CHAPTER IX

The day had scarcely begun to dawn when, in Kamionker's house,

everybody, with the exception of the little children, was awake and

stirring. It was an important day for the landlord of the inn, as it

was that of the principal fair, which brought crowds of people of all

sorts to the town. Both Jankiel's daughters, two strong, plain, and

slatternly girls, with the help of the boy Mendel, whose stupid,

malicious face bore the traces of Reb Moshe's training, were busy

preparing the two guest rooms for the arrival of distinguished

customers. Next to the guest rooms was the large bar-room, where,

during the fair, crowds of country people were wont to drink and to

dance. The servant pretended to clean the benches around the wall,

and made a scanty fire in the great black stove, as the morning was

cool and the air damp and musty. In Jankiel's room, the first from

the entrance, the window of which looked upon the still empty

market-square, were two people, Jankiel and his wife Jenta, both at

their morning prayers.

Jankiel, dressed his everyday gabardine with black kerchief twisted

round his neck, rocked his body violently and prayed in a loud voice:

"Blessed be the Lord of the world that he hath not made me a heathen!

Blessed be the Lord that he hath not made me a slave! Blessed be the

Lord that he hath not made me a woman!"

At the same time Jenta, dressed in a blue sleeveless jacket and short

skirt, bent her body in short, jerky motions, and in a voice much

lower than her husband's, began:

"Blessed be the Lord of the world that he has made me according to

his will!"

Rocking to and fro, she sighed heavily:

"Blessed be the Lord who gives strength to the tired and drives away

from their eyes sleep and weariness!"

Then Jankiel took up the white tallith with the black border, and,

wrapping himself in its soft folds, exclaimed:

"Blessed be the Lord who enlightened us with his law and bade us to

cover ourselves with the tallith!"

He put the philacteries, or holy scroll, upon his forehead and

wrists, saying:

"I betroth myself for ever, betroth myself unto truth, unto the

everlasting grace."

Both husband and wife were so absorbed in their prayers that they did

not hear the quick step of a man.

Meir Ezofowich crossed the room where Jankiel and his wife were

praying, and the next, which was full of beds and trunks, where the

two smaller children were still asleep, and opened the door of his

friend's room.

There was as yet only a dim light in the little apartment where

Eliezer stood at the window and prayed. He recognised his friend's

step, but did not interrupt his prayers, only raised his hands as if

inviting him to join:

"O Lord of Hosts, how long wilt thou be angry against the prayer of

thy people?"

Meir stood a few steps apart and responded, as the people respond to

the singer:

"Thou feedest them with the bread of stones, and givest them tears to

drink in great measure."

"Thou makest us a strife unto our neighbours, and our enemies laugh

among themselves," intonated Eliezer.

In this way the two friends sang one of the most beautiful complaints

that ever rose from earth to heaven. Every word is a tear, every word

a melody expressing the tragic history of a great people.

There were as different expressions in the faces of the two young men

as their characters were unlike each other. Eliezer's blue eyes were

full of tears, his delicate features full of dreaminess and rapture;

Meir stood erect, his burning eyes fixed on the sky, and his brow

contracted as if in anger. They both prayed from the depths of their

hearts until the end, and then their formally united souls parted.

Eliezer intoned a prayer for the Wise Men of Israel:

"O Lord of heaven! guard and watch over the Wise Men of Israel, their

wives, children and disciples, always and everywhere! Say unto me

Amen!"

Meir did not say Amen. He was silent.

The singer seemed to wait for a response, when Meir, slightly raising

his voice, said, with quivering lips:

"Guard, O Lord, and watch over our brethren in Israel that live in

sin and darkness, always and everywhere; bring them from darkness

into light, from bondage to freedom! Say unto me Amen!"

"Amen!" exclaimed Eliezer, turning towards his friend; and their

hands met in a hearty grasp.

"Eliezer," said Meir, "you look changed since I saw you last."

"And you, Meir, look different."

Only a week had passed over their heads. Sometimes one week means as

much as ten years.

"I have suffered much during the week," whispered the singer.

Meir did not complain.

"Eliezer," he said, "give me 'More Nebuchim.' I came to you so early

to ask for that book. I want it very much."

Eliezer stood with his head hanging down dejectedly.

"I no longer have the book," he said, in a low voice.

"Where is it?" asked Meir.

"The book which brought us light and comfort is no more. The fire has

devoured it, and its ashes are scattered to the winds."

"Eliezer!" burst out Meir, "have you got frightened and burned it?"

"My hands could never have committed the deed; even had my mouth

commanded it, they would not have obeyed. A week ago my father came

to me in great fury and ordered me to give up the accursed book we

had been reading on the meadow. He shouted at me, 'Have you that

book?' I said, 'I have.' He then asked me, 'Where is it?' I remained

silent. He looked as if he would have liked to beat me, but did not

dare, on account of my position in the synagogue, and the love people

bear me. He then ransacked the whole room, and at last found it under

the pillow. He wanted to carry it to the Rabbi, but I knelt before

him and begged him not to do so, as he would not allow me to sing any

more, and would deprive me of people's love, and of my singing.

Father seemed struck by my remark, for he is proud that a son of his,

and one so young in years, holds such a position, and he thinks,

also, that, when his son sings and prays before the Lord, the Lord

will prosper him in his business, and forgive all his sins. So he did

not take the book to the Rabbi, but thrust it into the fire, and,

when it burned and crackled, he leaped and danced for joy."

"And you, Eliezer, you looked on and did nothing?"

"What could I do?" whispered the singer.

"I should have put the book on my breast, protected it with my arms,

and said to my father, 'If you wish to burn it, burn me with it.'"

Meir said this with indignation, almost anger, against his friend.

Eliezer stood before him with downcast eyes, sad, and humbled.

"I could not," he whispered. "I was afraid they would deprive me of

my office, and denounce me as an infidel. But look at me, Meir, and

judge from it how I loved our Master; since he was taken away from me

my face has shrunk, and my eyes are red with tears."

"Oh, tears! tears! tears!" exclaimed Meir, throwing himself upon a

chair, and pressing his throbbing temples with both hands; "always

those tears and tears!" he repeated, with a half-sarcastic,

half-sorrowful voice. "You may weep for ever, and do no good either

to yourself or to others. Eliezer! I love you even as a brother; but

I do not like your tears, and do not care to look at your reddened

eyes. Eliezer, do not show me tears again; show me eyes full of fire.

The people love you, and would follow you like a child its mother."

Scolding and upbraiding his friend, Meir's eyes betrayed a moisture

which, not wishing to betray, he buried his face in both hands.

"Oh, Eliezer, what have you done to give up that book? Where shall we

go now for advice and comfort? Where shall we find another teacher?

The flames have consumed the soul of our souls, and the ashes have

been thrown to the winds. If the spirit of the Master sees it he will

say, 'My people have cursed me again,'" and tears dropped through his

fingers upon the rough deal table.

Suddenly he stopped his laments, and, changing his position, fell

into a deep reverie.

Eliezer opened the window.

The sandy ground of the market-square seemed divided in long slanting

paths of red and gold by the rays of the rising sun. Along one of

these shining paths, towards Kamionker's house, came a powerful

bare-footed man. His heavy step sounded near the window where the two

young men were sitting. Meir raised his head; the man had already

passed, but a short glimpse of the matted red hair and swollen face

was enough for Meir to identify him as the carrier, Johel.

A few minutes later two men dressed in black passed near the window.

One of them was tall, stately, and smiling; the other, slightly

stooping, had iron-gray hair and a wrinkled brow. They were Morejne

Calman and Abraham Ezofowich. Evidently they had not crossed the

square, but passed along the back streets almost stealthily, as if to

avoid being seen. Both disappeared in the entrance of Kamionker's

house, where Johel had preceded them.

Eliezer looked up from the book which he had been reading.

"Meir," he said, "why do you look so stern? I have never seen you

look so stern before."

Meir did not seem to have heard his friend's remark. His eyes were

fixed upon the floor, and he murmured:

"My uncle Abraham! My uncle Abraham! Woe to our house. Shame to the

house of Ezofowich!"

In the next room, divided from Eliezer's by a thin wall, loud voices

and bustle were audible. Jankiel shouted at his wife to go away and

take the children with her. Jenta's low shoes clattered upon the

floor, and the suddenly-roused children began to squall. By degrees

the noise sounded fainter and farther off. Then the floor resounded

with the steps of men, chairs were drawn together, and a lively

discussion in low but audible voices began.

Meir suddenly rose.

"Eliezer," he whispered, "let us go away."

"Why should we go away?" said the young man, raising his head from

the book.

"Because the walls are thin," began Meir.

He did not finish, for from the other side of the wall came the

violent exclamation from his uncle Abraham:

"I do not know anything about that; you did not tell me, Jankiel."

The mirthless, bilious cackle of Jankiel interrupted. "I know a thing

or two," he exclaimed; "I knew that you, Abraham, would not easily

agree to it. I shall manage that without your help."

"Hush!" hissed Calman. The voices dropped again to a whisper.

"Eliezer, go away!" insisted Meir.

The singer did not seem to understand. "Eliezer! do you want to

honour your father, as it is commanded from Sinai?"

Kamionker's son sighed.

"I pray to Jehovah that I may honour him." Meir grasped him by the

hand.

"Then go at once--go! if you stop here any longer you will never be

able to honour your father again!" He spoke so impressively that

Eliezer grew pale and began to tremble.

"How can I go now, if they are discussing secrets there?"

The voice of Jankiel became again distinctly audible:

"The tailor Shmul is desperately poor; the driver Johel is a thief.

Both will be well paid."

"And the peasants who carted the spirit?" asked Abram.

Jankiel laughed.

"They are safe; their souls and bodies and everything that belongs to

them is pledged to my innkeepers."

"Hush!" whispered again the phlegmatic, therefore cautious, Kalman.

Eliezer trembled more and more. A ray of light had pierced his dreamy

brain.

"Meir! Meir!" he whispered, "how can I get away? I am afraid to cross

the room; they might think I had overheard their secrets."

With one hand Meir pushed the table from the window, and with the

other helped his friend to push through. In a second Eliezer had

disappeared from the room. Meir drew himself up and murmured:

"I will show myself now, and let them know that somebody has

overheard their conversation."

Then he opened the low door and entered into the next room. There,

near the wall, on three chairs closely drawn together, sat three men.

A small table stood between them. Kalman, in his satin garment,

looked calm and self-possessed. Jankiel and Abraham rested their

elbows on the table. The first was red with excitement and his eyes

glittered with malicious, greedy light; the latter looked pale and

troubled, and kept his eyes fixed on the floor; but nothing was

capable of disturbing the smiling equanimity of Kalman. When Meir

entered the room, he heard distinctly his uncle's words:

"And if the whole place burns down with the spirit vaults?"

"Ah! ah!" sneered Jankiel, "what does it matter? One more Edomite

will become a beggar!"

Here the speaker stopped and began to quiver as if with rage or

terror; he saw Meir coming into the room. His two companions also saw

him. Kalman's mouth opened wide. Abraham looked threatening, but his

eyes fell before the bold, yet sorrowful glance of his nephew, and

his hands began to tremble.

Meir slowly crossed the room and entered into the next, where Johel

stood near the stove staring absently at his bare toes.

Jankiel sent a malediction after the retreating figure; the two

others were silent.

"Why did you bring us in such an unsafe place?" asked Kalman at last,

in his even voice.

"Why did you not warn us that somebody might hear from the other side

of the wall?" asked Abraham impetuously. Jankiel explained that it

was his son's room, who did not know anything about business and

never paid the slightest attention to what was going on around him.

"How should I know that cursed lad was there? He must have entered

like a thief, through the window. Well!" he said, after a while,

"what does it matter if he heard? He is an Israelite, one of us, and

dare not betray his own people."

"He may dare," repeated Kalman; "but we will keep an eye on him, and

if he as much as breathes a syllable of what he heard we will crush

him."

Abraham rose.

"You may do what you like," he said impulsively. "I wash my hands of

the whole business."

Jankiel eyed him with a malicious expression.

"Very well," he said, "in that case there will be all the more for us

two. Those who risk will get the money."

Abraham sat down again. His nervous face betrayed the inward

struggle. Jankiel, who had a piece of chalk in his hand, began

writing on a black tablet:

"Eight thousand gallons of spirit at four roubles the gallon make

thirty-two thousand roubles. These divided into three make ten

thousand six hundred and sixty-six roubles sixty-six and one third

kopecks. Six hundred roubles to each of the two, Johel and Shmul, and

there remains for each of us ten thousand and sixty-six roubles,

sixty-six and one third kopecks."

Abraham rose again. He did not speak, but twisted his handkerchief

convulsively with both hands, Then he raised his eyes and asked:

"And when will it come off?"

"It will come off very soon," said Jankiel.

Abraham said nothing further, and without saying good-bye, swiftly

left the room.

The large market-square showed signs of life. Long strings of carts

and people began to arrive from all directions. Inside the houses and

shops everybody was busy preparing for the day's business.

In Ezofowich's house the inmates had risen earlier than usual to-day.

The part of the home occupied by Raphael and Ber with their families

resounded with gay and lively conversation. Various objects of trade,

with their corresponding money value, were mentioned. Sometimes the

calculations were interrupted by remarks in feminine voices, which

occasioned laughter or gay exclamations. Everything showed the peace

and contentment of people who strove after the well-being of their

families and lived in mutual confidence and harmony.

The large sitting-room smelt of pine branches, which were scattered

upon the even more than usually clean floor. On the old-fashioned,

high-backed sofa, before a table spread with fine linen, sat old Saul

and sipped his fragrant tea. The huge samovar had been taken down

from the cupboard and gleamed with red coals and hissed and steamed

in the next room, where a large kitchen fire illuminated the long

table and white, scrubbed benches. The steaming of the samovar, the

great kitchen fire and fresh curtains everywhere, together with the

unusual stir of all the inmates, showed distinctly that many visitors

were expected and preparations made accordingly.

But it was yet early in the day, and Saul sat alone, evidently

relishing the atmosphere of well-being and orderliness and the sounds

of the busy life filling the house from top to basement. It was one

of those moments, not by any means rare in Saul's life, when he

realised the many blessings which the Lord had bestowed upon his

house with which to gladden his old age.

Suddenly the door opened and Meir entered. The happy expression

vanished from Saul's wrinkled face. The sight of his grandson

reminded him of the thorn which lurked amidst the flowers. The very

look of the young man acted as a false or stormy discord in a gay and

peaceful melody. Trouble was depicted on his pale face, and his eyes

looked indignant and angry. He entered boldly and quickly, but

meeting the eyes of his grandfather, he bent his head and his step

became slower. Formerly he was wont to approach his father and

benefactor with the confidence and tenderness of a favourite child.

Now he felt that between him and the old man there arose a barrier,

which became higher and stronger every day, and his heart yearned for

the lost love and for a kind look from the old man, who now met his

eyes with a stern and angry face. He approached him timidly,

therefore, and said in a sad, entreating voice:

"Zeide! I should like to speak with you about important business."

The humble attitude of the once favourite child mollified the old

man; he looked less stern, and said shortly but gently: "Speak out."

"Zeide, permit me to shut the door and windows so that nobody hears

what I have to say."

"Shut them," replied Saul, and he waited with troubled face for the

grandson to begin.

After closing the door and windows Meir came close to his grandfather

and began:

"Zeide! I know that my words will bring you trouble and sorrow, but I

have nobody to go to; you were to me father and mother, and when in

trouble I come to you." His voice shook perceptibly.

The grandfather softened.

"Tell me everything. Though I have reason to be angry with you,

because you are not what I should like to see you, I cannot forget

that you are the son of my son who left me so early. If you have

troubles I will take them from you; if anybody has wronged you I will

stand up for you and punish him."

These words soothed and comforted the young man.

"Zeide!", he said, in a bolder tone, "thanks to you I have no

troubles of my own, and nobody has wronged me; but I have come across

a terrible secret, and do not know what to do with it, as I cannot

keep it concealed. I thought I would tell you, so that you, Zeide,

with the authority of your gray hair, might prevent a great crime and

a great shame."

Saul looked at his grandson half-anxiously, half-curiously.

"It is better people should not know any secrets or trouble about

any; but I know that if you do not speak to me, you will speak to

someone else, and troubles might come from it. Say, then, what is

this terrible secret?"

Meir answered

"This is the secret: Jankiel Kamionker, as you know, zeide, rents the

distillery from the lord of Kamionka. He distilled during the season

six thousand gallons of spirits, but did not sell any as prices were

low. Now prices have risen and he wants to sell; but he does not want

to pay the high government taxes."

"Speak lower," interrupted Saul, whose face betrayed great

uneasiness.

Meir lowered his voice almost to a whisper.

"In order not to pay the taxes Kamionker last night carted away all

the spirits to the Karaite's hill, where his innkeepers from all

parts came to bargain for it and buy it up. But he thought what would

become of him if the government officials came down to visit the

vaults and did not find the spirits--he would be held answerable and

punished. Then he hired two people. Zeide! he tempted two miserable

outcasts to--"

"Hush!" exclaimed Saul, in a low voice. "Be quiet; do not say a word

more. I can guess the rest."

The old man's hands trembled, and his shaggy eyebrows bristled in a

heavy frown.

Meir was silent, and looked with expectant eyes at his grandfather.

"Your mouth has spoken what is not true. It cannot be true."

"Zeide!" whispered Meir, "it is as true as the sun in heaven. Have

you not heard, zeide, of the incidents that happened last year and

last year but one? These incidents are getting more and more

numerous, and every true Israelite deplores it and reddens with

shame."

"How can you know all this? How can you understand these things? I do

not believe you."

"How do I know and understand it? Zeide, I have been brought up in

your house, where many people come to see you: Jews and Christians,

merchants and lords, rich and poor. They talked with you and I

listened. Why should I not understand?"

Saul was silent, and his troubled countenance betrayed many

conflicting thoughts. A sudden anger toward the grandson stirred his

blood.

"You understand too much. You are too inquisitive. Your spirit is

full of restlessness, and you carry trouble with you wherever you go.

I felt so happy to-day until my eye fell upon you, and black care

entered with you into the room."

Meir hung his head.

"Zeide," he said sadly, "why do you reproach me? It is not

about my own affairs I came to you."

"And what right have you to meddle with affairs that are not your

own?" said Saul, with hesitation in his voice.

"They are our own, zeide. Kamionker is an Israelite, and as such

ought not to cast a slur on our race; besides, they are our own,

still more because your son, zeide, Abraham belongs to it."

Saul rose suddenly from the sofa and fell back again. Then he fixed

his penetrating eyes upon Meir.

"Are you speaking the truth?" he asked sternly.

"I have seen and heard it all myself," whispered Meir.

Saul remained thinking a long time.

"Well," he said slowly, "you have the right to accuse your uncle. He

is your father's brother, and from his deed shame and ignominy might

come upon our house. The family of Ezofowich never did dishonourable

things. I shall forbid Abraham to have anything to do with it."

"Zeide, tell also Kamionker and Kalman not to do it."

"You are foolish," said Saul. "Are Kamionker and Kalman my sons or my

daughters' husbands? They would not listen to me."

"If they do not listen, zeide," exclaimed Meir "denounce them before

the owner of Kamionka or before the law."

Saul looked at his grandson with flaming eyes.

"Your advice is that of a foolish boy. Would you have your old

grandfather turn informer, and bring calamity upon his own brethren?"

He wanted to say something more, but the door opened to admit several

visitors; they were Israelites from the country, respectable

merchants or farmers from the neighbouring estates, arrived for the

great fair. Saul half-rose to welcome his guests, who quickly

stepping up to him, pressed his hand in hearty greeting, and

explained that it was not so much business as the desire to see the

wise and honoured Saul which had brought them to town. Saul answered

with an equally polite speech, and asked them to be seated round the

table, and without leaving his own seat on the sofa clapped his bony

hands. At the signal a buxom servant girl came in with glasses of

steaming tea, which filled the whole room with its subtle aroma. The

guests thanked him smilingly, and then began a lively conversation

about familiar subjects.

Meir saw that he would have no further opportunity of seeing his

grandfather alone, and quickly left the room and went into the

kitchen. This also was full of visitors, but of a different class

from those in the pitting-room. Upon the benches by the wall sat some

fifteen men in old worn-out garments; and Sarah, Saul's daughter, and

Raphael's wife, Saul's daughter-in-law, conversed with them and

offered tea or mead and other refreshments.

The men responded gaily, if somewhat timidly, and accepted the

refreshments with humble thanks. Most of them were inn-keepers, dairy

farmers, or small tradesmen from the country. Their dark, lean faces

and rough hands betrayed poverty and hard work. The smallest expense

for food during their stay in town would have made a difference to

them. They went, therefore, straight to Ezofowich's house, the doors

of which were always hospitably open on such days, as had been the

custom of the family for hundreds of years.

The two women in their silk gowns and bright caps flitted to and fro

between the huge fireplace and the grateful guests. Outside the house

there was another class of visitors. Those were the very poorest, who

had not come to buy or to sell at the fair, but to obtain some wine

and food out of the charity of their wealthier brethren. To these the

servant carried bread and clotted milk and small copper coins. The

murmur of their thanks and blessings penetrated to the kitchen, where

the two busy women smiled yet more contentedly, and produced more

small coins from their capacious pockets.

In another part of the roomy kitchen stood the children of the house,

pleased with their pretty dresses and coral necklaces, eating sweets.

The elder boys listened to the conversation of the men, and a few of

the younger children played on the floor. Close to this group sat the

great-grandmother, Freida. Days like this conveyed to her clouded

memory pictures of the past, when she herself, a happy wife and

mother, looked after the comforts of her numerous guests. Her

great-granddaughter had roused her earlier than usual to-day, and

dressed her in the costliest garments, and now, before she would be

led into the sitting-room to her chair near the window, they were

completing her toilette. The black-eyed Lija fastened the diamond

star into her turban; her younger sister arranged the pendants;

another put the costly pearls around her neck and twisted the golden

chain cunningly among the soft folds of her white apron. Having done

this they smiled and drew back a little to admire the effect of their

handiwork, or peeped roguishly into the great-grandmother's eyes and

kissed her on the forehead.

The men sitting round the wall nodded their heads sympathetically,

looked reverentially at the old lady, and now and then exclamations

of wonder and pleasure at seeing her surrounded by such tender care

escaped from their lips.

The other part of the house, which had been so lively early in the

morning, was now silent and deserted. Meir crossed the narrow passage

that divided the house, and opened the door of his Uncle Raphael's

room, meeting his friend and cousin Haim upon the threshold. The

youthful, almost childish face, surrounded by golden hair, looked

beaming and excited.

"Where is Uncle Raphael?" asked Meir.

"Where should he be? He is at the fair, together with Ber, buying

bullocks."

"And you, Haim, where are you going?"

But the lad did not even hear the question. Trilling a gay song, he

had rushed off where the stir and lively spectacle of the fair

attracted him.

Meir went out into the porch and looked around. The fair had scarcely

begun, but in the midst of some forty carts he saw Ber discussing the

prices of the cattle with the peasants. A little further on he saw

Raphael standing in the porch of a house, surrounded by merchants,

evidently talking and arranging business, as all their fingers were

in motion. To approach these two men, who, after his grandfather, had

the greatest, authority in the family, and engage them in private

talk was impossible. Meir saw that, and did not even try.

The sight of the motley crowd, where everybody was engaged upon some

business of his own, looked strange and unreal. His thoughts were so

different from any of the thoughts that moved that bustling multitude.

"Why should it trouble me?" he murmured. "What can I do?" And yet it

seemed to him impossible to wait in passive inactivity until a red

glare in the sky should announce that the nefarious design had been

accomplished.

"What wrong has the man ever done us?" he said to himself. He was

thinking of the owner of Kamionka.

His dull, listless eyes rested on the porch of Witebski's house, and

he saw the merchant himself standing and leisurely smoking a cigar.

He was looking at the lively scene with the eyes of a man who had

nothing whatever to do with it. The fact is, he dealt in timber,

which he bought in large quantities, from the estates; therefore the

fair had no special attraction for him. Besides, he considered

himself too refined and thought too highly of his own business to mix

with a crowd occupied with selling and buying corn or cattle.

Meir descended the steps and went towards Witebski, who, seeing him,

smiled and stretched out a friendly hand.

"A rare visitor! A rare visitor!" he exclaimed. "But I know you could

not come sooner to see the parents of your betrothed. We have heard

how your severe grandfather ordered you to sit in Bet-ha-Midrash to

read the Talmud. Well, it does not matter much; does it? The zeide is

a dear old man, and did not mean it unkindly, just as you did not

mean to do any wrong. Young people will now and then kick over the

traces. Come into the drawing-room; I will call my wife, and she will

make you welcome as a dear son-in-law."

The worldly-wise merchant spoke smilingly, and holding Meir by the

hand, led him into the drawing-room. There, before the green sofa, he

stood still, and looked into Meir's face and said:

"It is very praiseworthy, Meir, that you are bashful and shy of your

future wife. I was the same at your age, and all young men ought to

feel like it; but my daughter has been brought up in the world, where

customs are somewhat different. She is wondering that she does not

even know the fiance who is to be her husband within a month. I will

go and bring her here. Nobody need know you are together. I will shut

the door and window, and you can have a quiet talk together and make

each other's acquaintance."

He was moving towards the door, but Meir grasped him by the sleeve.

"Reb!" he said. "I am not thinking of betrothals or weddings; I came

to you on a different errand altogether."

Witebski looked sharply at the grave and pale face of the young man,

and his brow became slightly clouded.

"It is not about my own affairs I have come to you, Reb--"

The merchant quickly interrupted:

"If it be neither your affair nor mine, why enter it?"

"There are affairs," said the young man, "which belong to everybody,

and it is everybody's business to think and speak about them."

He was thinking of public affairs, but though he did not express

himself in these words, he felt all their importance.

"I have come across an awful secret to-day."

Witebski jumped up from the easy-chair where he was sitting.

"I do not want to hear about any awful secrets! Why should you come

to me about it, when I am not curious to know anything?"

"I want you, Reb, to prevent a terrible deed."

"And why should I prevent anything; why do you come to me about it?"

"Because you are rich and respected, and know how to speak. You live

in peace and friendship with everybody; even the great Rabbi smiles

when he sees you. Your words could do much if you only would--"

"But I will not," interrupted Witebski in a determined voice and with

clouded brow. "I am rich and live in peace with everybody;" and

lowering his voice, he added: "If I began to peer into people's

secrets and thwarted them, I should be neither rich nor live in peace

with anybody, and things would, not go so well with me as they are

going now."

"Reb!" said Meir, "I am glad that everything is prospering with you:

but I should not care for prosperity if it were the result of

wrong-doing."

"Who speaks about wrong-doing?" said Eli, brightening up again. "I

wrong no man. I deal honestly with everybody I do business with, and

they are satisfied and feel friendly towards me. Thanks to the Lord,

I can look everybody in the face, and upon the fortune I leave my

children there are no human tears or human wrongs."

Meir bent his head respectfully.

"I know it, Reb. You are fair and honest, and carry on your business

with the wise intelligence the Lord gave you, and bring honour upon

Israel. But I think if a man be honest himself, he ought not to look

indifferently upon other people's villainy; and if he do not prevent

it when he can, it is as bad as if he had done it himself. I have

heard that a great wrong is going to be done by an Israelite to an

innocent man. I can do nothing to prevent it, and I am looking for

somebody who might be able to save this innocent man from a great

calamity."

Here a loud and jovial laugh quite unexpectedly interrupted Meir's

speech, and Witebski patted him playfully on the shoulder.

"Well, well," he said, "I see what you are driving at. You are a

hot-headed youth, and want to take some trouble out of your own head

and put it into mine. Thank you for the gift, but I will have none of

it. Let things be. Why should we spoil our lives when they can be

made so pleasant? There, sit ye down, and I will go and bring your

bride. You have never heard her play on the piano. Ah, but she can

play well. It is not the Sabbath, and she will play and you can

listen a little."

He said this in his most lively manner, and moved towards the door;

but again Meir arrested his steps.

"Reb!" he said, "listen at least to what I have to say."

There was a gleam of impatience in Witebski's eyes. "Ah, Meir! what

an obstinate fellow you are, wanting to force your elders to do or

hear things they do not want to! Well, I forgive you, and now let me

go and bring the young woman."

Meir barred the way

"Reb," he said, "I will not let you go before you have heard me. I

have no one else to go to; everybody is occupied with business or

visitors. You alone, Reb, have time."

He stopped, because the merchant laid his hand upon the young man's

shoulder; he was no longer smiling, but looked grave and displeased.

"Listen, Meir," he said. "I will tell you one thing. You have taken a

wrong turning altogether. People shake their heads and speak badly of

you; but I am indulgent with you. I make allowance because you are

young, and because I am not of the same way of thinking as the people

here, and know that many things in Israel are not as they ought to

be. I think it; but do not speak about it or show it. Why should I

expose myself to their ill-feeling? What can I do? If it be the Lord

who ordered it so, why should I offend Him and make Him turn against

me? If it be people's doing, other people will come in time to set it

right. My business is to look after my family and their well-being. I

am not a judge or a Rabbi either; therefore I keep quiet, try to

please God and the people, and be in nobody's way. These re my

principles, and I wish they were yours also Meir. I should let you go

your own way, and not give advice to you either; but since you are to

be my son-in-law, I must keep my eye upon you."

"Rob!" interrupted Meir, whose eyelids quivered with suppressed

irritation, "do not be angry with me or think me rude, but I cannot

marry your daughter. I shall never be her husband."

Witebski turned rigid with amazement.

"Do we hear aright?" he said, after a while. "Did not your

grandfather pledge you to her and send the betrothal gifts?"

"My grandfather agreed with you about it," said Meir, in a trembling

voice; "but he did it against my wish."

"Well," said Witebski, with the greatest amazement, "and what have

you to say against my daughter?"

"I have no feelings against her, Rob; but my heart is not drawn to

her. She also does not care for me. The other day, when passing your

house, I heard her crying and lamenting that they wanted her to marry

a common, ignorant Jew. It may be I am a common, ignorant Jew, but

her education likewise is not to my taste. Why should you wish to

bind us? We are not children, and know what our heart desires and

what it does not desire."

Witebski still looked at the young man in utter bewilderment, and

raising both hands to his head, exclaimed indignantly:

"Did my ears not deceive me? You do not want my daughter--my

beautiful, educated Mera?"

A hot flush had mounted to his forehead. The gentle diplomatist and

man of the world had disappeared, only the outraged father remained.

At the same time the door was violently thrown open, and upon the

threshold, with a very red face and blazing eyes, stood Mistress

Hannah.

Evidently she had been at her toilette, which was only partly

completed. Instead of her silk gown she wore a short red petticoat

and gray jacket. The front of her wig was carefully dressed, but a

loose braid fastened by a string dangled gracefully at her back. She

stood upon the threshold and gasped out:

"I have heard everything!"

She could not say any more from excitement. Her breast heaved and her

face was fiery red. At last she rushed with waving arms at Meir, and

shouted:

"What is that? You refuse my daughter! You, a common, stupid Jew from

Szybow, do not wish to marry a beautiful, educated girl like my Mera!

Fie upon you--an idiot, a profligate!"

Witebski tried in vain to mitigate the fury of his better half.

"Hush, Hannah, hush!" he said, holding her by the elbow.

But all the breeding and distinguished manners upon which Mistress

Hannah prided herself had vanished. She shook her clenched fist close

in Meir's face:

"You do not want Mera, my beautiful daughter! Ai! Ai! the great

misfortune!" she sneered. "It will certainly kill us with grief. She

will cry her eyes out after the ignorant Jew from Szybow! I shall

take her to Wilno and marry her to a count, a general, or a prince.

You think that because your grandfather is rich and you have money of

your own you can do what you like. I will show your grandfather and

all your family that I care for them as much as for an old slipper!"

Eli carefully closed the door and windows. Mistress Hannah rushed

toward a chest of drawers, opened it and took out, one after the

other, the velvet-lined boxes, and throwing them at Meir's feet,

exclaimed:

"There, take your presents and carry them to the beggar girl you are

consorting with; she will be just the wife for you."

"Hush!" hissed out the husband, almost despairingly, as he stooped

down to pick up the boxes but Mistress Hannah tore them out of his

hands.

"I will carry them myself to his grandfather, and break off the

engagement."

"Hannah," persuaded the husband, "you will only make matters worse. I

will take them myself and speak with Saul."

Hannah did not even hear what he said.

"For shame!" she cried out; "the madman, the profligate, to prefer

the Karaite's girl to my daughter! Well, the Lord be thanked we have

got rid of him. Now I shall take my daughter to Wilno and marry her

to a great nobleman."

It was about noon when Meir left Witebski's house, pursued by the

curses and scoldings of its mistress and the gentle remonstrances and

conciliatory words of Eli. The fair was now in full swing. The large

market square was full of vehicles of all kinds, animals and people,

that it seemed as if nobody could pass or find room any longer. In

one part of the square where the crowd was less dense, close by the

wall of a large building, sat an old man surrounded by baskets of all

shapes and sizes. It was Abel Karaim.

Though the day was warm and sunny, his head was covered with a fur

cap, from under which streamed his white hair, and his beard spread

like a fan over his breast. The sun fell upon the small and thin

face, scarcely visible from under his hair, and the fur which fell

over the shaggy eyebrows gave but little protection to the dim eyes

blinking in the sunlight.

Close to him, slim and erect, stood Golda, with her corals encircling

the slender neck, setting off the clear olive of her complexion, and

her heavy tresses falling down her back. A few steps in front of

these two stood long rows of carts full of grain, wood, and various

country produce; between the carts bullocks and cows lowed, calves

bleated, horses neighed and stamped, small brokers and horse-dealers

flitted to and fro bargaining with the peasants. In this hubbub of

voices, in midst of bargaining and quarrels, mixed with the shrill

voices of women and squalling children, sounded the quavering voice

of old Abel unweariedly at his task of reciting. The surging elements

around did not distract him; on the contrary, they seemed to

stimulate him, as his voice sounded louder and more distinct.

"When Moses descended from Mount Sinai, a great light shone from his

face, and the people fell down on their faces and called out as in

one voice: Moses, repeat to us the words of the Eternal. And a great

calm came upon the earth and the heavens. They grew silent, the

lightning ceased, and the wind fell. And Moses called the seventy

elders of Israel, and when they surrounded him, as the stars surround

the moon, he repeated to them the words of the Eternal."

At this moment two grave men, poorly dressed, came from the crowd and

passed close by him.

"He is reciting again," said one.

"He is always doing so," said the other.

They smiled, but did not go further. An old woman and some younger

people joined them. The woman stood listening and asked:

"What is it he is telling?"

"The history and the covenant of the Israelites," replied Golda.

The young people opened their mouths, the woman drew nearer, the men

smiled, but all stood still and listened.

"When the people heard the commandments of the Lord, they called out

as in one voice: We will do all that the Lord commands. And Moses

erected twelve stones against the Mountain of Sinai, and said unto

the people: Keep therefore the words of this covenant; your captains

of your tribes, your elders, and your officers, with all the men of

Israel."

"Your little ones, your wives, and the stranger that is in thy camp,

from the hewer of thy wood unto the drawer of thy water."

"He says beautiful things, and speaks well," said one.

"And the hewer of thy wood and the drawer of thy water," repeated the

two poorly dressed men as they raised their shining eyes to heaven.

The woman, who had listened attentively, drew from her shabby gown a

dirty handkerchief, and undoing one of the knots, deposited a big

copper coin on Abel's knees.

A few more had joined the little group which surrounded Abel, Jews,

Christians, and young people. These few had torn themselves from the

noisy, haggling crowd, and listened to other words than those of

roubles and kopecks--the sounds of the far past. It seemed almost as

if Abel felt the attention of the people, and as if all these eyes

upon him warmed his heart and stirred his memory. His eyes shone

brighter from under the half-closed eyelids; the fur cap pushed at

the back of his head, and the long white hair falling upon breast and

shoulder, gave him the air of a half-blind bard who, with national

songs, rouses and gladdens the spirit of the people. In a louder and

steadier voice he went on:

"When the Israelites crossed the Jordan, Joshua erected two great

stones, and wrote upon them the ten commandments. One half of the

people rested under Mount Gerisim, the other half under Mount Ebal,

and the voice spoke unto all men: He breaks the covenant of the Lord

who worships false gods, he who does not honour his father and

mother. He breaks the covenant who covets his neighbour's property

and leads astray the blind. He breaks it who wrongs the stranger, the

orphan, and the widow; he who putteth a lie into his brother's ear,

and sayeth of the innocent, Let him die. And when the people of

Israel heard it they called out, as if in one voice: All that thou

commandest, we will do."

"Amen," murmured around Abel the voices which a short time before had

haggled desperately over their small bargains. A peasant woman pushed

through the little group, picked up one of the baskets and asked the

price. Golda told her, after which the woman began to bargain; but

Golda did not answer again, not because she did not want to, as

rather that she did not hear the shrill voice any longer. Her eyes

were fixed upon one point in the crowd, a hot blush suffused her

features, and a half-childish, half-passionate smile played upon her

lips. She saw Meir making his way through the crowd and coming near

where she stood; but he did not see her. His face looked troubled and

restless, and presently he disappeared within the precincts of the

synagogue. This was almost as crowded as the market square, but not

so noisy.

Meir went towards the dwelling of the Rabbi Todros; all the people

were moving in the same direction. Close to the Rabbi's little hut

the crowd was still denser; but there was no noise, no pushing, or

eyes shining with the greediness of gain; a grave silence prevailed

everywhere, interrupted only by timid whispers. Meir knew what

brought the people here and where they came from. There were scarcely

any inhabitants of Szybow amongst them, as these could always see the

Rabbi and come to him for advice. They came mostly from the country

around; some from far distant places. There was a slight sprinkling

of merchants and well-to-do people, but the great bulk bore the stamp

of poverty and hard work in their lean, patient faces, and upon their

garments.

"Why should I go there?" said Meir to himself; "he will not listen to

me now; but where else can I go?" he added after a while, and he

again mixed with the crowd, which bore him onwards until he found

himself before the wide-open door of the Rabbi's dwelling.

Beyond the door, in the entrance hall, people stood closely pressed

together like a living and breathing wall; no other sound than their

long-drawn breaths were audible. Meir tried to push his way through,

which did not present much difficulty, for many of the poor people

had been humble guests at Ezofowich's, and recognised Saul's grandson

and made way for him. They did this in a quick, absent-minded way,

their eyes being riveted on the room beyond; they stood on tip-toe,

and whenever they caught a broken sentence, their faces glowed with

happiness as if the honoured sage's words were balm for all the

sorrows of their lives.

The interior of the room, which Meir beheld from the open door,

presented a singular appearance. In the depth of it, between the wall

and a table, sat Rabbi Todros in his usual worn-out garments with his

cap pushed to the back of his head. The upper part of his body bent

forward; he sat perfectly motionless except for his eyes, which

roamed along the people, who looked at him humbly and beseechingly.

There was a small space between the sage and those who stood before

him, which none dared to cross without his permission. The whole

scene was lighted up by the rays of the sun streaming in through the

window, on one side; on the other by the lurid and fitful flames in

the fire-place. Near the latter crouched the melamed, feeding the

fire with fresh fuel and putting various herbs into steaming vessels.

Besides the function of apothecary he had also the office of crier.

He called out the names of the people who, according to his opinion,

were entitled to appear before the master.

He now raised his thick forefinger towards the entrance, and called

out:

"Shimshel, the innkeeper."

The summoned man whose name, Samson, time and custom had transformed

into Shimshel, did not in the least resemble his namesake, the Samson

of history. He was slender and red-haired, and bent almost to the

ground before the Rabbi.

"Who greets the Wise Man bows before the greatness of the Creator,"

he said in a timid, shaking voice. It was not only his voice which

trembled, but all his limbs, and his blue eyes roamed wildly about

the room.

Isaak Todros sat like a statue. His eyes looked piercingly at

the little red-haired man before him, who, in his terror, had lost his

tongue altogether.

"Well?" said the sage, after a lengthy pause.

Shimshel raised his shoulders almost to his ears and began:

"Nassi! let a ray of your wisdom enlighten my darkness. I have

committed a great sin, and my soul trembles while I am confessing it

before you. Nassi! I am a most unfortunate man; my wife Ryfka has

lost my soul for ever, unless you, oh Rabbi, tell me how to make it

clean again."

Here the poor penitent choked again, but gathering courage,

proceeded:

"Nassi! I and my wife Ryfka and the children sat down, last Friday,

to the Sabbath feast. On one table there was a dish of meat, on the

other a bowl of milk which my wife had boiled for the younger

children. My wife ladled out the milk for the children, when her hand

shook and a drop of milk fell upon the meat."

"Ai! Ai! stupid woman, what had she done! She had made the meat

unclean."

"Well, and what did you do with the meat?" The questioned man's head

sank upon his breast, and he stammered:

"Rabbi, I ate from it, and so did my wife and children."

The Rabbi's eyes flashed with anger.

"Why did you not throw the unclean food on the refuse heap? Why did

you make your mouth and the mouths of your family unclean?" shouted

the Rabbi.

Shimshel choked again, and stopped. The sage, still motionless,

asked:

"Nassi! I am very poor, and keep a small inn that brings but little

profit. I have six children, an old father who lives with me, and two

orphaned grandchildren, whose parents died. Rabbi it is difficult to

find food for so many mouths, and we have meat only once a week.

Kosher meat is very dear, so I buy three pounds every week, and

eleven people have to keep up their strength, on it. Rabbi! I knew we

should have nothing during the week, except bread and onions and

cucumber. I was loth to throw that meat away and so ate from it, and

allowed my family to eat from it."

Thus complained and confessed the poor Samson, and the master

listened with clouded brows.

Then he spoke, transfixing the sinner with angry eyes. He explained

in a long and learned speech the origin of the law of clean and

unclean food. How great and wise men had written many commentaries

about it, and how great the sin of a man was who dared to eat a piece

of meat upon which a drop of milk had fallen.

"Your sin is abominable in the sight of the Lord," he thundered at

the humble penitent. "For the sake of greediness you have broken the

covenant which Jehovah made with his people, and transgressed one of

the six hundred and thirteen commandments which every true Israelite

is bound to keep. You deserve to be cursed even as Elisha cursed the

mocking children, and Joshua the town of Jerico. But since it was

only your body which sinned, whilst the spirit remained faithful, and

you came to me and humbled and confessed yourself, I will forgive

you, under the condition that you and your family abstain from meat

and milk during four weeks, and the money saved thereby be

distributed among the poor. And after four weeks, when your souls

will be clean again from the abomination, you may dwell in peace and

piety among your brethren Israelites."

"Say everybody Amen."

"Amen," called the people within the room and without, and those who

pressed their eager faces against the window.

The little red-haired Samson, relieved of the burden that had

oppressed his conscience, though otherwise burdened with a

four-weeks' fast, murmured his thanks and retreated towards the

entrance.

Reb Moshe again raised his finger and called out:

"Reb Gerson, melamed."

At his summons a round-backed, middle-sized man, with shaggy hair and

clouded mien, appeared. He was a colleague of Reb Moshe, a teacher

from a small town, where he enlightened the Israelitish youths. He

stood in the middle of the room, holding a heavy book with both

hands, After greeting the master, he began in these words:

"Rabbi! my soul has been in trouble, Two days ago my children read

that evening prayers ought to be said until the end of the first

watch. The children asked me: 'What is the first watch?' I remained

mute, for I did not know how to answer, and I come to you, Rabbi, for

a ray of wisdom to enlighten my mind. Tell me, oh Rabbi, what are the

watches according to which every Israelite has to regulate his

prayers. Where are they, so that I may give an answer to the

children?"

The round-backed man stopped, and all eyes rested with excited

curiosity upon the sage, who, without changing his position,

answered:

"What should it be but the angels' watch? And where do they watch?

They watch before the throne of the Eternal, when the day declines

and night approaches. The angels are divided into three choirs. The

first choir stands before the throne and keeps watch till midnight.

Then is the time to say evening prayers. The second comes at midnight

and keeps watch until dawn; when you see the sky turn rosy-red and

pale-blue, the third choir arrives, and then it is time to say

morning prayers."

The master stopped, and a low murmur of admiration and rapture was

heard among the crowd. But the melamed did not retire yet; his eyes

fixed upon his book he began anew:

"Rabbi, give me another ray of wisdom to carry back to my scholars.

Near our little town lies the estate of a great lord. Sometimes the

children go there and hear all sorts of things. Once, coming thence,

they told in town that the origin of thunder had been explained to

them. They were told that thunder comes from heaven when two clouds

meet and give out a force they called electricity. I never heard of

it before: is it true that such a force exists and that it originates

thunder?"

During Reb Gerson's speech the Rabbi's face twitched with suppressed

impatience, and he smiled scornfully.

"It is not true!" he exclaimed. "There is no such force, and not from

there comes thunder. When the Roman emperor destroyed the Temple, and

dispersed the people of Israel, there was thunder. Where did it come

from? It came from Jehovah's breast, who wept aloud over the

destruction of his people. And now the Lord weeps over his people,

and his moans are heard upon earth as thunder; his tears fall into

the seas and make them heave and rise, and shake the earth to its

foundations, and send forth fire and smoke. I have told you now

whence come thunder and earthquakes. Go in peace and repeat to your

children what I have told you."

With a humble bow and thanks the melamed retired into the crowd. At

the same time from beyond the door the loud wail of a child became

audible.

Reb Moshe called out:

"Haim, dairy farmer from Kamionka, and his wife Malka."

From the crowd came a man and a woman. Both looked pale and troubled

The woman carried a sick child in her arms. They knelt before him,

and holding up to him the child, wasted with disease, asked for his

help and advice. Todros bent tenderly over the fragile little body

and looked long and attentively at it. Reb Moshe, squatting on the

floor, looked at the master for orders, mixing and stirring the

decoctions. In this way, one by one, came the people to their

teacher, sage, physician, prophet almost, plied him with questions

and asked for advice. A troubled husband brought his comely, buxom

wife, and asked for judgment by help of a certain water, called the

water of jealousy. If the wife be guilty of infidelity, the efficacy

of the water is believed to cause death; if innocent, it will enhance

her beauty and give her health. Another man asked what he was to do

if the time for prayers came during a journey and he could not turn

his face to the east, because the storm and dust would blind his

eyes. A great many came crying and bewailing their miserable lives,

and asked the sage to look into the future and tell them how long it

would be till the Messiah arrived. The greater part of the people did

not want anything, asked neither questions nor came for advice; they

simply wanted to see the revered master, breathe the same air with

him, and fill their souls with the words that dropped from his lips,

and see the light of his countenance.

It was evident that Isaak Todros felt and appreciated his high

position. He attended to all their wants with the greatest gravity,

zeal, and patience. He explained, and put the people right in points

of law, inflicted penances upon sinners, gave physic to the sick,

advice to the ignorant--without changing his position--only fixing

his either stern or thoughtful eyes upon those who came to him.

Several times when the people wailed and complained, entreating him

to foretell the coming of the Messiah, his dark eyes grew misty. He

loved those who came to him with their troubles and felt for them.

Big beads of perspiration stood upon his forehead, and his breath

came hard and fast; still he went on with his ministrations, in the

deep conviction that he was doing his duty, with a fervent faith and

belief in all that he was achieving and teaching, and the

disinterestedness of a man who wants nothing for himself, except the

little black hut, a scanty meal, and the tattered garments he had

worn for many years.

In the meanwhile a man passed rapidly through the court of the

synagogue, looking around him as if in search of something or

somebody. It was Ber, Saul's son-in-law. He looked at the people

crowding round the Rabbi's dwelling; at last his eyes lighted on

Meir, and he grasped him by the sleeve of his coat.

The young man awoke, as from a trance, and looked round absently at

his uncle.

"Come with me," whispered Ber.

"I cannot go away," said Meir, in an equally low voice. "I have

important business with the Rabbi, and shall wait till all the people

have left so that I may speak with him."

"Come away," repeated Ber, and he took the youth by the shoulder.

Meir shook him off impatiently, but Ber repeated:

"Come with me now; you can return later when the people have

gone--that is, if you wish it, but I do not think you will."

Both left the crowded hut. Ber walked swiftly and silently, leading

his companion to a quiet part of the precincts where, under the

shadow of the walls of Bet-ha-Midrash, nobody could overhear, their

conversation.

Meir leaned against the wall. Ber stood silently before him, looking

intently at his young kinsman.

Ber's outward appearance did not present any striking features; many

would pass him without taking particular notice, yet the student of

human nature would find in him a character worth knowing. He was

forty years old, always carefully dressed, yet according to old

customs. His delicately moulded features and blue eyes had a dreamy

and apathetic expression, which only lighted up under the excitement

of business speculations. A deep yearning after something, and

carefully suppressed dreams and stifled aspirations gave to his mouth

an expression of calm resignation. Sometimes, when the ghost of the

past appeared before him, two deep furrows appeared across his

forehead. It was evident that some fierce conflicts had raged under

that quiet exterior, and left wounds and scars which now and then

would remind him painfully of the past.

He now stood opposite the young man whom he had dragged away from the

crowd almost by force.

"Meir," he said at last, "an hour ago your grandfather had a long

talk with his son, Abraham. He left his visitors on purpose to speak

with him, and bade me to be present at their conversation. Rest in

peace, Meir; your uncle will have no hand in the vile deed which will

be perpetrated."

"Will be perpetrated?" interrupted Meir passionately. "Not if I can

prevent it."

Ber smiled bitterly

"How can you prevent it? I guessed you wanted to speak about it to

the Rabbi, and I went after you to warn you and save you from the

consequences of such a step. You thought that if you put the case

before him, he would rise in anger and forbid any one to do such an

infamous deed If he did that they would obey him; but he will not."

"Why should he not?" exclaimed Meir.

"Because he does not understand anything about it. If you questioned

him about clean or unclean food, whether it was allowed to snuff a

candle on the Sabbath, or gird the loins with pocket-handkerchiefs,

he would answer readily enough. He would tell you whether to bless

first the wine or first the bread, or how the spirits transmigrate

from one body to another, how many Sefirots emanate from Jehovah and

how to transpose the sacred letters in order to discover fresh

mysteries, or about the arrival of the Messiah. But if you began to

speak to him about distilleries, taxes, estates, and things in

connection with them, he would open his eyes widely and would listen

to you like a man struck with deafness, because these things are to

him like a sealed letter. For him, beyond his sacred books, the world

is like a great wilderness."

Meir bent his head.

"I feel the truth of what you say; yet if I asked him whether it be

right for the sake of gain to wrong an innocent man?"

Ber answered:

"He would ask you whether the innocent man were an Edomite or an

Israelite."

Meir looked intently at the sky, thinking deeply, and evidently

puzzled.

"Ber," he said at last, "do you hate the Edomites?"

The questioned man shook his head.

"Hatred is like poison to the human mind. Once, when I was young, I

even thought of going to them and entreating them to help us. I am

glad now that I did not do it and remained with my own people, but I

have no ill-feeling towards them."

"And I have none," said Meir. "Do you think Kamionker hates them?"

"No," said her decidedly. "He makes use of them. They are his milch

cows. He may despise them, because they do not look after their

business but allow themselves to be cheated."

"And Todros; does he hate them?" questioned Meir.

"Yes," said Ber, very emphatically; "Todros hates them. And why does

he hate them? Because he does not live in the Present; he still lives

in the Past, when the Roman emperor besieged Jerusalem and drove the

Israelites out of Palestine. He breathes, thinks, and feels as if he

were living two thousand years ago. He does not know that from the

time of his ancestor, Halevi Todros, other wise people have lived,

and that times are changed, and that those who hated and persecuted

us once have since then stretched out their hands in peace and

goodwill. How can he know anything? He never left Szybow since he was

born; never read anything but the books left by his forefathers; has

never seen or spoken to any one out of Israel."

Meir listened, and nodded his head in sign that he agreed with his

companion.

"I see that it is of no use at all going to him," he said,

thoughtfully.

"It is not," said Ber; "therefore I came in search of you. He will

not prevent Kamionker from wronging the lord of Kamionka, who

represents to him the people of Ai, with whom Joshua went to war, or

the Roman nation who destroyed the Temple, or the Spaniards who, five

hundred years ago, burned and despoiled the Jews. He would not even

listen to you, and would denounce you as an infidel. If he has not

brought his hand down upon you, it is owing to the love and respect

the people bear towards your grandfather, Saul. If you accused

Kamionker before him, Kamionker would set him, against you, as

already does Reb Moshe. Meir! be careful! there are rocks ahead. Save

yourself before it is too late."

Meir did not reply to the warning.

"Ber," he said, "I am sure that man, blind and revengeful as he is,

possesses a great soul. Look how patiently he sits night and day over

his books, how full of pity and compassion are his eyes when he

listens to the poor people and comforts them, and does not want

anything for himself. Ber! his faith is so sincere!"

Ber smiled at his words, and turned his dreamy eyes to heaven.

"You speak thus about the Rabbi, Meir; what do you say about the

people who, in the midst of misery, hunger, and humiliation still

thirst for wisdom and knowledge. Never mind whether it is the true

wisdom or true knowledge, but look how they raise themselves above

their narrow lives by their faith and reverence for their Wise Men.

Do you think that this narrow, bigoted, greedy people have a great

soul?"

"Israel has a great soul, and I love it more than my life, my

happiness, and my peace." He stopped for a minute, then grasped Ber

by the shoulder. "I know what is wanting in Todros to make him a

great man, and what is wanting in the Israelitish people to show

their greatness to the world. They ought to come out of the Past, in

which they persist to dwell, into the Present. They want Sar-Ha-Olam,

the angel of knowledge, to touch them with his wings."

Whilst the young man spoke thus, his face glowing with excitement,

Ber looked at him thoughtfully.

"When I look at you, Meir, and listen to you, I see myself as I was

at your age. I felt the same anger, the same grief, and I wanted--"

He stopped, and passed his hand over his brow, marked with two deep

lines, and his eyes looked far away as if into the future.

Anybody seeing their animated faces and lively gesticulation as they

stood near the wall of the Bet-ha-Midrash, would have concluded that

they were discussing bargains. What else did people like them live or

care for? Yet they think and suffer, but nobody guesses it or wishes

to penetrate the mystery of their thoughts. It is like the depth of

an unfathomable sea--its depths unknown even to those who are

perishing in it.

"Come home with me," said Ber. "Your grandfather will soon be sitting

down to dinner with his guests and be displeased at not seeing you at

table. There is already a storm brewing for you, because Mistress

Hannah has returned the betrothal gifts, broken off the engagement,

and given Saul a piece of her mind in presence of all the visitors."

Meir carelessly waved his bands.

"I wished for it," he said. "I shall ask my grandfather's pardon. I

can only think about one thing now: where to go next."

Ber looked wonderingly at the speaker. "How obstinate you are," he

remarked. They were near the entrance gate when Ber suddenly stopped.

"Meir, whatever you do, don't go to the government authorities."

Meir passed his hand over his forehead.

"I thought of that," he said, "but I am afraid. If I reveal the whole

truth, they will not only punish Kamionker, but also those poor

wretches he tempted with his money. Poor people, ignorant people, I

am sorry for them--"

He suddenly paused, and looked fixedly in one direction. An elegant

carriage, drawn by four horses, crossed the market-square. Meir

pointed at the carriage, which stopped before Jankiel Kamionker's

inn, and his eyes opened wider, for a sudden idea took hold of his

mind.

"Ber!" he exclaimed, "do you see him? That is the lord of Kamionka."

The sun was declining towards the west when, in the porch of Saul's

house, stood a group of men gaily conversing among themselves. They

were Saul's visitors who, after having feasted at his hospitable

board, were now saying good-bye, and pressing the old man's hand,

thanking him for his kind reception; then, by twos and threes, they

mounted the waiting carts, their faces still turned towards their

venerable host, who stood in the porch.

In the sitting-room the women, with the help of the servants, were

busy clearing the table, and putting away the dinner service.

The fair was also drawing to an end; the carts grew fewer by degrees,

so did the people upon the square. All the noise and liveliness

concentrated itself now in the several inns where the people were

drinking and dancing. Jankiel Kamionker's inn was by far the most

frequented and noisiest, No wonder.

The crafty dealer rented several distilleries and some seventy inns

about the country, and ruled over a small army of subtenants and

inn-keepers, of the Samson kind, who bought meat once a week, and

starved on other days. They depended entirely on Kamionker, who, if

he did not treat them generously they, on their side, were not

generous towards the peasants, whom they plied with drink. Through

his subordinates, Kamionker held thousands of peasants' families

under his thumb. Therefore they all came to his inn. He did not

himself look after his humble customers, but left them to his wife

and his two strong and ugly daughters, who carried bottles and

glasses round the tables, together with salted herrings, and

different kinds of bread. Nobody could have guessed, seeing the faded

woman, shabbily dressed, moving in that stifling atmosphere of

alcohol and human breath, that she was the wife of one of the

wealthiest men in the country.

Neither did the man in his musty garments who stood humbly at the

door of the guest's room, look like a great capitalist and financier.

He stood near the threshold, and his guest, the lord of Kamionka,

reclined in an easy-chair smoking a cigar. The young gentleman was

tall and handsome; his dark hair fell upon a white forehead, though

the other part of his face was slightly browned by the sun. He had a

good-natured and thoughtful face.

The gay playfulness with which his eyes twinkled was evidently caused

by the sight of the nimble Jew, whose body seemed to be made of india

rubber, and the two corkscrew curls behind his ears of a fiery red,

seemed to dance to and fro with his every motion.

Then he became thoughtful again, because the red-haired Jew spoke

about important business. The young nobleman did not know anything

about the man himself with whom he dealt.

He was to him a Jew, and the tenant of his distillery. Thus he might

be also a prominent member of a powerfully organised body, a greatly

respected and pious person, a mystic deeply versed in sacred

knowledge, and finally a man who, in those dirty, freckled hands,

held the entangled threads of many Jewish and Christian families; of

all this the lord of Kamionka knew nothing. Therefore it never

occurred to him to invite the Jew to draw nearer or sit down. Reb

Jankiel likewise did not think of such a thing. He had been

accustomed to stand humbly, as his fathers had done before him;

nevertheless, his pale blue eyes were full of malice whenever the

young gentleman turned his look elsewhere and could not see him. It

may be Reb Jankiel did not realise his own feelings, yet he could not

help seeing the contrast between his present humble attitude and the

proud position he occupied in his own community. Such feelings,

though ill-defined, if united to a bad heart, could produce no other

results than hatred and even crime.

"You bore me, Jankiel, with your everlasting bargains and

agreements," said the nobleman carelessly, twisting his cigar between

his fingers. "I stopped at your inn for a few minutes to rest my

horses, and you get me into business discussions at once."

Reb Jankiel bowed nimbly.

"I beg the gracious lord's pardon," he said smilingly, "but the

distillery will be starting work next month, and I should like to

renew the agreement."

"Of course you will be my tenant, as you have been these last three

years; but there is plenty of time."

"It is better to arrange everything beforehand. I shall have to

buy a hundred head of cattle for fattening purposes, and I cannot

afford the outlay unless I am sure of the tenancy. If the gracious

lord permits, I shall come to-morrow to write the agreement."

The young nobleman rose.

"Very well, come to-morrow, but not in the morning, as I shall not be

at home."

"The gracious lord thinks of spending the night in the

neighbourhood?" asked Jankiel, his face twitching nervously.

"Yes, in the near neighbourhood," answered the nobleman, and was

going to say something more when the door behind Jankiel's back

opened gently, and a young Jew, with a pale face and burning eyes,

entered boldly.

At the sight of the newcomer Jankiel drew back instinctively, and an

expression of terror came into his face.

"What do you want here?" he asked in a choking voice.

The nobleman glanced carelessly at the young Jew.

"Do you want to speak to me, my friend?" he asked.

"Yes, with the gracious lord," said the newcomer, and he advanced a

few steps nearer. But Jankiel barred him the way.

"Do not permit him to come nearer, gracious lord, and do not speak

with him. He is a bad man, and interferes with everybody."

The lord of Kamionka waved the frantic Jankiel aside.

"Let him speak if he has any business with me. Why should I not speak

with him?"

Saying this, he looked with evident curiosity at the youthful face of

the intruder.

"The gracious lord does not know me," began the young man.

"And why should the gracious lord know such a good-for-nothing

fellow?" interrupted Jankiel. But the lord of Kamiorika bade him be

silent.

"I have seen you, gracious lord, at my grandfather's, Saul, whose

son, Raphael, buys your corn."

"So you are Saul's grandson?"

"Yes, gracious lord, I am his grandson."

"And the son of Raphael Ezofowich?"

"No; I am the son of Benjamin, the youngest of Saul's sons, who died

long ago."

Meir did not speak Polish very fluently, yet he made himself

understood. He had heard it spoken by those who came to deal with

members of his family, and had learned it of the Edomite, who had

also taught him to read and write.

"Did Raphael send you to me?"

"No; I came on my own account."

He seemed to collect his thoughts, then boldly raised his head.

"I came to warn you, gracious lord. Bad people are preparing a great

misfortune for you--"

Jankiel rushed forward, and, with outstretched arms, placed himself

between the two.

"Will you hold your tongue," he shouted. "Why do you come here to

disturb the gracious lord with your foolish talk?" and, turning

towards the nobleman, he said:

"He is a madman and a villain."

It was not the lord now who waved Jankiel but Meir himself. With

heightened colour, breathing quickly, he pushed him away, said:

"He will not allow me to speak, but I will say quickly what I have to

say. Do not trust him, gracious lord; he is a bad man, and your

enemy. He wants to do you a grievous harm--guard yourself and guard

your house like the apple of your eye. I am not an informer;

therefore I came to say it in his presence, and warn the gracious

lord. He will revenge himself upon me, but that does not matter. I am

doing my duty, as every true Israelite ought to do, for it is

written: 'The stranger that dwelleth with you shall be unto you as

one born among you,' and it is further said: 'If thou remainest

silent, upon thy head be the woes of Israel.'"

The young nobleman looked at the speaker with some interest, but his

eyes twinkled. The quotation from Scripture, beautiful in itself, but

easily marred by faulty pronunciation, appeared more ridiculous than

interesting.

"I perceive that old Saul has a grandson who is well grounded in the

Scriptures, and has a prophetic gift; but tell me clearly, and

distinctly, my young prophet, what misfortune is threatening me, and

why this honest Jankiel, who has been dealing with me for years, has

suddenly become my enemy?"

Jankiel stood close to the easy-chair, and, bending closer to the

lord, whispered smilingly:

"He is mad. He always foretells all sorts of terrible things, and he

hates me because I laugh at him."

"Oh! then I shall not laugh at him and make him hate me," said the

nobleman gaily; and turning towards Meir, he asked: "Tell me what is

the misfortune that threatens me. If you tell me the truth, you will

be doing a good deed, and I shall be grateful for it."

"You ask me a difficult thing, gracious lord; I thought you would

understand from a few words. It is hard for me to speak more

clearly," and he passed his hand over his brow which was wet with

perspiration. "Promise me, gracious lord, that if I speak out, my

words will fall like a stone into water. Promise me to make use of my

information, but not to go to law."

The nobleman looked amused, yet curious.

"I give you my word of honour that your secret will be safe with me."

Meir's burning eyes turned towards Jankiel, his whole frame shook, he

opened his mouth--but the words refused to come. Jankiel, seeing his

emotion which momentarily deprived him of his tongue, suddenly

grasped him by the waist and dragging him towards the door, shouted:

"Why do you enter my house and disturb my honoured guest by your

foolish talk? The gracious lord is my guest, has known me for years;

there! off with you at once."

Meir tried to get out of Jankiel's hands, and though he was the

taller and stronger, Jankiel was nimbler, and despair redoubled his

energy. Struggling and panting, both rolled towards the door, and the

young gentleman looked at the struggle with an amused expression.

Meir's pale face towering above Jankiel's red head suddenly flushed.

"Do you laugh at me, gracious lord?" he said brokenly.

"You do not know how difficult it is for me to speak, but guard your

house from fire!"

At these last words he disappeared through the door, which the

panting Jankiel slammed after him.

The lord of Kamionka still smiled. The struggle between the nimble,

red-haired Jankiel and the tall young Jew looked very funny. During

the battle the long coat tails had flapped about like wings, and

Jankiel, in his desperate efforts to get rid of the intruder, had

performed the most extraordinary acrobatic feats. It was a ridiculous

scene altogether--the more ridiculous as the combatants belonged to a

race at which it was an old, time-honoured custom to laugh. How could

the young nobleman understand the deeper meaning of the play enacted

before him? He saw before him a young Jew who spoke in broken Polish,

the grandson of a merchant, and who would be, in his turn, a

merchant. That he was a noble spirit in rebellion against everything

mean and dishonest, a despairing spirit longing for freedom and wider

knowledge, that coming to him as he did he had done an heroic action

that would destroy his whole future--of all this the nobleman had not

the slightest suspicion.

After a short pause he looked at Jankiel, and asked:

"Explain to me now; what did it all mean? What kind of a man is he

really?"

"What kind of man?" said Jankiel, who seemingly had regained his

composure. "It was a stupid affair, and I beg the gracious lord's

pardon that it should have happened to him under my roof. He is a

madman and very spiteful. He went mad from mere spitefulness."

"Hm!" said the young gentleman. "He did not look like a madman. He

has a handsome face and an intelligent one."

"He is not altogether mad--" began Jankiel, but the lord interrupted

him.

"He is the grandson of Saul Ezofowich?" he asked, thoughtfully.

"He is Saul's grandson; but his grandfather does not like him."

"Whether he likes him or not, I could scarcely ask his grandfather

about him."

"On the contrary, ask him, gracious lord, what he thinks of his

grandson," exclaimed Jankiel triumphantly. "Ask his uncles; I will go

and bring his uncle Abraham."

"No need," said the nobleman shortly.

He rose, and looked thoughtful, then fixed his eyes upon Jankiel's

face.

Jankiel boldly met his searching glance. "Listen, Jankiel," said the

lord of Kamionka, "you are a man of years, a respectable merchant,

and father of a large family. I ought to trust you more than a young

man whom I have seen to-day for the first time, and who may be wrong

in the head for anything I know; but there must be something at the

bottom of what he tells me. I must get some information about him."

"The gracious lord can get that information very easily," said

Jankiel, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously.

The owner of Kamionka thought a little, and then asked:

"Is that celebrated Rabbi of yours in town?"

"Where should he be?" said Jankiel. "He has never been out of the

town during his life."

"A steady man, your Rabbi," said the nobleman, reaching for his hat.

"Now, Jankiel, show me the way, and, if I do not hear anything new, I

shall at least have seen and spoken with that celebrated man."

Jankiel opened the door for his distinguished guest, and followed him

into the square, which was now almost deserted. Half-way across they

met Eli Witebski, whom the lord of Kamionka greeted affably. By his

manner and appearance the wealthy merchant came a little nearer to

the civilised sphere in which the landowner moved himself.

"Has the gracious lord come to town on business?" asked Eli.

"No; I am only passing."

"And where might the gracious lord be going now?"

"To see your Rabbi, Witebski."

Witebski looked astonished.

"To see the Rabbi! And what business can the noble lord have with the

Rabbi?"

"It is a ridiculous story, Witebski. There, tell me, do you know Saul

Ezofowich's grandson?"

"Which of them?" asked Eli. "Saul has many grandsons."

"What is his name?" asked the nobleman, half-turning his head toward

Jankiel.

"Meir, Meir, that worthless fellow!"

Witebski nodded his head as a sign that he understood.

"Well," he said, with an indulgent smile, "I would not quite call him

a worthless fellow. He is young, and will mend; he is hot-headed

though."

"What! a little wrong here?" laughed the gentleman, pointing to his

forehead.

"Well," said Eli, "he is not mad, but rash and impulsive, and just

now had done a very foolish thing, and put me into a most awkward

position. Ai! Ai! what trouble and vexation I had through him, and

shall have still--"

"Oh, that's it!" said the lord. "He is a kind, of half-witted

mischief-maker, who does not know what he wants, and gets in

everybody's way?"

"The noble lord has guessed it," said Eli, but he added at once. "He

is very young, and will yet be a decent man."

"Which means that he is not a decent man at present? I see."

"This way, please," said Jankiel, showing the gates of the synagogue

court.

"And where does your Rabbi live?"

Kamionker pointed to the little black hut close to the synagogue.

"What, in that little cottage?"

And he went towards it with Jankiel alone, as Witebski, guessing that

some unpleasant business had brought them hither, directly took his

leave, and, bowing politely, left them.

The door of the hut was already closed, but a little group of

worshippers still lingered at the open window. It was very silent

within; but the Rabbi did not rest, he never rested, as the few hours

spent in broken sleep could scarcely be called by that name. He was

bending over his books, which he knew by heart, but still pondered

over, and of which he strove with his whole mind and soul to

penetrate the mystery.

Reb Moshe rested, but not altogether. He sat in the corner of the

fireplace, his knees drawn up to his chin, and his hands buried in

his beard. He looked fixedly at the Master, not unlike a fanatic

savage worshipping his fetish, or as a scientist watches the

universe. The eyes of Reb Moshe expressed deep veneration, wonder,

and utter devotion.

Suddenly the door opened, and upon the threshold stood the lord of

Kamionka who, turning to Jankiel, said:

"Remain outside; I will speak alone with the Rabbi."

Saying this, he stooped in order to enter the low doorway, and then

looked around.

Opposite him, near the wall, sat a man with a mass of coal-black hair,

slightly tinged with gray, about him a worn-out garment, and with a

yellow, wrinkled face, who, looked at the intruder with amazed and

piercing eyes. In a far corner squatted another man, only dimly visible;

upon him the young gentleman bestowed only a passing glance.

It did not even enter his mind that the man in the tattered clothes and

with the piercing eyes could be the celebrated Rabbi, whose fame,

spreading over the Jewish communities, had sent a faint echo into the

Christian world.

He approached the man very politely. "Could I see the Rabbi of Szybow

for a few minutes?"

There was no answer.

The man sitting near the wall craned his long yellow neck, and opened

his eyes and mouth wider.

The sudden amazement, or perhaps other feelings, gave him the

appearance of stupidity, almost idiotism.

No wonder that Isaak Todros looked like one turned to stone at the

sight of the nobleman standing before him. He was the first Edomite

who had ever crossed his threshold--the first he had ever seen

closely, and the first time he had heard the sonorous language, which

sounded strange and unintelligible to his ears. If the angel

Matatron, the heavenly patron and defender of Israel, or even the

foremost of the evil spirits had stood before him, he would have been

less appalled: with supernatural beings he was in constant though not

direct communication. He studied them--their nature and their

functions. But this tall, stately man, in his abominable garment

which reached barely to his knees, with the white, effeminate

forehead and unintelligible language, who was he? Was he a

Philistine? a cruel Roman, or perhaps a Spaniard--one of those that

murdered the famous Abrabanel family, and drove his ancestor Todros

out of Spain?

The lord waited a few minutes, and not getting an answer, repeated

the question:

"Could I speak with the Rabbi of Szybow?"

At the sound of the somewhat raised voice the squatting figure in the

corner moved and rose slowly. Reb Moshe, with open mouth and stupid,

glaring eyes, came into the light, and in his hoarse voice uttered

the monosyllable "Hah!"

At the sight of the man dressed in such primitive and now-a-days

unseen simplicity, the lord's face twitched all over with suppressed

merriment.

"My good sir," he said, turning to the melamed, "is that man deaf and

dumb? I asked him twice whether I could see the Rabbi of Szybow, and

got no answer."

Saying this, he pointed at Todros, who, craning his neck in the

melamed's direction, asked:

"Was sagd er? Was will er?" (What does he say? What does he want?)

Reb Moshe, instead of answering, opened his mouth still wider. At the

same time murmurs and whispers became audible from the open window,

and the young gentleman, looking in that direction, saw a cluster of

faces peeping into the room: the faces looked inquisitive, and a

little frightened. He turned towards them and asked:

"Does the Rabbi of Szybow live here?"

"He does," said some voices.

"Where is he, then?"

A great many fingers pointed at the bench near the wall.

"What! That man is your wise and celebrated Rabbi?"

The faces framed in the open window radiated with a peculiar

blissfulness, and nodded.

The young man made an heroic effort to control his risible muscles,

and with twinkling eyes he pointed at the melamed.

"And who is this?"

"He is the melamed," said several voices; "a very wise and pious

man."

The nobleman turned again to Todros.

"Reverend sir," he said, "could I speak alone with you for a few

minutes?"

Todros remained silent as the grave, but his breath went faster and

his eyes grew fiercer.

"Mr. Melamed," said the nobleman to the barefooted man in the long

coarse shirt, "perhaps this is a day when your Rabbi is not allowed

to speak?"

"Hah?" asked Reb Moshe drawlingly. The nobleman, half-amused,

half-angry, turned towards the people.

"Why do they not answer?"

There was a momentary silence. The faces looked perplexedly at each

other. One of them at last said:

"They only understand the Jewish language." The owner of Kamionka

looked at them in open-eyed amazement; he could scarcely believe that

he heard aright.

"What! You don't mean to say they do not understand the language of

the country they live in?"

"Well, they do not understand it."

There was some indefined resentment in the voice that said that.

At this moment Isaak Todros drew himself up, and raising both arms

above his head, began to speak quickly:

"And a day will arrive when the Messiah, who sleeps in Paradise, will

wake up and descend to the earth. Then a great war will spread over

the world. Israel will stand up against Edom and Ishmael, until Edom

and Ishmael will fall at his feet like shattered cedars."

His gestures were at once solemn and threatening, his eyes blazing,

and catching his breath, he repeated again:

"Edom and Ishmael will lie at the feet of Israel like broken cedars,

and the thunderbolt of the Lord will fall upon them and crush them to

powder."

It was now the Edomite's turn to look astonished, for he did not

understand a word. He looked not unlike a tall, stately cedar as he

stood there, but not like one that could be easily crushed to powder.

His face was rippling over with laughter, which he carefully tried to

suppress.

"What does he say?" he asked the people at the window.

There was no answer. All eyes were riveted upon the sage, and on the

melamed's face there was an expression of ecstatic rapture.

"My good people, tell me what he said," repeated the nobleman.

A deep voice, as if in sarcastic retribution, answered with another

question.

"Did the gracious lord not understand?"

This ingenuous question put an end to the young man's self-control,

and he burst out into a peal of laughter and turned towards the door.

"Savages!" he murmured to himself, and he still laughed as he crossed

the precincts, and the people who crowded round the Rabbi's window

looked after him with astonished and deeply-offended eyes. The young

man laughed, tickled by the ludicrous aspect of the whole scene; yet

under his apparent merriment there was an under-current of resentment

and anger, that the Wise Men of Israel should have shown themselves

to him like savages, who did not even speak the language of the

country whose air they breathed, and that had nourished them for many

centuries. The people around the Rabbi's hut followed him with looks

of displeasure almost amounting to hatred, because he had blasphemed

what they loved and revered beyond anything. Poor sages of Israel

with their worshippers! Poor Edomite laughing at the sage and his

worshippers! But poorest of all, the country, the sons of which after

journeying together for so many centuries do not understand each

other's heart and language.

At the gate of the precincts Jankiel Kamionker met the young

nobleman.

"Well, Jankiel," he said, "you have indeed a wise and learned Rabbi."

Jankiel did not reply to this, but began at once to speak about the

agreement and the Kamionka distillery. He spoke glibly and easily,

and did not appear to remember what had occurred or refer to it.

Neither did the lord of Kamionka, upon whom the whole scene had left

an impression of astonishment and amusement. The young prophet, and

Jankiel with his red curls trying to evict him; the Rabbi, who only

spoke the Jewish language, and his companion in the wonderful

costume: it was as good as a play. How his friends would enjoy his

description; how the good-natured Sir Andrew would laugh, and his

daughter, the beautiful Hedwiga, of whom he thought night and day as

the believer in his paradise, would smile!

Thinking of her he jumped into the carriage, and looking at the west,

he exclaimed:

"How long you have kept me!"

He nodded to Jankiel and called to the coachman:

"Drive on."

The four grays and the light carriage carried him swiftly through the

town till he disappeared in a cloud of golden dust. In the western

sky the red clouds died gradually away, and the transparent dusk of

an August evening enveloped the town and darkened the sitting-room in

the Ezofowich house. Loud and angry cries had reverberated in that

usually peaceful household. The shrillest and angriest among them was

that of Reb Jankiel, who abused all the members of the family one

after the other, who answered either angrily or quietly according to

their different characters. After that, the accusing and threatening

man, shaking with fury, or perhaps terror, had rushed out of the

house towards the Rabbi's dwelling; and those who remained behind sat

silent and motionless, as if riveted to their chairs by their angry

and perplexed feelings.

Saul sat on the sofa with his head sunk upon his breast, his hands

lying motionless upon his knees, and sighed loudly and heavily.

Around him sat on chairs Raphael, Abraham, and Ber. The wives of

Raphael and Ber, the much-respected and beloved women, entered

quietly and sat down behind their husbands. In a corner of the room,

not noticed by any one, sat young Haim, Abraham's son and Meir's

devoted friend.

It was Saul who interrupted the silence.

"Where is he gone to?"--meaning Jankiel.

"He is gone to denounce him before the Rabbi," said Abraham.

"He will bring Meir before the ecclesiastical tribunal," said

Raphael.

Saul rocked himself and moaned aloud:

"Ai! ai! my poor head! Did I live to see a grandson of mine brought

up to judgement like a thief or robber?"

"It is as informer he will appear before the judges," said Abraham

swiftly and passionately.

"Something must be done with Meir, father."

"Think of it and tell us what to do with him. Things cannot remain as

they are. He will ruin us and our sons and bring shame upon the whole

family. Father! people used to say that it was always an Ezofowich

who tried to undermine the faith of Israel: that the house of Todros

and the house of Ezofowich are like two rivers than run in opposite

directions, but meet now and then, and struggle to see which is the

stronger, and to push the other underground. This talk had subsided,

people began to forget, till Meir stirred it up again. Something must

be done. Think of it, father, and we will do as you command us."

Two red spots appeared on Saul's face.

"What is to be done with him?" he asked in a voice that sounded like

a smothered sob.

Raphael said:

"He must be married as quickly as possible."

Ber, who had until now remained silent, observed:

"Why not send him into the world?"

Saul thought a long time, and then replied:

"Your advice is not good. I cannot punish him severely. What would my

father Hersh say to it, in whose footsteps he wishes to go, and whom

I am not at liberty to judge. I cannot marry him quickly, because the

child is not like other children--he is proud and sensitive, and does

not brook any fetters. Besides, he is so disgraced and openly rebuked

already that no wealthy or respectable Israelite will give him his

daughter in marriage."

Again Saul's voice shook. He had lived to see his grandson, the most

beloved of all his children, come down so low that no respectable

family would receive him as son-in-law.

"I cannot send him away either," he continued, "because I am afraid

that in the world he will lose all that is left of his father's

faith. I am in the position of the great and wise Rabbi of whom it is

written that he had a reckless son who ate pork in secret. People

advised him to send his son out into the world and expose him to

misery and a wandering life. But he replied: 'Let my son remain at

home. The sight of his father's troubled and sorrowful face may

soften his heart and lead him to a better life; stern misery would

change it into hard stone.'"

Saul became silent--all around were silent; nothing was heard but now

and then a sigh from the women.

The room became darker and darker.

After a while, in a subdued, almost timid, voice, Ber began: