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."