Temptations

By David Pinski

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Title: Temptations


Author: David Pinski

Translator: Dr. Isaac Goldberg

Release date: August 18, 2023 [eBook #71439]

Language: English

Original publication: London: George Allen & Unwin Ltd, 1919

Credits: Bob Taylor, Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TEMPTATIONS ***





  Transcriber’s Note
  Italic text displayed as: _italic_




TEMPTATIONS

_A BOOK OF SHORT STORIES_




  TEMPTATIONS

  _A BOOK OF SHORT STORIES_

  BY
  DAVID PINSKI

  AUTHORISED TRANSLATION FROM
  THE YIDDISH BY
  DR. ISAAC GOLDBERG

  [Illustration: decoration]

  LONDON: GEORGE ALLEN & UNWIN LTD.
  RUSKIN HOUSE, 40 MUSEUM STREET, W.C. 1

_Copyright in U.S.A.; 1919, by Brentano’s_

_First published in Great Britain 1921_




CONTENTS

                                                                  PAGE

  INTRODUCTION                                                     vii

  BERURIAH                                                           3

  THE TEMPTATIONS OF RABBI AKIBA                                    83

  JOHANAN THE HIGH PRIEST                                          101

  ZERUBBABEL                                                       131

  DRABKIN: A NOVELETTE OF PROLETARIAN LIFE                         169

  THE BLACK CAT                                                    255

  A TALE OF A HUNGRY MAN                                           277

  IN THE STORM                                                     313




INTRODUCTION


The same traits that distinguish David Pinski as a playwright
characterise him also as a writer of short fiction. The noted Yiddish
author is concerned chiefly with the probing of the human soul,—not
that intangible and inconsequential theme of so many vapourings,
dubbed mystic and symbolistic by the literary labellers,—but the
hidden mainspring that initiates, and often guides, our actions.
Pinski seeks to penetrate into the secret of human motive. It is not
enough for him to depict the deed; he would plumb, if possible, the
genetic impulse. That is why, if he must be classified, one places
him among the psychological realists. He is at his best faithful to
both the inner and the outer life.

Thus we find, in his numerous stories and plays, very little of the
conventional heroism and villainism with which most authors are
concerned, and very much of the deeply human at which the majority
of authors shake their heads. This is not to say that Pinski’s work
lacks heroic figures; on the contrary, in a measure it constitutes a
series of noble and ennobling portraits, representing men and women
who meet life face to face and are scorched by its flames. So, too,
there are less inspiring personages who compromise with life and
their better selves. And in the background lurks our common humanity,
faintly quick with the potentialities of ignominy or greatness.

Despite his growing fame as one of the most significant dramatists
now active, Pinski began his career as a writer of short stories.
He has been recognised as the first Yiddish author to give artistic
treatment to the Yiddish proletariat, and no small part of his
life has been sacrificed to the cause of the oppressed and the
disinherited. His earlier works, both in fiction and in the drama,
were devoted to the depiction of life among the lowly, and it is
characteristic of the man that he does not allow his personal views
to mar his artistic product.

It may be said that three chief periods have thus far appeared in
the labours of the Yiddish author. First there is his proletarian
“manner” in which the life, problems and aspirations of the Jewish
workingman are portrayed in such masterly dramas as “Isaac Sheftel”
(written at the age of twenty-seven) and such incisive commentaries
as the best of the early tales, “Drabkin.” Then there is the genre of
the biblical reconstruction, in which ancient themes are utilised for
the purpose of producing thoroughly contemporary works of art. Among
his plays “The Dumb Messiah” and “Mary Magdalen” represent this phase
of his skill, while among the stories, “Zerubbabel” and “Beruriah”
would come under this category.

There is also the treatment of sex problems, as evidenced by such
plays as “Jacob the Blacksmith” and “Gabri and the Women,” and tales
like “The Awakening” and “The Black Cat.”

I must confess that I am not greatly concerned with the periods
and “manners” of authors; classification has little to do with
genuine literary appreciation. This is all the more true in a case
like Pinski’s, since the various phases of his work follow no
chronological order, and often appear side by side, as it were,
in the same work. Take for instance the first tale in this book,
“Beruriah,” which I consider one of the greatest short stories ever
written, insofar as the wide reading of a single person in some
half dozen or more languages can substantiate such a statement. Who
shall say that the tale is mere reconstruction or elaboration of a
Talmudic legend, or a problem in love, or a psychological study, or
even a symbolic story? It is all of these, and something more. Who
shall say that “Drabkin” is merely a proletarian narrative? To be
sure, the background is furnished by the humble Jewish operatives,
but is the tale itself any the less universal on that account? Is
it any the less a problem in love? Is it any the less a satire upon
human foibles, with the same essential theme as Pinski’s remarkable
work of genius, “The Treasure,”—one of the outstanding dramas of the
century?

The truth is that Pinski harmonises and renders universal almost
everything he touches. From an insignificant three or four line
suggestion in the Talmud he elaborates a “Beruriah,” producing one
of the most striking female portraits that has come from an author
peculiarly rich in well-drawn women. Out of various strands from
Jewish history he weaves a “Zerubbabel,” which flames with a Jewish
patriotism particularly contemporary in application. Nor is this
intense devotion any more exclusively Jewish than the crumbling of
world-philosophies depicted in the epic play, “The Last Jew.”

This human and universal touch is rendered all the more evident by
the author’s attitude, both in life and in the stories that are
the product of his actual experience, toward the oppressed and the
disinherited whose champion he is. With him the independence of the
writer is almost a religion; so much so that he is just as ready to
voice fearlessly the faults of his own people as he is to glorify
their historic and racial virtues. He reveals them to themselves, and
is as little compromising with them as with any other. If he knows
their nobility, he knows, too, their pettiness; he sees them in their
climb up Mount Sinai to talk with the Lord, and in their grovelling
over the heaps of mire called money-making.

Yet it is no part of his art or his purpose to sit in judgment.
Indeed, one of the noblest notes arising from the author’s work as
a whole is the spirit of “Judge not.” This human note rings from
“Mary Magdalene” (an entirely original treatment of the fecund
theme, superior, in my opinion, to both Paul Heyse’s and Maurice
Maeterlinck’s plays upon the same subject) as from the excellent
tales “The Temptation of Rabbi Akiba” and “High Priest Johanan.” He
who beholds in such stories as these only a biblical or religious
strain, misses more than half of their beauty. Rabbi Akiba and High
Priest Johanan are not spirits of an ancient age, individuals of a
departed civilisation. Far from it. They are you and I. “Beruriah”
is by no means the virtuous wife of an overwrought Rabbi. She is an
eternal type; she can be found in the Talmud, in the Icelandic sagas,
in a play by Ibsen, in a novel by Hardy; she is Antigone, she is
Candida; she is the soul of woman clothed in tragic beauty.

Pinski’s tales, then, of which the following comprise the first
series, demand universal appreciation but little less than his
dramas. Theirs is that rare beauty which is an indissoluble union
of manner and matter. In the original, they represent the most
melodious Yiddish that has been written,—a powerful refutation of the
unthinking scorn of those who refer to the tongue as a jargon. They
are for men and women who read with the mind as well as the eye.

  ISAAC GOLDBERG.

  Roxbury, Mass.
  March, 1919.




BERURIAH




DEDICATED

TO THE EVERLASTING MEMORY OF MY BELOVED LITTLE SON

GABRI

(Born March 11, 1909; Died August 14, 1916)


This tale, which I began forty-two hours before his death, in the
happy certainty that his slight illness would quickly pass, and
without the slightest presentiment that I and his wonderful mother
would soon have to seek consolation in it.

  THE AUTHOR




BERURIAH


I

Blessed with all the virtues was Beruriah, wife of the noted Master,
Rabbi Mayer. It was at the time that God’s heart was filled with pity
for the Jewish people, which had just lost its independence and its
freedom, and from under His heavenly throne He summoned her soul, and
sent her down to earth. “Go, and rejoice the hearts of the wretched
and exiled. Go, and bring gladness to the sad and mournful. Let him
that beholds you know that life is worth the living, and understand
that he has an Almighty Lord who can create glory, and let him praise
and bless my Name.”

And therefore was she called Beruriah,—the chosen of God. The Romans,
however, called her Valeria,—the blessed one.

So beautiful she was, that at the most glorious sunset, the eyes of
the worshipful onlookers wandered from the sun to her and from her
to the sun, and none could be sure which was the greater beauty or
which the greater miracle. But at the consecration of the moon she
dare not show herself upon the street, lest the moon take flight
before the greater beauty, and pious Jews be helpless quite to bless
it. Whenever she walked along the way, all passers-by stood still,
lest they fall into a ditch at their feet or stumble across a rock
in their path, for all eyes were turned only upon her. And those who
toiled heavily were wont to say, when they had beheld her, “The sight
was even as balm to our weary limbs. Now will our labours once again
seem light.” And those who sat within doors also said, “Was not our
house just radiant with a loving glow? Beruriah must have passed
beneath our window.” And then the sages introduced a new blessing,
with which Jews should hymn the praises of the Lord for having shared
His beauty with a mortal.

Wise was she, too; so that the old men of her time queried, “Shall
we not don women’s garb and surrender our men’s habits to her? For
before her we are like old women in whom the little sense they had
has long evaporated, while she possesses the wisdom of all our years
added together.” And when a husband scolded his wife, saying that
women had much hair but little brains, the wife would retort: “And
what of Beruriah?” Then the husband would see that he had been hasty,
and that his own wife was more clever than he, since she had so
cunningly reminded him of Beruriah. Whereupon the sages introduced a
new blessing, with which Jews should chant the praises of the Lord
for having shared His wisdom with a mortal.

But Beruriah was deeply learned, too. In the written lore of the
Holy Law she was as sure as if she trod upon a beaten path, and
the oral commentaries reposed within her as securely as sacred
books within their closet. Great keenness of intellect in her was
merged with clear simplicity, and the Torah is a field that may be
worked with these tools alone. Many a tangle did Beruriah unravel,
and many an obscure spot did she illuminate. Her word and her
interpretations were esteemed as highly as those of her own husband,
the renowned Talmudist Rabbi Mayer. But of this same Rabbi Mayer,
who was the greatest of his epoch, and who was so subtle that he
could demonstrate the purity of a reptile in one hundred and fifty
different ways, it was said: “Small wonder that he knows so much and
that he is so acute. For Beruriah is his wife!”

Rabbi Mayer, however, heeded the words but little, and felt no
affront, for he was very proud of her and loved her boundlessly.
And every day he would utter in his prayers, “A wondrous jewel hast
Thou created, and of all Thy servants, Thou hast chosen me to be
illuminated by its brilliancy. How shall I thank Thee, God?”


II

And Rabbie Mayer’s students said, “Beruriah has been blessed with all
the virtues, and she is to Rabbi Mayer a wondrous jewel with which
God has chosen to glorify our master; yet is not her heart but the
weak heart of a woman? And even as the flashes of the jewel, do not
human passions play and contend within her? Who can assure us that
her ears are sealed against the seductive speeches that fall upon
her like glowing sparks and melt her heart like wax? Blessed, too,
with all the virtues was Mother Eve, of whom all later generations
of women are but a reflection, and yet her ears were open to the
serpent. And where Eve succumbed, surely Beruriah will not be able to
resist.”

Thus spoke Rabbi Mayer’s pupils among themselves, until at last
it came to the ears of the great Teacher. At first he was deeply
incensed and his anger boiled like the seething waters of a fiery
cauldron. He wished to confront his disciples in all his fury
and drive them forth. How dare they question her virtue and her
purity,—her will of steel against all tempting tongues! Was not
Beruriah a holiday-child of God’s, and did not he who insulted her
desecrate the holy day,—was he not a sinner unworthy of sitting
before Rabbi Mayer, hearing him expound the Torah?

But he who could demonstrate the purity of a reptile in one hundred
and fifty different ways, soon changed his course of thought. Were he
to drive forth his disciples for the doubt they had uttered regarding
Beruriah, they would take leave and declare, “Had we been wrong in
our doubts Rabbi Mayer would have laughed us to scorn, and would soon
have forgotten our words. But because they are well-founded he flew
at once into a rage and cast us forth from him.”

His seething anger became now an immense scorn, but his sharp mind
kept thinking further: Wicked is man’s tongue and low the doubts of
his heart. To prove the purity of a reptile one must be a Rabbi
Mayer, but to render a Beruriah impure, one need be merely a reptile.
They would not cease talking until the day on which she died, and
when her glorious soul would depart from her glorious body, unsullied
and pure of sin, they would say, “She died pure, because no serpent
tested her,—because the Lord never tried her with temptations.” And
they would speak even more: “God tries the strong alone; and knowing
how weak was Beruriah’s heart against the tempter, He did not try her
and shielded her from seduction.”

At this thought an oppressive weakness overpowered his entire body,
and his high forehead was bedewed with sweat. What was he to do to
keep the venomous tongues from stinging Beruriah? How was he to act
so that every thought of her should be as pure as her own heart?

His deep wisdom pondered, and soon whispered a reply: “Let them test
her!”

A shudder rippled through him, and it was as if he must feel shame
before the four walls in whose shelter he had dared to think such
thoughts. Yet he could not free himself from that one suggestion; it
was the one way out. Through such a test of Beruriah all evil mouths
would be stopped forever, and all would see that his wife Beruriah
had a heart as pure as her spirit,—that her virtue was as great as
her beauty,—that her fidelity to him was as great as her wisdom. And
then indeed would they behold how great was God’s grace to their
generation, in which Beruriah lived,—and how great was he himself in
the eyes of the Lord that he should have been given her for a wife.

And Rabbi Mayer pondered for one day, and two, and three. He lost
all desire for food, and sleep forsook him. Ideas multiplied within
him with the rapidity of lightning; one thought generated another,
supported it, refuted it. Mountains and mountains of thoughts,—deep,
keen, far-reaching. And among them were thoughts that shamed him in
his own eyes,—that stirred his unrest and kindled a wrath against
his very self. How did they ever come to him? These doubts,—how
could they ever have entered his soul? How could he,—he, of all men,
who knew her heart so well and to whom her thoughts were as an open
book? Had she not shown enough how pious and strong she was, at the
death of her two children? Had not all the world then seen that his
Beruriah was unparalleled?

But the pious Master who had compared the power of Satan with the
power of the Lord, and had issued a thousand admonitions against the
Evil One, tremblingly sought protection for him and his one fear of
the Evil Spirit. And in shame, with quivering lips, he whispered,
“Forgive me, Beruriah, my holy one. But let them now subject you to
the test!”


III

Whereupon Rabbi Mayer assembled all his students, and spoke to them.

“Your words about my wife Beruriah have reached me, and your doubts
concerning her have come to my ears. When one feels doubt about his
companion groundlessly, what is that companion to do? Shall he not
come and say, ‘What is the ground for your suspicion, and how have
I called forth your misgivings?’ And shall he not say, ‘You are a
wicked comrade, else should you have raised no doubts against me,
since there is no foundation for them.’ Shall I not tell you all
that you are evil minds, unworthy of sitting before me, since your
own thoughts are base and you yourselves are a toy in the hands of
seduction? Wherefore you doubt, too, the purity of my wife Beruriah?
Would I not be right to dismiss you all from me, damming the stream
of my learning against you?”

A terror descended upon the disciples and they were tossed in deep
disquietude. Those among them who, more than the others, had uttered
the doubts and spread them, sat rooted, with downcast eyes, abashed
and crestfallen. But those who had simply listened to the doubts,
without repeating them, looked about in fear and consternation, as if
seeking the guilty. And one arose, saying, “Rabbi, surely you will
not punish those who listened, even as those who uttered?”

Rabbi Mayer replied, “The same penalty for those who listened as for
those who spoke. For not alone is the mouse the thief, but the hole
also.”

Whereupon the disciples began to murmur, softly and sheepishly, “But
we doubt no longer.”

Rabbi Mayer laughed.

“Wise pupils have I in you, and to think that _you_ will spread the
Law through Israel! Such as _you_ will prove a reptile pure in only
one way: when it will profit you.”

The disciples were now dejected more than ever. And Rabbi Mayer spoke
again to them, as was his practice, through a parable.

“A fox met a hen, and said to her, ‘I have heard that you doubt my
being the most virtuous of creatures. For that I will straightway
devour you.’ The hen was seized with fear and cried, entreatingly, ‘I
do not doubt it, and if I ever did, I will never doubt it again.’
And the fox, who was in a pleasant humour because his stomach was
full, spoke again to her: ‘This time I let you free. But remember,
should you ever in future express the slightest doubt, you will be
as good as dead.’ Whereupon the hen took oath that never should she
express the slightest doubt. But when the fox had released her and
gone on his way, she snuggled her head in between her wings and
furtively thought to herself that there was none so wicked as the
fox.”

And now Rabbi Mayer raised his voice and said, “No, not with
intimidation would I banish the doubts you feel concerning my wife
Beruriah. For after all, you will take refuge deep in your hearts,
and admonish your thoughts never to dare rise to your lips. You will
tell yourselves that you are right, but that because you did not wish
to lose me, you pretended to be convinced. I wish, however, that all
doubts truly cease,—that they be driven from your hearts and that
your souls be cleansed of them.”

The disciples sat still, as if considering how this might come to
pass, and one among them who was not over careful, blurted out, “If
_you_ will cease to doubt, so will we, too.”

At first Rabbi Mayer’s face grew fiery red, but he uttered not
a word, as if to refrain from speaking in great anger. Then his
countenance turned ghastly pale, sunken and wan from surging,
volcanic wrath. Then he spoke:

“Woe unto him whose thoughts are those of a fool, but greater woe
still if he master not his lips. Did you then doubt, at first,
because _I_ doubted? Who of you will dare to rise and say that Rabbi
Mayer doubted his wife Beruriah? But those doubts which you could
not conceal within yourselves, and had to drool out and pour into
others’ ears, even as venomous snakes, have become like the source of
a plague, spreading pestilence to right and to left, near and afar.
Even I have caught the contagion of your doubt, and, as you speak,
so speak I now myself. ‘Perhaps Beruriah is true to me because no
tempter ever sought her ear.’”

Those of the disciples who had been first to sow the seed of doubt
wished to lift their heads in triumph, but they refrained, content
to smile within their hearts, and barely able to keep the smile from
prancing to their lips. But the wise Rabbi Mayer had noticed the
spark of triumph that had flashed in their eyes, and thundered forth
in tones that scattered terror:

“Never have I entertained doubt of my wife Beruriah. Nor has the
slightest suspicion assailed me as to the purity of her heart. But
your evil venom has corroded my being, and the stench of your words
has grown foul thoughts within me. Now I tell myself, ‘The apple is
wondrous fair, but who can say what passes in its heart?’ This have
you wrought with the poison of your doubts: that Rabbi Mayer should
feel uncertainty as to the virtue of Beruriah, his wife. Shall I not
drive you from me with rods and curses? But no. I have determined
otherwise. What does one do to learn whether the beautiful apple be
sound at the core? He cuts it open. I, too, will cut open, will
peer into, Beruriah’s heart; I will test her soul. And hear, now,
what I have resolved upon: For thirty days I will not appear to her
in Tiberias,—and thirty days, I believe, will be enough to test the
power of a woman’s virtue, when her husband is absent from her. And
you—choose from among you one who shall take it upon himself to be
her tempter—.”


IV

More than one heart quaked as Rabbi Mayer uttered these words. The
possible companionship with the wonderful Beruriah coursed like a
hot stream from head to foot in many a student. But strongest of all
beat the heart of handsome Simeon, son of Rabbi Ismael, and he had to
close his eyes because of the flood of passion that inundated him.

Most handsome of all the disciples was Simeon, son of Rabbi Ismael.
Once a Roman matron had beheld him, and it seemed to her as if
Adonis, the Greek god of strength and youth and beauty, had turned
Jew and given himself up to the study of the fathomless Torah. And
she called him “the Adonis who turned Jew.” He was tall, slender
and agile; the hair of his head and of his small beard was reddish;
his eyes were of a colour that changed with the time of day and
the temper of his moods, and none could withstand his glance. Out
of piety he would shut his eyes on passing a woman, lest unholy
thoughts be born in a Jewish daughter’s bosom. But once, on passing
Beruriah, he had not shut his eyes, and instead of igniting another,
he was himself set on fire, and on his eyes was impressed her image,
inextinguishably, even as a seal impresses the burning wax. From
that time he saw only her before him; she was his dream by night,
his thought by day, nor did his holy studies avail him aught. His
striking masculine beauty had found its mate in Beruriah, and he
hungered after her as for something that had always belonged to
him,—something that ever had been destined for him. He had been pious
all his years, had known most ardent prayers and tormenting fasts,
bodily tortures and cleansing of the soul. But now his prayers no
longer were horror of sin, but plaints and grievances. It was as
though the Lord withheld what was justly Simeon’s; as if God had
taken away his rightful property, and his alone. And why had God
placed Beruriah in his path? Why had the Lord not closed his eyes
at their meeting? And in his restless, often feverish thoughts he
showed God how he, Simeon, might come to her who was destined to be
his. Rabbi Mayer might die, and he would inherit Beruriah; or if
God did not wish the death of the holy man, Beruriah could forsake
her learned husband,—divorce him and fly to the arms of her twin in
beauty. Could not almighty God bring this to pass?

And now that Rabbi Mayer had announced his resolution, it was as if
God had answered Simeon’s prayers, knowing that he would be the one
to execute the purpose of the Rabbi, which was in reality the hidden
purpose of the Almighty. And Rabbi Mayer, after uttering his plan,
turned his glance to Simeon, son of Rabbi Ismael, as if Simeon were
he upon whom had fallen the dangerous embassy. But the sage said
nothing to indicate any choice on his part. He departed from the
Yeshiva at once, leaving the disciples alone to choose the tempter
from their number.

And although many eyes sought out Simeon, son of Rabbi Ismael, his
selection was in no wise unanimous. For several others wished to
assume the mission, and these were the students who had most openly
expressed their doubts as to Beruriah’s constancy.

And one of them spoke:

“In order to seduce Beruriah one need not be the most handsome,
but the most subtle. One can steal into her heart, not through her
eyes, but through her ears. Her eyes she can close before the most
beautiful picture, but there is naught that can seal her ears against
subtle speech. The beautiful picture that meets her gaze will vanish
the moment she turns her head, but the guileful word will remain in
her heart, and delve and burrow. Remember, that even our mother Eve
was conquered by wily words from the subtle serpent’s mouth. As the
Bible says, ‘Now the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the
field.’ And if Beruriah withstand the subtle word, then is her virtue
beyond uncertainty.”

And he spoke in such a way that all might see he was most subtle and
should be their choice.

But a second arose and spoke:

“In order to win Beruriah one need be neither the handsomest nor
the most subtle, but the strongest. For what is the beauty of our
most beautiful against her beauty? And what is the guile of our most
subtle against her subtlety? Our handsomest will quail before her,
asking, ‘Why am I so ugly?’—And our cleverest will confront her like
a helpless simpleton. But the presence of a powerful man will descend
upon her senses like a cloud; the breath of immense masculine power
will penetrate her like wine and intoxicate her. To make a woman
bite into a forbidden apple, it takes a wily serpent; but to make a
woman lust for a man other than her husband, it requires one whose
strength will work upon her like the pressure of two mill-stones. And
if Beruriah withstand great masculine strength, then is her virtue
beyond uncertainty.”

And he spoke in such a way that all might see he was the strongest
and should be their choice.

But a third arose and spoke:

“In order to gain Beruriah, one need not be the handsomest,
the wiliest or the strongest, but the most learned. For if our
fellow-student is right in all he says as to the wisest and the
wiliest then must he surely recognise that not even masculine
strength will touch Beruriah’s soul. For she will tell herself, ‘An
untamed bull is stronger; and what man is more powerful than a lion?
Shall I then languish with desire for the wild bull, the lion, and
the elephant?’ But the most learned of us will know how to call forth
her admiration, and will win her heart through his skill in holy
lore. And if her husband, our master Rabbi Mayer, can demonstrate
the purity of a reptile in one hundred and fifty different ways,
then her seducer will have to be able, in twice one-hundred and
fifty ways, to prove that Reuben did not sin with Bilhah, the wife
of his father Jacob,—that King David did not sin with Bathsheba,
the wife of Uriah the Hittite, and that Beruriah’s sin against her
husband will likewise be no sin. And if Beruriah withstand the great
interpretative power of our most learned associate, then is her
virtue beyond uncertainty.”

And he spoke in such a way that all might see he was most learned and
should be their choice.

Whereupon a fourth arose and spoke:

“In order to triumph over Beruriah, one need be neither the
handsomest nor the wiliest, nor yet the strongest or the most
learned. For the sum of his learning will be as naught against her
own, and who dare assure us that he will not be left sitting before
her like a pupil before a master? And will she not say that in our
Yeshiva we study Torah only to make that which is sinful appear
pure? Therefore I say to you that in order to triumph over Beruriah
one must be the most illustrious. And who is most illustrious if not
he who can add to his personal gifts and to his own good name the
pedigree of his noted family? Our master, Rabbi Mayer, Beruriah’s
husband, is endowed with many virtues. But he springs from lowly,
convert stock, and his origin is but an impure source. How Beruriah’s
heart will melt with consuming desire when she feels the presence of
one whose ancestry dates back to the kings of the House of David! And
only after she has withstood the fascination of a genuine descendant
from such illustrious forebears will her virtue have been proved
beyond all doubt.”

That by these words he meant to indicate himself there was not the
slightest question, for he was one who claimed to be descended from
the kings of the House of David, and flaunted his ancestry as a
peacock displays its tail.

And now there arose one whom all viewed in the greatest astonishment,
their eyes distended and their mouths agape, for none could believe
that he, too, would rise to speak. And he said:

“In order to seduce Beruriah, one must be the unhappiest of men.”

And because the intense stupefaction with which his rising had been
greeted dissolved now into uproarious laughter, he continued with
louder voice and vehement gestures:

“Yes, the most unhappy and most wretched! You will succeed in
approaching Beruriah’s heart only through compassion. I need only
relate to her, with tears in my voice and suffering in my eyes, how
the words ‘father, mother’ were never uttered by my lips because my
father died before I was born, and my mother died giving birth to
me,—how I do not even know who brought me up, because I passed from
hand to hand, one stumbling across me on the threshold of his home,
another coming upon me before his door, in the darkness of black
night. By day the sun scorched me, and by night the cold pierced my
flesh, and I stilled my hunger with my cries. In all the world not
one soul could be found who would adopt me as a son; they saw in me
an evil visitation and only fear of God and His commandments held
them back from putting me to death. And thus I grew up in hunger,
necessity, and misery, without caresses, without a kiss, without a
kind word, without a tender glance, without the slightest token of
love, yet with a burning desire for affection and endearments. And
I tell you that if Beruriah does not burst into flames of sinful
lust out of compassion for me, then is her virtue indeed beyond
uncertainty.”

And because his words created a sensation, he was sure that he would
be the chosen one.

But now the first to speak began anew, and after him the second, and
then the third, and following them the fourth one and the fifth. And
then all at the same time. Each tried to drown out the voices of the
rest, to annihilate the others. And still others intruded into the
discussion, until the Yeshiva resounded with such a tumult as rises
from a crowded market-place on a busy day.

Simeon, son of Rabbi Ismael, alone was silent. He was certain that
he would be the chosen one, for thus had Rabbi Mayer spoken with his
glance, and such was the will of God. And again, because Simeon, in
addition to his great beauty, possessed the other qualities necessary
to win Beruriah. For he felt that he was also the most unhappy. Who,
indeed, could be more unhappy than he, whom God had been so unkind as
to deprive of what should have been his, afterwards revealing to him
what he had lost and filling his heart with hopelessness and grief?
And let but the time arrive when he could tell Beruriah the tale of
all his woes,—the trials that he had undergone for her,—then would
she be overcome by pity, and in her heart compassion would pave the
way for future love.

And Simeon smiled amidst the wordy din, and spoke no word. When, for
a moment, the arguments subsided, again a host of eyes was turned to
his. And they recalled that Rabbi Mayer’s glance had really singled
him out, and suddenly realised that no fitter messenger than Simeon
could be sent. And if Beruriah could withstand the fascination of
the Adonis who had turned Jew, then was her virtue indeed beyond
uncertainty.

And now from various sides the cry arose, “Let Simeon go! The
handsome Simeon! The beautiful son of Rabbi Ismael!”

Thus was Simeon, the son of Rabbi Ismael, chosen to be the touchstone
which should test the constancy and purity of the heart of Beruriah,
wife of the Master, Rabbi Mayer.


V

He came to her with a letter from her husband, and the letter
read, very simply: “The bearer, one of my students, will explain
everything.”

He found her in the garden before her house, alone with her thoughts,
and she said, somewhat disturbed by a presentiment of evil tidings,
“Pardon my not inviting you into my home to offer you refreshment and
rest, for I am very anxious and impatient.”

Simeon paused a moment to catch his breath and gain sufficient time
thus to recall what had been planned and conspired in the Yeshiva,
that the tale he bore should carry confidence and sound as if it were
the very truth. Beruriah might be struck by a suspicion of intrigue
and bring the plan to naught. Then he began, with a soft, flattering,
reassuring voice, glancing downwards, as became a pious student of
the Torah, a disciple of the pious Rabbi Mayer.

“Evil decrees are hatching against the Jews. The times of Emperor
Hadrian threaten to return. Circumcision may be forbidden, and
keeping the Sabbath. The study of the Torah may be proscribed.”

Beruriah’s answer echoed with deep pain: “The rumour aspires to evil
reality.”

“Agents have been sent out to seize the Yeshiva heads. Rabbi Mayer,
Rabbi Simeon, son of Iuhai and Rabbi Judah, son of Ileai. The
authorities wish to cut off the heads, thus destroying the body.”

Beruriah, pale and trembling, cried in fright, “Have the Rabbis been
caught?”

“No. The agents have not yet appeared. Perhaps the rumour concerning
them is false, and they will never come. But already Rabbi Simeon,
son of Iuhai, has gone into hiding and Rabbi Judah has closed his
Academy and dismissed his students until the storm rolls by. Rabbi
Mayer alone refuses to retreat from the spot where God has placed him
and has devised a plan to outwit the authorities.”

Beruriah, who had closed her eyes and raised her head to heaven, her
heart filled with thanks that her husband was not so timorous as the
others, now opened her eyes wide, piercing Simeon with their glance
and awaiting with intense curiosity the details of Rabbi Mayer’s plan.

Simeon recounted the project in a calm voice, with all the
self-assurance of speaking the truth, yet with a certain wariness and
fear of the inquiring look in her keen eyes.

“One of his students is to go to Rabbi Mayer’s home in Tiberias and
live there near Beruriah, his wife. And when the agents come for
Rabbi Mayer, his students are to declare that for a long time they
have been wandering about like sheep without a shepherd, because
Rabbi Mayer has forsaken them, and may be found at Tiberias, at home
with Beruriah, his wife. When the pursuers come to Rabbi Mayer’s
home, they will find his scholar, whom they will naturally take for
Rabbi Mayer, since he dwells under the same roof as Beruriah. Thus
Rabbi Mayer will be able to continue expounding the Holy Law to
his students, which is so necessary to the existence of the Jewish
people, especially in times of sorrow.”

Beruriah was disillusioned. Her heart was not in the plan. There was
so much about it that was strange and suspicious. She thought for
a moment, seeking some objection, and finally asked, “Suppose the
agents know Rabbi Mayer?”

But the reply to this objection had been prepared beforehand, and
Simeon made answer in reassuring tones.

“Did you not hear me say ‘his students are to declare’? If the
agents come to the Academy they will not find Rabbi Mayer, for a
hiding-place has already been secured, and guards will be on the
lookout. And should the agents come here and recognise that I am
not Rabbi Mayer, you can misdirect their steps and Rabbi Mayer will
meanwhile seek new deliverance. But consider, if they do not know
him, and if they take me for Rabbi Mayer?”

And Simeon drew himself to his full height, raising his head and
showing her his eyes, which were deep brown in the glow of the
setting sun that shone through the tall, green trees.

Beruriah thought, “It would be small wonder if the agents did take
this man to be Rabbi Mayer.” Yet this made her heart no lighter, and
she asked, with quivering spirit, “How long will this have to endure?”

The answer to this was ready in advance.

Thirty days. If, at the end of thirty days the agents should not
appear, then the rumour concerning them had been unfounded.

Simeon was waxing jubilant. The plan had so far easily succeeded and
been accepted, and now his thirty days were to begin,—destined to be
the richest, happiest days of all his life.

But Beruriah sighed heavily. Thirty days of uncertainty and terror,
of sorrow and yearning. Then she asked, still sadder than before,
“Will Rabbi Mayer not come home at all, in all the thirty days?”

Simeon, piously, almost with reproach, replied, “Would you have him
steal time from the Holy Law and give it to you? It may be that the
days of our Academy are numbered, and the days of the Torah in it.”

Utterly downcast, she was barely able to whisper, “Will Rabbi Mayer
not even send a messenger with news of himself?”

Simeon replied curtly, “Only in case Rabbi Mayer should meet with
misfortune may you expect a messenger.”

Sad and dissatisfied, she shook her head, ill content with the plan
her husband had devised. But she did not care to question further,
and recalled her duties as hostess. And thus she took in under her
roof him who had been sent as the touchstone of her virtue, and gave
him the room of Rabbi Mayer her husband. If the agents should come,
there could be no doubt that he was Rabbi Mayer, head of the Yeshiva,
who had left his Academy and his students and was living a secluded
life at home, in the company of his beautiful wife.


VI

Simeon entered into Rabbi Mayer’s dwelling, which was to be his own
for all of thirty days, and sat down to study. He knew that his voice
was sweet and clear, and very masculine, so he began to read from
the sacred books aloud. And it seemed to him that were he to draw
aside the curtain which separated Rabbi Mayer’s study from the other
rooms he would discover Beruriah listening to his voice as he read.
He felt her presence, heard her breathing, inhaled her perfume. But
he rubbed his forehead to banish these alien thoughts. He desired
to study zealously, that Beruriah might detect nothing artificial
in his actions, and yet in such wise, too, that the Holy Law be not
affronted, and God cherish no anger against him.

For the first three days they saw nothing of each other. His food was
brought to him by the aged servant, and whenever he left his room he
would walk to the outside door with lowered eyes, looking neither to
right nor to left, as one engrossed in deep and ponderous thoughts,
afraid to be disturbed. Only on the evening of the fourth day did
they meet, for it was the Sabbath eve and he recited grace and sang
holy songs, blessing God for their food in a pious voice that was at
once inspired and inspiring. And he knew that he was very beautiful,
and that the sight of him was as balm to the soul, and that his
voice was glorious,—a Sabbath-joy to hear. He looked but rarely at
Beruriah; when, however, he raised his eyes to hers, she was pierced
by a vague, deep glance, filled with a manly power, yet very sad.
And the colour of his eyes was as deeply dark as night, within them
dancing the many lights that shone in the room and on the table,
doing honour to the Sabbath.

And at night, on his couch, he began to sing, into the darkness of
his room, various passages from the Bible, which he knew by heart.
Among these were many of the most passionate lines of the Song of
Songs. He sang with repressed tones, so that he disturb the sleep of
none,—yet his voice filled the entire dwelling with sweet melancholy
and deep unrest.

Beruriah lay yearning for Rabbi Mayer, her husband. And because it is
not permitted to weep upon the Sabbath she banished from her soul all
grief and longing, repeating softly the passages that reached her ear
from Simeon, telling herself he was a most remarkable person,—this
disciple of her husband,—and that of a certainty he must be one of
the most illustrious of Rabbi Mayer’s disciples, since he had been
chosen to impersonate his master. She thought, “If every Jew, however
lowly, has yet within him a share of God above, how great indeed must
be the share of him who possesses Torah and wisdom and beauty, a
sweet voice and utmost refinement?”

The next day they met again at the Sabbath table. He recited grace
and sang his pious songs, blessing the Lord for the food with
exalted, Sabbath voice, which quivered, however, with a certain
inquietude and sadness. Again he looked but rarely at Beruriah,
with his vague, deep glance so full of manly power and yet so
spiritless. And the colour of his eyes was a brilliant blue, even
as the sky without, and they were radiant with will indomitable and
pride of mastery. And at every glance of his Beruriah trembled with
an unpleasant feeling, and she would think that it were better far
if Rabbi Mayer were sitting there with her. She was happy that the
Sabbath would soon be past, and that for another week she would not
meet Simeon,—this remarkable man who possessed so great a share of
God—

After the prayer that closed the Sabbath she accompanied him to his
room with a glance from the corner of her eye, and it seemed to her
that she was being freed of care. But suddenly he stopped upon the
threshold, and turned to her with exceeding tenderness.

“Forgive me the glances, my hostess, that I cast upon you yester eve
and to-day.”

She answered sternly and indifferently:

“And were they glances such as call for pardon?”

“Did you not feel them?”

“They did not offend me.”

He stepped toward her.

“Oh, surely they did not offend you. How, indeed, could they? But
they should have pained you.”

“Pained me?”

She did not understand him.

“Your mother-heart.”

He pronounced the words softly, with a sigh and an abject
countenance. Yet still she did not understand. Could it be that he
referred to her two children, who had died on the same day,—a Sabbath
day? His looks were sad indeed, yet how could she behold in them
grief for her children or condolence with her? She spoke once more,
quite drily:

“Even now I do not understand you.”

Then he told her the tale of a great misfortune that had befallen a
mother, and the even greater heroism she had displayed. He spoke with
deep sorrow and emotion in his voice and his eyes peered into the
distance as if they beheld there a vision of a divine miracle. This
was her own grievous misfortune,—her own heroism, but he told it as a
tale that had once occurred,—as a miracle that had once taken place.

       *       *       *       *       *

There was once a Jewish woman, the wife of a renowned Talmudic sage,
and she had two sons of wondrous beauty. Little sons, yet already
great hopes. Their father was gifted, yet it could easily be seen
that they were still more gifted. Whoever beheld them surrendered to
their charm. The sight of them brought joy to all hearts and caused
warmth to surge throughout one’s being. And the mother was at a loss
for thanks to God for the precious gifts that he had sent to her.
When suddenly a plague assailed the town in which she dwelt and on
a Sabbath day both her sons died while their father was at a House
of Study, reciting the Holy Law before his fellow Jews. In order not
to spoil her husband’s Sabbath when he came home, she laid her two
sons out in a distant room, covering them with a black shroud, and
then sat down to await her husband’s coming, dressed in her Sabbath
clothes and on her face a Sabbath air. And when her husband came he
could not read from her bearing that a thunderbolt had struck their
home, destroying its most treasured possessions.

Accustomed to see his children at the Sabbath table, he asked “Where
are our sons?”

The first time she told him a lie and her voice was calm and
reassuring:

“Soldiers marched through the town with drums and music, and the
children were anxious to see the gay parade. They begged so prettily
I could not say them nay, and let them go together with the old
servant.”

Her husband eyed her in astonishment.

“A children’s disease is epidemic here; the angel of death lurks now
in every street; and you have let our sons trail after a procession?”

She lay her head against his bosom as if to win his pardon, and said,
“If God so wills it, Death plucks his victims even in the greatest
seclusion.”

The hours of the day passed and he asked again, “Why have our little
sons not yet returned?”

And again she answered calmly, with reassurance, “The procession
cannot be over yet; or else, they have stopped somewhere to play.”

And she asked him to forgive them for having so childishly forgotten
their home, and persuaded him to harbour no uneasiness. Could he not
see that she was calm?

But when evening had fallen and time for the closing prayer of
Sabbath had come, he became once more uneasy, and exclaimed, “I do
not understand you. How can you be so calm? It is already so dark,
and still our sons are not here.”

And again she answered serenely and soothingly:

“I am at ease because I know that God is with them on all their ways.”

Now he was ashamed to feel uneasiness, and recited the closing
prayers. When he had finished, she turned to him quietly:

“I have a question to propound to you, my husband. Some one has
entrusted to my keeping two jewels, with permission to use them and
take joy in them. And I have really used them and taken in them much
joy. They were my adornment and my playthings, my infinite happiness
for many a year. Now the owner has come and asks their return. Shall
I give them back or keep them for my own?”

In wonder, her husband looked at her and replied, with astonishment,
“You ask? And can there be a question here? Be thankful to him for
the pleasure that he brought you with these two jewels for so many
years, and give them back.”

Whereupon she took him by the hand and led him to the room where lay
their sons, and uncovered them.

“See, God gave us in trust two wondrous jewels. To-day he came to us
and asked them back. Let us be grateful to Him for the joy He has
given....”

       *       *       *       *       *

Simeon could bear to speak no longer. His emotions rose; his voice
was choked with tears.

Beruriah, however, through all this time, had not interrupted the
telling of the tale. His voice was so sweet, so touching, and had so
strangely reopened her old wound and renewed her great grief. And she
followed his every word and the great grief within her, farther and
farther, more engrossed, more intent than ever. When, overcome by
his own emotion, he had interrupted his tale, she was very pale, her
eyes staring vaguely before her. In a voice that came from a parched
throat and dry lips, she asked, “Why have you told me the tale of
my own misfortune? Why have you opened my wound anew? Do you think,
then, that I did not love my sons? Do you imagine I have forgotten
them?”

Simeon made answer, “Forgive me if I have hurt you. But ever since
I heard from your husband, Rabbi Mayer, the story of your wonderful
composure, I have longed to know whence you received the courage; and
the overwhelming strength,—how came it to you? And as I sat before
the Sabbath table yester eve and to-day, my eyes sought the answer in
your mother-heart.”

He looked at her, filled with pity, and after a brief silence she
said to him, “You forget that I am the daughter of the martyr Hanino
Tradinus. When the Roman executioner was torturing him in slow
flames, he lay on his pyre reciting from the Torah as if he felt no
pain. Do you really believe that he was free of pain? Do you think
that he did not feel the tongues of fire? But God was great and
powerful within him, and He is no less powerful in me.”

Simeon closed his eyes, for a deep pang had rent his heart; he
kneeled and kissed the hem of her garment. Beruriah reddened and
whispered, scarce audibly, “And I love my husband passionately. It
was for his consolation that I found sufficient strength in me to
restrain my grief and not drown in my tears.”

Simeon left the room without a word, like a blind man groping his
way, his heart a prey to pain and his every limb atremble.

Beruriah, however, buried her head in her hands and remained seated
as if rooted to the spot alone with her two departed ones that she
had never ceased to love. Her glance was fixed upon the distance,
brimming with sorrow and yearning for past joys and hopes forever
lost, her heart wailing, almost breaking, but without a tear in her
burning eyes.

God had given; God had taken away. Blessed be His Name.

No, she would not weep, although her wound and her grief had been
renewed in so touching a manner.

And suddenly her thoughts turned to him who had awakened her wound
and her grief in so appealing a fashion,—to his voice and his eyes
and his countenance, with its expression of deep condolence.

But Simeon knew nothing of this. Deeply wounded, he strode into the
dense, black darkness of his room, and stood there motionless, his
head bowed, his eyes closed. His love would awaken no response. The
hopes he had built were vain. This wonderful woman, who had been
able to master the keenest grief because she was as strong as a
giant in her God and in her love for her husband, would surely be
able to withstand all the wiles of seduction and all thoughts of
lust. She would not behold his beauty; she would not be impressed
by his learning. Her eyes would be sealed against him, and even if
she looked at him she would not see him. And if his heart bled she
would say: “He deserves his punishment.” What was there now to do?
Why should he remain any longer? He must go back,—return to the
Yeshiva and bring the certainty that there was no stronger woman than
Beruriah. Then he would bury his own grief within him forever.

He stretched forth his hands in the gloom as if to cry out, and
clinched his fists as if thus to crush his woe, and at the same
moment felt that he would _not_ return. His longing for Beruriah was
great, and who could measure the worth of thirty days spent in her
company? To see her and hear her for thirty days!—Who could appraise
that boon? And if he should return so soon, his comrades would say,
“We all knew how strong was Beruriah on the day her two sons died,
and yet we sent you as a touchstone to test her strength and purity.
And since we knew that three days were too few, we stipulated all
of thirty.” And who could tell? Perhaps her heart had weakened under
the grievous burden that Death had laid upon it, and now she would be
unable any longer to resist love?

At this last thought it seemed that the darkness of his room was
flooded with brightness. And see, the servant had really brought in a
light. He was overjoyed and sat down to his books. And in his voice
there rang a certain note that surely must convey to Beruriah the
depth of desire which was in his heart.


VII

He considered his future attitude and planned his campaign. He would
not appear before her until the following Sabbath; but he would let
her hear his voice. From early morn till late at night let her hear
his voice—his voice that was so charming and melodious, so masculine.
Let it follow her about through all the rooms, into the garden before
the house, into the seclusion of her bed. Let it accompany her in
her thoughts and sing with her in all her prayers. And always, in
case of accidental meeting, his beard would be well combed and his
head-covering would sit so well over his high forehead that his
beauty would compel her eyes, and the bearing of his body would
summon to her the same thoughts that had occurred to the Roman matron.

The first day of that week his voice and his reciting sounded very
mournful, and on the second and third days it was likewise very sad.
And on those days his distant gaze, at their accidental meetings,
was full of pity and sorrow. But on the fourth day a change came
over his voice. It rang with joy and a zest for life, and when by
accident they met he looked at her most ardently, with glad rapture;
she stopped and followed him with her eyes, unable to understand the
great change. The sadness of his voice and the longing in his glance
she had understood, and had explained in divers ways. His own life
was surely no happy one; all Israel suffered eternal persecution;
her home was a house of mourning. Then how could a person be happy
beneath its roof? Her very proximity must inspire sadness. But the
rejoicing in his voice and the rapture of his glance she could
neither understand nor justify. And all that day his voice disquieted
her; at night it weighed still heavier upon her in the lonesomeness
of her bed. Why was he so happy? What was chanting so joyously in
his heart? “How do his eyes look now?” she asked herself, and grew
ashamed at her thoughts, directing them to Rabbi Mayer. She longed
for him, hoping that the thirty days would fly by as soon as possible.

On the next day and the day following the great joy was with him
still. Beruriah’s astonishment likewise continued. Once and again she
wished to stop him at one of their accidental meetings and ask the
significance of the great change that had come over him. But Beruriah
would not ask. Not the wife of Rabbi Mayer. What was this student,
after all, to her? Why should she be at all concerned with what was
passing in the heart of this strange man? She was neither his mother
nor his sister; not even a friend of former years. Did it become
Beruriah to be inquisitive? Was Rabbi Mayer’s wife, then, like other
women? But she noticed that the stranger had become even handsomer,
more powerful, more masculine.

Sabbath eve came once again and he said grace and sang the holy
songs, blessing the Lord with a voice more exalted than ever, more
filled than ever with the Sabbath spirit, more than ever inspired
and inspiring. Again he looked not often at his hostess, but when he
raised his eyes to seek her glance, they had a faraway look filled
with admiration and ecstasy, and their colour was the colour of a
flaming ruby set in black, as if the Sabbath candles glowed within
them.

And again that night on his couch he sang into the darkness of his
room various passages from the Bible, which he knew by heart, and in
particular many verses from the Song of Songs, the song of love and
passion and infinite yearning. His voice throbbed with joy and yet it
quivered with a deep unrest; and a great yearning spoke in it, as if
calling for something that could render its happiness complete.

And Beruriah lay quite restless in her place. The singer’s voice
inundated her being, nor could she banish its magnetic sound. She
tried to think of Rabbi Mayer, but instead found herself repeating
the passages that came to her from Simeon’s room. And suddenly there
flashed upon her the idea that Rabbi Ismael’s son must cherish a love
in his heart. It must be a wife or a sweetheart; either he loved her
with intense passion or was longing for her endlessly. And if his
voice was now so joyful it must be that of the thirty days a third
had already passed, and he would soon return to his beloved.

Now, however, she could no longer repeat after him the verses from
the Song of Songs, from him to _her_,—his beloved; his wife or his
sweetheart. Beruriah buried her head in her pillows, pulled the
coverlet over it, and stopped her ears with her hands so as to keep
out Simeon’s voice and his love verses; she turned all her thoughts
to Rabbi Mayer and began to recite the other passages from the Song
of Songs,—the passages from her to him, and her heart languished
for him, for her husband, for her beloved, for her great love and
yearning.

And once more, after the Sabbath closing prayers, before he went into
his room he turned to her with great tenderness.

“Forgive me the glances, my hostess, that I cast upon you yester eve
and to-day.”

She shuddered at the unexpectedness of his words, and could not
understand his begging pardon.

“What manner of glances were they?” she asked.

He whispered softly, “Then you did not notice them?”

“They were glances of intensest exaltation, filled with wonderment
and deep-felt ardour. However, they did not belong to me.”

“You are wrong. To you!”

“To me?”

She rose to her full height and her face grew pale and austere.

He, in ecstasy, proclaimed, “Yes, to you!—Have you beheld how joyous
I have been these last few days?”

“I heard it in your voice.”

“And do you know the cause?”

“Have you, then, told me?”

“I’ll tell you now. The cause was you alone.”

Her face assumed an even colder expression, and her eyes became even
sterner. The shadow of anger crossed her forehead and her brows, and
he cried out, with delight, as if to drive away the evil shadow:

“Oh, Beruriah, hear me out! For three days and three nights I was
filled with the grief of your grief; for three days and three
nights I have not ceased to ask why you were so heavily punished
with the death of your two little ones—You, the chosen of God,—you,
the blessed one! If I asked that even before I knew you, how then
must it have cried aloud within me when the greatness of your soul
was discovered to me in all its splendour? To think that _you_ of
all should be martyred so! That _you_ should be the victim of a
never-ending sorrow! And my heart rebelled within me, and like Job
I could see no justice in the ways of God. And when one ceases to
behold justice in the ways of God, how dark and dreary must the
world become! But suddenly, on the fourth day, it seemed to me as
if God must have raised a trifle the veil that screens the purpose
of His deeds and allowed me to gaze upon their goal. How would the
world have realised the grandeur of your soul, if not through the
great grief that befell you? How should we have known what Beruriah
was, if her heart had not been delivered into the hands of the
torturer? Your two sons, had they lived, would have made mankind
richer by two living beings,—perhaps worthless ones, unnecessary,
unhappy; but through their death they made humanity the richer by
a living Beruriah. Now for the first time do we conceive what we
possess in you; now for the first time do we know your worth. That
which lay veiled in darkness has been illuminated by a glorious
light. Boundless treasures that have lain buried have been brought
forth for the use of all. We have all grown richer through you, and
future generations will enjoy that wealth. As from a spring of life
humanity will imbibe its power from you, its consolation. ‘See,’
they will say, ‘how Beruriah mastered her enormous grief, her double
bereavement. Emulate her and be consoled!’ Oh, Beruriah, when this
flashed upon me, how could I help feel joyous, and how could I keep
my glances from betraying exaltation and admiration for you?”

And before Beruriah could open her lips to make reply, he fell to his
knees and kissed the hem of her garment, pressing it to his lips far
longer than the first time; then he arose and left the room, holding
his head erect, half-dancing, in token of his jubilation. And soon
his voice was resounding through the house,—a ringing, singing,
joyous, jubilant voice, filled with power and fervour. Was not
Beruriah now full of him? Had he not won her now?

Beruriah sat in confusion, indeed full of his voice and his presence,
and at times it seemed as if an angel from heaven were addressing
her. Only when she was able to give thought to what he had said could
she liberate herself from his spell. Her mind grew clearer and with a
sigh she rose. And this is what she told her unhappy mother-heart:

“It is possible that the world has been made richer, and that such
was the purpose of God when he took from me my two children. He has
His goal and His aims, and His ways are hidden from our sight. But I
have become so poor, so poor....”


VIII

During the whole of the first day of the new week his voice was
scarcely heard, and Beruriah wondered. Had anything happened to him?
She fairly longed for his voice. The aged servant, however, brought
her the news that the guest, for the most part, paced back and forth
in his room. And when he seated himself at his table, he buried his
head in his arms and remained thus motionless.

And Beruriah said that surely he had encountered a difficult passage
in the Torah. Rabbi Mayer, too, was in the habit of acting so when
confronted by a perplexing problem, and the student must take after
the master.

Yet that same evening his voice was heard again, but altogether
altered. There was in it nothing of its former joyousness, and
nothing of its still earlier sorrow. There was, however, a certain
something that made Beruriah listen, pouring unrest into her soul. It
was a note of yearning, and a note of entreaty. A sort of petulance,
as if from a pampered child, and a kind of supplication, like a
beggar at the door. What did his voice wish now to say? What did it
mean now? To whom was he now speaking? To God? To his own heart? In
what measure was she, Beruriah, here involved? If at first it had
been she who sounded in his voice, what did he wish of her now? Was
he praying to God in her behalf? What did he ask of God for her?

She tossed from side to side upon her bed, and thought how really
wondrous was this man. She saw him stand before her in all his
beauty, with his sadness and his fervour, and with his eyes in which
the colours dissolved; she heard his voice, which penetrated her
heart and her very soul; she exiled her thoughts with the ardent
prayer that the thirty days should pass as quickly as possible.

But the days that followed dragged on frightfully, for they were
filled with a rising pathos and plaintiveness in Simeon’s voice,—with
increasing supplication and entreaty. It rose to an ever louder
appeal for pity, an ever more languishing cry for love. The air in
Beruriah’s room became difficult for her to breathe and she began to
seek calm in long walks and frequent visits, but she was haunted by
the sensation that there in her room resounded Simeon’s yearning,
imploring voice. And the voice followed her into the distant streets,
walked with her into the strangers’ houses, took part in all her
conversations. Returning to her home became for Beruriah a trial.
She could not bear to listen to the voice; she feared it, and feared
even more an accidental meeting with him, for the far-off gaze of his
eyes, which had now become quite black, gleamed with such desire and
love-entreaty that it was impossible for a human soul to bear it.

She awaited the Sabbath eve with a throbbing bosom. The approach of
the holy day brought her no pleasure. Her first thought was to have
notified him that she was ill and could not come to table. But her
second thought was that Beruriah, the wife of Rabbi Mayer, should not
resort to pretexts, or hide from any one. What, indeed, was Simeon to
her? What mattered to her the unrest of his heart? She should never
have noticed the quality of his voice or the colour of his eyes.
And if he should ask again whether she had remarked his glances, she
would reply that she did not wish to be questioned so, since his
glances were of no concern to her. Let him better ask of Rabbi Mayer
whether he might inquire of her about his glances.

And thus she remained to hear his Sabbath blessings and his Sabbath
songs.

But his voice no longer rang with its Sabbath tones. It was like a
melodious violin that had cracked. He thanked God and blessed Him,
but as one who _must_ thank and _must_ bless, and whose heart is not
in his deeds, because he is discontent and wronged. He ate, too,
as one who compels himself, without appetite, against his will and
sparingly. His cloud-grey eyes looked less at the food before him
than at Beruriah, and his glances were Desire itself,—Yearning itself.

And when, in the darkness of the night, there began to resound
through the house verses from the Song of Songs, in a voice as of
doves cooing, like the cry of a heart dissolving in desire, Beruriah
laid her pillow upon her head and placed her fingers in her ears,
and her heart began to beat most rapidly. She knew that the verses
were meant for her, were sent to her, spoke to her, longed for her,
implored her.

And as she lay, she spoke to her heavy heart:

“Lord of the universe, is it not enough that Thou hast punished my
heart? Must Thou punish another heart through me? If I am to be a
consolation unto them who believe in Thee, how dost Thou now wish to
make me the great grief and the despair of one of Thy worshippers?
Lord of the universe, was Beruriah, Thy chosen one, Thy blessed one,
born to experience misfortune and to spread it? Lord God, I wept
not on Thy holy Sabbath, when both my little children passed away.
Wouldst Thou have me now to weep before Thee? Oh, God of Abraham,
turn his heart from me, and turn his thoughts to Thee. Reveal me that
infinite grace, Lord of the universe!”

And because Simeon, at this juncture, ceased his singing, overcome by
grief and weariness as sleep, like a heavy burden, pressed his lids,
it seemed to Beruriah that God had heard her prayer. She now removed
the pillow from her head and placed it underneath with a sigh of
relief, filled with gratitude. Then she fell into a peaceful slumber.

On the following day, however, Beruriah saw that God had not heard
her prayer nor answered it. For the voice of Rabbi Ismael’s son was
charged with supplication and his eyes brimmed over with desire. And
it was after the closing prayers, when Simeon had turned to Beruriah
to ask about his glances. Beruriah was not to be seen. She had
disappeared, because she knew that his mouth could be stopped and his
lips sealed by neither sharp speech nor angry rebuke. His accumulated
yearning would find a way, and his passion would burst from his
heart; he would sin grievously against God with his words and his
deeds. And how would she then be able to keep him under her roof? And
the thirty days were not yet over.

But Simeon knew that Beruriah had noticed his glances and
interpreted his voice aright. His heart was therefore flooded with
joy and hope. She had disappeared because she felt her weakness; her
strength had begun to waver. The struggle within her had already
commenced, and he would be her conqueror.


IX

For three days longer the yearning and the entreaty continued. And of
a sudden the voice was transformed into a wild, unbearable shrieking.
Simeon had fallen into despair. The thirty days were fast drawing to
a close and his love for Beruriah had flamed up like the fires of
hell. He lost his peace of mind entirely, and his body began to be
consumed by passion. His cheeks grew thin, his eyes looked sunken,
reddish-yellow, ill. It seemed to him as if his body were incessantly
smitten, and within, his being cried aloud its pain. His voice took
up the cry. But it was the cry of the ox for the cow,—only more
passionate, more pain-stricken, more excruciating.

When Beruriah heard such a voice she was seized with trembling; a
feeling of disgust surged over her. For days at a time she shunned
her very dwelling, but the suffering of repulsion she carried plainly
with her. Whoever met her said, “Beruriah is stricken with an evil
illness.” And her friends questioned her, “What has befallen you?”
She avoided all encounter with Simeon, and at night in her room she
had her aged servant stay with her. Friday evening she had Simeon
notified that she could not come to table, but that she would hear
his saying of grace from where she lay. His saying of grace, however,
caused her to shudder. He groaned it rather than recited it. His
breath came like that of an animal wounded unto death. His voice was
hoarse and choked with angry tears. He barely approached his food
and looked around with savage eyes. The old domestic heaved a sigh
of thankfulness when Simeon dashed from the dining-room. Had he sung
the Sabbath songs? Had he blessed the Lord? Or had he been uttering
blasphemy altogether? His voice rang more with upbraiding than with
benediction. Now he knew that God had forsaken him, and had showed
him Beruriah only to crush him. Need he restrain himself? Need he
pretend? Let the woman know how he was suffering through her,—how he
loved her, how he desired her.

And amidst the gloom of his room, he repeated in a voice made hoarse
with lust, passages from the Song of Songs,—those impregnated with
most love and passion.

“How fair and how pleasant art thou, Oh love, for delights! This
thy stature is like to a palm tree, and thy breasts to clusters of
grapes. I said, I will go up to the palm tree, I will take hold of
the branches thereof: now also thy breasts shall be as clusters of
the vine, and the smell of thy nose like apples.”

He sang them again and again, wildly, passionately, lustfully.

And Beruriah was engulfed in still deeper loathing. It was as
though some one had made her body unclean. She huddled together,
shuddering. She opened her eyes wide, peering into the dense
darkness, speaking to God as if she beheld Him there before her, in
the gloom.

“I accepted as a boon the grievous sorrow Thou sentest unto me. But
this indignity I cannot suffer. How have I merited it? What is Thy
aim? How have I sinned that Thou so shouldst humble me? My heart is
weak and wracked; wouldst Thou rend it utterly? Then tear it out, Oh
Lord, and I will thank Thee. But remove from me the burden of this
insult. Deliver me from this uncleanliness.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The lustful voice, however, did not cease. Indeed, it rang with even
greater lust, grovelling before her, embracing her, clawing her.
And Beruriah groaned like a wounded deer, taking refuge beneath her
pillow and her coverlet, as if to smother herself, prepared to die—

All that Sabbath day she remained in her room, behind lock and
key,—indignant, overcome by aversion, anger, fury. Too, on the other
days she avoided Simeon, even as a nauseating leper is tremblingly
shunned. But on the thirtieth day Simeon lay in waiting, and late
in the afternoon met her face to face. He was dressed ready for his
departure, staff in hand and wallet across his shoulder. But not
the proud, handsome Simeon stood before her; not the Adonis who had
turned Jew. He was wan, thin, bent; his face sallow, his eyes sunken,
feverish and red; his beard unkempt; his head-covering awry. Adonis
had forgotten to be beautiful. Adonis had become infirm and old.
Adonis bore in his heart a fatal wound.

Beruriah straightened up in all her pride, in all her beauty, and
looked at him ruthlessly, haughtily, wishing to pass him by. But he
barred her way. A moment they eyed each other without a word; then he
opened his lips and spoke to her:

“Cursed be the day when I first gazed upon you, but sevenfold
accursed be the day on which my companions chose me to be your
touchstone, and seventy-seven times accursed be the day on which I
crossed the threshold of your home. May these days be obliterated
from God’s year, and may the memory of them be a curse for
generations. May they be days of calamity——”

Beruriah interrupted his malediction, speaking with merciless
austerity:

“Job, too, did once the same and cursed a day of God’s. You may spare
yourself this art of imprecation. Go your way and thank God that he
led you to Beruriah’s home, and brought you not to greater sin,—Thank
Him that two souls were rescued from eternal perdition. But before
you leave, explain one thing to me. What do you mean when you say
that your companions chose you to be my touchstone? If I understand
you aright——”

Her glance was sharp and deeply penetrating, and Simeon replied, “You
have understood me aright!”

With eyes agape and quickening breath she questioned further.

“And the story of the agents was a lie?”

Simeon answered feverishly, trembling in every limb.

“The tale was false from the beginning to the end. No single word
of truth was in it. The Academy, who knew the fortitude of your
heart against death, wished to know, too, the strength of your heart
against love. And they chose me——”

Again she interrupted his account, with staring eyes and breath that
came in gasps.

“And—Rabbi—Mayer?”

“_He_ devised the plan.”

She uttered a shriek as if her heart had suddenly been pierced,
breathed heavily and shut her eyes. A moment later she asked, with
her eyes still closed, “Did Rabbi Mayer, too, desire to know the
fortitude of my heart against sinful love?”

And Simeon answered weakly, wearily:

“At first he flew into a fury against the students for their
doubts as to your virtue, but afterwards their mistrust became his
mistrust.”

Beruriah, astounded, groaned with pain, and Simeon continued his
account:

“‘The apple is wondrous fair,’ said Rabbi Mayer, ‘but who can say
what passes in its heart?’”

Beruriah moaned, more heavily grieved than ever. And Simeon,
mercilessly, indifferently, wearily added, “And he said, ‘What does
one do to learn whether the beautiful apple is sound at the core? He
cuts it open——’”

Beruriah turned, wincing as if under knives, and suddenly wailed in a
voice that was not her own, “Go!” Then she rushed into her room, her
eyes closed, stupefied, stunned.

And Simeon went forth upon his way, slowly, exhaustedly, his head
bowed and his limbs heavy, like one who has been banished into
exile,—homeless and forlorn.


X

Beruriah stood in her room, pressing her hands to her face, to her
eyes, as if seeking to drive something away,—a nightmare, an evil
vision. She closed her eyes, suddenly, and as suddenly opened them
wide—once, twice, three times; her heart beat wildly and shrieked
strange things within her.

“_He_ had doubts about me! _He_ sent a man to test me! Is it
possible? Is it possible?”

She ran in pursuit of Simeon. She must question him further. Perhaps
he had told her a lie? Perhaps this tale of testing was his own
invention? Perhaps the story about the agents was the truth? Perhaps
she had heard wrong? May it not all have been a fiction of her
imagination? Maybe it was all an evil dream?

Simeon was far along the road, walking with heavy step, as if grown
old. She wished to call to him, to run after him, but suddenly it
came to her that this was neither an evil dream nor her fantasy,—that
this time the son of Rabbi Ismael had not deceived her. The curse
that he had called down upon the second day had surely not been
feigned. The words he had put into Rabbi Mayer’s mouth came surely
from Rabbi Mayer.

Tears began to oppress her and she hastened back to her room, threw
herself upon the bed and burst into long and bitter weeping. She tore
her hair, sank her nails into her cheeks, bit the bedclothes beneath
her, wailing and lamenting. But when she heard the steps of her aged
servant, she mastered herself, grew quiet and lay there calmly. She
placed herself so that it might appear she lay there thus, asleep.

The servant brought in lights and reminded her that it was time to
eat the evening meal. Beruriah stammered she was feeling ill that
evening and that food would do her harm. But the kind old servant
tempted her with some dainties and asked whether the mistress would
want her company that night, too, in the bedroom. Receiving the
answer “No,” she wished Beruriah good-night and walked away to her
usual place.

Beruriah lay with open eyes and gazed into the shadows of the
half-lighted room. Her head was in a maze; she could not think a
single definite thought. She only knew that a terrible misfortune
had befallen her,—a misfortune greater far than the loss of her two
sons,—a catastrophe great beyond all explanation. She could not yet
conceive it; it was such as must undo her evermore,—must work the
profoundest transformation in her life.

And all at once she wearily arose, her eyes dilated, gazing straight
ahead.

Yes. Even so. Rabbi Mayer could be her husband no longer.

She clenched her teeth and fortified her heart; her distended eyes
still fixed their glance before her. Now she could think quite
clearly.

Had Rabbi Mayer himself betrayed no doubt, but simply yielded to the
doubts of others, she would have felt no insult and her heart would
have remained quite calm. She would have rejoiced at the strength of
his faith in her. And her own strength, too, would have been a double
boon. She would have twitted him upon the daring step he had taken,
and told him that such a course was foolish, and would have aided
him to triumph over the evil cavillers, who had dared to drag her
down into the mire of their suspicions.

But he alone had doubted! He alone had desired the test, to support
his faith in her. He alone had dared be unassured of his Beruriah’s
strength! Her own husband had not known her heart and had sullied its
purity with the filth of doubt!

Suppose she had not triumphed over the test? The peril had been
great; the handsome Simeon, too, was very dangerous. Yet Rabbi Mayer
had not feared to lose her. He had risked her in a game,—had led her
to sacrifice!

He could be her husband no longer!

She repeated this over and over again, insistently, with raging
harshness cutting it into her soul.

He should have to grant her a divorce; she should remain alone. All
alone,—all, all alone.

A bitter grief assailed her, making her close her eyes, and a great
wretchedness enfolded her. She was seized with a deep yearning for
her departed children; her heart went out to them; she stretched
forth her hands to them, and pressed her hands to her bosom, shaking
her head; the tears came fast as she whispered fond endearments and
mother-words.

She saw them before her, just as they looked in the final days
before their sudden death. Playful, laughing, bright. She felt their
presence so plainly that she looked around for them. No. They were
not there. They were dead. They lay in the distant graveyard, deep in
the cold earth, encased in boards. Strewn with earth. Alone they lay
there, so forsaken,—her little darlings,—and were longing perhaps for
their mother, even as their mother longed for them.

This thought sank deep and took root in her heart. At last she began
to weep softly, convulsively:

“My children need me, and I have need of them.”

And when she had wept out all her tears she made a resolution. Once
this was determined upon she turned to God.

“What I am about to do is a great transgression. I will disobey
Thy sacred commandment and violate Thy counsel. But I cannot do
otherwise. God in heaven, I can live no longer. May the good merits
of my father intercede for me. The worth of my father, the holy
martyr, who refused the offer of the executioner to hasten his
horrible death, lest the forced hastening resemble, in Thine eyes,
self-murder. May he protect me. Thou wilt have to grant his daughter
forgiveness for taking her own life in order all the sooner to meet
her children. Eternal God, take me to them; part us nevermore. Punish
me not after death as severely as Thou hast punished me in my life.
I surrender my soul into Thy merciful hands. I go to Thee and to my
children.”

Now she arose from her bed and garbed herself in purest white,
writing with firm hand something upon a tablet. Then from a
casket she drew a small, sharp knife, testing its blade upon her
finger-nail. Calmly and piously she prayed “Hear, Oh Israel,” and
severed the veins of both her arms. With blood streaming from her,
and without a cry of pain, she extinguished the light, stretched
herself out upon the bed, and began the journey to her little ones.

She kept her eyes wide open as she lay there bleeding to death, and
beheld her children before her. Far off there in the graveyard, in
their graves, they had sat up, white and steeped in sadness, awaiting
her arrival. And she said to them, “Wait, I come to you, my darling
sons! Soon I shall be with you, precious hearts!” Endlessly she
whispered fond endearments, mother-words.

Not for a moment did she give a thought to the olden days. She could
behold only her children and the road to them. Only at the end,
when the long, long sleep was coming over her and the vision of her
children and the way to them grew blurred and dim, did she utter in
peaceful yearning, with silent tears, “Mayer! Mayer!”


XI

And it happened that when the handsome Simeon returned to the Yeshiva
the students there cried out in horror at his altered looks.

“See,” he exclaimed, “what has overtaken me because for thirty days
I dashed myself against the stony strength of Beruriah. Her strength
and purity are above all uncertainty, but I am utterly undone.”

And Rabbi Mayer glowered triumphantly at his disciples, took his
staff and wallet and left to seek Beruriah. But he found her
dead,—gone to join her children. And on the tablet were written these
few words: “He who cuts open the apple also destroys it.”

He seized his temples, his eyes expanded wildly, and he burst forth
into a heart-breaking, soul-rending wail: “Beruriah!”




THE TEMPTATIONS OF RABBI AKIBA




THE TEMPTATIONS OF RABBI AKIBA


Heavens, how stern and pious a Jew this Rabbi Akiba was! Scarcely his
peer to be found in all Judea.

He devoted all his days and all his nights to the Holy Law, studying
it himself and expounding it to others. The number of his disciples
was a veritable army, and whoever heard the Torah from his lips felt
that he drank from the very source of life.

Not only did he teach the Torah’s word, but also how to live its very
spirit, how to purge oneself of gaiety; for laughter, play and mirth
all led to sin.

He, too, dwelt in all simplicity, renouncing every earthly pleasure.
He was deeply in love with his wife, the beautiful Rachel, the wise
and learned daughter of Kalba-Sabua. But in order to belong entirely
to the Torah he even parted from his sweet beloved and became an
ascetic.

This was a sore burden to him. He longed deeply for his wife, and he
was still a man in the very prime of life. In order not to weaken,
and to make sure of maintaining this separation and his pious
seclusion, he made a vow to himself that he should not return to his
wife until he acquired twelve thousand disciples. This he did because
he held that an oath was as a wall around holy retirement. He would
have to keep his word and his absence from his wife would thus be
ensured.

This fortitude, however, caused him to be unrelenting toward
every one else. What he could do, all must be able to do. And he
demanded of all the strictest abstention from the sins of the flesh,
excoriating with barbed words the desire for women in the hearts of
men.

Whereupon the weaklings—those who could not withstand the woman-lust
in their hearts and were wracked by the sins of the flesh—spoke thus
of Akiba:

“Merely because he was able to part from his wife is no proof that
he is above temptation. Let Satan but approach him in the form of
a naked woman and lust will suddenly befall him like an enemy from
ambush, and rob him of all his senses, even as a thief robs his
victim in the night.”

And they added to their prayers an entreaty that God should lead the
Rabbi into such temptation. And, to their own punishment, God heard
their prayers.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Rabbi Akiba left his wife he also left the city in which she
dwelt. This he did, not so much from personal choice, lest the
proximity of his wife allure him, but rather for her sake, lest his
nearness too much affect her. And in order that his wife, in her
feminine weakness, should not follow him to the new place in which
he intended to settle, he did not for a long time establish himself
anywhere, journeying from city to city and from land to land.

And once, in his peregrinations, he came to a land in which
remarkable customs and manners prevailed. One of these customs was
to sweeten the nights of the honoured guests with the company of
women.

And it happened that when the ruler of this land learned of Rabbi
Akiba’s arrival and the importance of his guest, he sent to him for
the night two beautiful damsels, the most beautiful in his realms. In
the manner of women both beauties did their best to heighten their
charms and increase the power of their attraction. They freshened
themselves in the bath; the enchanting odour of their youthful bodies
they rendered more intoxicating than ever with rare perfumes; they
arrayed themselves seductively like brides on the wedding night.
And they came to Rabbi Akiba in radiant half-nakedness, with an
inviting smile upon their cherry lips, with the fire of passion and
voluptuousness in their sparkling eyes.

They knew that they were going to a highly honoured guest, but they
did _not_ know that they would encounter a very handsome man of
gigantic stature. When they beheld him their passion flamed still
higher, and each tried to display before him the most enticing
allurements of her person.

“Come to me,” said one.

“Come to me,” invited the other.

And they passed close to him with their naked bodies, and each
praised her person and its charms, and the pleasures it afforded.

“My body is as white as the full moon.”

“And my body is as rosy as the rising sun.”

“In my embrace you will lie as softly as in warm down.”

“And in my arms you will feel the tender warmth of newly-shorn lambs’
wool.”

“The kiss of my lips is like the wine of Damascus.”

“And my lips are like the round grapes in which the sunbeams have
chosen their home.”

And thus they continued,—the firmness of their breasts, the velvety
softness of their skin, the ravishing delight of their legs, and the
intoxication of their tenderness. One wrapped him about with her
dark hair; the blonde tresses of the other likewise enmeshed him.
And with the passing of the hours their lust increased; their naked
bodies turned and writhed, wracked and tortured by rising desire.

“Come, take me!” implored the one.

“Come, take me!” panted the other.

But Rabbi Akiba sat between them and—spat. For a whole night he sat
between them and spat, looking neither upon one nor the other. He did
not try to distract his mind with Torah thoughts, for he did not wish
to bring the Torah into the company of two naked women. He simply
tried to work himself into a feeling of repulsion, to rouse within
him a powerful resistance.

And thus he sat and spat—more vehemently, more impatiently than ever,
with rising disgust, with increasing aversion. At last, however, he
became calm, indifferent, ice-cold.

At first the two beautiful damsels looked at him in astonishment.
Why was he spitting so? Why did he not touch them? Was he a fool?
Was he crazy? Were they not beautiful enough? Not young enough? Not
passionate enough?

They questioned him; he vouchsafed no reply. Then they were on
the point of leaving him, when they looked at him again and saw
how handsome he was, and gazed once more into his eyes and saw
wisdom itself beaming out of them. Then they forgot his remarkable
behaviour, disregarded his incessant spitting, threw their nakedness
and the fire of their bodies upon him, and pleaded and begged and
groaned, calling to him in their intoxication.

“Take _me_!”

“Take _me_!”

The whole night passed in this way. In the morning, weary and
exhausted, they went to the ruler and complained to him against Rabbi
Akiba. In despair, they cried out, “Sooner death than another time
with that man!”

The ruler sent for Rabbi Akiba and questioned him.

“Why did you not act toward the women I sent in to you as the sons of
man act with women? Are they not beautiful? Are they not human, like
you? Has not He, who created you, likewise created them?”

If Rabbi Akiba had replied that, in spending the night with them in
the manner of the sons of man with woman, he would have committed a
sin, then the ruler would surely become angry. Did his hospitality
then lead to sin? Was his hospitality an incentive to wrong-doing?

Rabbi Akiba’s wisdom saw this at once, and with an altogether
innocent expression he replied, “What could I do? Before they came to
me they must surely have eaten impure things, and the odour from them
was that of carrion-meat, impurities, reptiles.”

And Rabbi Akiba quickly left this land with its remarkable
hospitality, happy in the consciousness that he had overcome the
greatest of temptations,—filled with thanks to God for having so
wonderfully given strength to his heart.

As the number of his disciples at this time had reached to twelve
thousand, and as the wall that separated him from his wife thereby
crumbled, he went back to her. As he came to the door of his house
he heard a strange woman say to his wife, “Are you happy that your
husband is returning after having acquired twelve thousand disciples?”

“I should be still happier,” answered his wife, “if he returned with
twenty-four thousand.”

And Rabbi Akiba did not open the door of his house, nor did he go in
to his wife. Once again he imposed upon himself separation from his
mate, and erected a new wall about himself, with a vow that he should
not approach his wife until he acquired four and twenty thousand
disciples. And again he left, to wander through cities and lands, to
spread the word of God and assemble disciples.

From now on he became more severe than ever in his religious demands,
and his condemnations grew harsher. One who, like him, had triumphed
over such great temptations, had full right to demand similar
continence and willpower on the part of others. And he was wont to
mock, jeer and jest at all who committed a sin.

He had forgotten the saying: “Believe not thyself until the day of
thy death.” And in Heaven it was decreed that he should be reminded
of it.

       *       *       *       *       *

One day his travels led him to a beautiful spot, through woods and
fields. It was a wonderful day. The sun, midway in the sky, did not
burn, but laughed and sang of the splendour of existence, pouring out
joy upon the entire land, upon wood and field, upon tree and grass.
All the birds and beasts and insects laughed and sang together with
it. Rabbi Akiba, filled with the great gladness, forgot the passage
of the Torah that was running through his mind and across his lips
but a moment before, and could not remove his glance from the sunny
splendours that surrounded him.

Suddenly it seemed as if some one had thrust him backward. But it was
nobody. It was his own blood, and the blow that he had felt was the
throb of his own heart.

Were not his eyes deceiving him? He opened them wide and looked
again, intently.

No. His eyes saw clearly. A wondrously beautiful naked girl at the
top of a palm tree.

He could not believe his eyes, but there was the girl looking down at
him, smiling at him so enticingly, intoxicating him with the pearly
whiteness of her teeth.

She was so beautiful and entrancing that the sun had forgot its
wedding-procession. It had stopped in its path—this shining star—and
had enfolded the maiden’s naked body in its rays, colouring it a rosy
red and filling its veins with red wine.

Rabbi Akiba, too, stopped in his path, unable to move from the
spot, unable to tear himself away from the dazzling vision. His
heart palpitated, his body burned, his tongue became dry. He stood
dumbfounded, and could not himself hear how he barely managed to
utter, “Who are you?”

And the vision upon the tree laughed seductively down to him.

“Come up and I will tell you.”

“What are you doing there?”

“Come up, and you shall see.”

“Are you gathering dates?”

“What need have I of them? I feed myself and feed others with my own
sweetness. Do you not wish to taste it?”

“Why are you naked?”

“So that the sunbeams may enjoy me, and the wind, and the hills, and
the valleys, and the heavens, and God.”

“How can you lie there so?”

“I have a couch here made of leaves and branches,—a soft couch for
me and for those whom I invite to enjoy me. Soft is my bed and
fragrant,—but even softer and more fragrant am I. Will you not feel
us?”

And in utter forgetfulness, filled with a single intense desire,
Rabbi Akiba approached very close to the tree and scarcely had breath
to ask, “How can I get to you?”

The glorious vision uttered a magic laugh.

“Were you, then, never a little boy? What did you do when a tempting
apple nodded to you from among the branches of an apple-tree? You
removed your clothes, made yourself as light as possible, and climbed
up the tree after the beautiful, ripening fruit. Am I less than the
fruit? Is it not worth while to climb up after me? Or are you old,
and have your bones become hard, and is climbing now beyond your
years and your strength? Take off your clothes; you will have no need
of them in any case, up here. Make yourself light, and with all the
youth that has now been born anew in you, climb up to me....”

Enchanted and intoxicated, as hastily as possible, whipped on by
driving impatience, Rabbi Akiba cast off his clothes and seized the
trunk of the palm tree, beginning to climb aloft. With his naked
hands and feet around the shaggy bark, with his burning eyes riveted
upon her above, drinking in her beauty, sucking in the warm ruddiness
of her veins. He did not notice that his skin was being scratched
and torn by the bark of the tree, and that blood was beginning to
flow over his body. He climbed higher, ever higher.

And her magic eyes drew him on as if with ropes and her fascinating
voice was as a guide to him. From between her pearly teeth it poured
forth like wine that robbed the senses.

“Come! Co-o-ome! Co-o-ome!”

But when he had climbed half the height of the palm he suddenly
came to himself. It was as if a cold wind had icily bedewed him
and had blown something away from before his eyes, making him see
the complete ludicrousness and unworthiness of his position. He,
the renowned Master, teacher and judge among the Jews, climbing,
half-naked, up a tall tree, driven and goaded on by lust! He threw
himself down, rather than descended, from the tree, rolled himself
into a ball at its foot, and burst into bitter tears.

A malicious, mocking voice spoke above him:

“Had it not been decreed in Heaven that you and your Torah should be
protected, your life at this moment would not be worth a straw.”

Rabbi Akiba wept more bitterly than ever, striking his breasts and
beating his head.

He dressed and continued on his way. The sun no longer shone; heaven
and earth were veiled in greyish fog, and the laughter and song of
the surrounding scene now ceased. Or perhaps it merely seemed so to
him because his heart was bitter and his soul grieved; he looked
neither to right nor to left and his ears were deaf to the outer
world.

He felt ashamed and debased. And he knew that henceforth he would not
mock those who had committed sin.

Now he understood the weakness of man, and how plentifully life was
strewn with dangers, and his lips muttered acridly, “All of us here
below are even as criminals who are released on bail, and a net of
transgression is spread over all existence.”




JOHANAN THE HIGH PRIEST




JOHANAN THE HIGH PRIEST


I

Johanan the High Priest was eighty years of age. Sound in spirit and
strong in body had he attained to that ripe old age, at one with
himself and his God. For from his earliest childhood days he had been
taught to walk upon the Lord’s ways, nor did he forsake them. He
guarded himself against all transgression, and he built around him
one wall within another. To the old commandments he added new, and
was strict with himself in fulfilling them. His words were: “The body
is nothing, the soul is all. The body is dust and clay, the soul is
eternity. Live not for your bodies, live for your soul alone. Heed
not what time brings forth; turn all your thoughts and your efforts
to the everlasting.”

And as he preached, so did he live. Word and deed were to him the
same. And although he was High Priest,—the leader of his people and
the wealthiest and mightiest of his brethren,—his body knew nothing
of the pleasures of this world.

The inhabitants of Jerusalem, however, revered him greatly for his
steadfast consistency. Although it was very difficult to follow in
his footsteps, and very few did so, his entire people could not
cease to marvel at him, and their admiration rose to reverence and
veneration.

And because he was so beloved and respected, his eightieth birthday
became a holiday for all the city. Every house was beautifully
bedecked, and all the inhabitants dressed in festive array; from
every corner of the land men and women in holiday mood made
pilgrimages to him, riding thither or coming on foot. And there came
to him from afar and near his friends and admirers, with music and
song, asking him to walk with them through the streets of Jerusalem.
Let him see how the whole people rejoiced in his longevity; let
him feel how beloved he was. The road was laid with carpets, and
little children ran ahead strewing his path with flowers and crying,
“Life everlasting to our master the High Priest!” All the streets
were packed with festive crowds, men and women; all the roofs were
thronged with denizens of Jerusalem; every window was besieged, and
the city resounded with the cry, “Life everlasting to our master the
High Priest!” And the fair daughters of Zion, with graceful gestures
and virtuous blushes, showered him with flowers and wreaths.

And as he passed thus through the streets of Jerusalem, amid the
jubilation of the people, he heard behind him the voice of a woman,
saying, “How handsome is the old man, and how strong he still is!
A girl could fall in love with him!” And because his heart was
filled with pleasure and forbearance, he turned his face toward
the gossiping woman, with a fatherly smile upon his face. It was a
young maiden, as beautiful as a picture, of medium build and buxom
presence, and she received his glance with eyes out of which beamed
the sun. It was as if she had been waiting for him to look upon
her, reserving for him her most penetrating glance. He was abashed
at her look, and the genial, fatherly smile upon his lips faded
into embarrassment, not knowing what to do with itself and at last
lengthening to a grimace.

And as he turned his head away from her he heard the voice of a man,
saying, “What has he had, pray, of all his long life, his beauty and
his strength?” The voice came from the vicinity of the beautiful
woman, and in it echoed a certain insolence, as if the speaker had
meant to strike him and hurt him with the words. And yet there was
deep pity in the voice. And it seemed to the aged High Priest as if
an arrow had grazed his breast. He rose to his full height, the smile
vanished entirely from his lips, his forehead became wrinkled and his
countenance grew dark.

His assistant, the vice High Priest, who walked beside him, noticed
the change that had come over the sage’s face, and whispered to him,
angrily, “That is Jason, the son of Meshulem, and the woman at his
side is his sweetheart, Athaliah.”

Johanan, however, affected not to hear what his subordinate whispered
to him. He raised his head proudly and walked with firmer tread than
before. His entire exterior bore the answer to Jason’s words. His
countenance grew stern and the look in his eyes sharp. Every moment
spoke of his strength and of the consciousness that he had nothing to
regret in his life. Jason understood this mute reply and smiled back
ironically yet sadly, but all the people looked with great veneration
upon the proud, giant-strong figure of the High Priest. They made way
for him with trembling in their hearts; piety and reverence echoed in
their incessant cries of “Life everlasting to our master, the High
Priest!”

His proud bearing did not forsake him during all the time that he
walked through the streets, nor even later, as he sat with his
intimate friends at the banquet given in his honour.


II

That night, however, the High Priest could not fall asleep. The
small quantity of wine that he had permitted himself to drink at
the table and the excitement kept sleep away from him. A confusion
of human figures and dwellings and streets passed before his eyes;
his ears buzzed with the endless hum of voices and instruments. But
soon, from all the figures emerged that of Athaliah, and he could
hear distinctly what she said and what Jason replied. At first it
came to him unawares, like a dim remembrance, a slight impression.
At once, however, the sight and the voice grew clear to him, and he
became uneasy. He scowled angrily, as if trying to banish form and
voice, and soon he began to toss from side to side. In vain! Athaliah
stood before him, with her eyes that beamed with the sun transfixing
him with her penetrating glance. He experienced a sensation that
had come to his body many a time during his life,—one that he always
feared as much as deadly sin, trying to drive it from him by his
strong will, long prayers and severe fasting.

His being cried within him: he, he the octogenarian! How does he come
to this? He raged against himself and thought of himself with scorn.
Eighty years old and a High Priest! He directed his thoughts to God;
his lips began to whisper a prayer. Yet the great crowds continued to
pass before his eyes, and from the multitude, clear and well-defined,
there stood out Jason’s sweetheart, the wonderfully beautiful
Athaliah. Impossible to drive her from his thoughts! Impossible!

Suddenly Jason’s words caused his blood to boil. A curse upon the
wretch’s mouth! What had he had of all his long life, his beauty and
his strength! He had devoted these to God! God had given them to him
and he was God’s debtor, and he had paid back God like an honest man.
His life was God’s, and he lived for God. Whoever lived otherwise
was a wicked man, a sinner against God, a debtor that evades his
debts.

These thoughts made him strong. It was as if his muscles had become
iron and his veins, steel.

But despite everything, Athaliah’s image did not disappear. She stood
before him in all her beauty, with her radiant eyes, and that glance
which penetrated into his bones and his very brain. He looked at her
with ire and scorn; he even spat in disgust. All this was of no avail
to banish the vision.

He lay calm, free of thoughts, and pretending to see nothing. His
scorn of the feminine form knew no bounds. Soon, however, he arose
and lighted a candle. The light must surely banish the evil vision.
Seated on the side of the bed, his bare feet resting on the cold
earth, he began to murmur a prayer. He was angry, utterly broken in
body and soul. How came this to him, the aged man? Woe, woe, he had
not lived righteously after all. The bodily, the fleshly, the sinful,
still ruled over him.

He arose and stretched himself. Something now grew clear to him. As
long as the soul dwells in the body, it must wage strife against the
body. Thus was God’s will. And he would give battle! His will was
strong. He even stamped his foot. Yes, his will was strong!

And on that night he did not return to his bed. He unrolled the
Torah in the light of the candle and sat down to study. He knew that
the form of the beautiful woman had not yet vanished. He needed but
to close his eyes and he could see her. He needed but to turn his
head away from the sacred scroll and he would behold her, feel her
presence distinctly. But he was calm. He knew that he would conquer
in the struggle with the vision, which came from the Evil One. She
would disappear. And his voice, as it intoned the holy passages, was
touching.


III

The following morning he went into the wilderness, into the desert of
Judea. He said that he desired to be all alone after the excitement
of the previous day; far from human beings and his own affairs he
wished to take account of his deeds: it was already high time he did
so, for he was very old. He went into the desert, however, in reality
to fast and to torture his body in combat against a desire that comes
from Satan. He went barefoot over the burning sand, on jagged rocks
and through thorns, under the scorching rays of a July sun, without
food or drink, granting himself no rest. Yet the beautiful Athaliah
hovered still before him and behind. Many a time he cast himself to
earth, groaning frightfully. Not from fatigue, not from hunger or
thirst, however, but from despair. Why did she not disappear? He beat
his heart and tore at his breasts. “Lord God, why drivest Thou not
from me this visitation from Satan!”

But he little knew what was still in store for him. When, that
evening, after a meal of figs and water, he lay down upon hard
stones, in a rocky hollow, tired, despairing, wracked by a burning
desire for the beautiful Athaliah, a terrible thought assailed
him. It came altogether unexpectedly, like an enemy from behind
concealment.

_What had he had of all his years, his beauty and his strength?_

These were Jason’s words, but the High Priest no longer knew it. The
thought came to him so overwhelmingly that he groaned and commenced
to tremble, as if he were exposed upon the snow-capped summit of
Mount Lebanon.

He no longer remembered what he had thought the previous night upon
his bed,—what had then made him so strong. One thought alone kept
gnawing at him incessantly: “What have I had of all my life, of my
beauty and my strength?” He even cried to God: “Lord, what have I
had of all my life, of my beauty, and my strength?”

Under the stress of unfulfilled passion his entire life seemed to him
now like a desert. Harsh and ascetic, thorns and stones. Nothing but
debts and debts paid. The body had been nothing; the soul all. The
soul! Who was it crying so within him now? Who was longing within him
now? Was it the soul or the body?

His head sank back and he lay weary and hopeless. All at once he
started up. With frightened eyes he gazed before him and delved into
his soul: How did he know that the truth had been with him,—that his
life had been the true life ordained by God?

He stretched himself out upon his stomach, his chin propped on his
hands, his eyes staring into the desolate night, burrowing, burrowing
into his soul. Somewhere in the distance jackals were howling; a lion
of the desert bellowed with hunger. Johanan heard nothing. He was
cold, and his heart and soul were rent asunder by bloody claws. The
entire people lived altogether differently from him. Were they all
wicked sinners, and was he alone the righteous man? But there was no
righteous man upon earth who had never sinned. What was sin? They had
often ridiculed his severity, crying out against it. Had he really
been too severe? Where was the proper boundary?

He looked up to the sky. He half expected that the heavens would now
open and that he would behold God and hear Him. Then he would know
the whole truth. God would reveal to him everything. To him alone. He
did not remove his eyes from heaven, and a yearning enfolded him. He
longed to see God, to hear Him. He was eighty years old, and for the
greater part of his life had been a High Priest, yet God had never
revealed Himself to him either in reality or in a dream. What he
knew, he knew from others, those who had come before him. From Moses
and the Prophets. And, too, from himself alone,—from what his heart
had told him. But now he wanted to hear it from God’s own lips. Had
he, then, not earned it? But hour after hour went by, yet the heavens
parted not, nor did God reveal Himself. The stars twinkled peacefully
in the high heavens and from afar came the howling of the jackals and
the roaring of a lion.

He cast his face upon his arm and burst into tears. Like a petulant
child; and like a child, too, he fell asleep in his tears.

His slumber was restless and short. Queer dreams wove and interwove
themselves in his mind, and on waking he could not recall them. And
he knew that not even in his dreams had God revealed Himself. His
heart became very heavy, and he accompanied his morning prayers
with deep sobs. Athaliah’s figure was as if veiled by a cloud;
that which had driven him into the desert had disappeared and been
forgotten. Now he had one great yearning: to experience a moment of
revelation,—to hear God’s voice, God’s word. With sighs and tears he
proceeded further into the desert, to torture his body with prayer
and fasting. He strode along in expectancy, his eyes directed to
heaven, his ears wide open. Often he would stop short with bated
breath, for it seemed to him that already he saw or heard something.
Each time, however, after a brief waiting, he would continue on his
way with a deep groan.

His prayers did not cease. “From the depths of my heart I call out
to Thee, Oh God. Lord, hear my entreaty, and bend Thine ear to the
voice of my supplications.” And he discoursed learnedly with God. He
believed in Moses and the Prophets. He knew for a surety that God had
discovered Himself to them and had spoken to them. But if He spoke
to these others and revealed his will, then why not to _him_? If he
was unworthy of this grace, he wished to know why. If none might look
upon God and remain thereafter alive, he did not care. He was ready
to die. With all his heart he desired such a death. Almighty God,
this very moment.

He stopped and waited. Sadly he then continued on his way. At last he
began to call, “God, if Thou Thyself desirest not to reveal Thyself
unto me, then send me Thy messenger!”

But day after day passed by. He travelled the length and breadth of
the desert; his body became cadaverous, his face sunken, and his
weary, extinguished eyes sat in deep sockets.—Then he turned back to
the city, which was much agitated by his disappearance, and where he
was received with cries of fright and wringing of hands because of
his wretched appearance. With still greater fright did they leave
him, for he refused to reply to all questions; his mouth was sealed,
his look severe and distant. His wife and children, and all his
friends in the city went about distracted and in despair, for they
could not tell what was the trouble with the aged High Priest. The
only words he vouchsafed were addressed to the guardian of the keys,
from whom he took the key to the Temple, admonishing him to permit
none to follow the High Priest. The entire city was plunged into
deeper consternation than ever.


IV

Only once per year—on the Day of Atonement—was the High Priest
permitted to enter the Holy of Holies, the most sacred room of God’s
house. Only this once, without being punished on the spot by a bolt
from the Almighty. Yet it was to the Holy of Holies that Johanan now
directed his steps. He desired to see God, and death held no terrors
for him. His heart was embittered, his spirit downcast. He was not
of God’s chosen few. What mattered to him a continuance of life in
unworthiness?

He prepared himself with ablutions and performance of sacrifice, and
clothed himself in white. Before the entrance to the Holy of Holies
he paused for a moment. In fear, but also in expectation: perhaps
God would yet send him a token. It was everywhere so still, and the
semi-darkness of the room in which he stood was as though peopled
with spirits. He looked in horror about him and his heart beat
wildly. He did not retreat, however, nor did he desist from his firm
purpose. With unbending will, yet with trembling hand, he opened the
heavy door to the Holy of Holies, and dashed, rather than walked,
into it. His eyes were as if dazzled, his legs sagged beneath him,
his heart was almost rent. He leaned against the wall to keep from
falling. He neither saw nor heard anything. He stood rooted in great
terror.

Gradually he recovered his composure. How long had he been there? And
he was still alive? His eyes opened wide with astonishment; he tore
himself away from the wall and surveyed his surroundings. All was
silent and calm in the dark solitude of the room. The Satijah stone,
the Rock of the World, which stood there in place of the vanished
Holy Ark, he felt rather than saw. Silence. A vast silence. He rolled
his eyes about, listening intently. Nothing. Four bare walls, the
Satijah Stone and he alone. And nothing else. He cried aloud with
amazement. And his present stupefaction was even greater than his
previous terror. He straightened himself out, proud and arrogant. His
countenance grew stern and ireful. He began, from force of habit, to
go out with his back to the entrance and with his face to the Ark,
but at once he wheeled about and with firm steps left the Holy of
Holies and the Temple.

He went to Athaliah, the beloved of Jason, son of Meshulem.

She looked at him in surprise and fright. The High Priest in her home!

“I have come for your love,” he said.

She screamed and recoiled from him with hand upraised to defend
herself.

“I am handsome and strong and capable of inspiring a woman’s passion.
You yourself said so, and I have come for your love.”

She tried to flee but firmly he barred her way.

“I have had nothing of all my life. Nothing of my beauty and
strength. Your own Jason said so. Now I desire to enjoy what I have
missed as long as strength and beauty remain with me.”

She wished to make an outcry, but her throat was as if tightened with
fetters.

He embraced her with a powerful arm and she turned and writhed as
though a snake were coiling about her.

And he spoke:

“I have come for your love. Are you afraid of me? Do I arouse your
aversion? Am I too old for you? My white hair recalls the snowy cold
of death. But I still live and am strong and passionate, and I have
come for your love.”

Athaliah, ghastly pale, squirmed in his arms and gasped, in fright
and loathing. “Let me go! Let me go!”

But he took her in his arms and with his keen eyes seemed to devour
her beauty.

“I’ll have your love. You shall have to belong to me. If not
willingly, then by force. I am all-powerful; you know that. Your life
is in my hands, and the life of your sweetheart, and the life of all
those near and dear to you.”

Athaliah now regained her voice. “No! No!” she shrieked. “Kill _me_!
Slay me alone!”

“You shall belong to me. I do not wish your death. I desire you in
your living beauty. I am very wealthy,—the richest of all our people.
I will clothe you in gold and silver, and bedeck you with precious
stones. Ask what you wish and it shall be granted. Why do you fear me
so? I am old in years, but strong in body, and I wish to enjoy that
strength. Be mine and you shall never regret it.”

His words, which echoed with gold, and his arm, which spoke of great
masculine strength, changed Athaliah’s mind. She became the mistress
of the High Priest, but for a few days only. For a savage fury befell
the High Priest; he desired to enjoy the pleasures of the senses more
and more, and he changed his mistresses every day, intoxicated with
lust and wine. Then, to the great horror of his people, he also took
to drinking.

His wife, his children, and all those who were truly pious and
decent, together with all to whom the honour of their people was
very dear, tried with despair in their hearts to turn him from the
terrible life he had begun to lead. They also tried to learn how all
this had so suddenly come to him,—how he could so completely have
forgotten God. But he did not speak to them; he was as one dumb. And
it seemed that no invocation of God or the Torah could touch his
heart or his ear.

And many who were not decent, and to whom the honour of their people
was worth less than the smallest coin that fell into their purses,
became his flatterers and pandered to his desires. For he was
prodigal with his gold, and that was all they desired of him; the
deeper he sank into lust and dissipation, the more gold came into
their clutches.

Soon, however, his eighty years began to tell. He grew weak and
impotent, but he could still guzzle and he became a disgust and a
fright.

The people felt that they must be freed of him, and his death was
decided upon. They remembered, however, what he had been for eighty
years and none cared to lay hands upon him. It was resolved that his
death should be an honourable one, happening as if by accident. And
once, on an evening in which he had drunk more than usual, he was
abducted from his sycophants, taken into the mountains and left lying
upon the brink of a precipice over a deep sea. No one’s hand was
lifted to thrust him over the edge, and with tears in their eyes and
sad shakings of their heads they abandoned him to his fate.

He lay motionless, sunk in a deep sleep. But the first rays of the
rising sun awakened him. He stretched out his arms as if to reach for
the wine that stood now always before him. He grasped only the air.
He groped and groped about and at last opened his eyes. He opened
them wider and wider, distending them more and more. Where was he? He
looked around, to this side and to that, above and below. He saw the
abyss. Slowly and gradually it dawned upon him that he lay upon the
brink of a high precipice. How had he come hither? Who had brought
him? Slowly and leisurely he looked over the edge. If he should fall
in.... Then he understood. This was his death-sentence. He had been
condemned to death and the hands of his judges were to remain clean.
His blood boiled. He wished to arise at once, but he was not strong
enough. He rolled his head about, thumped the earth with his fists,
gnashed his teeth. Weary and utterly exhausted, he remained lying
there and somewhat later began to gaze around him. Where on earth was
he?

He beheld before him a large sea girded by green mountains. It looked
like a huge cauldron, over which arose the queen of day, pure,
youthful and flaming. From the mountain forests far and near there
wafted up to her a thin blue mist. The earth was uncovering itself
before the sun, receiving its beams with delight, shouting to her
in radiant green. Quite near to him there sparkled dazzlingly the
snow-capped peak of Mount Lebanon, mischievously reflecting with all
the colours of the rainbow its lance-like rays of the sun. And the
calm, deep sea received into its bosom all the light of heaven and
earth and redoubled their splendour.

Johanan lay and gazed without taking into account what he saw, but he
was inundated with the surrounding splendour. And suddenly his lips
began to murmur, “Bless the Lord, O my soul. O Lord, my God, Thou art
very great; thou art clothed with honour and majesty. Who coverest
Thyself with light as with a garment; who stretchest out the heavens
like a curtain.”

Thus he murmured and his spirit was not with him. He did not know
what issued from his lips. He repeated it several times. Always the
same passages. “Bless the Lord, O my soul. O Lord, my God, Thou art
very great; Thou art clothed with honour and majesty....” And his
heart became softer and softer.

Then he suddenly became aware of what he was saying and was startled.
God’s name upon his lips! He, full of God,—of God, against whom he
had spoken, against whom he had rebelled so arrogantly! He burst into
tears. Ever so softly, without the slightest sound, but his heart
was torn, rent asunder. He was weeping over the last few weeks, over
the wretched life he had been leading, and his subdued crying was
filled with deep lamentation, filled with regret and repentance, yet
his eyes did not turn from the great beauty and glory around him. It
seemed to him that now, for the first time, he grasped that which all
his life he had not known. He who creates such a wealth of beauty and
splendour cannot be merely austere and harsh. And in his dejection he
was consoled by the hope that God was good, merciful and loving.

He tried to arise, return to his people and tell them what he had
there discovered, but his strength abandoned him. Then he knew that
his end had come. He was terrified. God! Anything but to be left
lying there in the ugliness of death! But soon he composed himself.
He began to murmur a prayer, opening his eyes wide in contemplation
of God’s beautiful world. And when he felt that his eyes were growing
heavy, he made only a single movement—and he fell like lead into the
deep waters.




ZERUBBABEL




ZERUBBABEL


I

It came to pass in the days of Ahasuerus,—that Ahasuerus who reigned
from India even to Ethiopia, over a hundred and seven and twenty
provinces. In the third year of his reign he waxed wroth against
Vashti his wife, because she had once refused to do his bidding, and
banished her from him. And after his wrath was appeased he regretted
exceedingly what he had done and his heart was filled with yearning
for Vashti. And his servants said, “Let there be fair young virgins
sought for the king throughout all his provinces. And let the maiden
who pleases the king be queen instead of Vashti.” And the plan
pleased the king and he had it executed.

A Jewish youth dwelt in the city of Shushan, and his name was
Zerubbabel, son of Shealtiel. He was descended from the royal house
of David,—a grandchild of the last of the Jewish kings,—and royal
was his mien. He was tall in build and broad-shouldered; in his deep
black eyes shone the glance of a ruler, and the long black hair
that flowed over his neck bore witness to his strength. Whoever saw
him grew fond of him and was inspired with respect, and the Jews
were proud of him. He recalled to them their independence, lost
but a short time since, and awoke in them thoughts of a better, an
independent future. And there was a young Jewish maiden in Shushan,
and she was called Sheshana, and more than aught else Zerubbabel
loved her. She was his comfort and his joy,—his solace in dark
moments and his rest after hard labour. Small she was, and tender,
with white face and black tresses. Her whole soul was revealed in
the dark eyes under the black silken strands of her lashes; a soul
that was loveliness itself. Her laughter was clear and sparkling,
and caressed the ears of her hearers, like silks from Damascus. Her
mouth was ever open with laughter, and through her half-parted lips
there glistened wonderfully white small teeth.

And it happened that when Ahasuerus commanded to appear before him
all the fair daughters of his subjects, so that he might choose a
wife from among them to replace Vashti, Zerubbabel knew that Sheshana
would be the chosen one. So he concealed her in a place where the
king’s servants would not be able to discover her, and did not leave
her side, like a lion ready to pounce upon any one who should stretch
out his hand to her.

But first he said: “You are beautiful, Sheshana, and there is none
under the sun to equal you. You are the fairest of all Judea’s
daughters and in vain will they seek among other tribes for another
like you. A glance from you is the sweetest of sensations, and a
kiss from your lips is eternity. Your body is like the breath of a
sweet flower; happy and blessed is he who may enjoy it. Can it be,
Sheshana—tell me—that you wish to be taken before the king? And
it will come about that when Ahasuerus beholds you, he will sink
to his knees before you, as if the goddess Astaroth had appeared
before him in her fairest form. And you will become the wife of
the king,—reigning as queen from India even to Ethiopia, over a
hundred and seven and twenty provinces. Great and powerful will you
become,—arbiter over the life and death of all the king’s subjects,
and all will tremble before you. Tell me, Sheshana, and I will free
you at once. I myself will open the door for you....”

But she did not allow him to finish, and lay her small white hand
across his mouth. She snuggled close to him with her tender,
flower-like body and rested her head upon his strong bosom; her voice
became frightened and tearful.

“Why do you scare your Sheshana, you wicked Zerubbabel? Picture me
death and annihilation, speak to me of slavery and heavy chains; tell
me that I shall grow ugly, with the face of a leper, and you will
not frighten your Sheshana so much as with your talk of the king and
his kingdom. How could you have spoken so? Tell me, how have I sinned
to deserve it? Do you not yet know, then, how strong is my love for
you? Tell me how to give you further proof of it and I will do so.
Love speaks in various languages; have I not spoken to you in all of
them? Have I not cooed to you like a dove, and have I not cried with
passion’s fiery tongues? Have I not laughed in your embraces with my
clearest laughter, and have I not wept for ecstasy in the sweetness
of my love? You wicked Zerubbabel, my only one! My love is now like a
stricken dove; it has lowered its wings and cast down its weary head
in deep mourning, and it is you who have wounded it!”

She pressed Zerubbabel tightly to her, and his heart shouted with
delight. He did not interrupt her speech, and every word from her
deep-red lips rendered his breathing more difficult. He was unable to
speak; his breast heaved; he drank in her love with his glowing eyes
which were like an ocean that cannot be filled.

And Sheshana threw around his neck her bare white arms and whispered
to him; her voice was like the voice of a distant violin.

“You are my king, and my kingdom is your love. It is greater and
wealthier than that of Ahasuerus. The sun never sets upon my kingdom,
and my rulership over it is unlimited. Your powerful bosom is my firm
land, and upon it I build my most glorious palaces. Your eyes are my
seas; I sink into them even as the sinking sun, and like the rising
sun I look out from them, and my world is bathed in splendour and in
light. Your mighty arms are my armies, and I am secure beneath their
protection. I desire no other kingdom, and the whole world without
you would be too small and too forlorn. My beloved, my only one, my
fortress and my sun, protect your Sheshana, guard well your queen!”

More tightly than ever she pressed Zerubbabel to her, and his voice
quivered with agitation, and yet it spoke of his great strength.

“Zerubbabel is with you, and woe unto him that dares stretch out his
arm toward you, even though it be the king himself. But speak to me,
Sheshana, speak to me, my glorious maiden. Open up Paradise to me
with your words, and I become the god who dwells therein. Coo to me,
my little dove, and fill my heart with blessedness.”

And Sheshana laughed with her clearest laughter, whispering then,
“Small is Sheshana, but great is her love, boundless as the sea. But
Sheshana asks for reward, and she languishes for a kiss!”

Zerubbabel clasped her to him with fiery passion; more fiery still
was his kiss. For a long time he did not remove his lips from her
own, and it was as if in that kiss he lived out his entire life.
Again and again they united in their kisses, and Sheshana laughed
with her clearest laughter. All at once she threw back her head and
raised to his eyes her enchanting glance; playful and infinitely
sweet was her voice. “And what would Zerubbabel do if Sheshana were
to go off to King Ahasuerus?”

Zerubbabel felt a tremor in all his limbs, and he closed his eyes.
Soon he opened them and his glance had become sinister. He embraced
her firmly, as if to shield her so that none might take her away; his
voice was hard. “I know a huge cliff, high above a deep abyss. Upon
that cliff would Zerubbabel climb, and up there would he cry out his
infinite grief. And the rock would crumble to dust from his cries and
would disappear into the abyss with Zerubbabel.”

Now Sheshana felt a tremor in all her limbs; her countenance blanched
and her lips could scarcely move. “Forgive me, dear, for having
spoken thus.” And Zerubbabel clasped her to him with all the strength
of his passion; his eyes burned; he pressed his fiery kiss upon her
lips. “You are mine, mine alone, for all eternity!”


II

According to the tale, King Ahasuerus selected as his wife Esther,
the cousin and foster-daughter of Mordecai, the son of Jair. And
Haman, the son of Hammedatha the Aggagite, became the favourite of
King Ahasuerus, who set his seat above all the princes that were
with him. And all the king’s servants that were in the king’s gate
bowed and reverenced Haman. Except Mordecai. This angered the son
of Hammedatha, and his heart was filled with wrath. But he scorned
to wreak vengeance on Mordecai alone. His rage was like a sea that
overflows its shores; in this sea he desired to drown and destroy the
entire Jewish people. Then he came before the king and asked of him
permission to annihilate the Jews. He offered ten thousand talents of
silver and spoke plain words.

“There is a certain people scattered abroad and dispersed among the
people in all the provinces of your kingdom. And their laws are
diverse from all people; neither keep they the king’s laws: therefore
it is not for the king’s profit to suffer them.” This was poison
in the king’s ears,—poison in his heart, and he even renounced the
money. He took his ring from his hand and gave it to the Aggagite
to do with the Jews as his heart desired. Whereupon Haman issued a
decree in the name of the king, sealed with the king’s ring, to all
the hundred and seven and twenty provinces of King Ahasuerus, to
destroy, to kill and cause to perish all Jews, both young and old,
little children and women, in one day, upon the thirteenth of the
twelfth month, which is the month Adar.

The Jews learned of all that had been planned and a great terror
descended upon them; their fright knew no bounds. They raised a loud
and bitter cry, rent the clothes upon them and put on sackcloth with
ashes. They sought counsel but found it not. Who would save them from
certain death? Where should they turn and whither should they go?
Where could they hide and whither might they flee? In their great
terror and in their great misfortune they raised their eyes to Queen
Esther. Esther must help them,—Esther, the Jewish daughter upon the
royal throne. And Mordecai, her cousin, turned to her, asking that
she go to the king and make supplication to him for her people.
Esther could not make up her mind, because whosoever came unbidden
before the king was put at once to death, and she had not been
summoned to him for thirty days.

Mordecai sent sharp words to her.

“Think not that you of all the Jews will escape because you are in
the king’s house. For if you altogether hold your peace, then shall
help and deliverance come to the Jews from another place; but you and
your father’s house shall be destroyed; and who knows but that you
ascended to royal power for just such a time as this?”

Then Esther bade them return Mordecai this answer:

“Go, gather together all the Jews that are present in Shushan, and
fast for me, and neither eat nor drink three days, night or day;
I also and my maidens will fast likewise; and then will I go in to
the king, despite the law. And if I perish, I perish.” Mordecai went
his way and did according to all that Esther had commanded him. The
Jews assembled in their meeting-house in Shushan, weeping, fasting,
wailing and hoping in Esther. And when any one opened the door and
came in, he was greeted with tear-stifled voices: “What says Esther?
What does Esther? What news of Esther?”


III

But Zerubbabel, when he learned of Haman’s decree, neither rent his
garments nor covered his head with ashes. His locks spread even more
spiritedly over his neck and his eyes blazed with a wild wrath. His
hands rolled up into iron fists and he fluttered them in the air like
the wings of an eagle. He raised his voice, and it was like the voice
of thunder.

“Oh, they shall regret it! The Jewish people is to them a shattered
heap, easy to destroy and to annihilate, a mob without rights, to
whom each may do as he pleases. But they will learn that it is not as
they have imagined. They will pay too dearly for every Jewish life,
and our defeat will be their greatest disaster. They shall regret it!
They shall regret it!”

And as he spoke with head raised proudly erect, waving fists that had
hardened to steel and iron, there arrived a messenger, bringing him
report of the conversation between Mordecai and Esther and calling
him to the meeting-house, where all Jews were beginning to assemble,
to fast for Esther three days and three nights. Zerubbabel’s eyes
lighted up with fury and he said to the messenger, “Go tell him who
sent you that the fate of a people cannot depend upon a woman and
the extent to which she pleases her husband. Go tell him that now is
no time for fasting and weeping. With weapons in their hands will
they destroy the Jews; with weapons in their hands must the Jews
make their stand.” And to those near him he turned, saying, “You
have heard what I said. Go and spread it among the people, that thus
spoke Zerubbabel, the son of Shealtiel the son of Jehoiachim, King of
Jerusalem: ‘Let them gather in the meeting-house if they will; not to
fast or weep, however, but to consider means of defence.’”

But those about him did not obey him willingly, and one of them said,
“Let us wait and see what Esther can do.” Zerubbabel grew red with
anger and cried to the speaker, “One can see that you are the son of
a servant and your soul is the soul of a born slave. Out of my sight
and let me never see you again!” And his messengers departed from
him to spread his words among the people, doing so, however, with
shrugging of the shoulders and hidden laughter. And Zerubbabel arose
and himself went to the meeting-house, to summon the Jews to battle
and self-defence. On the way thither he visited many houses, finding
in the majority of them only women and children or aged and infirm
persons who could not move their limbs. For all the men, young
and old, who possessed any strength in their loins, were gathered
in the meeting-place. And everywhere he went he found tears and
despair,—sackcloth upon their bodies and ashes upon the heads. And
everywhere he went he was greeted with the same wailing, stammered
question: What was Esther doing? Did he not have news of her? Or
hadn’t the king summoned Esther to him? And when he began to speak of
battle and self-defence he was looked upon as if he spoke an unknown
language.

One very old man said to him, with lips that scarcely could move and
in a voice barely audible, “You speak of resistance and self-defence.
Young man, I knew your grandfather Jehoiachim and your granduncle
Zedekiah. They, too, gave battle and raised their heads against
Nebuchadnezzar, and the result was our exile. No, my young man,
summon not to battle and self-defence. We must fast, only fast, and
Queen Esther will come to our rescue.” And Zerubbabel realised that
as the old man spoke, so spoke all his people, and he departed for
the meeting-house, with lowered head and lagging step.


IV

Zerubbabel stopped upon the threshold of the meeting-house
and surveyed the great assembly. And when he saw the men with
tear-stained eyes and with their hands upon their heads, his eyes
flashed and his lips turned white with scorn and ire. He was
surrounded by the crowd, the old men pressing close to him and the
young men in the rear.

“What have you brought us, Zerubbabel?” the old men asked. “Open your
lips and tell us what news of Esther and what do you know of her?”

The questions were to his anger like oil upon flames, and he opened
his mouth to speak harsh words. “Why do you ask me of Esther? What
do you wish, you greybeards, of that woman? And what shall I tell
you of her?—Am I, then, her sweetheart, and shall I tell you of her
beauty,—the sweetness of her body and the charm of her love?”

The assembly gaped at him in stupefaction, and the elders spoke again
to him: “What has come over you, Zerubbabel, and what have you on
your heart? You are wroth and speak harsh words to us. Or can it be
that you do not know what has happened? That a great disaster impends
over the Jews,—complete annihilation? And who can help us if not
Queen Esther? Or do you know another aid? Speak, and we will hear.”

Zerubbabel rose to his full height; his eyes lighted up, and his
voice was as hard as steel and iron. “Yes, I know another aid, and I
have come to tell it to you. It lies _within you_,—in your courage
and in your arms!”

His hearers received his words, mouths agape with surprise and
astonishment; Zerubbabel spoke further and his voice throbbed with
warmth. “Why do you eye me so? Or can you have misunderstood me? Your
salvation lies in you alone,—in your courage and in your arms. Why
have you so yielded to despair? And why have you covered yourselves
with ashes; wherefore your fasting? Are you weakening your bodies so
as to make the work of your enemies all the more easy? I tell you,
rather arm yourselves. Gird your loins and strengthen your muscles.
Instead of wringing your hands over your heads and despairing, learn
how to brandish a sword; instead of blinding your eyes with tears,
teach them to aim an arrow. Be not like sheep who are easily led
to the slaughter, but like lions that stand forth against their
pursuers. It is only a game for one to seize a sheep and kill it,
but the heart of the lion-hunter trembles, and only one out of a
thousand can hunt lions. You sit and weep and fast and torture
yourselves, and our enemies will mock and laugh. ‘We need not whet
our swords,’ they will say. ‘With our dog-whips we’ll be able to
strike dead the starved and terrified Jews.’ And they will praise
Haman for the permission he secured from the king and must even now
be rejoicing beforehand over the Jewish property that will so easily
be surrendered to them. But if they learn that you propose to make
a bold, heroic stand against them,—that your hands are skilled in
wielding the sword and your eyes trained to direct the dart, they
will look upon you with respect and admiration. They will no longer
laugh or mock, but will consider the matter well. And they will say,
‘We have permission from Haman, but who will provide for our widows
and orphans in case we fall at the hands of the Jews?’”

When he had spoken thus and more, the elders shook their heads and
the youths looked at the ground in embarrassment. At last the old men
could restrain themselves no longer and broke in upon his speech. And
they said, “You are young in years, Zerubbabel, and speak according
to your years.”

Zerubbabel, however, interrupted them and his voice echoed with
scorn. “I am young in years! How could I have failed to foresee that
such would be your answer! I am young in years! But of what avail
are your grey hairs, when you, too, are at a loss for counsel and
place your hopes upon a woman’s undergarment? I am young in years!
But young in years and even younger than I was my grandfather David,
yet he delivered the Jewish people from Goliath. Just as you here,
now, so then, too, your men were in despair. They were frightened
and trembling and knew not whither to turn for help. Then came young
David and brought them salvation. Young in years, but he knew that a
little stone, well aimed and well delivered, was more effective than
fasting, more powerful than tears. Therefore I say to you, why do you
reckon my years for me? See, I bring you deliverance. Be not like
women,—‘cry babies’ who begin to weep at whatever happens to them.
Be men, who feel the strength of their arms and the power of their
loins. Come, let us cry out a manifesto in the streets: ‘Haman has
purchased the Jewish people and given it over to annihilation, but
the Jewish people is not an object to be bought and sold, nor will
it accept its destruction idly. The Jews have armed themselves and
they are being trained for battle. And when their enemies fall upon
them to kill and wipe them out, they will defend themselves even as
the lioness defends her cubs, and for every Jew that perishes ten
of his opponents will forfeit their lives. Come, let us make public
this manifesto and you will see how much longer the countenances
of our opponents become and how downcast they will look. Cast off
your sackcloth, I tell you; wipe off your ashes and straighten out
your shoulders. Gird your loins and take double-edged swords in your
hands. And you will see that aid will come to you, and your blessing
will fall upon Zerubbabel.”

His countenance blazed like a torch and he looked upon the assembly
with the eyes of a leader. But all eyes were turned away from him
and the elders shook their heads. At this moment the door opened and
Mordecai entered. All rushed toward the newcomer, surrounding him and
showering him with their questions.

“What says Esther?”

“What does Esther?”

“What news of Esther?”


V

And Mordecai, the son of Jair, was garbed in sackcloth and ashes. His
forehead was furrowed with deep wrinkles and his eyes were careworn.
It was easily to be seen that many thoughts weighed upon his mind. He
opened his lips and answered the questioners. “There is no news from
Esther. And what would you hear from her? Do you not know that she
asked for three days, and that this is only the first?”

All the assembled hearers bowed their heads in mourning and wiped
their eyes. And when Mordecai, with a deep sigh, sank upon a bench,
the entire house resounded with sighs and groans from all hearts.

Zerubbabel stood alone; none looked upon him. His heart was bitter to
the point of crying out, and he would gladly have struck to right
and to left with his fists; he relieved his mood with a wild outburst
of laughter. All eyes were directed to him in astonishment, and
Mordecai spoke. “Zerubbabel, arrayed in his finest clothes, laughs
with such incisive laughter.—What ails him?”

Those about Mordecai stepped back, as if to open a path for
Zerubbabel, that he might approach Mordecai. Zerubbabel, however,
did not stir from his place. Brimming over with scorn and bitterness
he cried, “Tell him what ails me!” In a few words they repeated the
tenor of Zerubbabel’s speech, saying that he summoned his people to
battle and counselled them not to place their faith in Esther.

Mordecai raised his glance to Zerubbabel; both men eyed each other
like two enemies measuring each other’s strength. Then Mordecai
spoke, emphasising every word. “In every age there are certain
persons who imagine that the easiest way to break a wall is with
one’s head.”

Zerubbabel answered with aversion and mockery. “But not every age
has the misfortune to possess a leader with the timidity of a weak
woman, who can only raise his hands to his head and cry bitterly!”

The gathering turned its glances from Mordecai to Zerubbabel and from
Zerubbabel to Mordecai. It was as if two gladiators had stepped forth
into the arena to wrestle and seek victory. And the onlookers became
entirely absorbed in the scene about to take place, forgetting their
great misfortune. Yet they crowded more closely about Mordecai, as
though expecting protection from him against Zerubbabel.

Mordecai felt that all were with him and none was with Zerubbabel, so
he uttered cutting words. “Better a weak old woman as a leader than
a madman who inspires to impossibilities. The weakest of women may
prevent a calamity, but the most insignificant madman can bring down
upon his people the most grievous of disasters. I do not desire to
insult you, Zerubbabel, but what you counsel is sheer madness.”

Zerubbabel replied bitterly: “Woe unto the people to whom it is
preached that self-defence is madness, and greater woe still unto the
people among whom such preachment finds ready ears. Such a people is
a heap of dead bones, from which all signs of life have fled.”

Mordecai interrupted him with a calm, self-confident voice. “Who
says that self-defence is madness? Am I not, then, for self-defence?
Do I desire, then, that we exterminate ourselves before the enemy
attacks us? Do I wish, indeed, that we cease to be? Do I not yearn
to rescue our people? Let our people defend itself; but the means of
self-defence are various, and your way, Zerubbabel, is folly.”

Zerubbabel stood there, looking at Mordecai as if he had not
understood, and he asked, in great surprise, with a quivering voice,
“How long has the self-defence of a people meant the pretty face of a
young woman? Is Esther’s body our self-defence?”

Again Mordecai replied calmly and confidently. “You understand by
self-defence only the power of our arms, while I term self-defence
the power of beauty and the power of money likewise. You are young,
Zerubbabel, and surely you know the power of beauty. Say, is it not
the surest way? The king’s heart can be purchased for us with beauty,
and Esther must do it. Is not Esther my uncle’s daughter? Was she
not to me even as my own child? Is she not the flesh and blood of
all of us? And yet we told her to risk her life and go unbidden to
the king; and should her beauty not win the king and should she as
a consequence be put to death, then we will choose still another
Jewish daughter,—one even more beautiful. And even if we should have
to sacrifice all our Jewish daughters and sisters and wives, we will
do so, despite the great grief it will cause us and the heaviness of
the blow. Is not that, too, self-defence? And when our beauty has
proved unsuccessful, we will defend ourselves with our money, with
our possessions. Haman purchased us with ten thousand silver talents;
then we can buy ourselves free for twenty, thirty, forty. From time
immemorial these have been the surest means of self-defence. Was not
our father Jacob freed from his brother Esau by his possessions?
Did not also your great-great-grandfather, King Asa, save himself
from Baasha, King of Israel, through bribing Benhadad, King of Aram?
And did not Judith with her beauty rescue the Jews from Holofernes?
_Your_ self-defence, on the contrary, is self-destruction. Small and
few are we among the peoples of the hundred and seven and twenty
provinces. Who will fear our weapons? Who will be impressed by our
arms? And it may come to pass, moreover, that if the king learns that
Jews are arming themselves, he will send against us his powerful
army, trained in warfare; and there will not be a vestige left of our
people. Would you have it thus, Zerubbabel?”

Zerubbabel made answer in loud and bitter tones: “Shame upon you
and upon all who side with you! Shame upon the whole Jewish people
which beholds its salvation in money and its self-defence in the
beautiful bodies of its daughters! Now will I rend my garments and
put on sackcloth and ashes! Now will I weep and wail my bitter
lamentation! My people is dead! My people is a putrefying corpse. It
is an abode only for worms, reptiles and insects. All living spirits
have forsaken it. Where shall I find words to express my abhorrence?
Where shall I find the thunder with which to boom forth my wrath?
Judah, where are your warriors? Where are your heroes, Israel? Behold
who your leaders are, and hear what they counsel! In their debasement
they do not revolt against defiling their most sacred possessions,
and the honour of their daughters is of less worth to them than the
meanest life! Lion of yore, you have turned into a dog!”

Zerubbabel struggled for air and words failed him. He rent his
garments and tore his hair, crying aloud and bitterly. He wrung his
hands high above his head and kept repeating, “Shame upon them!
Shame! Shame!” He left the meeting-house, his legs wavering like
those of a drunkard.

The men, gathered in the meeting-house, followed him with frightened,
astonished looks, and not a mouth opened to speak a word. Only
Mordecai smiled and quoted the popular saying, “Is that not correct?
It is better to be a live dog than a dead lion.”

The assembly, however, became as if something had defiled it and
rendered it unclean. Yet none found in him the courage to follow
Zerubbabel.


VI

Zerubbabel went in search of Sheshana, to pour out his heart to her
and cry out his anger. He walked with rapid strides, looking neither
to right nor to left, and groaned heavily: “What a grievous shame!
What a deep disgrace!”

Impetuously he opened the door to Sheshana’s house, and he felt that
he would throw himself upon her bosom and wail out his immense
sorrow. He would bemoan his people, which he had lost,—his veneration
of it, his belief in it, which had gone never to return. But when he
beheld Sheshana he was rooted to the spot and his mouth could utter
no sound. She was dressed in sackcloth; she was pale, her eyes red
with much weeping, and her small form seemed even smaller and drawn.
When she saw Zerubbabel she burst into loud crying as if she had long
repressed it. Then, as she swallowed her tears, she spoke.

“You have come at last! At last you are here!—I thought that
something had befallen you and I sent after you, but my messengers
could not find you. They brought me the news, however, that you were
safe and sound and that you were running about among the people,
summoning them to armed resistance. I could not believe them and told
them that they brought me lies. But one after another came to me with
the same report and I was forced to believe it. The world became
dark and dreary to me. Naughty Zerubbabel, how could you forget me
at such a terrible time? How could you leave me alone in an hour of
peril? Don’t you know that your Sheshana is a timorous maiden,—that
her courage vanishes at the slightest danger? Oh, I am frightened to
death! I am frightened to death!”

Zerubbabel stood as one transfixed; his eyes shone like glowing
coals, his glance was stern and angry, and his voice was piercing.
“You know what I have been doing, and yet you can speak to me in
this manner? Zerubbabel went forth to rouse the Jewish people to
self-defence, to armed resistance, and his Sheshana dressed herself
in sackcloth and ashes and succumbed to fright! Can you be Sheshana?
Can you be my sweetheart? Was not your heart flooded with courage,
and did it not shout with jubilation because Zerubbabel was not among
the cowards and the despairers?”

Sheshana continued to weep and kept repeating, “Oh, I am frightened
to death! I am frightened to death!”

Zerubbabel shook his head and smiled cynically. “I thought I should
find a solace in you,—a balm for my grieving heart. Sheshana will
understand me and will side with me, I thought, and she will give
me strength. But woe to my wretchedness that is so great! Sheshana
greets me with tears, with petty fears and harsh words. And she has
no ears for me,—no heart....”

Sheshana, however, raised her head, pursing her lips with a surly
grimace. “I can have neither ears for you nor a heart. For that which
you desire is folly, and you are the butt of all men’s mockery.
‘Zerubbabel is a visionary,’ they say,—a dreamer. He demands the
impossible and utters dangerous things. He wishes to incite the
scant Jewish people against the numberless enemy, and calls that
self-defence. Why does he not preach, rather, that great and small,
men and women,—all the Jewish people—shall cast itself into the
rivers and streams that flow through the hundred and seven and twenty
provinces? That is what they are all saying, shaking their heads at
mention of you. And are they not right, and do they not speak with
justice? Then how could I feel delight, and whence should joy have
come to me? Because you forgot me, left me all alone and went in
pursuit of dangerous dreams?”

Zerubbabel raised his voice and uttered sharp words. “If you had
flayed my body with thorns and stung it with scorpions, you would
not hurt me so much as your words have done. When all the mockers
ridiculed me, my bosom was filled with anger and scorn, and I felt
strong in my opposition. But when you joined the mockery and added
your voice to the laughter, then I became the most unhappy, the
most wretched man under heaven. You have become a stranger to me,
Sheshana; with your words you have dug an abyss between us, and when
Zerubbabel has lost Sheshana, he has lost his life.”

With terror in her eyes the maiden cried, “Oh, how can you speak like
that?”

As she looked at him with her horror-stricken countenance and
her flaming cheeks, Zerubbabel’s heart was softened, and with a
passionate impulse he rushed to her, clasping her to him with all his
fire and tenderness. “My only one, my love,” he whispered, “do not
desert Zerubbabel. Do not mock me. Believe in me. Believe that I have
_not_ become demented and that I am _not_ a mere dreamer. Believe
that I have been born to great deeds, and I will accomplish them. I
will declare war against the scoffers and misleaders of the people
and will root them out. I will teach my people to be proud, and
will lead it to victory. Be you the spring from which I shall drink
strength for my bones and power for my veins. Pour courage into me
and cheer my weary soul. Tell me that I am right and they who scoff
at me are stricken with blindness. Tell me that you were mistaken and
that for only a moment were you alienated from your Zerubbabel.”

But Sheshana wept, hiding her face in her hands, and murmured, “I
cannot! I cannot!”

With passion more intense than ever Zerubbabel spoke to her. “See,
they wish to buy themselves free of danger with the body of Esther.
They send her to risk her life, and themselves they try to save with
fasting. And if Esther’s body avail not, they will have recourse
to money, or the body of some other beautiful woman, or both these
things together. Say, Sheshana, is this not despicable? Is it not
base and cowardly? Everything within me cries out in revolt against
it; does nothing cry out in you? Men—to send a woman’s body before
them! Sheshana, I have no words to express how contemptible that is!
Do you feel it, Sheshana? Do you not feel as if you had been soiled,
debased, spat upon? Sheshana, see how my muscles stiffen,—do you
see my strength? I feel that my arms are giant wings ready to bear
my people across every abyss and peril. Why do they fear to take up
arms? Victory or Death, but no purchasing our security! Men who hide
behind a woman have no sense of honour, and shall my whole people
consist of such men? Shall Zerubbabel’s people lack a sense of
honour? Does not your soul revolt against it all, Sheshana?”

But Sheshana lay quietly in his arms, speaking not a word. He clasped
her still, looking passionately into her eyes and asking as before,
“Tell me, Sheshana, tell me.”

At last Sheshana whispered her reply: “You remain with me, and let
them do as they deem best.”

“To the shame and dishonour of the whole Jewish people!” exclaimed
Zerubbabel, and a deep sadness suddenly came over him.

Then Sheshana spoke her tactless words: “They are in the majority,
and they know what is for the best.”

Zerubbabel recoiled as if a snake had bitten him. He was at first
impelled to cry with bitter lamentations, but he felt a great anger
surging within. He placed his hand on his heart and beat his breast,
then all at once turned to the door. He remained before it, leaning
heavily against it as he said, with a hoarse voice, “You will never
see me again, Sheshana!”

A tremor passed through her every limb; filled with fright and
despair she cried out, “But, Zerubbabel!”

Again he murmured, “You will never see me again, Sheshana!”

Terrified, again she shrieked, “But, Zerubbabel!” She brought her
white, shuddering hands to her cheeks and her glance was that of a
frightened, stupefied dove.

Zerubbabel spoke with a quivering voice: “I love you, and my love is
as strong as death. At night upon my couch I will call your name and
my heart will languish with yearning. I will gash my body with the
nails of my fingers and my eyes will burn under hot tears. But not
_you_ can be Zerubbabel’s wife,—not _you_ the mother of his children.
You will never see me again, Sheshana!”

Sheshana’s bosom heaved convulsively; her rapid breathing was choked
with tears, and her shriek was heart-rending. “Zerubbabel!”

But he had already opened the door, and standing upon the threshold
he turned his face to the maiden and said, in firm accents, “Go and
learn to be Zerubbabel’s wife!” Then he closed the door behind him.

She screamed; it was the cry of a wounded deer. She rushed to the
door, but her legs gave way beneath her. She stretched her hands out
against the closed door, groaning and bemoaning her great misfortune.
She could not speak. Her throat was as if clamped, and her tongue
could not move. Only later was she able to whisper the name scarce
audibly: “Zerubbabel, Zerubbabel, Zerubbabel!” Only his name could
she murmur, and nothing more. Then she threw herself upon the bed,
her hands pressed to her face, and her body in a heap, and it seemed
to her as if some one had slapped her.

And Zerubbabel strode on through the night and the gloom, far beyond
the city, into deep solitude, to the place where a huge cliff rose
high above a deep abyss.




DRABKIN

_A Novelette of Proletarian Life_




DRABKIN

_A Novelette of Proletarian Life_


I

Drabkin was an excellent workman,—a pocketbook maker whose handiwork
was the talk of the town. Folks praised him in his presence and in
his absence; he knew his worth and held his head proudly erect. It
seemed to him that he had been created for the express purpose of
speaking the truth to all employers right before their very faces,
and upon the slightest provocation he would let them know that they
were living off his sweat and blood,—that they were exploiters,
bloodsuckers, cannibals, and so forth and so on. So that he never
could find a steady place, and through the year he spent more days
idle than at his employment.

The bosses pitied him. “He’s a devil with claws,” they would say.
“May no good Jew know him!... But he has golden hands!”

“If it weren’t for his crazy notions he’d be rolling in money. Such a
workman! His fingers fly, as if by magic!”

Yet they could not suffer him in their shops. They even feared him.
He was as widely known as a bad shilling, yet he was hired in the
hope that perhaps he had changed for the better; perhaps he had
calmed down and become quieter. Moreover, it was a pity to let a
hand go around idle, when he could do more work in twelve hours than
another could accomplish in twenty-four. But in a couple of days the
employer would have to confess with a groan that Drabkin was the same
insolent chap as ever, that it was dangerous to have him in a Jewish
shop, because he would spoil the rest of the men. So he was shown the
door.

He did not take this to heart. It had already become a game to him.
He was certain that the employers would finally be forced to come
to him, because they needed him and must have him. For “his fingers
fly, as if by magic.” And he would simply smile in ironic fashion and
pierce the bosses with a look that caused them to shiver in their
boots.

“What? You don’t like my ditty?” he would ask. “You’re punishing me
for telling the truth, ha? Exploiters! Vampires!”

“You ought to be put into prison, or into the madhouse,” they would
reply. “You’re a dangerous character. You’re a mad dog!...”

“Ah, ahem, tra-la!” he would mock, in delight. “But how do you like
my work? I’m a fast worker, ha?”

And how this truthful boast cut the bosses!

“May your hands be paralysed!” they would answer. “If your character
were only as good as your workmanship, you’d be rolling in money.”

“Working for you people!” he would suddenly revert to his favourite
theme. “With a fourteen-hour day at the wages you pay, grass will
soon be growing over my head. Exploiters! Vampires! Cannibals!...”

“There he goes again!” they would break in. “March! Off with you. Go
shout it from the house-tops!”

“Ah, ahem, tra-la!” he would grunt again. “You don’t like it? Wait!
Just wait!...”

At the last words he would point a warning finger at them. Just what
they were to wait for he himself did not know, but he had a feeling
that something or other was bound to happen that would be not at all
to the bosses’ taste.

He would leave the employers triumphantly, his eyes beaming with
happiness, as if he had just won a significant victory; with his
glance, as he passed along the street, he would transfix every heavy
paunched Jew who looked like an employer of labour. And his brain
teemed with cutting remarks that he should have used and which
he would be sure to employ in the very next encounter with those
exploiters, those bloodsuckers, those cannibals. He saw himself
surrounded by a host of toilers who raised their eyes to him as
their guardian and defender. His breast swelled with pride and
self-confidence and he was contented with himself....

“Jilted again!” was his jocular greeting to his landlady, a thin old
woman, as he entered the house.

She looked at him in surprise. “From what gallows has he escaped in
broad daylight?” she queried to herself.

“Fired again?” she scolded loudly, eyeing him with scorn. “The Lord
protect us, what a man you are!”

She shook her head, as if she had long ago decided that he was a
hopeless case; he was a good-for-nothing in the first place and a
good-for-nothing he would remain. She turned away with a depreciatory
curl of her lips. The wrinkles on her face, which was as dry and
yellow as parchment, became even deeper.

“I gave them a bawling-out, all right!” he chuckled, while his eyes
sparkled with joy.

“Much satisfaction that is!” replied the old woman, sarcastically.
“They must have taken it terribly to heart! Upon my word!”

“Such exploiters,—vampires,—cannibals. The world isn’t enough for
them!” he continued, unmindful of her words. “Do you think I’m going
to be afraid of them? What? Do you imagine we’re going to let them
fatten on our sweat and blood, and look on in silence? Bah! Not a bit
of it! I refuse to be silent! Such exploiters, cut-purses! I refuse
to be silent!...”

“Psh! As bold as a Cossack!” she ridiculed. “But what satisfaction
did you get? It was _you_ who was chased out! You, with your
‘sploiters’ and your ‘poiters’!...”

She was angry with the word, which she did not understand. She even
thought that if it had not been for that word Drabkin would not have
come to sorrow.

She was ready to spit contemptuously upon the floor and leave him.
But Drabkin seized upon her last words.

“Chased out? Not so quick, my dear! They don’t chase _me_ out in a
hurry!”

“They’re afraid of you, I suppose!” she snarled. “I wouldn’t let you
cross my threshold!”

“Well, you see that they do!” he boasted.

“Wild man!” she commented in disgust.

“Aha!” was his victorious response.

After that “aha” the old woman spoke no more. She spat out in scorn,
adjusted the scarf over her wig and walked away from him.

“‘Sploiters, poiters.’” She continued to repeat the evil word to
herself with anger.


II

But he was vied in an utterly different light by Chashke, the old
woman’s daughter.

When she returned at evening from work—she was a dressmaker—her
mother met her with this greeting:

“He’s sitting around idle again.”

And she nodded her head in the direction of Drabkin’s room.

“Well, what of it?” asked the daughter, removing her cloak.

The old woman was taken aback by the girl’s retort and was at a loss
whether or not to reply. She was surprised that the news did not
affect her daughter.

At this moment Drabkin came out of his room.

“I’m home again!” he announced, merrily.

“What’s happened to you to-day?” asked Chashke.

“What’s happened? What should happen? It happened! They’re a pack of
bloodsuckers, exploiters, and that’s all!” he exclaimed, hotly.

“‘Sploiters, poiters,’” interrupted the old woman, mockingly.

“But why should you have thrown up your job on this particular day?”
asked Chashke, not heeding her mother’s sarcasm.

“Why? Because!” he shouted. “Why! I can’t look upon their actions in
cold blood. It’s inhuman! It’s murderous! Ephraim is supposed to work
till nine o’clock at night and he works till half past ten; when he
came to work this morning at half past seven, they fell upon him like
a mad dog and....”

“Isn’t it his granny’s worry?” interjected the old woman.

“I can’t bear such things. I can’t look on in silence. So I gave it
to them!...”

“Psh! Their shirts turned to linen! How they must have trembled
before you!”

But Chashke cast an angry look at her mother.

“What then?” she asked, contemptuously: “Are the workingmen to suffer
such things without a word of protest?”

“Let Ephraim holler for himself. Why need _he_ do the shouting?”
replied the old woman.

“And suppose Ephraim is a meek little lamb? And suppose Ephraim
allows everybody to walk all over him?” cried Drabkin, springing to
his feet, his countenance burning with indignation.

Chashke eyed her mother with ironic triumph.

“Then let him lie in the earth, let him rot, if he’s such a fool,”
retorted the old woman.

“I can’t hold my tongue when I see things like that,” said Drabkin,
his voice somewhat softer.

“Then you lie in the earth, too, and rot away, if you’re such a fool!”

“But there’s no need of cursing,” interposed the daughter, angrily.

“Bah! You’re no better than he is!”

“Don’t you like it?”

But Drabkin would not permit matters to grow into a quarrel.

“I can’t look on in silence....”

He launched into a discussion at the top of his voice. In the first
place, Ephraim _was_ really as meek as a lamb; you could do with
him whatever you wished, and he would offer no remonstrance. In the
second, he wasn’t much of a workman, and if he were discharged from
one place, he could not find another position in a hurry. So that he
was simply afraid to talk back. But he, Drabkin! He couldn’t see such
doings and remain quiet! He had little reason to fear the bosses; he
defied them,—the exploiters, the vampires! The world wasn’t enough
for them, they wanted more, more....

And Chashke gazed at him with eyes brimful of love, agreed with
everything he said, and experienced and felt the same thoughts and
feelings as he.

Old Dina shook her head ironically.

“Two lunatics! One worse than the other!...”


III

Drabkin and Chashke were considered sweethearts. “A love-affair,”
everybody would laugh. The bells rang, but it was no holiday, that
is, it was merely a rumour.

Drabkin was a handsome fellow. Of medium build, broad-shouldered,
a fair, round face framed in a little blonde beard; a medium-sized
mouth with thin, blood-red lips, above which lay a thick moustache,
a well-carved nose, a high, broad forehead and a round head covered
with long, thick, dark brown hair. His dark grey eyes sparkled
continuously. Young girls would fall in love with him at first sight.
But he paid no attention to girls. He knew very few of them and had
little to do with them. He was always absorbed in his “exploiters”;
he was not even aware of Chashke’s loving glances. He liked to talk
with her, because she sympathised with him. She understood him and
agreed with him. He could talk and talk with her forever, without
getting weary. But marriage was far from his thoughts—

Chashke, too, was a beautiful girl.

“If my Chashke should put on fine clothes,” the old woman would say,
“you couldn’t look into her face any more than you can look straight
into the sun.” Of course she exaggerated a trifle, just like a
mother, but by no means did she lie when she spoke thus. Chashke was
somewhat shorter than Drabkin; thin, with sunken cheeks and a flat
bosom. But she possessed an exquisite waist, a pretty mouth with
charming lips, a straight nose, small ears and a fair forehead. But
most beautiful of all were her long black tresses and her blue eyes.

If she had only possessed a dowry, she would have been seized upon
long before, but she did not own even a good dress. So the young
fellows hovered about her for the mere sake of her company, paid her
compliments, which she received, however, with a silent smile, and
tried to play with her hands, which she would bashfully withdraw.
She acquired a reputation as a “touch-me-not,” and the reason for
this attitude was popularly attributed to the soft spot in her heart
for Drabkin.

And she really loved him. But it seemed to her that Drabkin would
never marry. “He has no use for it.” Never had he offended her with
a word, let alone a touch. He always spoke to her only about “his
interests,” about justice and injustice,—sought the truth among folks
and failed to find it. At such times he would spurt flames, thump the
table and run madly about the room. “No,” she would tell herself. “He
will not, he should not, he must not marry!”

But suppose he _should_ marry her?... Oh, what a life would be hers!
She would work,—work ever so hard, enough for two, and he was earning
good money, besides. But she would not interfere with him in any way.
Not in the slightest. Let him remain just as he was. A precious soul,
indeed! Ah, Lord of the universe, what a happy existence they’d
lead!...

But no!... Soon children would come.... She would not be able to
work. Her mother....

“God, God in Heaven, why do you visit such punishment upon the poor!”
she would despair. He must not, he must not marry.... But what a
happy life they would lead, what a happy life!...

And she concealed her feelings from him. This was exceedingly
difficult. Oh, how she would have loved to throw her arms about him,
and press him to her tightly, ever so tightly,—press her very soul
into him,—become together with him a single being.... Her breath
would come in gasps, she would grow dizzy, and her temples would
throb with hammer blows. She hardly dared sit near him, lest he
discover what was going on in her heart. And suppose he _should_
discover?...

Suppose he should discover, and embrace her, and place his arms
about her neck, and kiss her, caress her, squeeze her!...

A strangely sweet sensation would ripple over her body, until she
began to tremble.

He was standing so close to her. She could almost feel his breath.
And she watched every movement of his, read his eyes,—perhaps....

Then she would be ashamed of herself on account of her thoughts. Such
impossibilities as came into her head! Such selfish thoughts as she
could think, when he was speaking of such lofty subjects!

It was altogether unbecoming.... Fie!


IV

But Drabkin married. Not Chashke, but a certain Chyenke, a girl with
a dowry of five hundred roubles.

This happened to him after a terrible fit of fury against all the
bosses in the world. He came to a great determination: he would
himself become a boss.

“Let all trace of them be wiped off the face of the earth,—the
exploiters!” he cried, running up and down the room. “Let no memory
of them remain,—the vampires! May they be sown thickly and grow
up sparse, the cannibals! Enough! All over! I’ll become a boss
myself!...”

He became silent, but continued to pace about. He was planning.

“He’ll become a boss!” scoffed the old woman. “A bosh, you mean!”

She broke into cutting laughter. Chashke looked at her uneasily.

“For myself, in business only for myself,” he spoke, meditatively.

“Ha-ha! He’ll have to pawn his breeches,” laughed the old woman.

And Chashke transferred her uneasy look to Drabkin. She had at once
begun to wonder how he was going to make even a start.

“Never mind. I’ll get money!” he assured them. “I can get ten times
as many partners as I need. Everybody knows what an expert worker I
am.”

“God grant it!” answered the mother, doubtfully. She had little
confidence in Drabkin. But Chashke’s heart was eased of a burden. She
believed that it would be easy for him to find a partner.

He, however, found something that he was not seeking. He found a
bride with a dowry.

This happened just at the time when he was tiring of looking about
for a partner. He was pouring out the bitterness of his heart before
an old friend.

“Enough! I’ve got the right partner for you!” cried the friend. “And
a partner for your whole life.”

Drabkin looked hard at him.

“Do you want to marry a girl with five hundred roubles?”

Drabkin’s heart sank within him. To descend to mere matchmaking! Five
hundred roubles! Suddenly before his eyes appeared the vision of
Chashke.

“The people I’m talking about are very anxious to have you,” his
friend was saying. “A perfect doll of a girl! And clever at her
trade,—one out of a thousand.... Hush, she’s a pocketbook maker, just
like yourself.”

Drabkin was still unable to realise what it was all about, and the
image of Chashke continued to hover before his eyes.

“They’re very anxious to have you,” repeated his friend. “It seems to
me that the girl is head over heels in love with you. She knows you
for a long time. I believe she used to work with you. Well, are you
willing? Just say the word and one, two,—it’s done. I won’t ask you
for any marriage-broker’s fee. I’ll ask only the honour of leading
you under the canopy. Well?”

“A match?” was all Drabkin could stammer. “I’ll not listen to the
idea!...”

“What? Don’t you ever intend to marry?” interrupted the other, with
scorn. “Are you going to enter a monastery? Don’t be a fool, and
listen to good advice. Five hundred roubles dowry, and you become a
boss, with a wife that’ll be a true help to you. Don’t waste a moment
thinking it over!... As true as I’m a Jew, you’ll just _have_ to
marry that girl!”

His friend was getting excited. He divulged the name of the
prospective father-in-law,—Grunim the glazier—and that of the
girl—Chyenke, a maiden of golden virtues, so beautiful that Drabkin,
compared with her, would have to hide in the oven,—and smart? A
question! Just like Bileam! As decent as God has ordained,—a
virtuous child, “so may I have good fortune!”

His friend wrought with might and main,—argued, vociferated,
screamed, bellowed, thundered,—and finally Drabkin had to adjourn
with him to a tavern and treat to drinks. And after the first three
glasses the friend ran off to the girl’s father.

“You’ll thank me as long as you live!” was his farewell to Drabkin.

Left to himself, Drabkin began to feel that the match was really a
windfall. Five hundred roubles! He—with five hundred roubles! He
would work miracles, overturn worlds, he—with five hundred roubles!...

And he really knew her. His friend had not told many lies. She wasn’t
such a marvel, but at the same time girls like her were not to be
found at every turn. Oh yes,—he recalled her perfectly. She was a
trifle taller than Chashke,—a bit plumper, too, he imagined....
A blonde.... She must be quite a lively article, too ... a fiery
creature....

Five hundred roubles! Why, to him that meant ... unlimited
possibilities!... Five hundred roubles.... Imagine, he would....
H’m!...

He couldn’t recall exactly, but it seemed to him that she was very
skilful at her work. Now wait,—at whose place was it that she and he
had worked together?

He shut his eyes and tried to remember. Was it at Abraham Baer’s?
Or at ... at.... Where the devil had they worked together?... No,
he could not recall it. But he recalled distinctly that she was a
good pocketbook-maker. And once she came into his hands he’d make an
expert of her.

Chashke’s figure still kept looming before him, yet he imagined that
he was thinking of Chyenke and beholding her.

When Chashke came home that evening he at once related the proposed
match to her and asked her advice.

Chashke turned pale and then red.

“Oh, what a terrible headache I have to-day!” she answered, with a
quiver in her voice.

Drabkin believed her headache. So did her mother.

“Probably choked with bad air,” murmured the old woman. “Over in her
shop they’re all afraid they’ll freeze. Destruction seize them! I’ll
take the hot water out of the oven and you’ll bathe your head and
feel better.”

In this way she poured out her heart upon the heads of Chashke’s
employers. For her heart was sorely embittered: all along she had
looked upon Drabkin as her Chashke’s future husband.

Chashke was silent. Drabkin looked at her, waiting for a reply.

“Perhaps you know this Chyenke?” he began anew. “They say she’s a
splendid girl.”

“What should I know? It looks like a good proposition. Five hundred
roubles. And Chyenke, from what I know of her, is really a splendid
girl. Good luck to you!”

Yet at the last words her voice trembled.

The old woman spoke nothing to spoil the match, and became enraged
against Chyenke and her five hundred roubles,—against Drabkin,
against Chashke, against herself and her whole life of poverty. She
restrained her tears and prepared many a complaint for the Lord of
the universe.

Meanwhile Drabkin was laying his plans. He spoke in a merry mood and
did not notice the grief about him.

He noticed it, however, a few days later, when he entered the house
in glee and announced that the betrothal was to take place the
following day. Chashke turned pale, seized her breast and nearly
swooned. His words died on his lips: now he understood everything.

“Chashke, what’s the matter?” he cried, in his fright, although he
knew very well what was the matter. He brought her a glass of water.

The old woman danced about her daughter and Drabkin stood there,
overwhelmed. Tears came to his eyes. Now, for the first time, he
understood why, in the past few days, Chashke had come so often
before his eyes when he spoke of the other girl. For the first time
he realised whom he really needed.

He was seized with an impulse to rush over to Chashke, embrace her,
throw his arms about her neck, kiss her, and swear to her that he
would marry only her....

He dashed into his room in distraction, pale, agitated.

“What madness has possessed him?” asked the old woman angrily.

And Chashke began to weep even more bitterly, and pressed her breast
harder than ever.


V

Drabkin’s wedding was postponed for half a year, but the dowry of
five hundred roubles was at once placed into his hands, that he might
open a shop immediately. For he was known by all to be an honourable
man.

He bought a sewing-machine, shears, knives; wooden pliers he made
himself; and together with his future wife he sat down to work. The
shop, naturally, was in her name.

He was submerged with orders.

He became a new man,—jollier, livelier, more enthusiastic. He
attacked his work arduously.

It seemed that he wanted to pile up more and more money.

He felt a sensation that he had never before experienced. He had
money! He had money! He was a boss for himself! Often he would get a
ticklish feeling, and he would smile happily and begin to hum a tune.
He was superlatively happy. He made plans—the dowry would grow, he
would accumulate heaps of money, he would accomplish miracles!...

“I’ll show them!” he would shout, triumphantly, to nobody in
particular, pushing the treadle of his machine vigorously as he sewed
away.

“Show whom?” asked his fiancée, after he had shouted his defiance for
the tenth time.

“Everybody!” he replied. “They’ll hear from me!”

And then he would fall to explaining just how he would “show them.”

A single cloud, however, darkened his bright sky: he longed for
Chashke. Chashke was lacking.

He would blink, screw up his eyes as he smeared a thread with pitch,
and gaze at his betrothed, but all the time he would be thinking of
Chashke, comparing her with his affianced.

“Why do you look at me like that?” Chyenke would ask with a smile.

But he would make no reply, continuing to smear his thread with pitch.

“Haven’t you ever seen me before? Do you want to see whether you’ve
made a mistake in choosing me?” she would continue, throwing her work
aside and placing her arms about his neck.

But he remained silent. He stuck the thread through the eye of the
needle and began to sew. He felt that this woman beside him was a
stranger,—that he did not even know her.

“Are you angry with me?” asked the stranger, releasing his head and
ready to become angry herself.

“Why angry?” he replied, looking intently upon the pocketbook as he
pierced it with the needle. “I looked at you. Is it forbidden me to
look at you?”

He would step often into Chashke’s, if only for a few moments. And
for even these few moments they both felt heavy at heart. Both stood
there with tears in their eyes.

When Drabkin would come for a visit, the old woman would go off into
the kitchen, muttering to herself and wrinkling her brow. There
she would sit down before a dingy little lamp, beginning to darn a
stocking and staring into the semi-gloom, lost in thought of her
foolish, unfortunate daughter.

Drabkin, at such times, would stand by the window and write upon the
panes with his fingers, or gaze vacantly before him, waiting for
Chashke to speak.

And Chashke sat bent over her work, and something tugged, tugged away
at her heart-strings.

She was waging a tremendous battle. She wished to forget everything.
All was over! Too late! It was so decreed by Fate! Yet a frightful,
poignant yearning held her in its grip. And in the solitude of night
she would moisten the pillow with hot tears that rolled slowly down
her cheeks. And often it would seem to her that there would come a
day,—who knew in how many years around?—when he would come falling
at her feet and.... Ah, she had never thought the matter out to its
conclusion....

But he must not learn of her sufferings!

And Chashke would take courage, breathe more easily, and be the first
to speak.

“How are you getting along? Plenty of work?”

Yes. On this topic he could find ever so much to say. But he felt sad
at heart. He then replied in a nasal tone, “Nothing to complain. Work
is the least of my worries.”

“For whom are you making purses now?” she asked, ignoring his last
words.

“For Etkin,” he replied, curtly, as if angry that she should harp on
that theme.

But no, he must really tell her how, from his own former employer,
Mayshe Baruch, he had won away as a customer the shopkeeper Etkin.
That was certainly interesting. And gradually he became engrossed in
his talk and warmed to his subject, telling how he had brought a
piece of his work into Etkin’s and how everybody had viewed it with
delight. And at once he received a big order for more. And Mayshe
Baruch had met him and tried to intimidate him by threatening to slap
his face. Ha-ha-ha, he had found the right one to scare! No sirree!
He’d show Mayshe! He would go in to Brzerzinski, for whom Mayshe
Baruch did work, and let Mayshe try to do something to him! Aha! He’d
put Mayshe Baruch out of business in a jiffy.... And he was even
considering going in to Abraham Baer’s customers. He had a score to
settle with Abraham Baer. He knew all his customers, even those from
out of town, and he would send quotations for work to all of them....
He’d show them!... He’d lead the bosses a merry dance!

Chashke listened with delight. But a single question weighed upon her
heavily; she could not repress it. She lowered her head over her
work and asked, with a stifled voice, “How is your Chyenke?”

He interrupted his account and suddenly became sad once more.

“How should she be? She works.”

And again he stared vacantly through the window. She remained bent
over her work, without raising her eyes. And soon they parted, with
hearts as heavy as stone....

But later he became so engrossed in his work that he forgot the
burden of his heart. He grew accustomed to Chyenke and became more
talkative. And once he began to tell her how he used to quarrel with
his employers and get the best of them. She laughed. Yes, she knew
all about him and his pranks.

“I never spoke a pleasant word to any of them. Not even with the best
of them,” he told her. “I always showed them my claws.”

“I’ll tell you the truth,” she asserted, with a serious mien. “If I
had been your employer I wouldn’t have let you darken my door. Even
if I knew that I’d make millions from you.”

He made no reply, working the treadle faster than before, and waiting
for Chyenke to continue.

“It won’t be like that in our shop,” she added.

“Certainly not,” he hastened to agree. “We’ll deal differently with
our employés.”

“Differently or not differently,” she replied, “if anybody tries such
tricks with us, we’ll take him by the collar right away and down the
stairs he goes!”

“That’s merely what you say....”

“And that’s exactly how it’ll be,” she answered with the same gravity
as before. “If I’m a boss, then I must be a boss. I know. I’ve worked
for bosses, too, and have quarrelled with them. And you may be sure
that they were in the wrong. But to fight just for the fun of it! I’d
like to see them try it!”

“It couldn’t happen in our place,” he said. “I’ll yield to them in
everything.”

“What do you mean, yield to them in everything?” Her voice rose
slightly. “Bah! Not even a hair’s breadth! Why should I treat people
better than I myself was treated?”

Drabkin turned pale. His hand trembled.

“We’ll see about that,” he answered weakly. He restrained himself,
but his blood was boiling.

“What shall we see, what?” asked Chyenke. “I certainly won’t treat my
employés any better than I was treated. Why should I give in to them?
Let them walk all over me?”

He was silent. He was already infuriated, but strove to choke back
his words. He applied himself industriously to his work and did not
utter another sound, although it was a long time before Chyenke
stopped talking....

That night he ran to Chashke. He repeated the conversation to her.

“Did you ever hear such talk?” he cried, as he finished his story.

“Chyenke is as right as the day,” interposed the old woman.

“Did you ever hear such talk?” he repeated, looking into Chashke’s
eyes.

“Well?” she queried, coldly.

“What do you mean, ‘Well?’” he shouted. “What do you mean by your
‘Well?’”

“What do you expect? Everybody to agree with you?”

“What do you mean, everybody to agree with me? What do you mean?” he
gesticulated. “Isn’t she engaged to me?”

“But you each have minds of your own and hearts of your own,” replied
Chashke.

“He’d like his betrothed to be as stupid as himself,” the old woman
chimed in.

“But why? How comes it that you understand?” he insisted to Chashke.

“She always was a big fool,” the mother replied. But the daughter
blushed, and was silent.

“Then why shouldn’t she?” persisted Drabkin, referring to his
betrothed.

“Well——” interrupted Chashke.

He was at a loss for a plausible response.

“Well, speak, what is it you wish?”

“What should I wish? I don’t wish anything,” he snarled indignantly.

He left the house in silent anger. He had wanted her to help him feel
angry, to be beside himself with rage as usual....

The following day he tried again to talk the matter over with
Chyenke, but she merely repeated her opinions of yesterday.

“Then I tell you,” he exclaimed, concisely and firmly, “that our
employés shall be treated as _I_ see fit!”

“And I tell you,” interjected Chyenke, “that in the first place we
haven’t any employés, nor are we hiring any. And in the second place,
they’ll be treated as _I_ think proper!”

“We shall _see_!”

“We _shall_ see!”

He became angry, she became angry, and they did not speak to each
other for the rest of that day.

“If that’s the kind of a fellow he is,” she thought, “then he’s not
going to have the say about the money.”

He sat there as if on pins and needles. He was in a rage; his blood
was boiling. He wanted to spring up, spit out with scorn and break
with Chyenke for good. But something restrained him. That “something”
did not permit him to carry out what he yearned so strongly to do.
That “something” held him riveted to the spot and dammed his anger.
And that “something” was not very clear to him. He only felt it
strongly; it sent a warmth through his whole body.... Just through
his inside pocket....

“Well, well. We’ll see,” he thought. “After the wedding it’ll be a
different story.”

When they separated at the end of that day Chyenke said to him,
“Well, now run off to your Chashke and fill her ears with complaints
against me.”

“If I want to run to her, I won’t ask you.”

Chyenke had resolved to put an end to his visits to Chashke. If he
cared more for Chashke, then let him take her. She could afford to
have a sweetheart all her own.

But she desired to raise no scandals before the wedding. After their
marriage she would know how to wean him away from Chashke’s, and how
to keep her from ever crossing their threshold....

But Drabkin seemed to have lost all desire to go to Chashke. He did
not go to her that evening, nor the next. Why should he? He was angry
with her.


VI

Chyenke and her parents were in glee at the wedding, for her dowry of
five hundred roubles had in the meantime increased to seven hundred.
Chyenke felt like a wealthy woman, and her parents congratulated
themselves upon being the father and mother of a rich lady.

Drabkin, however, was not in good humour. A certain fear hovered over
him. After the wedding he foresaw war....

And surely enough, five months later the war began. They had decided
to go into manufacturing their own goods, without waiting for work
to be brought in to them from the shops. This would require an
independent establishment with a number of employés.

He had seen several workingmen, old friends and former shopmates.

“What do you say, boys? Will you come to work for me?”

“You don’t say, Drabkin! So you’re really becoming a boss?”

“Listen to him. He doesn’t let the grass grow under his feet!”

“Well. Will you work for me?”

“Why not? You’ll pay wages twice as high as the regular rate, of
course,” laughed the workingmen.

“You don’t have to worry about such matters when you deal with me,”
he assured them, at the same time thinking of his wife.

“You’ll really pay twice the regular wages?”

“I told you not to worry about that, you blockheads! You’ll
get higher pay from me than from anybody else, and you’ll work
considerably less.”

They all parted in great contentment. And Drabkin told himself that
he had won a victory over his wife after all....

“To-morrow four operators will come here,” he announced to Chyenke
when he came home that night. And he began to recite their names.
“Abraham, who used to work for Abraham Baer; Labke, who....”

“What are you going to pay them?” she interrupted, scrutinising him
closely from under her furrowed brows.

He was silent. He wondered what figure he could name.

“Why don’t you speak?” she asked, more sternly than before, eyeing
him more closely.

Suddenly he became bold and self-assertive. Why need he fear her?
He’d tell her point-blank! And if she didn’t like it, she’d have to
... that’s all! With a smiling countenance he repeated the details of
his arrangements with the workingmen.

“May evil dreams descend upon the heads of all my enemies,” she
shrieked, slapping her palms indignantly together. “Are you drunk, or
crazy? There’s a millionaire for you! What’s a few hundred roubles to
you? Here! Take my dowry and give it away!...”

“You don’t like it? Then don’t!” he answered gruffly. “I refuse to
be like the rest of them. I will not be a cut-purse!”

“Look at him!—A cut-purse!” she snarled venomously. “Fine business
man you are! Am I, a proprietor, and now with child, to work fourteen
and fifteen hours a day, and have my own employés go around in my
place like men of leisure? My enemies won’t live to see it! May they
waste in illness as long as such a thing never was and never will
be!” ...

“I’ve already told you,” he interrupted incisively, “if you don’t
like it, then don’t!”

“What kind of words are those!” she screamed. “I’ll have you
understand that meanwhile _I_ am the boss, and the money is
_mine_!... Did you bring such a pile to it? Then things will be as I
wish them to be. You’ll see whether they work for me or not. What do
you think of the fellow? Wants to be a public benefactor! H’m!”

“Listen to me, Chyenke. None of your tricks, now!”

“None of _your_ tricks! What are you going to do about it? Beat me?
I’m not afraid of such trifles!...” She was now shrieking shrilly.

He looked at her angrily and gnashed his teeth.

Suddenly she threw on her coat and ran off to her parents....

An hour later, her father, her mother, her father’s brother Jonah the
tailor, and her mother’s brother Jehiel the cobbler, stalked into the
room, preceded by Chyenke, whose face shone with triumph. Drabkin
greeted them with none too happy a countenance, and continued his
work at the machine.

“What’s the trouble here between you?” began Grunim the glazier.

“What are you so angry about?” asked his mother-in-law, venomously.
“I suppose you imagine you’re in the right?”

“I’m not asking anybody whether I’m right or wrong,” he replied, even
more venomously.

“A fine answer!” responded the mother-in-law, indignantly.

“It’s good enough for me,” said Drabkin, pushing the treadle.

“Just the same you needn’t be impudent about it,” interposed Grunim,
beginning to lose his temper.

But Chyenke interceded and prevented a quarrel.

“Just reckon it out for him. Reckon it out,” she said, turning to her
Uncle Jonah. “Let him hear.”

“Drop your work,” suggested Uncle Jehiel, “and listen to reason.”

“I’ve got nothing to listen to.”

“Don’t be a child!”

“What is there to discuss, what?” He rose from his place. “I said
once and for all that I refuse to be a cut-purse.”

“You talk like a child,” began Uncle Jonah. “I’m no cut-purse myself,
and I get along first rate with my employés! But everything must be
done with foresight, with a reckoning! You, my dear child,—you,” he
began, falling into the sing-song intonation of the Gemara, “you’re
starting out as a manufacturer,—you’re a new competitor in the
market. Then you must try to sell your goods cheaper. But how are you
going to do this when your labour is going to cost you more than it
costs anybody else?” he ended, ironically, his arms akimbo, looking
from face to face with an air of triumph.

“I know the reckoning!” retorted Drabkin, obstinately.

“No, you don’t!” shouted the tailor, waving his right hand in the
air and then bringing it back to his hips. “You don’t know! If you
did, you wouldn’t do as you wish to do!... Let me repeat it to
you, my youngster, you ...” and again he lapsed into the Talmudic
sing-song—“Wages will cost you practically twice as much as any
other, and your workingmen will produce half as much per day as in
any other shop. Well, where’s your brains? Your goods will cost four
times as dear!... Who’s going to buy it of you? Is it going to be
covered with spangles?”

“I tell you, I don’t care to hear any reckonings!” cried Drabkin.

“Then you’re a fool, a jackass, a simpleton!” replied Jonah, heatedly.

“It’s the first time in my life I see such a person!” asserted
Jehiel, shrugging his shoulders.

“Shut up. It’s no worry of yours,” scowled Drabkin. “I’ll do exactly
as I please.”

“What do you mean,—exactly as you please?” shrilled Grunim. “You’re
not the boss yet. Meanwhile Chyenke has the say here!”

“Certainly!” corroborated the mother-in-law.

“Certainly!” echoed Chyenke.

“And you’re an impudent rascal, a loafer!” scolded Grunim.

“A know-nothing, a dunce, who doesn’t understand from here to there,”
cried Jonah. “The goods will cost him....”

“He ought to be put into the insane asylum with all the other
lunatics!” chimed Jehiel, falling into Jonah’s sing-song.

“Fine pleasure we’ve lived to enjoy!” grumbled the mother-in-law to
herself.

“What do you think of the fellow!” cried Chyenke, casting a venomous
glance in Drabkin’s direction. “A public benefactor!”

Drabkin seized his coat and dashed through the door.


VII

He ran to Chashke.

He was terribly pale, and Chashke and her mother were frightened when
he entered.

“What is the matter?” cried Chashke.

He threw himself upon the wooden lounge, lowered his head and was
silent. Both women stared at him.

“Is your tongue paralysed?” asked the old woman, finally breaking the
silence.

“What’s happened over at your place? Speak, man,” entreated Chashke.

“What should happen?” he asked angrily. “It happened! My wife is no
better than the rest! She’d like to run everything. Everything!”

He recounted all that had taken place in his home.

“His wife is a wise woman, upon my word,” offered the old woman after
hearing the story.

But Drabkin was anxious to know what Chashke thought.

“Well, what do you think of the reckoning?” he asked, eyeing her
intently.

“I never studied mathematics——”

He made a gesture of impatience, and she added,—“but I believe that
the figures are correct.”

“And suppose they _are_ correct,—then what?”

He was growing angry.

“What do I know?” replied Chashke, coldly. “If they are correct, then
from the looks of things, matters can’t be otherwise.”

“What do you mean,—‘can’t be otherwise?’ Am I, then, to do just like
all the other bosses?”

“Who’s telling you to become a boss?”

He looked at her in astonishment.

“Well, what are you staring at? Keep on working as you’ve done up to
now. Don’t take it into your head to run a factory....”

“There’s talk for you!”

“Certainly!”

Seething with fury, he left Chashke.

Such ideas she could take into her head!


VIII

Chyenke knew that Drabkin had run off to Chashke, so when he returned
home she was ready to welcome him. “Well? So you’ve been to your
sweetheart, have you?”

But his countenance was so dark and sinister that she began to doubt
whether he really had been to Chashke. If he had been there, she
thought, he had probably met with a frigid reception. And if this was
so, she was sure he would talk otherwise now.

She cautioned him sternly not to make any scenes and not to give
cause for tongue-wagging and people’s laughter.

“What a madness to fall into a man’s head! Why, folks would run after
us in the street! Really! Who? What? When? To go simply crazy and
slave away for our employés! Then what do I need the whole business
for? I may as well not run a factory altogether!”

The last words recalled to his mind Chashke’s advice. Only—that was
sheer nonsense.... Neither of the women knew what she was talking
about. He would do as he pleased. He would ask advice of nobody.

Chyenke continued:

“To-morrow, you tell your workingmen that if they’re willing to work
under the same conditions as they’ve known hitherto, they may come
here ready for business. If not, let them be off in the best of
health. We don’t need them. Such bargains may be picked up any day!”

“I’m not asking you what to tell them,” he retorted coldly,
stretching himself out on the sofa.

Chyenke scowled at him. She was out of breath. What could she do now?
Shriek, weep, or throw the shears she was holding at his head, or her
own? She threw the shears upon the floor, sprang up from her seat and
began to pace about the room. She could hold back from shrieking.
She knew that ultimately she would win out. But she felt an intense
desire to wreak vengeance upon him in some way. She would have been
delighted to—stick a few needles into him....

She lay down on the bed. Her head seethed with the most confused
thoughts,—how best to avenge herself upon that man. The first
decision she reached was to lie just as she was, fully dressed, all
night long on the unmade bed.

And he lay in a daze, unable to think. In his dream he spoke
and fought with the whole world. There came back to him old,
half-forgotten scenes of his early life, scenes in the various shops
where he had been employed, Chashke.... “No,—such ideas she could
take into her head!” A vast shop appeared before him, containing an
army of employés, and he was the owner—and his heart began to throb
more loudly.

Chyenke had long before stopped thinking; her heart, however, from
time to time, contracted with the bitterness of her unsated desire
for revenge. She arose from the bed, prepared it for the night,
undressed, and lay down again. She did not prepare _his_ bed. But
soon it began to annoy her that he should lie as he did and not go to
sleep.

“Why are you letting the lamp burn? Is oil so cheap?” she asked, in
no friendly tones.

He did not move.

This vexed her keenly. Her heart was again ready to burst, and she
burned with a desire to make him feel her resentment. But she could
think of nothing. She turned her face to the wall, lay with eyes
open, thinking, thinking how she would heap upon him all the evil
in the world, and how she would contradict him in every wish he
expressed.

The next moment she sprang up hastily from bed,—ran over to the table
and put out the lamp.

“Lie in darkness!” she scowled sharply, crawling back into bed.

He did not move.

“What do I care if he lies there like that?” she thought. “May he
never get up again!”

Yet she was vexed to death.

She jumped up and in the dark began to make his bed. She worked
angrily, jerking the sheet, tossing the pillow and pulling the
blanket violently.

He remained upon the sofa in the same position as before, motionless.

He lay in thought, thus taking his revenge. Aha! He would not go to
bed! Not he! He knew that she was boiling with rage. Let her learn a
lesson!

Was he, then, to work like a horse and yet have no say in the
business, not to be able to do as he thought best?... No, _he_ was
boss now, and let them all go to perdition!...

But he knew that Chyenke would not hesitate to create the most
fearful scenes, and he felt that he would be unable to win out. In
such a case he would break with Chyenke altogether,—get a divorce.
His temples began to throb violently and his heart-beats sounded like
hammer-blows. Let her pound her head against the wall with her money,
her shop and the whole business! He would marry Chashke and live
the kind of life he preferred: a quiet, peaceful, honest existence.
They loved each other so! How on earth had he ever married the other
woman! Such folly!...

But he was suddenly overcome with a feeling of dejection. His heart
became heavy. Poverty. Two corpses dancing. Again he would have to
become a workingman and endure the oppression of employers. How much
did Chashke earn, anyway? Next to nothing. And the old woman would be
on his hands.... A fine old lady, he must admit. And she liked him.
And yet ... he sighed deeply.

He already had quite a sum of money. Almost an even thousand roubles.

A strange warmth pervaded his being.

He had a good deal of work, too. He could really start a large
factory, and in time——

He fairly lost his breath. He really had a wonderful opportunity to
attain great wealth,—here was a chance to work wonders. He—with such
a capital and a reputation like his, and with an industrious worker
like Chyenke. For she was truly a wonderful worker. As capable as the
strongest of men.

And, he must confess, she was certainly good-looking. A genuine
beauty, far prettier than when she was a girl. Much better looking
than Chashke. For a fleeting moment he felt that this thought
insulted Chashke and shamed him, but his fatigued brain continued to
think confusedly.

Chyenke loved him, too,—ever so much. Despite everything she had made
his bed! Ha-ha-ha!...

And to tell the truth, all of them were right. “You child, you, wages
will cost you practically twice as much as another, and your men
will accomplish during the day only half as much as elsewhere! Well,
smarty!... Then your goods will cost you four times as much....”
Uncle Jonah’s words and the Gemara sing-song echoed in his ears. Yet
somehow or other he could not grasp the figures. Just why would his
goods cost him four times as much, rather than twice?

“But it seems to me the reckoning is correct,” Chashke’s words
returned to him.

He would try to figure it out for himself. He concentrated his mind.
Their wages would be ... no, not twice as much as the regular rate.
He was not so foolish as all that, even if he had never learned
accounting. He would give them merely a slight advance over current
wages. Well,—and they would accomplish, during the day—why only
half as much? The idea! Only half as much! “Well, smarty! Then your
goods ...” echoed Uncle Jonah’s words once more. So then, how much
dearer would his goods cost him? He was anxious to know, and furrowed
his forehead.... “Even as the shepherd watches over his flock....”
A snatch of a New Year’s prayer began to hum in his ears. But he
dismissed the tune and continued his calculations. His drowsiness
overcame him—he could not figure it out:

“... Seems to me the reckoning is correct ...” came Chashke’s words
again to his mind.

He was already falling asleep, but he banished rest. He must think
things out.

But what could he do? The reckoning was correct. “Who’s telling you
to become a boss?” Bah! “She’s a big fool, is Chashke.... At times
she speaks the most arrant nonsense,” he corrected himself. He had
merely been a trifle too hasty with his employés; he should have
thought it over before accosting them. But he had made no contract
with them—he had simply made a mistake. But just the same they would
work under the best of conditions. He would never speak a harsh word
to them!...

There. Now he would go to sleep. The rest of the matter he would
think out the following day. He would undress and go to bed. And
should he make up with Chyenke as he passed her? He would come
quietly up to her, embrace her and give her a kiss. Such a beautiful
wifey! And so industrious! Such a fiery woman! Something drew him
irresistibly towards her. But he controlled himself. He did not
quite know what he would do the next day. And again, he had a strong
feeling that he need not yet surrender....

He became deeply depressed. He longed for Chyenke. He wanted to call
her by her name, to go to her—and fell asleep upon the sofa with the
thought that his employés would work under the very best conditions.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Ha! He did it, just to spite me! He lay all night on the sofa!...
For my part may you lie there forever!”

These were Chyenke’s first words when she opened her eyes next
morning and beheld her husband upon the sofa.

Drabkin was about to reply with words of affection. He felt like
playing with her. He still experienced the powerful attraction of the
night before. Yet he wished to remain angry still. He simply could
not relinquish the idea that in his shop the workers would enjoy
entirely different conditions. He made no reply to Chyenke’s words
and became sullen.

It seemed to him that he could not alter his promise to the
workingmen, who were to come that morning. He decided to leave
the house, so as not to be in when they came. Let Chyenke do as
she pleased. His hands would be clean. He began to feel a keen
displeasure that things should not be as he desired, and somewhere in
the recesses of his mind arose the thought that he ought to throw up
the whole business. But that was a futile notion. The wisest thing,
he thought, was not to be in when the workingmen came. He dressed
hurriedly and left.

“Where are you going?”

“Where I need to go.”

But Chyenke took no offence. She understood his idea and rejoiced.

“Aha! My fine statesman!” she spoke triumphantly, shaking her head,
after he had shut the door behind him.

Soon the workingmen arrived one after the other. Chyenke held herself
somewhat aloof, not even looking at them and feigning to search for
something.

“Where is Drabkin?”

“Gone out!” she mumbled in reply. “What is it?”

“We’ve come ready to work. He hired us. Didn’t he tell you anything
about it?”

“You’ve come ready to work?” she suddenly scowled, raising her voice
and filling it with all the venom of her anger. “Fine folks you
are! I tell you! Found a fool and.... What do you think? Found an
easy-mark, didn’t you? You ought to be ashamed of yourselves even to
mention such conditions. Why, it’s downright robbery! What do you
take us for,—millionaires? Do you think we’re rolling in roubles?
Where are we going to get the money to pay you such wages?”... She
was now screaming. “They found a fool and turned his head! With him
everything is right. Whatever you tell him, he lets you have your
way. If another fellow happened along at the same time and told
him to give away all he had, he would have done so. Does he stop
to consider? Does he care a jot? You were foolish not to ask him
four times as much as you did, as wages for sitting in his shop and
looking at him!... Bah! Upon my word!...”

“What’s all this screeching about?” asked one of the men with an
ironic smile. “You don’t want us? You don’t have to! We’ve had work
up to now and we won’t go around idle now. We didn’t come asking him
for work, either. He came to us!...”

“Suppose he did! Is that any reason for trying to skin him?” replied
Chyenke indignantly. “You came to the right place.... Do you think
you’ve got another fool here?”

“If we’re given, why shouldn’t we take?”

“That’s just the trouble. You struck a fool. But, thank Heaven, I’ve
a little say in the matter. If you’re willing to work at regular
rates then you may start in at once. If not, suit yourselves—I’ll
find plenty of hands.”

“We know nothing about all this,” insisted the men. “Drabkin told us
to come to work.”

“Just for that,” cried Chyenke in fury, “I’ll not take you even for
nothing. Let Drabkin take you! I am the boss here!”

For a while the workingmen eyed her with scorn, a smile of contempt
upon their lips, then they turned to the door.

“I tell you, boys,” groaned one of them in jest, “you take it from
me; Drabkin has it far worse with this new boss of his than he ever
had it with any of his old ones!”

Chyenke simply glared daggers at the speaker and was silent.

The workingmen had not proceeded far upon their way when they
noticed Drabkin. At sight of them Drabkin’s heart fell. Quickly he
disappeared through a gate.

“The fellow has given us the slip!”

“Do you know what? We ought to wait for him here and give his nose a
good rubbing.”

The plan was accepted. A couple of the men went into the yard and two
remained on watch at the gate. Drabkin saw all this and was forced
to seek refuge in a place where the noxious odours took his breath
away.... There he remained, but the workingmen did not move from
their places.

And really, why should he be hiding from them? he thought. Had he
stolen anything of theirs? Had he tricked them? Had he talked them
out of taking another position? He could even pay them for that day,
if they wished.

There he remained, as if rooted to the spot.... A strange, strong
feeling of shame held him there. Standing in that foul atmosphere,
hiding from his fellow men, he felt that he was entering upon a new
path, that he was becoming an altogether new Drabkin. He could not
even explain to himself the exact nature of this change, just what
was happening to his character, to his whole being. Several times
Chashke came to his mind, with Chyenke directly behind; through his
head echoed snatches of his old catch-phrases,—but all this, somehow
or other, like old faces, old echoes, things from long ago....

And he stood there as if rooted to the spot.

But this must come to an end. He resolved to come forth from his
place of concealment. With a cough, he opened the door, and began,
with a serious countenance, to button his coat. He lowered his glance
to the ground, as if deeply absorbed in thought. His hat, to be sure,
was somewhat crooked on his head. He thought that if he did not look
at them he might succeed in passing them by unnoticed. At any rate,
let them believe that he was profoundly preoccupied.

The workingmen came forward to meet him. He raised his eyes exactly
in time to encounter their glances. A sweet smile curled on his
lips—he pretended to have noticed them for the first time.

“What kept you in there so long?”

“Where?... When?... Oh, in there?... So so.... My stomach....”

“Your stomach! You scamp! We understand your tricks. You were hiding!”

“Hiding?... What do you mean?... From whom? From whom need I hide? Of
whom need I be afraid?” replied Drabkin.

“See here. What did we agree to yesterday?” began one of the men
heatedly.

“Yes, that’s just what I wanted to talk over with you,” began Drabkin
in a friendly manner. “I’m afraid I’ll have to take it all back.
My wife got after me yesterday, and all her relatives too, and....
Oh!... I had a day of it.... Oh!...” He shrugged his shoulders and
waved his arms, giving his hearers to understand what a terrible day
it had been. “They made me out to be crazy. You should have heard! In
a word, gentlemen, I must take it all back.”

Once again he repeated to them what a terrible day he had gone
through. He spoke genially and with genuine regret. He did not wish
to have his word lose its value in the eyes of his former companions,
and, most of all, he feared their sharp tongues, their pitiless
sarcasm. The men looked at him with scorn, not believing a word he
said. Nor did he escape their gibes.

“‘Exploiters, bloodsuckers ...’” they mimicked. “How does it strike
you now? Scamp, you! Devil take you.... ‘Exploiters, bloodsuckers,
cut-purses’” ... the workingmen taunted as they left.

And these words cut him to the quick. They were his own words. He
could say nothing in retort. He felt that he himself was not yet an
exploiter or a bloodsucker, but he could not for the life of him
bring the words to his tongue at that moment. And something vexed him
so keenly. He was filled with a desire to understand, to grasp just
what ailed him: he was, it seemed, the same Drabkin as yesterday and
the day before, and yet not the same. The old time in which he had
been a workingman seemed to be veiled as by a cloud; it was far, far
in the past. And before the approaching future he felt ashamed—yet
under his bosom there was a strange warmth, and as soon as he felt
that warmth he forgot everything else: old times, the disappointed
workingmen, their gibes and all evil, troublesome thoughts.


IX

He returned home in a calm frame of mind. He convinced himself that
he was innocent in the matter of the dismissal of the workingmen—that
is, as far as he was concerned they might be working for him now, as
at first agreed, only Chyenke and her brood of relatives.... No, he
was not to blame. Yet he felt a strong friendship for Chyenke such as
he had not felt since the wedding.

“I sent your workingmen off,” greeted Chyenke, preparing the samovar.
“It’s all over now!... You won’t put on any lordly airs round here
any more!... Hereafter _I’ll_ do the hiring and the firing!”

“Then _you_ do the hiring,” he replied weakly. He was content that
he should no longer have to haggle with the new hands, and that his
conscience would be clear.

But he was careful not to betray his contentment.

“A fine statesman for you!” scoffed Chyenke with cutting sarcasm,
looking into the chimney of the samovar.

He made no reply and got busy upon his work.

From his bench he cast frequent glances toward Chyenke, who was
occupied with household duties. She was angry, and did not deign to
look in his direction. So he, too, pretended not to look at her.

“She’s good looking, Chyenke is ... a beautiful woman,” he thought,
stealing a glimpse at her. “A fine figure—and what a bust!”...
It suddenly occurred to him that he had never thought of “such
things”.... And try as he might, he could not explain to himself what
had come over him. Something was drawing him to Chyenke. At that
very moment he would gladly have cast his work aside and run over to
her.... He could not imagine himself kissing her, but he would most
certainly do it if he were to run over to her at that very moment. He
was ashamed of the feeling, which made him arise from his place, and
he began to look for something upon the table, then about the room,
finally edging up to Chyenke.

“How about the samovar?” he asked, sullenly, although he had meant to
say something far different and much more friendly.

“Touch it and see,” replied Chyenke ill-humouredly, wiping the
tea-glasses.

“Touch it and see!” he mocked, good-naturedly, smiling and placing
a hand against the samovar. He was at a loss for something nice to
say,—something that would conciliate her.

“Whom are you thinking of giving the jobs to?”

“You’ll find out!”

She felt that he was trying to make up with her, and that it was now
_her_ time to take revenge for yesterday’s episode. She would have
him at her feet yet!

“You’ll find out!” he mimicked again with a smile. But her attitude
was beginning to anger him.

Really, why shouldn’t he fly into a fury, give her a terrible
scolding, thump his fist on the table and show that he was the ruler
of the house?

He clinched his teeth, assumed an angry countenance and returned to
his work.

She, however, took no heed. She knew for certain that she held the
upper hand; just let him try to start something and she’d give it to
him so hot and heavy that he wouldn’t know where it came from!

He sat there, working away, and felt that he was not at all angry
with Chyenke,—that he was merely making a cross face to frighten her
into a more tender mood. He glanced at her furtively and knew that he
loved her, that a little while later he would be holding her in his
arms, on his lap, and would caress her, kiss her, squeeze her. And
the thought brought such a tenderness, such a warmth to his heart
that he worked with renewed enthusiasm, stealing countless glances at
Chyenke.

“Here’s your tea. Drink it!” she ordered, caustically.

He remained seated. This was to signify that he was angry and did not
care to know her or her tea.

“Will you take it or not? If you don’t, I’ll spill your tea into the
slop-pail!”

Leisurely he laid his work aside and arose with a smile. This was to
signify that he was not at all angry, and that he had not intended
to play with her and spite her, but that he had been exceedingly
engrossed in his work and could not have abandoned it any sooner. He
thrust his arms into the air, stretching himself, yawned and smiled.

“My! But you’re hot-tempered!” he laughed.

He really meant it. He wished her to forget her grievance, to be kind
once again, to fondle him as before.

He approached the table and pinched her cheek.

She thrust his hand aside.

“Away from me!”

“Psh, psh, psh! What an angry lady!”... He sat down nearby and placed
his arms about her waist.

“Better go away before I get angry!” she cried, tearing herself from
his grasp.

He pressed her close to him, bent her head toward his and began to
kiss her, stifling her outcries with his lips. She seized the glass
of hot tea, but he snatched it away from her grasp. Only with the
greatest effort did she tear herself free.

“I’ll break your head for you!” she screamed, jumping to her feet. He
laughed with a passionate, repulsive laughter.

The shadow of his repulsive, passionate laughter still lay upon his
lips when he went back to his work. He still felt the kisses upon his
lips and felt, too, that he was sated and that his heart was eased.
He attacked his work with a happy will and knew that, in the end,
to-morrow or the day after, Chyenke would be won over. He forgot the
whole world.


X

That evening Chashke and her old mother came for a visit. They were
curious to know the state of affairs in Drabkin’s household and how
the matter had turned out.

“Ah, Chashke!” cried Drabkin with forced gaiety. He had not at all
wished her to come. She brought back to him memories of the olden
days, of things he no longer wished to recall. She made him feel,
moreover, a keen sense of his present subjection. He was ashamed and
remained working at his bench.

Chyenke, however, was glad to see them. She wanted to show them that
_she_ was the boss, and that he lay meekly at her feet. And let his
former sweetheart see how he loved his wife, how he fawned upon her.
And let Chashke burst with vexation and jealousy!

“Well, how are things with you?” inquired the old woman.

Chashke did not care to ask. Already she sensed everything and felt
superfluous in Drabkin’s home.

“How should things be?” replied Chyenke, in a triumphant voice. “Not
so bad. He’s changed his mind, my wise man, my know-it-all. Oho! Now,
it seems he would like to....”

She did not say what he would like to do, but nodded her head in
Drabkin’s direction with a glance and with an expression on her face
that spoke far more plainly than words.

He did not raise his head and feigned deep absorption in his work.
Chashke blushed for him. The room began to feel too narrow for her.
She must run away, run away—she sat there as if on burning coals.

The old woman, on the other hand, was soon engrossed in chatter.

“I told him from the very first that you were as clever a woman as I
knew, upon my soul, and my Chashke told him, too, that it couldn’t
be otherwise, and that he’d be foolish to attempt it.”

At these words Drabkin was strongly impelled to raise his head.
Chashke herself had really said that it couldn’t be otherwise. But at
once he recalled what else she had said, and again he felt ashamed
and remained seated, his head closely applied to his task, dumb.

Chyenke began to tell how she had sent off the workingmen, and how
Drabkin had disappeared from home early that same morning——“He simply
didn’t have the heart to witness it.”

“And now,” she concluded, “I alone hire help and settle things as _I_
see fit.”

She looked triumphantly at Chashke. Drabkin said nothing.

“Come, mamma. Let’s be going home!” urged Chashke, rising.

“What’s your hurry?” asked Drabkin.

Chashke would have been delighted to spit square into his face. The
old woman answered that their boarder would come and the door was
locked.

They left.

Drabkin felt that Chashke had been there for the last time, and the
thought was somewhat disquieting. But this unpleasantness was soon
lost in the great contentment that overwhelmed him. He felt more
free, more independent; a yoke fell from his neck; there would be no
one before his eyes as a continual reminder of his former years and
his former talk.

Gone forever,—gone—and forgotten.

Now he would really work,—work honestly. Here God was helping him to
become a man among men,—then why shouldn’t he do it? And, naturally,
he wouldn’t be like those dogs, his former employers. He would know
that a workingman was a human being, too, and would treat his men
altogether differently. They would be to him like his own people,
like brothers. Chashke really was a fool.

“Did you see in what a rage your Chashke left?” asked Chyenke,
interrupting his thoughts.

“Why are you always saying ‘your’ Chashke?” he queried, with a smile.

“I know. You still run to her house.”

“Pah! Better come and sit down here, right beside me. So!”

He slapped his knee and stretched his arms out to her.

       *       *       *       *       *

Chashke’s heart was heavy. So heavy, indeed, that she would gladly
have wept. Her throat contracted with sorrow. She walked rapidly, and
her mother could scarcely keep pace with her.

“Just mark my word,” gasped the old woman, running after her
daughter, “in a few years Drabkin will be rich,—worth several
thousand roubles. _She_ has a smart head on her shoulders. If you
had only half her brains I wouldn’t have to worry about you! Oh! Oh!
Ah!...”

It was the old mother’s disappointment that spoke in
her,—disappointment that nothing had come of the intimacy between
Drabkin and her daughter.

“What do you want of me, mamma? Please don’t say any more,” entreated
Chashke with a quivering voice, turning her pale countenance toward
her mother.

The little old woman was frightened by the quivering voice and the
pale countenance. Waving her hand, she shook her head.

“There! I mustn’t say a word!” she sighed.

She spoke no more that night.

Chashke felt as if she had just returned from a cemetery, where she
had buried her dearest treasure.

Drabkin, Drabkin!... And he had been _her_ Drabkin!...

Ah, and up to that very day she had dreamed and imagined!

Oh, to weep, to weep——

That night she had a dream. No, not a dream, for she could not fall
asleep, and lay with eyes wide open, staring into the impenetrable
darkness.

She beheld how Drabkin was becoming a pot-bellied boss; all his
thoughts were centred only upon how to enlarge his shop and fill
his purse. Everything else was forgotten—every human impulse, every
tinge of sympathy for the poor worker, every spark of compassion for
the under-dog. Workingmen to him were hired slaves—and “Ephraim is
supposed to work till nine o’clock at night and works till half-past
ten; when he came to work this morning at half-past seven, they fell
upon him like a mad dog....”

And in the silent darkness it seemed to her that Drabkin struck a
cruel blow upon the face of a little child who was apprenticed to him.

A shudder ran through her whole body, and she began to weep
hysterically.

A heart-breaking, bitter weeping——




THE BLACK CAT




THE BLACK CAT


It has been raining for already two days,—a soft, leisurely drizzle,
but an endless one. Often it increases in vehemence. It begins to
patter upon my roof with rapid fury. Then it seems that at last it
is over. Now the dense grey clouds will empty themselves and the
downpour will cease. The great fury abates, the racket upon the roof
becomes gradually quiet, yet the rain continues to fall, softly and
leisurely. Often so softly that it seems to have stopped. Then I look
out of the window with just a ray of hope that I shall see a clear
sky. But by the wheels that roll incessantly across the pavement I
recognise the eternal rain. The eternal rain. The eternal....

I lower the shades and turn on the electric light. Let it be night.
I’ll seat myself upon the armchair before my desk and pursue my
thoughts, and think and think of——

Of my fortune—or of my misfortune?

It has come upon me so suddenly that I don’t know how to take it. The
day before yesterday I was so happy, and to-day my heart is so heavy,
so heavy.... I know that this is the effect of the ceaseless rain,—of
the weeping, lamenting, grey, dark-grey outdoors. Still, I am so
restless. My feeling comes from within,—comes over me from the depths
of my heart and my soul. It seems to me that I _must_ be moody, and
I cannot understand how I could have been so high-spirited the day
before yesterday. I am vexed that I can no longer be so merry.

So suddenly. So suddenly....

Can it have happened only ten days ago?

Only ten days ago.

       *       *       *       *       *

_She_ brought me a manuscript, which I was to read and appraise for
her.

Young—perhaps twenty, and maybe only eighteen.

And beautiful—beautiful? Yes, even strikingly beautiful. Scarcely
had I opened the door and beheld her, when a strange sensation
clutched at my heart.

Her eyes! Those deep, black eyes under the long black lashes! They
pierced me at once. I could not tear myself away from them. And thus
overwhelmed, only half conscious, I received the impression that
those eyes were set in a rather long, dark-complexioned, youthful
countenance, and that around a low, alluring forehead played several
black curls mischievously, and that her whole figure was very svelte
and supple,—almost that of a child.

And her voice! Like her eyes. Deep, and of a dark quality, and so
warm. No sooner had she asked, “Does Mr. So-and-so live here, and are
you not he?” than my eyes and my ears were so completely filled with
her that I forgot I must not keep her standing at the door, and that
I must invite her in.

She invited herself, however. She entered my room, far beyond the
threshold, and I closed the door slowly, without removing my glance
from her. And remained standing as if hypnotised, without knowing
whether to make inquiry or to wait until she would tell me who she
was and what she wished of me.

She laughed. Deep, warm, ringing laughter. Why did I not ask her to
be seated?

Oh, yes. Pardon. And I, the father of a daughter almost as old as
she, turned red with embarrassment, it seems. I hastened to fetch her
a chair, but she had already chosen one and sat down.

       *       *       *       *       *

She continues to speak, while I take my place in my armchair before
the desk and gaze, gaze upon her, my ears thirstily and enchantedly
drinking in the sound of her voice.

She tells me that she pictured me exactly as I am. She has read
everything I have written. She knows all my writings well and has
imagined a picture of me. And the picture is correct. But she did
not think I possessed so many grey hairs. That makes no difference,
however. For I am young. She is certain of that. But she still has
no idea of how my voice sounds. She thus hints that I have said
nothing as yet. And she laughs.

I join the laughter and am at a loss for words. I feel that I must
say something _significant_,—that the maidenly vision with the
beautiful childlike figure, who knows all my writings and has formed
a perfect image of me, is now waiting for deep and notable words to
issue from my lips. Nor do I desire to be insignificant. I don’t care
to utter plain, ordinary, pedestrian words. So I smile and wait for
her to speak further.

She looks about the room, resting her glance for a moment upon the
paintings that hang upon my walls. And soon she transfers her eyes
once more to me. Sharp, penetrating glances, with a great question in
them. And now there rises in her eyes a smile of subtle irony.

Because I do not inquire, she explains in her deep voice, she is
compelled to speak for herself. Why does one come to a famous
author? Naturally, she has for a long time desired to know me, but
without a special reason she would never have dared to come. Now,
however, she comes as to a doctor or a lawyer, on a professional
visit, for an opinion and for counsel. She has written something and
wishes to enjoy the criticism of an authority. Will I not take the
trouble?

I reply politely, very politely: “Certainly, with the greatest of
pleasure.”

She laughs. Oh, she does not believe that her piece will afford me
much pleasure. The very handwriting is impossible. Should I prefer,
perhaps, to have her read it to me?

I desire to hear the sound of her voice. But if she reads she will
look at the manuscript during the entire reading, and I’ll be unable
to see her eyes.

Then she adds, “But I read very badly. My reading is even worse than
my handwriting.” She laughs: she does not care to read, either. For
if she reads it now, I’ll express my opinion at once, and she will
have to arise, say “Good day,” and never call again. She would
rather leave the manuscript with me, and then she will come,—yes,
she will really _come_ and hear the answer. She does not wish it
by mail. She will certainly have a number of questions to ask. She
would prefer to come,—and since, naturally, I shall not have read her
manuscript through, she will have to call again and again....

She deposits upon my desk a small manuscript. For the first time I
see her hand. A wee little hand,—white, tender skin, through which
the lines of the joints are visible.

I take the manuscript, glance at the title-page, peep at the
beginning and at the middle, and feel her deep black eyes upon
me. And as I raise my head I encounter her glances with the great
question in them, and also the subtle irony.

       *       *       *       *       *

Something taps at my window. And now it miaows. I know that a cat
has taken refuge upon my window-sill from the endless downpour. I am
certain of it, yet I arise from my chair and walk over to take a
look. This furnishes some distraction from my thoughts. And an excuse
for moving. My feet are like ice.

I raise the shade and shudder with fright. A large black cat
is looking up at me from the outer darkness, with her burning,
phosphorescent eyes. I hate a black cat. Not that I am superstitious,
yet in my memory and my nerves there is a residue of everything that
superstition has created concerning black cats. I rap at the window
to drive her away. But she pays little heed to my rapping. She turns
around, selects a comfortable spot and lies down. I am on the point
of opening the window and thrusting her into the street below, but I
don’t care to touch her. I take pity on her, too. Outside the rain is
still falling, falling. Let her lie and rest on a dry spot. Who cares?

I lower the shade and return to my writing table.

       *       *       *       *       *

Just a moment to banish the black cat from my mind, and I’ll pursue
my thoughts anew.

Now then—of my fortune and misfortune. But did I not previously
think: _or_ my misfortune?

I answered her, Yes. She could leave the manuscript with me. I would
read it over,—read it over very carefully, and tell her my opinion.

The whole truth?

Of course.

When would she come for the answer?

I’d tell her a few days later.

Why a few days later? Why not to-morrow? She would come to-morrow.
The piece was such a short one. One could read it in less than half
an hour.

So I yield to her. Very well. Let her come to-morrow.

My wife has meanwhile entered the room. I introduce her. My wife is
affable and smiles, but _she_ is sullen, curt and unbending.

She arises from her place. Now she will leave.

My wife laughs. “Am I driving you away?”

She, somewhat aloof, replies, No. She has simply been sitting long
enough.

And on the threshold she asks, insinuatingly, “You will read my
manuscript personally?”

For a second I am strongly impelled to return her manuscript, thus
wreaking vengeance upon her for my wife.

But she has already closed the door and is gone, without having
waited for a reply. Perhaps she had noticed the spark of displeasure
that shone in my eyes.

“What sort of impudent cat is that?” asks my wife.

I burst into laughter.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next day she did not come. Nor the day after. But on both days I
_thought_ that she had not come. I did not wish to give the matter
thought, but it haunted me, made me uneasy. If she had promised to
come, she should have kept her word.

I read her manuscript. A very wretched tale. It was supposed to
depict the yearning of a solitary woman for an unknown man. But the
words were weak and the colours false. And I could not get away from
the idea that perhaps she had written them just to have a pretext for
coming to me. “The impudent cat!”

On the third day she came. From the door she laughed to me with her
deep, staccato laughter. “Kept you waiting?”

“Catch me telling you, you cat!”

I bid her enter the room. She advances to the centre, looks about,
gazes toward the door by which my wife entered three days before,
directs her deep look upon me, taking a chair, and speaks with her
deep, velvety voice. “Have you read through my manuscript?”

I am about to tell her the truth, but I feel that I cannot dismiss
her from me forever,—that I desire her to come to me again,—so I
reply, “I’ve read it, but not read it through. You will have to
forgive me.”

“Where did you leave off?”

Yes, where am I to tell her I left off?

“Perhaps you haven’t even started to read it yet?” she suggests,
seeing that no answer to her previous question is forthcoming.

I assure her that I really have read her tale, commencing to relate
the contents, and betraying myself by disclosing a knowledge of the
end.

“Then you’ve read it all!” she laughs.

“Yes,” I confess. “But only superficially,—I merely thumbed the
pages.”

And she, with her deep voice, declares, “Oh, my little story isn’t so
deep that it requires a second reading. You may tell me your opinion.
I will not cry if my little piece is valueless. I know myself that
its worth is very small. And as to my coming to you again, you
needn’t worry. I have brought another manuscript that I wrote in the
past two days.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Heavens, what is that? Fie! What a scare I got!

The black cat has sprung into the room.

I look at her in terror. And only gradually does my astonishment
master my fear. How did she jump in? For the window is closed!

I go over to the window. The cat presses close to the wall underneath
and gazes up at me, as if entreating me not to cast her out. I raise
the shade. I examine the window. It is shut and fastened. I examine
the panes. Ah, yes, down in the left-hand corner a small opening
has been broken through. A small opening, forming together with the
frame a triangle. And the glass bordering the hole glitters with many
sharp, uneven, jagged edges.

When was the pane broken? How have I failed to notice it sooner? Why
has nobody in the house noticed it?

And how has the cat crawled through? That large black cat through
such a small aperture? She must have scratched her entire skin. I
turn to look at her and am seized with murderous rage. I am about
to kick her, and resolve to throw her back into the rain and the
darkness. If only for the sake of the yellow canary that I have in a
brass cage in another room. But I myself do not wish to do this. I
don’t care to touch the wet cat, and I feel sure that I’ll stain my
fingers with blood.

I summon the housemaid and order her to throw out the cat. She does
not ask how the cat got in. She is certain that some one let the
animal in and would like to know who could have been so careless. Her
first thought and chief concern is the yellow songbird of whom the
entire household is so fond. She seizes the cat and dashes out with
it. She opens the street-door and throws the animal out with a curse.
I wish to learn whether her hands are smeared with blood, but she
does not reappear. She has gone back to her work. I am content. For
a long conversation would have ensued, and I desire to be alone and
undisturbed. I’ll find out later.

       *       *       *       *       *

To resume.

She sat and spoke for a long time. She also arose from her place and
approached me, so close that I could feel her breath and an odour
of new-mown hay enveloped me; a warmth radiated from her, making
me uncomfortably warm. Several times she placed her hand upon my
hair,—my hair that was more grey than black—the impudent cat! How
dare she! Suppose my wife should happen to come in and surprise us.

She noticed my furtive glances toward the door and laughed. She had
seen my wife leave the house, she asserted. With a young girl. Was
that my daughter? As she spoke she caressed my grey hair and looked
at me with those deep eyes full of endearment and desire. And she
added, with her velvety, resonant voice, “I detest authors’ wives!”

And then: “An artist should not be married. He should be free—for all
and each....”

I maintained a significant silence. What should I say to her? I must
be careful with this woman.

She took my hand and examined my fingers. She held them long and
tenderly, fondling them with her own thin, warm fingers.

Then I had to discourse to her about my creative work, and the touch
of her fingers was immensely pleasant, and I spoke with increasing
warmth and friendliness, so that she might not release my hands.

All at once she leaned forward and kissed me upon the lips, as I was
in the middle of a sentence,—in the very middle of a word.

Like a flash she disappeared from the room.

       *       *       *       *       *

The cat! The cat has again sprung into the room. Naturally, through
the same opening in the window-pane. I scold and curse. But this time
I’ll not summon the maid. I open the window, seize the cat by the
neck and throw her into the street with all my might. I do not see
her fall, but I hear her strike the stony pavement far off somewhere.
There, now she will hesitate long before she’ll come. That is, if she
is able to move at all.

I close the window and sigh with relief. But that hole must be
stuffed. If it were not for the inclemency of the weather and the
lateness of the hour, I would send for the glazier. But for the
present it must be stuffed with something. I hunt about, find a
newspaper and stop the hole.

Now I may calmly give myself once more over to my thoughts.

       *       *       *       *       *

A kiss. A bound. Vanished——

She came the following day. With her deep eyes, her deep voice and
her singing youth.

I feared her coming; I tried to hope that she would not come. No
sooner had I caught sight of her than my heart began to pound
excitedly.

She had again arrived just after my wife had left the house. Had she
watched for her to leave? How long had she been lurking outside? I
asked her and she laughed.

Oh, what was the difference! She had waited much longer before coming
to me for the first time. The thought of using the manuscript as a
pretext had been slow to suggest itself to her.

But—wouldn’t I prefer to come to her? She had her own room. She might
receive any one she pleased; she was perfectly free.

She said all this so simply. So sweetly, so innocently, so
naturally,—with that deep velvety voice of hers, and her fathomless
eyes and her intense youth.

I wanted to cry out, No! I felt with all my being that I should say
No. But at the same time I knew that the struggle was in vain.

She had ignited something within me, and I was all aflame,—burning,
burning.

She seized me in an embrace and pressed upon my lips a long,
passionate kiss. Within me, my being shouted, sang and exulted.

I was young again! Young again! How we both rejoiced!

       *       *       *       *       *

To-morrow I am supposed to visit her. Until to-day I longed for
to-morrow to arrive. And now I am afraid of it. To-day I do not
desire it. I tremble lest I go to her after all. Whither will this
lead? Who is she? What is she? Why has she singled _me_ out? I have
grey hairs already and a grown-up daughter almost her age.

Isn’t that the rustle of the paper with which I stuffed the broken
pane?

Yes. Somebody’s clawing and tearing at it.

Or perhaps it’s the black cat again! I jump to my feet and run to the
window. Yes. The black cat has pulled out the paper and has already
thrust her head in through the opening.

No! This time you shall not crawl in! I place my hand upon her head
and press, press with all my strength. Oh, surely I’ll crush the
feline life out of her!...

Yet.... Yet.... How strong she is!... She plants herself firmly upon
her forepaws and gradually thrusts herself backwards through the
opening and from under my hand. And now she already has her forepaws
on the outer side of the window.... I am seized with terror.... Hot
and cold chills pass through me.... I begin to call for help....

       *       *       *       *       *

Fie, what an evil dream! How my heart throbs! I go to the window.
Outside it is still raining; the night is black, and on the window
ledge lies the black cat, peacefully coiled into a ball.

I place my hot forehead against the cool window-pane and am consumed
by a passionate wish. May the _other one_, too, be only an evil
dream! And I shudder.

Oh! Oh!

To-morrow—to-morrow—to-morrow!...




A TALE OF A HUNGRY MAN




A TALE OF A HUNGRY MAN


Itsye had for two days in succession had nothing in his mouth;
in other words, he had been hungering. But on the third day, for
three brass buttons he wheedled the lunch out of a little Hebrew
school pupil that studied in the school of his yard—two little
buttered cakes—and swallowed them eagerly. Then he became angry. The
cakes were a mere morsel to him, but now he had at least a little
strength with which to feel anger, and was seized with an impulse to
accomplish evil. His fingers itched with the desire. First of all he
launched a wicked kick in the direction of Zhutshke, the little dog
which the landlady of his house held dearer than her own children.
Zhutshke ran off yelping with pain, but this was not enough for
Itsye. He tore up a stone that had been frozen to the earth and with
all his strength sent it flying after the dog. It did not strike the
animal, however, but landed on the door of Simkin the lawyer’s house.
It struck with a resounding blow, and Itsye felt satisfied, for he
wouldn’t have cared had the stone struck Simkin or Simkin’s wife on
the head.

But with all this his hunger was not appeased in the slightest,
nor was his seething heart calmed in the smallest degree. He waxed
still angrier, for he felt that these were mere trifles, that he had
accomplished nothing with them. He walked through the gate, glanced
up and down the street, and felt that he was an enemy to every
passer-by, and especially to every one that rode. He cursed them with
bitter oaths and would gladly, with his own hands, have executed all
tortures upon them.

Another little pupil approached the gate; he was wrapped in a broad
scarf and wore the large shoes of a grown-up person. He held his
hands inside the scarf, and either because he was indifferent or
because it was too cold, he did not remove them to wipe his nose,
from which mucus leaked down to his mouth.

Out of his pocket peeped a crust of bread. Itsye was seized with a
longing for it, but the appearance of the poor child restrained him.
He sought, however, to convince himself that he was incensed against
the child, even as he was against the whole world, and that he ought
to give him a hard kick, as he had just done to Zhutshke. He seized
the child by the nose, then struck him on the cap and scowled, “Slob,
it’s running into your mouth!” The child was frightened, brought his
elbow up to his nose and ran off. But soon he turned back, looked at
his unexpected enemy and began to cry, “Wicked Itsye! Itsye the bad
man!” And he disappeared through the gate. Itsye did not even deign
to look at him.

He leaned against the gate. Why? He did not himself know. At any
rate, he was weary. Angry and exhausted. The two cakes had only
excited him. Food, food! He could see before his eyes the piece of
bread in the poor boy’s torn pocket. That would have come in very
handy. He was sorry that he hadn’t taken it away. A whole big piece
of bread——

He leaned more heavily against the gate, not knowing why and not
knowing what was to come or what would result from his standing
there. The cold grew intense, but Itsye did not feel it, for he
was angry and paid no attention to it. Besides, he had no place of
refuge. Up there in his garret it was still colder. Moreover, there
was nobody there, and he would have none upon whom to vent his wrath.

He stood thinking of nothing. It was impossible for him to think. He
no longer knew precisely that he was in a rage; it seemed to him that
to-day he would work a very clever piece of malice. He knew nothing
about dynamite; otherwise he would have thought unceasingly of bombs,
and would have painted himself pictures of the whole city, the whole
country, the world itself, being blown by him into atoms. But he gave
no thought to any definite project. He was certain that he would do
something malicious enough. He felt it.

Two labourers passed by and were conversing about hunting for work.
It flashed through his head that he would stop looking for work even
if the employers starved to death! At the same time he felt that his
seeking was all in vain. He would find no work to-day, any more than
yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that, or the whole
twenty-seven days in which he had been searching for employment.

In his mind’s eye he could see “to-morrow,”—a dragging, cloudy day,
on which he would be faint with hunger. But he did not care to think
of to-morrow. Only “to-day.”... To-day he must accomplish something;
then he would know what would come to-morrow, the day after, and all
the other days. Wherefore he remained leaning against the gate and
looked into the street with a cutting smile upon his pale lips and in
his dull, weary eyes, without the trace of a thought in his head. He
even ceased scolding and cursing.

All at once he tore himself away from the gate and began to walk. He
paid no attention to whither he went. He lost his bearings, unknown
to himself. He strode on, not knowing that he was moving. His feet
were like logs and he could scarcely lift them. He became soon aware
that he was no longer at the gate, and that he was wandering about
the street. Then it seemed to him that he had wished and resolved to
take a little walk, only he could not recall when he had thought of
it. It was good that he would now have a little exercise. His feet
must get warm. But he affected not to be troubled about his feet any
more than about the cold itself, which pierced him to the very marrow.

He walked along slowly, cautiously, calmly. The street on which
he was led at one end to the city-market and at the other to the
municipal garden. He had no idea of whither he was headed, but the
nearer he approached to the market the shriller and clearer became
the noises from that vicinity. Then he realised the direction in
which his feet were taking him, and again it seemed to him that this
was exactly what he had desired and determined upon. This was the
very spot for him to execute his plan of vengeance. He stopped on the
curb.

The great market-place seethed with shouting, gesticulating persons.
The air resounded with the din of thousands of human beings. The
clamorous despair of the wretched poor, the grunting indifference of
the sated rich, the screeching impudence of the money-hungry,—all
mingled here and rose above the heads of the multitude, deafening
the ears of the unaccustomed spectator. About Itsye all manner of
individuals were walking, hurrying, scampering, with and without
bundles. Almost every passer-by touched him, jostled against him,
but he stood there calm, motionless. It occurred to him that this in
itself was good,—that in this manner alone he was doing harm. Yes,
he must continue to stand here and obstruct everybody’s passage! His
eyes, however, darted about the square, as if seeking there just
what form his vindictive ire should assume. They rested upon the
bread-shops and the bank-stalls, laden with “Korah’s wealth.” And he
began to contemplate how it would be if he made off with a packet of
bank-notes——

A porter with a large case on his shoulders bumped against him,
nearly pushing him over. He felt an intense pain in his back and came
to himself. He turned red with anger.

“You plague, you! Where are your eyes?”

The porter mumbled something from under his burden and continued on
his way with heavy steps.

Itsye, however, felt the pain and rubbed his back.

“I’ll bury you together with the case, you piece of carrion-meat!”

The porter craned his neck from under his case and looked back at the
shouting man. Itsye’s appearance called forth little deference from
the toiler; he stopped for a moment and eyed his opponent with scorn.

“Hold your mouth, or I’ll stop it for you so that you’ll be dumb
forever. I’ll show you what ‘carrion-meat’ means, you bloody dog!”

The porter went on his way, grumbling and cursing. Itsye muttered a
few imprecations and turned his head in another direction.

“What have you planted yourself here for, in everybody’s way?” he
heard a surly voice exclaim behind him.

He looked around. Kaplan, the shopkeeper, was standing in the doorway
of his shop, eyeing him angrily. He replied coarsely:

“What worry is that of yours?”

Kaplan grew excited.

“I’ll soon show you what worry of mine it is!” And he sent the
errand-boy after a policeman.

As he ran by Itsye the boy jeered, with mischievous eyes, “Just wait
a moment! You’ll soon have a good drubbing!”

Itsye spitefully refused to move. To hell with everybody!

Now then. What was it he had been thinking of before? And his glances
began to wander across the square and the faces of the people, as
he tried to recall his previous thoughts. When he noticed the boy
returning with a policeman he turned his head indifferently aside.

“What are you standing here for? Move on! Off with you!” commanded
the guardian of order.

Itsye slowly faced about.

“Is this spot private property, what?”

“Move on, I tell you!”

Itsye resumed his former position.

“Move on!”

The official was now in an ugly mood and had raised his sabre.

Itsye felt that he must refuse to stir. But something moved his feet.
It was the instinct that a policeman must be obeyed.

He went off. Back to his street. Slowly, scarcely moving his legs,
without looking back at the official.

He was frozen through and through. It was as if he had no feet. As he
approached the gate to his house he felt that it would be pleasant
to lie down a while. This he felt against his will. He must remain
in the street because he was filled with rage and must vent it in
some vindictive deed. But his heavy, frozen limbs drew him to his
attic, where it was frightfully cold, where the icy wind moaned and
whistled. The wind was not so noisy here below. It seemed that his
feet knew he would hunt up all sorts of old rags and wrap them around
his frozen members.

So he allowed his feet to carry him along. On the way to the garret
they overturned a slop-pail and stumbled across a cat. It was they,
too, who opened the door of his room. The door flew back and struck
against something soft. The soft object fell, and the feet had to
step over a heap of tatters out of which looked the parchment-yellow,
wrinkled, peaked face of an old shrivelled-up woman.

“Wow—wow—wow!” she began to wail, hopelessly enmeshed in her rags. It
was the deaf-and-dumb landlady of his lodgings.

He made no reply. The feet were already in bed.

       *       *       *       *       *

He slept for a long time. It was already dark when the feet slipped
down from the bed. At once he recollected that he was angry, and felt
his ire course through him. But he was weary and weak. So weak, in
fact, that he decided not to get up, but rather to lie there forever.
“A piece of bread!” flitted through his mind. He could behold rows of
well-provided houses, countless kitchens, heaps of bread-loaves. But
he continued to lie there, because he did not know,—could not begin
to know, how to get to them.

At last an idea flashed upon him. “From the deaf-and-dumb old witch!”

He arose from the three-legged bed and walked into the landlady’s
room. The bundle of rags was seated at the table, before a small
night-lamp that lacked a chimney, eating from a pot of water
containing crumbled bits of hard bread.

He approached the bundle of rags and indicated with his fingers that
he was very hungry and wished a piece of bread. She clutched the pot
more tightly and began to bark savagely. This meant that she hadn’t
enough for herself, and that she didn’t care to give him anything,
anyway, since he had struck her with the door before, throwing her
over, and since he wasn’t acting properly, not having paid his rouble
and a half rent for the past two months.

He knew very well just what her barking signified, and eyed her as if
deliberating what course to pursue. Quite cold-bloodedly he wrenched
the pot from her grasp, pulled out a piece of bread and crammed it
into his mouth. The tattered form seized him, with a frightful,
wailing yelp, and drew the pot toward her. He raised it above her
reach and continued to chew. The first bite had excited him. He began
to eat faster, swallowing almost without chewing. The old woman
barked and howled at the top of her voice, pulling at his arms. He
thrust her away. She fell upon her knees, grasped his legs and with
a wild gasping and snorting bit into them with her gums, in which
stood only two side teeth. He pressed her with his knees to the floor
and sat down upon her. She could no longer move.

Now he would eat in peace.

He stuck his fingers into the pot without finding anything. He almost
yelled with fury. His heart began to spring within him; his eyes
sparkled. He must do something. He sprang to his feet and cried out,
wildly, “More bread, old witch!”

He shoved her with his foot, emptied the pot of water on her head
and began to look for bread. He found nothing; there was nothing to
be found. He continued his search, however. He overturned the old
chest, scattered the bedclothes, broke the only chair. He became
furious, not knowing what he did. The old woman seized him, dragging
him toward the door with terrified shrieks. With all his might he
thrust her off. The old woman’s head struck against the high oven;
she groaned uncannily. Her moaning brought him to his senses. He was
frightened, and held in his breath. He stepped toward her. Was she
still alive? The aged landlady began to arise. He now breathed more
freely and dashed out of the room.

He was exhausted, yet excited. He desired to weep,—to weep bitterly.
He was thoroughly ashamed of the encounter with the deaf-and-dumb
landlady. He had robbed her of her wretched supper and had come near
killing her. And his hunger was now greater than ever. “A-a-ah!”

He pressed both his fists to his mouth and began to gnaw at them.
The pain grew intense, yet he kept on gnawing. He wished to feel his
heart.

The door opened and the old woman appeared. A narrow shaft of light
shone over the dark steps, falling like a grey strip upon Itsye’s
shoulder. But the old woman did not see him, and she sent after
the supposedly vanished fellow several infuriated screams, more
cutting than the most devastating curses. Itsye shuddered, stopped
chewing his hands and remained motionless, holding in his breath. The
landlady returned to her room and locked the door.

“Locked out!” flashed through his mind at once. His head became
warm. He tried to consider what was now to be done, but he saw no
prospects before him. He felt an impulse to batter down the door,
enter the room, get into bed and lie there. He had already rolled his
fists into a ball. But after striking the door a resounding blow, he
ran down the stairs. Only when he had reached the bottom did he ask
himself, “Why that blow?”

It was snowing and a strong wind was whistling and moaning. The cold
went right through Itsye’s bones; he began to tremble, and his teeth
knocked together. He huddled up in his tattered cotton coat, from
which there hung patches, strips of lining and wadding. He groaned in
despair and stepped back into the entrance of the house. He felt a
tug at his heart, and was once more seized with a desire to weep, to
weep.

“What will come of this? What?”

He could behold no answer. He would to-day be frozen to death or die
of hunger.

“Oh, for something to eat! Food, food!”

He looked about. He was standing near a cellar, the door to which was
protected by a heavy lock. He placed his hand upon the lock, with no
thought of robbery. As he felt the cold iron, however, it occurred
to him that it would be a good idea to break off the lock and obtain
access to the cellar. He pulled at the lock. No. This was beyond his
strength. He repeated the attempt, and at length summoned all his
force and gave a violent wrench.

The lock merely made a loud noise; nothing else. He was intimidated
by the knock. He looked around and quickly deserted the entrance to
the house.

Had he really desired to steal? And if he had succeeded in tearing
the lock away, would he really have entered and committed theft?
He could not believe this. He had been born into poverty, had been
reared as an orphan in misery and ill-treatment, yet his hand had
never been raised to another’s property. “Scandal-maker,” they
used to call him, and “wickedest of the wicked”; for he never was
silent when wronged, and all were his enemies because of this
vindictiveness. Yet these self-same persons admitted that you could
leave heaps of gold with him in perfect security. And just now he had
been on the point of stealing! That morning he had also thought of
stealing. What? Would he really have stolen? And perhaps yes. Ah, he
was so hungry! “Food, food, food!”

Again he surveyed the neighbourhood. He was in the street! He had not
even noticed it when he left the yard. What was he going to do in the
street? Whither would he go? “Oh, for a bite!” But there was no sense
in standing here in the street. He must walk. “Walk wherever my eyes
lead me, until I fall—fall, and an end of me!”

Again his wrath returned. Anger against himself and the whole
world. At once, however, he saw that he lacked the strength to be
angry,—that his heart was growing weaker. “Food, food, food!”

He staggered along, casting glances in every direction and knitting
his brows so as to see more clearly through the thickly falling
snow. He had no notion of whither he was going, nor was he at all
interested. He was moving so as not to remain on the same spot. He
peered more intently than ever, although he felt that he would see
nothing but large snow-flakes. One thing he knew very well, that he
wanted and must have something to eat, even if the world came to an
end. “Food, food, food!” he groaned within him desperately.

He reached the municipal garden. The pleasure-spot was situated upon
a high hill, at the foot of which flowed the broad, deep river.
During the winter there was usually skating on the river, and above,
in the garden, a crowd of curious onlookers. But now there was not
a trace of a human being in the garden. Not even the lamps were
visible through the thick snow. They illuminated only the space
within a few paces of them. Itsye was at a loss whether to feel vexed
or not at the absence of people. He did not look back, and continued
on his way. He approached the top of the hill and looked down upon
the frozen river. He could see nothing. There came to his ears the
shrill blows of heavy iron. Moujiks were opening a hole in the ice.
And in his weary thoughts he beheld a broad, deep hole down there,
and he was drawn thither. The suggestion came to him to hurl himself
down from the hill into the deep stream. He would raise no outcry; he
would not call for help. He would drown himself quite silently. But
he recognised that this was merely a thought; the important thing was
that he felt very weak and was ravenously hungry. “Food, food, food!”
He looked about, as if he would have liked to see something eatable
in the garden. Before him was only the endlessly falling snow. Snow
below him, snow on the bare trees, snow in the air. His legs bent
beneath him—now, now he was about to fall. But he did not wish to
fall. He desired something to eat, and gathering all his strength
he continued his wanderings. Again he moved forward, not knowing
whither. He walked along a deserted path, through drifts of snow that
fell into his torn shoes,—all alone, the only living creature in the
dark, forsaken garden. He could neither hear nor see anything. He
moved along because he had nowhere to go, and particularly because he
wanted something to eat, eat, eat. He thought of nothing, nor could
he think if he tried. Something was driving him on, and he continued
on his way with the despairing, inner groan, “Food, food, food!...”

He reached the square before the theatre. The bright gleam of the
electric lights brought him to his senses. He stopped. As he did so,
he came near falling. He stumbled forward and leaned against the
wall of a building. He felt that his shoes were filled with snow.
This, however, produced no effect whatever upon him. What did vex
him was that he could scarcely stand on his feet, that his heart was
fearfully weak and his desire for food persisted in growing. He would
remain standing there. Whither else should he go? Here, at least, it
was light, and soon he would see people. Many people,—rich, happy.
And what of it if he _should_ see the wealthy, sated crowd? He would
beg alms. He would say that he hadn’t eaten for three days.

Ask alms! He shuddered with repulsion at the idea. But he was so
terribly hungry! He had been on the point of stealing. Which was
better, stealing or begging? He leaned against the wall, threw his
head back, looked with a dull glance into the snowy distance and,
with his blunted mind, sought a reply.

The night-watchman approached him and pushed him away.

“What are you doing here?”

Itsye scarcely moved. He could not raise his feet.

“Do you want to be arrested?”

Itsye nearly fell; he was greatly excited, but he composed himself
and gathered all his strength in a desperate effort to walk off. Ouf!
He could not feel his legs. Hunks of ice! He began to kick one foot
against the other.

“Well! Get a move on! Faster, there!”

Itsye snarled through his clamped teeth.

“Can’t you see I can barely move? What are you driving me for? Better
ask whether I’m not hungry!”

He crossed the street. Several stores were still open. Hadn’t he
better go in and beg alms? He halted before a window. He desired to
consider what to do.

“I see you! I see you over there!” he heard the watchman shout.

He proceeded further along the street, at the other end, where it
was almost pitch dark. There he paused for a while to kick his feet
again. Then he walked along. He made a circle around the theatre
and came to a halt before the entrance. There were no policemen
in sight. They were inside the lobby seeking shelter from the wind
and storm. Itsye remained there, hopping now on one foot, now on
the other. Without any definite thoughts, utterly purposeless. He
remained here because it was light, because inside sat wealthy,
sated persons enjoying themselves. He recalled that he had never
been to a theatre. He had never been able to spare the price. It
must be very pleasant inside of a theatre, seeing that people were
so enthusiastic about it. Such varieties of entertainment folks
devised for themselves! And he must stand outside, covered with snow,
frozen, hungry, and would be joyful if he found a piece of bread!
His anger began to return. And he recollected that in the morning he
had desired to do something, to wreak vengeance.... Just what had it
been? He wrinkled his forehead. Just what had he meant to do?

“Ah! Much I can think up in there, now!”

He cried this out with an intense self-scorn. He was terrified at the
sound of his voice, and glanced at the large glass doors. Nobody was
looking at him; then he had not been heard. Whereupon this talking to
himself became pleasant. It afforded distraction. So he commenced to
speak. Detached phrases,—fragments of his weary, confused thoughts.

“I’ll think up something, pah!... With a knife.... Or set fire....
That’s what I ought to.... That’s something!... Let them all roast
alive!... What am I standing here for?... What am I waiting for?...
They wouldn’t give me anything!... They’d rather call the police!...
Kaplan,—may the fires of hell seize him!”

He did not cease his chatter. And the more he spoke, the angrier he
grew. He forgot his hunger, he now “felt” his heart. He cursed with
imprecations as bitter as death and felt new life course through his
veins. He cast all manner of accusations upon the audience inside,
eating and drinking its fill and pursuing all manner of pleasures.

“To steal from those people and murder them is not a bit wrong!” he
philosophised. He was now in a mood for anything at all, and would
commit in absolute indifference whatever suggested itself. It seemed
to him that his strength could cope with any task now,—that it was a
giant’s strength.

The glass doors swung open. The gendarmes appeared, followed
immediately by the crowd. Itsye remained calmly in his place. He did
not even cease talking to himself. The gendarmes had not yet noticed
him. They were busy with the sleighs. Itsye was therefore able to
continue his conversation undisturbed.

“Here they are already!” he said. “They’ve had a good time and plenty
to eat and drink, the dogs! In warm fur coats, arm in arm with their
wives, or even with prostitutes....”

A few passers-by eyed the snow-covered individual.

“Drunk or crazy,” remarked one of them. They went on their way. Itsye
cried after them:

“You’re drunk yourself! I’m not drunk, you curs! I’m hungry, you
pimps! I robbed a poor old woman of her supper, you scamps!... I,
drunk! You curs!... I’ve been hunting work for a month, cholera seize
you! Not a bit in my mouth for three days, you dogs!...”

A gendarme heard his voice and approached to discover who was
shouting and cursing.

“What are you screaming for? Move!”

The officer gave him a violent push.

“What are you shoving about?” cried Itsye and he raised his hand
against the officer. He felt that it would be a treat to deliver a
slap,—a fiery slap. He waited for one more push.

The gendarme noticed his gesture.

“Ha, you Jewish jaw!”

Itsye’s hand descended. The blow resounded loudly. A crowd gathered.
Itsye desired to repeat the act. He was now wild. He wished to strike
about him, strangle persons, bite. But he received a hard blow upon
the head. He grew dizzy and toppled over. Now he could feel feet upon
him. He knew that he was being trampled upon, but he could not open
his eyes, nor could he move a limb. Soon he was lifted and dragged
somewhere. With blows across the back, the head and the stomach, and
with the ugliest oaths. He could not protect himself. He could not
even speak. Only rave and groan horribly.

Softer and weaker became the raving and the groaning, and at last he
lay quiet, motionless. Dense darkness hovered over him, enveloped
him, engulfed him. His eyes were closed, but he felt the darkness.
Like a heavy load it pressed down upon him. He knew, in an obscure
way, that he had struck somebody and had been beaten up badly in
return. And now he was quiet and peaceful, and he wondered at the
peaceful feeling. He began to grope about with his hands, his
eyes still closed. He struck against a hard, dusty floor. Where
could he be? The question flew through his entire being in a most
undistinguishable manner. With a great effort he raised his eyebrows.
The dense gloom settled upon his open eyes. He could see nothing and
his eyes shut heavily again. Once more he began to scrape about with
his hands and opened his eyes. Wider, this time. Something dazzled
him. Above, on the ceiling, shone a small grey light. It entered from
the single window, which was built in high on the wall. Itsye looked
first at the strip of light and then at the little window with the
iron bars. He eyed it for a long time. As one who has awaked from a
dream and has not yet come to himself.

Suddenly his blood rushed to his head. He sat up quickly. He
recognised the bars and now realised that he was in jail. They had
given him a good rubbing and had cast him into a dark hole. He
became strangely warm. In a moment’s time he foresaw everything that
awaited him: the blows that were yet in store,—the trial and the
sentence,—prison and the prisoners’ ward work. He groaned in deep
despair. Ah! And now he felt that his head pained excruciatingly; his
face and his whole body, likewise. He hastened to feel his head and
his face. His hat was gone. His hair was moist and sticky. He touched
an open wound. With his fingers he followed the sticky trail. Blood
everywhere. On his head, all over his face and on his bare chest.

He had a desire to weep at his great misery and boundless despair.

“Father!” he wished to cry, and “Mother, dear!” and “God!” Words that
he had rarely used; beings he had never known. His heart contracted
bitterly and he lay with his face to the floor; his body shook
convulsively with his deep lamentation.

For the first time in his life was he weeping so. His was a bitter
nature, and as often as life had brought him tears he had been
able always to swallow them. He knew that his tears would soften
nobody,—that they would only make him ridiculous. They would mock him
as a soft-hearted fool; and that must never be. With teeth clenched
together this wretched orphan had gone through life in eternal
hostility to all about him. His eyes had been often suffused with
blood, but never with tears.

Now, however, he neither could nor desired to hold them back. He wept
until the tears refused to come. Then he was overcome by a fainting
sensation, and he thought that death was near. It would come to him
just as he lay there. He stretched himself out, closed his eyes and
waited for death. To lie thus, to fall asleep forever and cease to
be. To be liberated once for all from the desolate days behind him
and from all the misery ahead.

He yearned for death.

“Ah, to die!”

Before his sight there began to float dead bodies that he had seen
during his life. Such he desired now to become. Then he beheld
before him the hanging form of water-carrier Kirillo. All at once
he sat up. A certain thought had raised him: he, too, would hang
himself. This waiting for death would not do. He would not die so
soon, if he waited. He peered into the thick darkness and thought.
The impression of his whole life rose before him. Not a single day
of happiness; not a moment of rest. Years of unceasing care and of
constant struggle, of laborious toil and frequent hunger. And the
future threatened still worse. As black as the dense gloom about him.
Long years of incarceration, in the prisoners’ ranks, and then—hunger
once more.

He raised his eyes to the iron bars of the window and felt the thick
rope by which his trousers were held in place. Then he looked around
and cocked his ear. Was anybody there? He heard no sound. He could
scarcely lift himself up. His legs barely sustained him and he was so
dizzy. He reached out to the wall and leaned for a moment against it.
Then, with soft step, he investigated the room, groping about with
hands outstretched. Nobody was there. He had frightened some mice and
could hear the patter of their retreating paws. He stopped at the
window and stretched his arms upward. He could not reach the bars.
In one of the corners, however, there was a bench, against which he
had stumbled as he groped about the cell. With difficulty he dragged
it over to the window. The effort so weakened him that he was forced
to sit down. Slowly he untied the rope around his trousers. He began
to fashion a noose, lapsing into thought as he did so. Once more he
looked back upon the wretched past and forward into the dark future.
Again he could see not a ray of light neither behind nor before. With
teeth tightly clamped he made the knot and cursed life, and his heart
seethed with bitter hatred for all humankind. With the self-same
noose that he was now making, how gladly would he have encircled the
necks of every human being and strangled the whole world. So, and so,
and so!

The noose had been ready for a long time, yet he still sat
meditating. He cursed and berated humanity, calling down upon it all
manner of misfortune. Ah, how gladly he would revenge himself upon
them!

Gradually one thing became clear to him. His death in itself would be
a good vengeance. When day should come, and they would prepare to
resume their ill-treatment of him, they would find him dead. Ba-a-a!
A plague upon all of them! Good-bye, Itsye! No more Itsye! No more
Itsye to oppress, to persecute, to abandon to starvation! They would
stand before his corpse like whipped curs, crestfallen, and would
vent their intense disappointment in a vile oath. Ah, that was a
precious thought!

He sprang hastily to his feet, jumped upon the chair, reached to the
bars and tied the rope around them. His hands trembled; he shook with
fever. He poked his head into the noose and kicked over the bench.

And as the rope tightened he was seized with a desire to laugh. To
laugh like a conqueror, like a master. But his eyes began to bulge
out, his tongue protruded, and his face turned a pale blue.

But the protruding tongue still mocked.

“Ba-a! Good-bye, Itsye! No more Itsye!...”




IN THE STORM




IN THE STORM


  A pious woman told it to me as a warning to sinners, to the young,
  to the moderns.

       *       *       *       *       *

Black clouds began to fleck the clear sky. Dense, heavy storm-clouds.
At first far off, beyond the forest, but very soon they darkened the
whole sky over the village. A violent wind lashed and drove them on,
and they sped under its whip, angry and sullen, menacing. The wind—a
tornado—raged in all the consciousness of its formidable power,
raising pillars of dust as high as the driven clouds, tearing off
roofs and uprooting trees.

Terror had descended upon the village. Bright day had of a sudden
turned to night, such as well befitted the Sabbath of Repentance,
the Sabbath before the Day of Atonement.... As frightfully dark, as
oppressively heavy as a pious Jew’s heart.

Folks shut themselves up in their houses, fastening windows and
locking doors. The earnest faces of the penitent Jews became still
more earnest. The depressing moods of the Sabbath of Repentance
waxed still more depressing. God was scolding. The sad voices of the
psalm-singers became deeper and more tearful.

The darkness grew blacker and blacker. Then old Chyene raised her
eyes from the psalms, looked through her spectacles into the street,
uttered “Au-hu!” with trembling heart and heaved a sigh.

For a while she sat gazing outside. She shook her head. Her whole
soul was full of God’s omnipotence.

It refused to grow lighter. The clouds passed by in endless
procession, and the wind howled, whirling thick pillars of dust in
its path.

She could recite psalms no longer. She removed her spectacles and
placed them between the pages of her thick woman’s prayer-book, rose
from her seat and went into her daughter’s room.

“What do you say to....”

She did not conclude her question. Her daughter was not there.

The old woman surveyed the room, looked into the kitchen, then
returned to the room. Her daughter’s bonnet was not in its place.
With quivering hands she opened the closet. The jacket was missing!

She had gone! And she had warned her daughter, it seemed, not to go
out to-day,—that on the Sabbath of Repentance, at least, she might
remain at home and not run off to that “Apostate,” the former student.

Her aged countenance became as dark as the sky without. And her heart
grew as furious as the storm. She gazed about the room as if seeking
to vent her rage,—strike somebody, break something.

“Oh, may she no longer be a daughter of mine!” escaped in angry
outburst from her storming bosom, and she raised her hand to heaven.

She was not affrighted by the curse that her lips had uttered on
this solemn Sabbath. At this moment she could curse and shriek the
bitterest words. She could have seized her now by the hair, and
slapped her face ruthlessly.

Suddenly she threw a shawl over her head and dashed out of the house.

She would hunt them both out and would visit an evil end upon both of
them.

A flash of lightning rent the clouds, and was followed by
reverberating thunder. Then flash upon flash of lightning and crash
upon crash of thunder. One more blinding than the other, one louder
than the other!

The horror of the population grew greater. That it should thunder on
the Sabbath of Repentance, and in such demoniac fashion! All hearts
were touched, all souls went out in prayer.

Old Chyene, however, scarcely noticed this.

The wind blinded her eyes with dust, tore her scarf from her, blew
her skirts about, twisted the wig on her old head.

She rushed along oblivious to all.

She neither heard nor saw anything before her. Within her it
thundered and raged, it stormed and something drove her on. And
before her all was dark, for her eyes were shot with blood.

Her small form grew even smaller. She strode along fairly doubled up,
hastening breathlessly. She seemed to go faster than the wind. The
wind lagged behind her. And whenever it caught up with her, it only
spurred her on, and she quickened her step.

She did not look around, did not remark the inquisitive eyes that
peered at her from behind the fastened windows by which she ran. She
neither saw nor heard anything. Her entire being was merged with the
fury of nature. Her thought was a curse, a horrible curse, a deadly
curse. Not in words. But in her whole soul. Within her it cried, it
thundered,—drowning out the thunder of the black, angry clouds.

She stormed into the “apostate’s” house. She opened the door with
a loud bang and closed it with one even louder. Those in the room
shuddered at the sudden intrusion and jumped to their feet. She cast
a wild, hostile glance at them and dashed through the rooms, from one
to the other, from the other to a third. She tore the doors open and
slammed them behind her, accompanied by the thunder, as if in a wager
as to which of them would make the panes and the windows rattle more
violently. A little child took fright and began to cry. She ran from
room to room, but neither he nor her daughter was there.

Then she flew back. On the threshold, however, she paused for a
moment. She rolled her eyes heavenward and raised her arms to God.

“May flames devour this house!” came from her in a hoarse voice.

Then she departed, pulling the street-door violently and leaving it
open. The household stood agape, as if the storm itself had torn
into the home. Out of sheer stupefaction the persons forgot to close
their mouths.

Out of the clouds poured a drenching rain mixed with hail. The
tempest seethed like a cauldron.

This boiling tempest, however, raged in Chyene’s bosom. Something
stormed furiously within her. She no longer felt the ground beneath
her. The flood soaked her through and through, but this could not
restrain her. It served only to augment her savage mood.

She ran from house to house, wherever she might have expected to
come upon her daughter and the “apostate.” She stopped nowhere,
uttered never a word, but dashed in and then sped out like a flash of
lightning, leaving the household open-mouthed with astonishment.

She should find them! Even under the ground. And she did not cease
her cursing and her maledictions.

As she rushed from the last house she paused for a moment. Whither
now?

She turned homeward. Her heart told her that her daughter was now at
home. Her lips muttered the most terrible imprecations, and the inner
fury was at its height; the very air, it seemed to her, was laden
with her cries, with her curses and oaths.

With a strong gust of wind, a flash of lightning and a crash of
thunder, she tore into her home.

Her daughter was not there.

She sank upon a chair and burst into wailing.

There was a terrifying crash of thunder. One of those thunderclaps
that work the most widespread havoc. Nature seemed to be shaking off
the entire residue of energy that had been left to her by the hot
summer.

The inhabitants of the village were rooted to the spot in terror.
They looked about, then ventured a glance outside. Hadn’t some
misfortune occurred? The penitents buried their faces deeper than
ever in their prayer-books, and more than ever their voices quivered.

Chyene, however, had apparently not heard the thunder. She continued
to wail, to wail bitterly. Then a wild cry issued from her throat,
as wild as the thunder:

“May she not live to come home! May they bring her to me dead! Oh,
Lord of the universe!”

The clouds replied with a clap of thunder and the wind sped apace,
shrieking.

Suddenly she arose and dashed out as before. The wind accompanied
her. Now it thrust her forward from behind, now it ran ahead like a
faithful dog, smiting all in its path, raising the dirt from the road
and mixing it with the thick drops that fell from the clouds, which
were still black, and with the seething drops that coursed from her
burning eyes.

She was running to the road just beyond the village.

They had surely gone for a walk on the road, where they had been seen
several times. She would meet them on the way, or in Jonah’s inn near
the big forest.

On the Gentile’s lane, the last one of the village, the dogs in the
yards heard her hastening steps upon the drenched earth. Some of
them began to bark behind the gates, not caring to venture out into
the rain; others were not so lazy and crawled out from under the
gates with an angry yelping. She neither saw nor heard them, however.
She only gazed far out over the road, which began at the lane, and
ran along.

One dog seized her skirt, which had become heavy with the water. She
did not heed this, and dragged the animal along for part of the way,
until it tired of keeping pace with her in the pelting downpour. So
it released her skirt. For a moment it thought of seizing her in some
other spot, but at once, with a sullen growl, it set out for its yard.

On the road the wind became still stronger. And the thunder re-echoed
here with thousands of reverberations from the neighbouring forest.
Chyene looked only straight before her, into the distance, through
the dense, water-laden atmosphere.

The way was strewn with heaps of twigs and branches that had been
severed by the lightning, and even a few trees lay before her, torn
up from their very roots, and charred.

“Would to God that the thunder would strike _them_ even so!” she
muttered.

She was consumed by an inner cry. Now she had found a definite form
for all her curses. The thunder up yonder had torn it from her.

And she ran on, on....

But what is this here?

A few paces before her lie two persons. A man and a woman. With
contorted visages. In writhing positions. Their faces black as earth,
their eyes rolled back. Two corpses, struck by lightning.

There was a brilliant flash, followed by a deafening thunderclap.

She recognised her daughter.

More by her clothes than by her charred countenance; more by her
entire figure than by the horribly staring whites of her eyes.

The girl’s arm lay beneath that of the young man. The top of the
open umbrella in the youth’s hand had been burned off.

The old woman was on the point of shrieking a curse, of adding her
thunder to the fury of the storm’s thunder; her eyes flashed together
with the lightning; in her heart there arose a devastating tempest.

She wished to cry out the most evil of words,—that the dead maiden
had earned her end. She desired to send after her the most wretched
and degrading of names.

Suddenly, however, all grew black before her. A flood of molten lead
seemed to pour into her head. Weariness and trembling fell upon her.
Her garments, saturated with the rain, seemed to drag her to the
earth. Her eyes were extinguished.

The thunder and lightning and shrieking of the wind broke out anew.

But within the old woman all was quiet, dark, dead. She sank to her
knees before the corpse of her daughter, stretched over the body her
trembling arms, and a dull flame flickered up in her eyes.

Her entire being quivered. Her teeth knocked together. And with a
hoarse, toneless voice she gasped:

“My darling daughter! Hennye, my darling!”


  _Printed in Great Britain by_
  UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WORING AND LONDON




For Myself Alone

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF ANDRÉ CORTHIS

  _Cr. 8vo._      _7s. 6d. net._

The Publishers consider it a privilege to announce this English
translation of “Pour Moi Seule”—perhaps one of the finest products of
modern French literature.

Here are extracts from the review of the French edition in the _Times
Literary Supplement_ of March 25, 1920: “A book which can be read
with pleasure and recommended without reserve. It is not only an
excellent novel, but a fine piece of intuitive writing. Here there
seems to be a new modern Madame Bovary, a Madame Bovary who does
not commit adultery. It is that novel which recurs to one’s mind in
thinking of M. Corthis’s book, without any uneasy sensation that the
newer work is only a reflection of the older. M. Corthis has restated
the same general situation. Flaubert worked out the resulting tragedy
in one way and M. Corthis works it out quite differently, hardly with
less bitterness but with equal logic.... The virtuosity of M. Corthis
is never meaningless; he has created characters whose lives can
become part of one’s own, as if they were familiar acquaintances.”


Woman

BY MAGDELEINE MARX

  _Cr. 8vo._      _7s. 6d. net._

“Woman” is being published simultaneously in almost every country.
In France and elsewhere it is the subject of lectures and long
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authoress—Romain Rolland, Georg Brandes, Israel Zangwill, Bertrand
Russell, Henri Barbusse, Isadora Duncan and others.

Here are extracts from what some of them say:—

  ROMAIN ROLLAND.—“It is the work of a great talent, a vigorous work.”

  GEORG BRANDES.—“An admirable book, original, profound, daring.”

  HENRI BARBUSSE.—“This book has created a sensation in France.
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A brilliant psychological study of a clever child. The story deals
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_NEW NOVELS_

The Vampire

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This story deals, for the most part, with the machinations of a
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son, and that of the child of her oldest friend. She took, and gave
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BY CHESTER KEITH

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To most of us the names of Lancelot, Guenever, and King Arthur have
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Their loves, their hopes, their fears—the jealousies, intrigues,
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BY ALFRED TRESIDDER SHEPPARD

Author of “The Rise of Ledgar Dunstan,” “The Quest of Ledgar
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  _Cr. 8vo._      _7s. 6d. net._

This is a remarkable book. The author has attempted, in the form
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perfection, secretive, skeptical; but in the end convinced of his
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In the Claws of the Dragon

BY GEORGE SOULIE DE MORANT

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_The Novels of Eric Leadbitter_


  Rain before Seven      Cr. 8vo, 6_s._ 6_d._ _net_.
    (_Second Impression._)

“There are few novels written nowadays with more of the qualities
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really remarkable first novel.”—_Observer._

“Has an amazing reality about it ... coming near to inspiration at
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last.”—_Evening Standard._

“Mr. Leadbitter enters the literary arena with an equipment rare in a
novice.”—_Spectator._


  The Road to Nowhere      Cr. 8vo, 6_s._ 6_d._ _net_.

“The story is necessarily a tragedy, worked out in most careful and
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of his own, a most careful and telling use of words, and a perfect
confidence in himself. This novel is not like others; it is worthy of
a new period.”—_Daily Telegraph._

“It impresses us as a faithful book, faithful to its scenes, and
faithful to its characters. His is sound work that may well develop
into very fine work.”—_Times._


  Perpetual Fires      Cr. 8vo, 6_s._ 6_d._ _net_.

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  Shepherd’s Warning      Cr. 8vo, 7_s._ 6_d._ _net_.
    (_Second Impression._)

“Without any special heralding Mr. Leadbitter seems to have stepped
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wizard of Dorchester, at whose feet it would probably be fair to
suppose Mr. Leadbitter learnt some, at least, of his craft. His new
story is a tale that conquers by its direct humanity, and by an art
so delicate and so deftly concealed that the book has a deceptive
appearance of having written itself without effort on the part of
its author. ‘Shepherd’s Warning’ will, I think, prove ‘Reader’s
Delight.’”—_Punch._

“Now and again a novel comes into one’s hands which by its title and
outward air seems to hold a promise of distinction which is fulfilled
within. Mr. Eric Leadbitter’s new story is such a one. His name on
it, recalling the subtle beauties of his ‘Perpetual Fires,’ no doubt
adds to ‘Shepherd’s Warning’ as a title the suggestion of delicacy
and charm, and at any rate these pervade its pages. A disinterested
good workman, we congratulate him on this fresh example of his
beautifully delicate art.”—_Morning Post._

“Old Bob Garrett and his grandchildren are conceived in a spirit of
mere honesty for which no praise can be too strong.”—_Daily News._




_By Alfred Ollivant_


One Woman—Sequel to “Two Men”

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Two Men: A Romance of Sussex

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“One of the most notable novels of the year ... comes so near being
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unwise enthusiasm.”—_Daily Chronicle._

“Unquestionably the best book he has yet written, the characters are
drawn with the vividness of life itself ... the women are drawn with
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“This superb novel ... brilliant in its characterization and
intensely engrossing in its human interest.”—_Sussex Daily News._


Danny

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Mr. Alfred Ollivant’s “Danny,” the book which succeeded “Owd Bob,”
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for many years, and in America Mr. Ollivant withdrew it almost
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long-cherished ambition, and has completely re-written the book.

“The book is notable for the fineness of its sympathy and the
delicacy of its natural wit.”—_Times._


The Gentleman: A Romance of the Sea

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  Transcriber’s Notes

  pg 2 Changed: mother would scon have to seek
            to: mother would soon have to seek

  pg 54 Changed: Whoever beheld them surrenered
             to: Whoever beheld them surrendered

  pg 152 Changed: Modecai, with a deep sigh
              to: Mordecai, with a deep sigh

  pg 155 Changed: Zerubabbel replied bitterly
              to: Zerubbabel replied bitterly

  pg 176 Changed: She was ready to spit contempuously
              to: She was ready to spit contemptuously

  pg 230 Changed: and fell alseep upon the sofa
              to: and fell asleep upon the sofa

  pg 279 Changed: even deign to lok at him
              to: even deign to look at him



        
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