the pail, and upset it. Then, as he wagged his
tail, the chain rattled slightly.
“Gobbled it all up, eh?”
Soloveitchik patted the dog’s shaggy coat and felt its warm body writhe
in joyous response to his touch. Then he went back to the house.
He could hear Sultan’s chain rattle, and the yard seemed less gloomy
than before, while blacker and more sinister was the mill with its tall
chimney and narrow sheds that looked like coffins. From the window a
broad ray of light fell across the garden, illuminating in mystic
fashion the frail little flowers that shrank beneath the turbulent
heaven with its countless banners, black and ominous, unfolded to the
night.
Overcome by grief, unnerved by a sense of solitude and of some
irreparable loss, Soloveitchik went back into his room, sat down at the
table, and wept.