Candles In The Night: Jewish Tales By Gentile Authors

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Candles in the Night: Jewish Tales by Gentile Authors

Edited by Joseph L. Baron

Varda Books

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CANDLES IN THE NIGHT JEWISH TALES BY GENTILE AUTHORS

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CANDLES IN THE NIGHT

JEWISH TALES BY GENTILE AUTHORS

EDITED BY

JOSEPH L. BARON

WITH A PREFACE BY

CARL VAN DOREN

skokie, illinois, usa

VARDA BOOKS

5761 / 2001

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Copyright © 2001 by Varda Books Original copyright © 1940, by THE JEWISH PUBLICATION SOCIETY OF AMERICA

All rights reserved.

New ISBN 1-59045-417-0 Library PDF No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, except for brief passages in connection with a critical review, without permission in writing from the publisher: Varda Books, 9001 Keating Avenue, Skokie, Illinois, USA

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To Bernice Judith

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INTRODUCTION “I shall light a candle of understanding in thy heart, which shall not be put out.”—II Esdras 14:25.

I

N THE long night of exile, the Jew has been guided and heartened steadily by the divine beacon of his religious faith, and occasionally also by a neighbor’s candle of understanding and sympathy. The history of Israel, so replete with examples of anti-Jewish persecution and propaganda, records many such gleams in the dark from nonJewish hearts. In critical moments, Gentile friends have often rendered aid and comfort to communities and to individual members of the martyred people. At times, they carried the torch in the struggle for equal rights, and espoused valiantly the cause of liberty and justice, for the Jew. Such pro-Jewish expression by non-Jews is worthy of note since it invariably reveals extraordinary intellectual independence and moral courage. The atmosphere of western society has been hostile to Israel for more than twenty centuries. The classical authors of Greece and Rome circulated infamous libels against the Judeans, who refused to accept their pagan culture and tyranny. This animosity became intensified with the bitter Jewish rebellions against their Roman conquerors, and was carried into the European legacy by Gentile Christianity. Fifteen hundred years of anti-Jewish propaganda, repeated in the sanctified pages of the New Testament and in the inspired vii

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lines of Shakespeare as well as in the vulgar legends of the folk, left their mark on the mental habits of men. This explains why Schiller, who could articulate with matchless beauty Europe’s ecstasy over the Swiss Alps, which he himself had never seen, could also pen his defamatory essay on Judaism (“The Mission of Moses”), of which he was lamentably ignorant. It explains why Turgenev, following his country’s literary models and social traditions, produced such a venomous tale as “The Jew;” yet, when he later came to know the character and lot of the real Russian Jew, his heart was moved with profound pity for the unfortunate people whom he had automatically helped to vilify. Goethe, Jokai, Masaryk, and others depicted graphically how the minds of Europeans are generally conditioned from early childhood to fear and hate the Jew, and how they personally struggled to extricate themselves from this snarl of poisonous superstitions and prejudices. The annals of history reveal that Cyrus of Persia, Alexander of Macedon, Julius Caesar, and other notables of antiquity befriended the Jews. Economic considerations prompted a number of medieval bishops and princes—Frederick Barbarossa, Richard the Lion-Hearted, and Casimir the Great among others—to extend hospitality and clearly defined “privileges” to them. The dictates of humanity lifted the voices of St. Bernard of Clairvaux, of Pope Gregory the Great, and of some other Church dignitaries in occasional protest against the slaughter of innocent Jewish communities, the destruction of synagogues, and the ritual-blood libel. The Renaissance and Humanism brought the first blossoms of urbanity in the frozen social climate of Christian Europe, when Giovanni Boccaccio published his version of the parable of “The Three

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Rings,” when scholars and mystics turned diligently to Hebrew lore, and when Johannes Reuchlin fought gallantly to rescue the Talmud from the Dominicans’ flames. Ignatius Loyola and Martin Luther alike spoke enthusiastically, almost enviously, of the “advantages of the Jewish people” (to borrow a phrase from Pascal), of the glory of belonging to the race of Jesus and the Prophets, and these paeans of praise resounded through the works of Racine and Grotius and Hobbes. Roger Williams and John Locke made clear and specific mention of the Jew in their classical pleas for toleration, and their challenge was followed by the empire builders of Great Britain and the Netherlands, who, like the Ottoman Turks at the other end of Europe, welcomed the immigration of Jews and sought their coöperation in colonial enterprise. It was followed also by the champions of the new social order, the eighteenth century rationalists and romanticists who fought for the “Rights of Man.” Addison, Toland, Chesterfield and Cumberland, Kant, Herder, Dohm and Lessing, Rousseau, Voltaire, Mirabeau and Abbé Grégoire, Vico, Pestalozzi, Hahn and Kosciuszko, Washington, Adams, Jefferson and Madison, all of them repudiated the old barriers and barbarities against the Jew. The Father of the New Republic struck the keynote of the new idealism, and extended greatly the frontiers of social progress and political thought when, in 1790, he wrote to the Hebrew Congregation of Newport, Rhode Island: The citizens of the United States of America have a right to applaud themselves for having given to mankind examples of an enlarged and liberal policy—a policy worthy of imitation. All possess alike liberty of conscience and immunities of citizenship.

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It is now no more that toleration is spoken of as if it were by the indulgence of one class of people that another enjoyed the exercise of their inherent natural rights, for, happily, the Government of the United States, which gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance, requires only that they who live under its protection should demean themselves as good citizens in giving it on all occasions their effectual support. May the children of the stock of Abraham who dwell in this land continue to merit and enjoy the good will of the other inhabitants—while every one shall sit in safety under his own vine and fig tree and there shall be none to make him afraid. The struggle continued throughout the nineteenth century, in parliaments, at international congresses, and in courts of law, where victims of anti-Jewish plots had to defend their faith and lives. The century began with the emancipation of Jews in France and the Netherlands, followed by the Manifesto of Jerome Napoleon in 1808, the Edict of Frederick William III of Prussia in 1812, and the consistent advocacy of rights for Jews by Prince von Hardenberg. While legislators, like Thomas Kennedy in Maryland, fought for the full enfranchisement of the Jews in America, Macaulay, Peel, Russell, Hazlitt, Daniel O’Connell, Elizabeth Fry, and others championed the cause of political equality for the Jew in England. American, British and French statesmen interceded in behalf of oppressed Jewish minorities in Eastern Europe and in Mohammedan lands; and each outburst of revolting persecution, such as the Czarist massacres and vicious legislation of the eighteen-eighties and nineties, raised a storm of indignation and protest among the social and political leaders of the West.

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Nineteenth century literature reflected the growing liberalism of the age. Byron sang his “Hebrew Melodies;” Scott created his Rebecca; Moore, Wordsworth, Edgeworth, Coleridge, Goldsmith, Andersen, Hugo, Hebbel, Gutzkow, Longfellow, Whittier, Chekhov, Machtet sympathetically treated Jewish themes; Browning and Aldrich and Perez Galdos attacked medieval bigotry; Alexis, Lenau, Swinburne thundered against contemporary malevolence; Wergeland pleaded in his poetry for the admission of Jews into Scandinavian countries; Ségur, Schieiden, Renan wrote of the contribution of Jews to civilization; Mickiewicz, Orzeszkowa, Szymanski articulated the pathos of Jewish life and extolled the Jew’s patriotism. National heroes, like Cavour in Italy and Kossuth in Hungary, espoused in their letters and conversations the cause of full Jewish participation in the life and opportunities of their respective countries. When the monster of anti-Semitism raised its ugly head in France, Germany, Austria and elsewhere, the finest intellects recoiled against it in unmistaken language. To mention only a few of the men who came out in open repudiation of the madness and disgrace of Jew-baiting and antiSemitism during the century, we think readily of Arndt, Bebel, Bismarck, Blind, Bunsen, Freytag, Fontane, Humboldt, Nietzsche, Raabe, Reuter, Spindler and Stifter, Frémont, Laffitte, Leroy-Beaulieu, Michelet, Painlevé, Quinet, Saulcy and Thiers, Carlyle, Farrar, Gladstone, Huxley, Kipling, Lecky, Meredith, Mill, Stevenson and Webb, Andrassy, Bethlen, Jokai and Liszt, Matthew Arnold, Henry Ward Beecher, Oliver Wendell Holmes, William James, Sidney Lanier, James Russell Lowell, William Osler, Carl Schurz, Mark Twain and Zebulon Baird Vance, Pirogov, Soloviov and Tolstoy, Castelar, Ruiz Zorilla and Sawa,

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Bonghi, Ferrero and Moleschott, Bjoernson and Ibsen. At the close of the century, the voices of Clemenceau and Zola and of Masaryk resounded throughout the world with their valiant defense of Israel at the notorious trials of Dreyfus and Hilsner. The laurels for the finest manifestation of friendship for the Jew during that century must go to an English woman, a sublime novelist and poetess, Mary Ann Cross, better known as George Eliot. Most of the other defenders of Israel were moved by a spirit of pity for the persecuted and underprivileged, or by a passion for proselytism, or by the logic of their social ideologies, or by a common hatred against bigoted clerics and unscrupulous politicians who had been responsible for the misery of Jews as well as for the enslavement of other men. We cannot avoid the feeling, for example, in following the career of Lewis Way, that he was motivated in his zeal for Israel by the hope of the conversion of Israel, or in reading the Czech story, Moralistni Bestie, that Machar’s philo-Semitism was essentially anti-clericalism, or in observing that the Jewish heroes in the works of the distinguished Ruthenian poet and novelist, Ivan Franco, are always victims of an otherwise sordid Jewish environment, or that the Jewish hero of Freytag’s novel Soll und Haben is in no way distinguishable as a Jew. In fact, many statesmen and authors, like Kossuth and Mommsen, made it clear that their fervor for Jewish emancipation was contingent on the readiness of the Jews to abandon their distinctive culture and to assimilate within the national and racial life of the dominant peoples. George Eliot was a friend of the Jews in a far more intimate and spiritual sense. She portrayed the Jew as a Jew,

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pleaded for his right to be himself, and presented eloquently the arguments for the restoration of his ancient homeland and the revivification of his indigenous culture. Jean Henri Dunant, Alexandre Dumas, fils, Laurence Oliphant, and others shared her enthusiasm for a Jewish Palestine and for a free Israel, but George Eliot’s profound respect for Jewish personality and her absolute faith in Israel’s survival value, as well as the force and beauty of her art, earned for her a unique place in the heart of the modern Jew. The twentieth century began with the gradual organization of humanitarian sentiment throughout the world against the Jew-baiting policies of Czarist Russia and of Roumania. Liberals of all lands, including Russia, hailed the abrogation of the Russian trade treaties by France and the United States, denounced the pogroms and the ritual-murder trials staged by the St. Petersburg Government, and approved of the pressure brought by European and American statesmen on the authorities in Bucharest. The World War produced insincere proclamations of devotion to Israel by the opposing High Commands of Russia and the Central Powers, and also the significant Balfour Declaration. All the four moulders of the Versailles Peace, Clemenceau, Lloyd George, Wilson and Orlando, helped to secure constitutional guarantees for the civil and religious rights of Jewish minorities in the Succession States. The revolutionary leaders of Russia, both Social Democratic and Communist, were likewise sympathetic to the Jews, enacting the only legislation in the world which rendered anti-Semitism an offense against the State, though the Soviet policy has been opposed to the spiritual traditions of Israel as it has been to religion and bourgeois culture in general.

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The rise of the Ku Klux Klan in the early twenties led many prominent Americans to express their repugnance to anti-Semitism and their sense of fellowship with the Jews. Among those who expressed themselves thus were Woodrow Wilson, William Howard Taft, Theodore Roosevelt, Charles Evans Hughes, Robert Lansing, William Jennings Bryan, Newton D. Baker, and the most eminent religious and literary figures in the land. Similar protests burst out throughout the world, by distinguished statesmen and intellectuals everywhere, against the policy of boycott and humiliation pursued by the social and governmental leaders of the new Poland. But the fullest measure of sympathy for the Jew and appreciation of his tragic role in history came with the rise of Hitler to the position of supreme authority in Germany. The gruesome spectacle of a helpless and glorious minority condemned to extermination, the shameless perversion of all standards of morality and the ruthless mobilization of all the instrumentalities of society for the crushing of the spirit of democracy inherent in the Judeo-Christian tradition, called forth the stubborn resentment and resistance of all lovers of liberty and decency on earth. Amidst the poignant suffering endured by Jews today, they are heartened by the knowledge that intellectuals like Thomas Mann preferred exile with the Jewish refugees to security with the Nazis, that Christian spokesmen like Pope Pius XI chose to decorate themselves with the title Semite, and that even from the distant fields of India came the voice of solace from Mohandas Gandhi. Mention must be made also of another group of friends of Israel who, while interested primarily in the quest for truth, have by their diligent research and scientific methodology helped to remove much of the superstition

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and falsehood which sustained Judeophobia through the ages. Brilliant historians, literary critics, anthropologists and sociologists have gathered indispensable information regarding the true character of the Jew and of his role in civilization, and have demolished forever the possibility of anti-Semitism among real scientists and among those who believe in scientific criteria of knowledge. The number of these teachers and scholars is legion, and it would be idle to attempt to name them; but specific mention must be made of men like H. L. Strack in Germany, R. Travers Herford in England, George Foot Moore in America, and their numerous colleagues and disciples, who have manifested the courage to review even sacred literature and Jewish and Christian tradition, and to apply the scientific technique to all the channels of information which would yield the true facts and the true understanding of human relations in the past and present. In the light and through the process of such investigations, these objective scholars have proven to be the greatest friends of Israel, and perhaps ultimately the most formidable enemies of the disease called anti-Semitism.* * * * Just now, the clock of history has been turned back, and a new Dark Age casts its ominous shadow on many erstwhile centers of culture and progress. The lights of civilization have indeed been extinguished temporarily, and the Jew has been overwhelmed by the floods of hatred. At this time the eloquent and sympathetic portrayal of the Jew by some of the most distinguished artists and think*This introduction contains the substance of a study contributed by the editor of this anthology to the Universal Jewish Encyclopedia.

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ers of the world needs repeated emphasis. It is important that the pathos and courage of Jewish life, the virtue and spiritual dignity of Jewish character, as delineated by brilliant non-Jews, be brought again and again to the attention of the public. It is important that Jew and Gentile alike bear in mind that the cause of the Jew—which is the cause of Humanity—has been championed by the choicest spirits on earth. With this purpose in view, to keep aglow the candles of human sympathy in the night which enshrouds us now, the editor has compiled nearly a thousand items of significant non-Jewish literary and historical expression about the Jew. This volume, which includes twenty-three short stories and episodes from fourteen different national literatures, is the first offering taken from that larger collection. It is hoped that additional volumes may be forthcoming before long. The stories are of unequal size and technical merit, and their subject-matter ranges from the oriental scene at the time of the Crusades (Strindberg, Boccaccio) to the subversive infiltration of New York with Nazi propaganda in our own day (Hunt). The representative character of the collection could be achieved only at the sacrifice of any attempt at uniformity of viewpoint, style or mood. The main thread of coherence in the volume is the uniformly sympathetic approach to the Jewish question, whether the Jew appears in person as the central figure of the tale (e. g. in Klostermann, Orzeszko) or remains altogether in the background (e. g. in Ewald, Huch), whether he is essentially endowed with spiritual dignity and vigor (e. g. in Jokai, Hallström, Dawson) or is primarily the pitiable victim of a cruel environment (e. g. in Chekhov, Villiers de l’Isle Adam, Cargiale).

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The collection is representative in spite of the omission, for want of space, of many splendid stories, novelettes and episodes from the long novels of such eminent authors as Hans Christian Andersen, Vincent Blasco Ibanez, Guy de Maupassant, Thomas De Quincey, George Eliot, Victor Gomulicki, Luigi Pirandello, Boleslaw Prus, Walter Scott, Francis Hopkinson Smith, William Thackeray, and others. A number of the items included in this volume are out of print and not easily accessible to the general public. One tale (by Lewis) is presented in a reconstructed form. Five of the stories (by Jokai, Hallström, Klostermann, Orzeszko and Upits) appear here for the first time in English. While the editor is deeply appreciative of the fine assistance rendered by several translators, whose names are recorded elsewhere in this book, he is personally responsible for the version of these translations as presented here to the reader. The arrangement of the stories follows three central motives: the plea for toleration (Nos. 1–8), the description of Jewish martyrdom (Nos. 9–15), and the portrayal of Jewish life and character (Nos. 16–23). While there is naturally overlapping in this organization of the material, and some of the stories may be transposed, there is this merit to the order: the volume begins and ends with the lighter and more positive aspect, while the middle section presents the more somber and tragic side, of the Jewish question. * * * The editor desires to express his appreciation to Dr. Jacob R. Marcus of Cincinnati, Mr. Louis Rittenberg of New York, Mr. Szymon St. Deptula of Milwaukee, and

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Dr. Solomon Grayzel of Philadelphia for many valuable suggestions; to the staffs of the Milwaukee Public Library and of the Milwaukee State Teachers College Library, especially Mr. John Dulka and the Misses Martha Podlasky, Nettie G. Prideaux and Ruth Shapiro, for expert and ever courteous service; and to Dr. and Mrs. Maxwell Freeman, Miss Lillian Friedman, Miss Anna S. Baron, and Mmes. I. Levinson and Jack W. Boorstein for their kind assistance in consulting, copying and correcting texts. Due acknowledgment is made here of the editor’s gratitude to the publishers, authors and translators who permitted the republication of their respective works. Without their courtesy the production of this anthology would have been impossible. Full credit to copyright holders is given in the introductory notes. Unfortunately, all effort to contact one of the authors in a country now torn by war has proven futile. The compilation and redaction of this volume became a source of pleasure and a true labor of love because of the whole-hearted encouragement given by a number of friends, some of whom have watched with enthusiasm also the progress of the larger collection: Judge and Mrs. Charles L. Aarons of Milwaukee, Dr. David Philipson of Cincinnati, Richard E. Gutstadt of Chicago, Leonard V. Finder of New York, and Maurice Jacobs of Philadelphia. The editor wishes to utilize this opportunity to convey his thanks for valuable coöperation to his colleague, Rabbi Samuel Hirshberg, to Mrs. Harold M. Baum and Messrs. George P. Ettenheim, Carl Fechheimer, Robert A. Hess, Leo Mann, Benjamin F. Saltzstein and Nathan M. Stein. He desires also to commend his friends and co-workers in the Milwaukee Round Table of the National Conference

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of Christians and Jews, Bishop B. F. P. Ivins, Drs. Frank E. Baker, E. LeRoy Dakin, Edward A. Fitzpatrick and J. Martin Klotsche, Dean J. L. O’Sullivan, and Messrs. Herbert N. Laflin, Clifford P. Morehouse, T. M. Pearman and August Reisweber, whose devotion to the cause of human brotherhood has been a source of inspiration and an incentive to engage in this literary undertaking. If this volume will succeed in awakening here and there the dormant sympathy of a non-Jewish reader, and in strengthening the morale of a Jewish youth, the editor and all those who have aided in the production of the book will feel gratified and rewarded for their effort. Milwaukee June 1, 1940

JOSEPH L. BARON

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PREFACE A NOTE ON ANTI-SEMITISM

A

NTI-SEMITISM, wherever I have observed it, has invariably been either false thinking or evil feeling, and usually both. Benjamin Franklin in 1764 summed up the whole matter of racial animosity in a biting parallel. Pennsylvania was at war with the Indians on the Susquehanna and the Ohio. Certain Scotch-Irish frontiersmen, infuriated by the savage acts of the red enemy, murdered the friendly Conestoga Indians living peacefully near Lancaster. Franklin could find no excuse for this false and evil refusal to distinguish between enemies and friends. “If an Indian injures me, does it follow that I may revenge that injury on all Indians? It is well known that Indians are of different tribes, nations, and languages, as well as the white people. In Europe, if the French, who are white people, should injure the Dutch, are they to revenge it on the English, because they too are white people? The only crime of these poor wretches seems to have been that they had a reddish-brown skin and black hair; and some people of that sort, it seems, had murdered some of our relations. If it be right to kill men for such a reason, then, should any man with a freckled face and red hair kill a wife or child of mine, it would be right for me to revenge it by killing all the freckled red-haired men, women, and children I could afterwards anywhere meet with.” xxi

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To apply the parallel: If a Jew injures me, does it follow that I may revenge that injury on all Jews? Only savages reason in this tribal fashion, holding all the members of a tribe to blame for the acts of any one of them. Civilized men distinguish between those who have offended and those who have not. Anti-Semitism is always savage reasoning, False thinking is a short road to evil feeling. Most of the people who have animosities against Jews have never been seriously injured or offended by any Jew. They inherit or pick up a prejudice, sullenly cherish it, and angrily enlarge it. Hatred is a guilty pleasure. Few human beings can enjoy it without the excuse of believing that what they hate is guilty and hateful. They can learn to believe that— whatever the evidence—if they fanatically desire to, and can become unjust to the innocent and cruel to the helpless. Dark minds make bad hearts. Unreasoning haters damage themselves while they are damaging their victims. When anti-Semitism goes beyond a mild prejudice it develops into callousness or sickness of mind and heart. Anti-Semitism might remain a private vice if calculating men did not encourage the evil for evil ends. If times are hard and confused, such men look for a villain to blame for everything, so that responsibility may be shifted from those whose stupidity or selfishness are really to blame. The handiest villain is some minority that cannot defend itself. The Jews in every country are a minority so closeknit as to be conspicuous and so talented as to be envied. It seems, to calculating men, easiest and most profitable to begin their melodrama with the Jews. But tyranny constantly needs fresh victims, and anti-Semitism is only the first step in persecution. Where the Jews are not safe, no-

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body is safe. Anti-Semitism has organized a malady into a pestilence. While Jews are the earliest and worst sufferers from anti-Semitism, in the long run non-Jews suffer from it too. Even the most just and humane among them can never be without some sense of shame and guilt for the lying and cowardice and cruelty of the non-Jews who rouse the brutal anti-Semitic mobs. As a non-Jew I have taken more than a little comfort from this collection of stories so ably edited by my former student Rev. Dr. Baron. The best nonJews have not been unjust or inhumane toward Jews. Compare the contents of this book with the false and evil nonsense which is all that could be collected out of the whole range of anti-Semitic literature. CARL VAN DOREN

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CONTENTS PAGE

Introduction. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

vii

Preface, by CARL VAN DOREN. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

xxi

1.

GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO. A Tale of Three Rings. . . . . . . .

3

2.

CARL EWALD. My Little Boy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

9

3.

MAURUS J OKAI. How I Became a Friend of the Jews . . .

15

4.

ANTON CHEKHOV. Rothschild’s Fiddle. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

21

5.

MAXIM GORKY . The Little Boy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

37

6.

RICARDA HUCH. The Jew’s Grave. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

45

7.

ANATOLE FRANCE. An Anti-Semite in the Country. . . .

67

8.

THOMAS NELSON PAGE. The Jew and the Christian. . . .

77

9.

JOHAN AUGUST STRINDBERG. Peter the Hermit. . . . . . . .

97

10.

PER HALLSTRÖM . Arsareth. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

103

11.

VILLIERS DE L’ISLE ADAM. The Torture of Hope. . . . . . .

133

12.

I. L. C ARGIALE. The Easter Torch. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

143

13.

KARL KLOSTERMANN. The Jew of S. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

163

14.

ADAM S ZYMANSKI. Srul—from Lubartów. . . . . . . . . . . .

179

15.

HAMLEN HUNT. The Saluting Doll. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

195

16.

ELIZA ORZESZKO. “Give Me a Flower!”. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

209

17.

LEOPOLD VON SACHER-MASOCH. Galeb Jekarim. . . . . . .

243

18.

ERNESTS BIRZNIEKS-UPÏTS. Seskinš. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

255

19.

STEPHEN VINCENT BENÉT. Jacob and the Indians. . . . . .

271

20.

MYRA KELLY. Morris and the Honorable Tim. . . . . . . . .

293

21.

BEN AMES WILLIAMS. Sheener. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

313

22.

SINCLAIR LEWIS. The Life and Death of a God. . . . . . . . .

329

23.

CONINGSBY DAWSON. The Unknown Soldier. . . . . . . . . .

365

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CANDLES IN THE NIGHT JEWISH TALES BY GENTILE AUTHORS

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GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO Italian novelist, “the first of the modern story-tellers,” 1313– 1375. The following tale constitutes Novel 3 of the First Day in the Decameron, a work that has been designated as “the crown of medieval prose fiction.” The parable of The Three Rings is one of the most notable classical pleas for tolerance, particularly when we bear in mind the date of the Decameron, 1348, the year of the Black Death, one of the darkest moments in the annals of Jewish martyrdom. The story was utilized by Lessing in his Nathan the Wise, and is found among the Novelle Antiche (#72). See Italian Novelists, tr. by Thomas Roscoe, London, Frederick Warns & Co., n. d., p. 17. The particular version reproduced here is from the anonymous translation of the Decameron, Hartford, Silas Andrus & Son, 1848.

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A TALE OF THREE RINGS

S

ALADIN was so brave and great a man that he had raised himself from an inconsiderable person to be Sultan of Babylon and had gained many victories over both the Turkish and Christian princes. This monarch, having in divers wars, and by many extraordinary expenses, run through all his treasure, some urgent occasion fell out that he wanted a large sum of money. Not knowing which way he might raise enough to answer his necessities, he at last called to mind a rich Jew of Alexandria, named Melchizedeck, who let out money to interest. Him he believed to have wherewithal to serve him; but then he was so covetous that he never would do it willingly, and he was unwilling to force him. But as necessity has no law, after much thinking which way the matter might best be effected, he at last resolved to use force under some color of reason. He therefore sent for, and received him in a most gracious manner, and making him sit down he thus addressed him: “Honest man, I hear from divers persons that thou art very wise, and knowing in religious matters; wherefore I would gladly know from thee which religion thou judgest to be the true one, viz. the Jewish, the Mahometan, or the Christian?” The Jew (truly a wise man) found that Saladin had a mind to trap him; and perceiving that he must gain his point should he prefer any one religion, after pondering a little how best to avoid the snare, his invention at last sup3

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plied him with the following answer: “The question which Your Highness has proposed is very curious; and, that I may give you my sentiments, I must beg leave to tell a short story. I remember often to have heard of a great and rich man, who, among his most rare and precious jewels, had a ring of exceeding great beauty and value; and being proud of possessing a thing of such worth, and desirous that it should continue for ever in his family, he declared, by will, that to whichsoever of his sons he should give this ring, him he designed for his heir, and that he should be respected as the head of the family. That son to whom the ring was given made the same law with respect to his descendants, and the ring passed from one to another in a long succession, till it came to a person who had three sons, all virtuous and dutiful to their father, and all equally beloved by him. And the young men, knowing what depended upon the ring, and ambitious of superiority, began to entreat their father, who was now grown old, every one for himself, that he would give the ring to him. The good man, equally fond of all, was at a loss which to prefer; and, as he had promised all, and being willing to satisfy all, privately got an artist to make two others, which were so like the first, that he himself scarcely knew the true one; and at his death gave one privately to each of his sons. They afterwards all claimed the honor and estate, each disputing them with his brothers, and producing his ring; and the rings were found so much alike, that the true one could not be distinguished. To law then they went, which should succeed, nor is that yet decided. And thus it has happened, my Lord, with regard to the three laws given by God the Father, concerning which you proposed your question: every one believes he is the true heir of

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God, has his law, and obeys his commandments; but which is in the right is uncertain in like manner as of the rings.” Saladin perceived that he had escaped the net which was spread for him; he therefore resolved to discover his necessity to him, to see if he would lend him money, telling him at the same time what he designed to have done had not his discreet answer prevented him. The Jew freely supplied him with what he wanted. Saladin afterwards paid him with a great deal of honor, made him large presents, besides maintaining him nobly at his court, and was his friend as long as he lived.

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CARL EWALD Danish novelist, 1856–1908. His work, My Little Boy, appeared originally in 1899. The selection reproduced here is from the English translation by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos, included in Alexander Woolcotfs Reader, Scribner’s, 1936. It is reprinted here with the kind permission of Charles Scribner’s Sons.

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MY LITTLE BOY

T

HERE is a battle royal and a great hullabaloo among the children in the courtyard. I hear them shouting ‘Jew!’ and I go to the window and see my little boy in the front rank of the bandits, screaming, fighting with clenched fists and without his cap. I sit down quietly to my work again, certain that he will appear before long and ease his heart. And he comes directly after. He stands still, as is his way, by my side and says nothing. I steal a glance at him: he is greatly excited and proud and glad, like one who has fearlessly done his duty. “What fun you’ve been having down there!” “Oh,” he says modestly, “It was only a Jew-boy whom we were licking.” I jump up so quickly that I upset my chair: “A Jew-boy? Were you licking him? What had he done?” “Nothing. . . .” His voice is not very certain, for I look so queer. And that is only the beginning. For now I snatch my hat and run out of the door as fast as I can and shout: “Come. . . come. . . we must find him and beg his pardon!” My little boy hurries after me. He does not understand a word of it, but he is terribly in earnest. We look in the courtyard; we shout and call. We rush into the street and round the corner, so eager are we to come up with him. 9

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Breathlessly, we ask three passers-by if they have not seen a poor, ill-used Jew-boy. All in vain: the Jew-boy and all his persecutors are blown away into space. So we go and sit up in my room again, the laboratory where our soul is crystallized out of the big events of our little life My forehead is wrinkled and I drum disconsolately with my fingers on the table. The boy has both his hands in his pockets and does not take his eyes from my face. “Well,” I say, decidedly, “there is nothing more to be done. I hope you will meet that Jew-boy one day, so that you can give him your hand and ask him to forgive you. You must tell him that you did that only because you were stupid. But if, another time, anyone does him any harm, I hope you will help him and lick the other one as long as you can stir a limb.” I can see by my little boy’s face that he is ready to do what I wish. For he is still a mercenary, who does not ask under which flag, so long as there is a battle and booty to follow. It is my duty to train him to be a brave recruit, who will defend his fair mother-land, and so I continue: “Let me tell you, the Jews are by way of being quite wonderful people. You remember David, about whom Dirty reads at school: he was a Jew boy. And the Child Jesus, Whom everybody worships and loves, although He died two thousand years ago: He was a little Jew also.” My little boy stands with his arms on my knee and I go on with my story. The Old Hebrews rise before our eyes in all their splendor and power, quite different from Dirty’s Balslev. They ride on their camels in coats of many colors and with long beards: Moses and Joseph and his brethren and Samson

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and David and Saul. We hear wonderful stories. The walls of Jericho fall at the sound of the trumpet. “And what next?” says my little boy, using the expression which he employed when he was much smaller and which still comes to his lips whenever he is carried away. We hear of the destruction of Jerusalem and how the Jews took their little boys by the hand and wandered from place to place, scoffed at, despised, and ill-treated. How they were allowed to own neither house nor land, but could only be merchants, and how the Christian robbers took all the money which they had got together. How, nevertheless, they remained true to their God and kept up their old sacred customs in the midst of the strangers who hated and persecuted them. The whole day is devoted to the Jews. We look at old books on the shelves which I love best to read and which are written by a Jew with a wonderful name, which a little boy can’t remember at all. We learn that the most famous man now living in Denmark is a Jew. And when evening comes and Mother sits down at the piano and sings the song which Father loves above all other songs, it appears that the words were written by one Jew and the melody composed by another. My little boy is hot and red when he falls to sleep that night. He turns restlessly in bed and talks in his sleep. “He is a little feverish,” says his mother. And I bend down and kiss his forehead and answer, calmly: “That is not surprising. Today I have vaccinated him against the meanest of all mean and vulgar diseases.”

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MAURUS JOKAI Foremost Hungarian novelist, 1825–1904. At the age of seventeen, Mor Jokai wrote The Jewish Boy, a drama which was acclaimed by the Hungarian Academy, and which he reconstructed and presented to the public as his first novel in 1845. The autobiographical sketch presented here appeared in the Mittheilungen aus dem Verein zur Abwehr des Antisemitismus, Berlin, 1898, p. 216, and again in 1904, p. 148 f. It was translated for this anthology by the editor.

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HOW I BECAME A FRIEND OF THE JEWS

I

MUST confess that I, too, was an anti-Semite in my youth, just like all undeveloped people. Our domestic servants put the idea in my head that Jews use the blood of Christian children on their Passover. The Jewish quarter lay between our house and my school, and butchers lived there. Daily I saw the slaughtered geese suspended near the gateway, and my imagination completed the picture. What terrible things must take place here! Our dog shared my views completely. How he would jump when a bearded figure would step into our courtyard! And I was a bully. How I would stir up the dog, and laugh at the sight of the Jew retreating in his slippers! When I was a little older, I was sent to Pressburg to study German. I observed that at one end of that city there was a section called Castlehill, which was generally despised and was inhabited exclusively by Jews. It must have harbored every conceivable crime against God and man, for if a student were discovered to have been there, he would be expelled from school. Thus confirmed in my belief, I returned to Komorn, where there was a Gymnasium, not an especially famous one, with three classes. Until then I had never met a Jew either in the Lyceum or in the Gymnasium. Why should a Jew study Latin? He could not adorn an office, nor become a lawyer or an engineer. There was only one scientific vocation open to him, 15

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medicine. When I entered the Komorn Gymnasium, however,—wonder of wonders!—I found a Jew had also been admitted into our class. He was over forty years of age, and was called Koritschoner. He was a calligraphist, taught penmanship, and wrote a script that looked like engraving. It was naturally a poorly paying occupation, and so, in spite of his age, he determined to become a physician. Grammar and syntax he had studied at home by himself. His diligence was immense. We boys regarded him, with his peculiar figure, accent and involuntary eccentricity, as a comic fellow. One day he stayed out of school, and when the professor asked him for the cause of it, he said: “I could not come. My wife presented me yesterday with a little son.” Imagine the merrymaking which this remark produced in the class! The professor remained serious, and excused his absence also for that day, so that he might remain with his wife. Once, we two had an argument before the class period. It was about the question whether the letter “h” in Hungarian prosody was a consonant or not. Finally I called out: “What do you know about it? You are only a Jew.” To which he replied, “You are only a child.” A horrible insult, to call a boy of fourteen a child! Nowadays this would call for a duel. Then I came to an immediate decision. He was forty-one, I fourteen; he was only a Jew, I a Magyar. That was justification enough for me to lay hold of him by the collar and to belabor his back with my fists. As I was thus establishing the consonantal character of the “h” on the back of my comrade, the professor entered the room. He was a stern and just man. He punished me, although I was his brother-in-law, and on account of my offense I had to remain in school until evening, a frightful disgrace.

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17

In the evening, my mother subjected me to a cross-examination. She had a golden heart, but was as strict as a soldier. She asked why I had been detained at school. I told her with indignation about the injustice done to me, for I knew of a certainty that the “h” was a consonant. “But must you beat a comrade on that account?” “It was only a Jew!” “What!” exclaimed my mother, “only a Jew? Is not a Jew in your eyes like any other human being? Do you scorn a person on account of his religion? Do you forget that our coreligionists were persecuted in this very city fifty years ago, just as you now persecute the Jew? No, get going right away, find the Jew whom you beat, ask his forgiveness, and bring me his pardon in writing!” I was overwhelmed by her command. “How can I humiliate myself before a Jew?” “You humble yourself before God, who created the Jew, just like you, in His own image.” “But how can I find him now in this big city?” “That is your affair. You know the street where the Jews live. Go there from house to house until you find him. Open your mouth and ask! Komorn is not a forest. Do not come back before my eyes without his written pardon!” That was her ultimatum. I had already forgone my lunch, and now I was to lose also my dinner. But there was no appeal. What could I do? I had to yield. I was on the point of starting out in search of my comrade, but, just as I opened our door, there he stood before me. With drooping shoulders and bowed head he asked me in a mild, trembling tone: “Are you angry at me?” I angry at him! And, as he modestly removed his hat, he continued: “I have come to ask your pardon.” He to ask pardon

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of me, who insulted him! And no one compelled him to act that way. He had no stern and just mother to send him to me, and yet he came. Tears streamed from my eyes. I pressed him close to my chest. “No, you must not ask forgiveness. I am the one to ask pardon of you. Now, please come to my mother and tell her that we are reconciled for ever!” “That is why I came here.” He went to my mother and said: “Madam, I came to ask your pardon for the aggravation which I caused. It was my fault, I admit it. Moritz was right: the letter ‘h’ is a consonant. The professor explained it to me. Excuse me for making Moritz beat me! His strokes did not hurt me, for Moritz was right. He has a hardy fist, let him use it in defence of Jews when they are right.” At that moment I became a friend of the Jews, a “Philo-Semite.”

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ANTON CHEKHOV Russian dramatist and novelist, 1860–1904. The following short story illustrates the liberal Russian’s protest against the stupidity and meanness of Jew-baiting, and his profound sense of pity for the victims of the regime of oppression. As Joshua Kunitz points out(in Russian Literature and the Jew, New York, Columbia University Press, 1929, pp. 108 ff.), “In Chekhov we see how great artistic intuition, aided by changes in objective conditions, has ultimately triumphed over a deep-set predisposition to make sport of the Jew.” The anonymous translation reproduced here was published in two different collections of Chekhov’s stories: in the Modern Library Series, Boni and Liveright, no date, and the Modern Library, 1932. It is included here with the kind permission of Random House, Inc., New York.

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ROTHSCHILD’S FIDDLE

T

HE town was small—no better than a village—and it was inhabited almost entirely by old people who died so seldom that it was positively painful. In the hospital, and even in the prison, coffins were required very rarely. In one word, business was bad. If Yakov Ivanov had been coffin-maker in the government-town, he would probably have owned his own house, and called himself Yakov Matveyich; but, as it was, he was known only by the name of Yakov, with the street nickname of “Bronza” given for some obscure reason; and he lived as poorly as a simple muzhik in a little, ancient cabin with only one room; and in this room lived he, Marfa, the stove, a double bed, the coffins, a joiner’s bench, and all the domestic utensils. Yet Yakov made admirable coffins, durable and good. For muzhiks and petty tradespeople he made them all of one size, taking himself as model; and this method never failed him, for though he was seventy years of age, there was not a taller or stouter man in the town, not even in the prison. For women and for men of good birth he made his coffins to measure, using for this purpose an iron yardwand. Orders for children’s coffins he accepted very unwillingly, made them without measurement, as if in contempt, and every time, when being paid for his work, exclaimed: “Thanks. But I confess I don’t care much for wasting time on trifles.” In addition to coffin-making Yakov drew a small income from his skill with the fiddle. At weddings in the town there 21

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usually played a Jewish orchestra, the conductor of which was the tinsmith Moses Ilyich Shakhkes, who kept more than half the takings for himself. As Yakov played the fiddle very well, being particularly skillful with Russian songs, Shakhkes sometimes employed him in the orchestra, paying him fifty kopecks a day, exclusive of gifts from the guests. When Bronza sat in the orchestra he perspired and his face grew purple; it was always hot, the smell of garlic was suffocating; the fiddle whined, at his right ear snored the double-bass, and at his left wept the flute, played by a lanky, red-haired Jew with a whole network of red and blue veins upon his face, who bore the same surname as the famous millionaire, Rothschild. And even the merriest tunes this accursed Jew managed to play sadly. Without any tangible cause, Yakov slowly became penetrated with hatred and contempt for Jews, and especially for Rothschild. He began with irritation, then swore at him, and once even was about to strike him; but Rothschild flared up, and, looking at him furiously, said: “If it were not that I respect you for your talents, I should send you flying out of the window.” Then he began to cry. So Bronza was employed in the orchestra very seldom, only in cases of extreme need, when one of the Jews was absent. Yakov was never in good humor. He was always overwhelmed by a sense of the losses which he suffered. For instance, on Sundays and saints’ days it was a sin to work, Monday was a tiresome day—and so on; so that in one way or another there were about two hundred days in the year when he was compelled to sit with his hands idle. That was one loss. If anyone in town got married without music, or if Shakhkes did not employ Yakov, that was another loss.

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The Inspector of Police was ill for two years, and Yakov waited with impatience for his death, yet in the end the Inspector transferred himself to the government-town for the purpose of treatment, where he got worse and died. Here was another loss, a loss at the very least of ten rubles, as the Inspector’s coffin would have been an expensive one, lined with brocade. Regrets for his losses generally overtook Yakov at night; he lay in bed with the fiddle beside him, and, with his head full of such speculations, would take the bow, the fiddle giving forth through the darkness a melancholy sound which made Yakov feel better. On the sixth of May last year Marfa was suddenly taken ill. She breathed heavily, drank much water and staggered. Yet next morning she lighted the stove, and even went for water. Towards evening she lay down. All day Yakov had played on the fiddle, and when it grew dark he took the book in which he inscribed his losses every day, and, for want of something better to do, began to add them up. The total amounted to more than a thousand rubles. The thought of such losses so horrified him that he threw the book on the floor and stamped his feet. Then he took up the book, snapped his fingers, and sighed heavily. His face was purple, and wet with perspiration. He reflected that if this thousand rubles had been lodged in the bank the interest per annum would have amounted to at least forty rubles. That meant that the forty rubles were also a loss. In one word, wherever you turn, everywhere you meet with loss, and no profits. “Yakov,” cried Marfa unexpectedly, “I am dying.” He glanced at his wife. Her face was red with fever and unusually clear and joyful; and Bronza, who was accustomed to see her pale, timid, and unhappy-looking, felt confused. It

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seemed as if she were indeed dying, and were happy in the knowledge that she was leaving for ever the cabin, the coffins, and Yakov. And now she looked at the ceiling and twitched her lips, as though she had seen Death her deliverer, and were whispering to him. Morning came; through the window might be seen the rising of the sun. Looking at his old wife, Yakov somehow remembered that all his life he had never treated her kindly, never caressed her, never pitied her, never thought of buying her a kerchief for her head, never carried away from the weddings a piece of tasty food, but only roared at her, abused her for his losses, and rushed at her with clenched fists. True, he had never beaten her, but he had often frightened the life out of her and left her rooted to the spot with terror. Yes, and he had forbidden her to drink tea, as the losses without that were great enough; so she always drank hot water. And now, beginning to understand why she had such a strange, enraptured face, he felt uncomfortable. When the sun had risen high, he borrowed a cart from a neighbor, and brought Marfa to the hospital. There were not many patients there, and he had to wait only three hours. To his joy he was received not by the doctor but the feldscher, Maksim Nikolaich, an old man of whom it was said that, although he was drunken and quarrelsome, he knew more than the doctor. “May your health be good!” said Yakov, leading the old woman into the dispensary. “Forgive me, Maksim Nikolaich, for troubling you with my vain affairs. But there, you can see for yourself my object is ill. The companion of my life, as they say; excuse the expression. . .” Contracting his grey brows and smoothing his whiskers,

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the feldscher began to examine the old woman, who sat on the tabouret, bent, skinny, sharp-nosed, and with open mouth, so that she resembled a bird that is about to drink. “So. . .” said the feldscher slowly, and then sighed. “Influenza and maybe a bit of fever. There is typhus now in the town. . . What can I do? She is an old woman, glory be to God. . . How old?” “Sixty-nine years, Maksim Nikolaich.” “An old woman. It’s high time for her.” “Of course! Your remark is very just,” said Yakov, smiling out of politeness. “And I am sincerely grateful for your kindness; but allow me to make one remark: every insect is fond of life.” The feldscher replied in a tone which implied that upon him alone depended her life or death. “I will tell you what you should do, friend; put a cold compress on her head, and give her these powders twice a day. And good-bye to you.” By the expression of the feldscher’s face, Yakov saw that it was a bad business, and that no powders would make it any better; it was quite plain to him that Marfa was beyond repair, and would assuredly die, if not to-day, then tomorrow. He touched the feldscher on the arm, blinked his eyes, and said in a whisper: “Yes, Maksim Nikolaich, but you will let her blood.” “I have no time, no time, friend. Take your old woman, and God be with you!” “Do me this one kindness!” implored Yakov. “You yourself know that if she merely had her stomach out of order, or some internal organ wrong, then powders and mixtures would cure; but she has caught cold. In cases of cold the first thing is to bleed the patient.”

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But they feldscher had already called for the next patient, and into the dispensary came a peasant woman with a little boy. “Be off!” he said to Yakov, with a frown. “At least try the effect of leeches. I will pray God eternally for you.” The feldscher lost his temper, and roared: “Not another word.” Yakov also lost his temper, and grew purple in the face; but he said nothing more and, supporting Marfa with one arm, led her out of the room. As soon as he had got her into the cart, he looked angrily and contemptuously at the hospital and said: “What an artist! He will let the blood of a rich man, but for a poor man he grudges even a leech. Herod!” When they arrived home, and entered the cabin, Marfa stood for a moment holding on to the stove. She was afraid that if she were to lie down Yakov would begin to complain about his losses, and abuse her for lying in bed and doing no work. And Yakov looked at her with tedium in his soul and remembered that to-morrow was John the Baptist’s day, and the day after that of Nikolai the Miracle-Worker, and then came Sunday, and after that Monday—another idle day. For four days no work could be done, and Marfa would be sure to die on one of these days. Her coffin must be made to-day. He took the iron yardwand, went up to the old woman and took her measure. After that she lay down, and Yakov crossed himself, and began to make a coffin. When the work was finished, Bronza put on his spectacles and wrote in his book of losses: “Marfa Ivanovna’s coffin—2 rubles, 40 kopecks.”

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And he sighed. All the time Marfa had lain silently with her eyes closed. Towards evening, when it was growing dark, she called her husband: “Rememberest, Yakov?” she said, looking at him joyfully. “Rememberest, fifty years ago God gave us a baby with yellow hair. Thou and I then sat every day by the river. . . under the willow. . . and sang songs.” And laughing bitterly she added: “The child died.” “That is all imagination,” said Yakov. Later on came the priest, administered to Marfa the sacrament and extreme unction. Marfa began to mutter something incomprehensible, and, towards morning, died. The old women-neighbors washed her, wrapped her in her winding sheet, and laid her out. To avoid having to pay the deacon’s fee, Yakov himself read the psalms; and escaped a fee also at the graveyard, as the watchman there was his godfather. Four peasants carried the coffin free, out of respect for the deceased. Behind the coffin walked a procession of old women, beggars, and two cripples. The peasants on the road crossed themselves piously. And Yakov was very satisfied that everything passed off in honor, order, and cheapness, without offence to anyone. When saying good-bye for the last time to Marfa, he tapped the coffin with his fingers, and thought, “An excellent piece of work.” But while he was returning from the graveyard he was overcome with extreme weariness. He felt unwell, he breathed feverishly and heavily, he could hardly stand on his feet. His brain was full of unaccustomed thoughts. He remembered again that he had never taken pity on Marfa and never caressed her. The fifty-two years during which they had lived in the same cabin stretched back to eternity, yet in the whole of that eternity he had never thought

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of her, never paid any attention to her, but treated her as if she were a cat or a dog. Yet every day she had lighted the stove, boiled and baked, fetched water, chopped wood, slept with him on the same bed; and when he returned drunk from weddings, she had taken his fiddle respectfully, and hung it on the wall, and put him to bed—all this silently, with a timid, worried expression on her face. And now he felt that he could take pity on her, and would like to buy her a present, but it was too late. . . . Towards Yakov, smiling and bowing, came Rothschild. “I was looking for you, uncle,” he said. “Moses Ilyich sends his compliments, and asks you to come over to him at once.” Yakov felt inclined to cry. “Begone!” he shouted, and continued on his path. “You can’t mean that,” cried Rothschild in alarm, running after him. “Moses Ilyich will take offence! He wants you at once.” The way in which the Jew puffed and blinked, and the multitude of his red freckles, awoke disgust in Yakov. He felt disgust, too, for his green frock-coat, with its black patches, and his whole fragile, delicate figure. “What do you mean by coming after me, garlic?” he shouted. “Keep off!” The Jew also grew angry, and cried: “If you don’t take care to be a little politer I will send you flying over the fence.” “Out of my sight!” roared Yakov, rushing at him with clenched fists. “Out of my sight, abortion, or I will beat the soul out of your cursed body! I have no peace with Jews.”

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Rothschild was frozen with terror; he squatted down and waved his arms above his head, as if warding off blows, and then jumped up and ran for his life. While running he hopped, and flourished his hands; and the twitching of his long, fleshless spine could be plainly seen. The boys in the street were delighted with the incident, and rushed after him, crying, “Jew! Jew!” The dogs pursued him with loud barks. Someone laughed, then someone whistled, and the dogs barked louder and louder. Then, it must have been, a dog bit Rothschild, for there rang out a sickly, despairing cry. Yakov walked past the common, and then along the outskirts of the town; and the street-boys cried, “Bronza! Bronza!” With a piping note snipe flew around him, and ducks quacked. The sun baked everything, and from the water came scintillations so bright that it was painful to look. Yakov walked along the path by the side of the river, and watched a stout, red-cheeked lady come out of the bathing-place. Not far from the bathing-place sat a group of boys catching crabs with meat; and seeing him they cried maliciously, “Bronza! Bronza!” And at this moment there rose before him a thick old willow with an immense hollow, and on it a raven’s nest. . . And suddenly in Yakov’s mind awoke the memory of the child with the yellow hair of whom Marfa had spoken. . . Yes, it was the same willow, green, silent, sad. . . How it had aged, poor thing! He sat underneath it, and began to remember. On the other bank, where was now a flooded meadow, there then stood a great birch forest; and farther away, where now the bare hill glimmered on the horizon, was an old pine wood. Up and down the river went barges. But now everything was flat and smooth; on the opposite bank stood

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only a single birch, young and shapely, like a girl; and on the river were only ducks and geese where once had floated barges. It seemed that since those days even the geese had become smaller. Yakov closed his eyes, and in imagination saw flying towards him an immense flock of white geese. He began to wonder how it was that in the last forty or fifty years of his life he had never been near the river, or if he had, had never noticed it. Yet it was a respectable river, and by no means contemptible; it would have been possible to fish in it, and the fish might have been sold to tradesmen, officials, and the attendant at the railway station buffet, and the money could have been lodged in the bank; he might have used it for rowing from country-house to country-house and playing on the fiddle, and everyone would have paid him money; he might even have tried to act as bargee—it would have been better than making coffins; he might have kept geese, killed them and sent them to Moscow in the wintertime—from the feathers alone he would have made as much as ten rubles a year. But he had yawned away his life, and done nothing. What losses! Akh, what losses! And if he had done all together—caught fish, played on the fiddle, acted as bargee, and kept geese—what a sum he would have amassed! But he had never even dreamed of this; life had passed without profits, without any satisfaction; everything had passed away unnoticed; before him nothing remained. But look backward—nothing but losses, such losses that to think of them makes the blood run cold. And why cannot a man live without these losses? Why had the birchwood and the pine forest both been cut down? Why is the common pasture unused? Why do people do exactly what they ought not to do? Why did he all his life scream, roar, clench his fists, insult his wife?

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For what imaginable purpose did he frighten and insult the Jew? Why, indeed, do people prevent one another from living in peace? All these are also losses! Terrible losses! If it were not for hatred and malice people would draw from one another incalculable profits. Evening and night twinkled in Yakov’s brain, the willow, the fish, the dead geese, Marfa with her profile like that of a bird about to drink, the pale, pitiable face of Rothschild, and an army of snouts thrusting themselves out of the darkness and muttering about losses. He shifted from side to side, and five times during the night rose from his bed and played on the fiddle. In the morning he rose with an effort and went to the hospital. The same Maksim Nikolaich ordered him to bind his head with a cold compress, and gave him powders; and by the expression of his face and by his tone, Yakov saw that it was a bad business, and that no powders would make it any better. But upon his way home he reflected that from death at least there would be one profit; it would no longer be necessary to eat, to drink, to pay taxes, or to injure others; and as a man lies in his grave not one year, but hundreds and thousands of years, the profit was enormous. The life of man was, in short, a loss, and only his death a profit. Yet this consideration, though entirely just, was offensive and bitter; for, why in this world is it so ordered that life, which is given to a man only once, passes by without profit? He did not regret dying, but as soon as he arrived home and saw his fiddle, his heart fell, and he felt sorry. The fiddle could not be taken to the grave; it must remain an orphan, and the same thing would happen to it as had happened to the birchwood and the pine forest. Everything in

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this world decayed, and would decay! Yakov went to the door of the hut and sat upon the threshold-stone, pressing his fiddle to his shoulder. Still thinking of life, full of decay and full of losses, he began to play, and as the tune poured out plaintively and touchingly, the tears flowed down his cheeks. And the harder he thought, the sadder was the song of the fiddle. The latch creaked twice, and in the wicket door appeared Rothschild. The first half of the yard he crossed boldly, but seeing Yakov, he stopped short, shrivelled up, and apparently from fright began to make signs as if he wished to tell the time with his fingers. “Come on, don’t be afraid,” said Yakov kindly, beckoning him. “Come!” With a look of distrust and terror Rothschild drew near and stopped about two yards away. “Don’t beat me, Yakov, it is not my fault!” he said, with a bow. “Moses Ilyich has sent me again. ‘Don’t be afraid!’ he said, ‘go to Yakov again and tell him that without him we cannot possibly get on.’ The wedding is on Wednesday. Schapovalov’s daughter is marrying a wealthy man. . . It will be a first-class wedding,” added the Jew, blinking one eye. “I cannot go,” answered Yakov, breathing heavily. “I am ill, brother.” And again he took his bow, and the tears burst from his eyes and fell upon the fiddle. Rothschild listened attentively, standing by his side with arms folded upon his chest. The distrustful, terrified expression upon his face changed little by little into a look of suffering and grief, he rolled his eyes as if in ecstasy of torment, and ejaculated “Wachchch!” And the tears slowly rolled down his cheeks and made little black patches on his green frock-coat.

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All day long Yakov lay in bed and worried. With evening came the priest, and, confessing him, asked whether he had any particular sin which he would like to confess; and Yakov exerted his fading memory, and, remembering Marfa’s unhappy face and the Jew’s despairing cry when he was bitten by the dog, said in a hardly audible voice: “Give the fiddle to Rothschild.” And now in the town everyone asks: Where did Rothschild get such an excellent fiddle? Did he buy it or steal it. . . or did he get it in pledge? Long ago he abandoned his flute, and now plays on the fiddle only. From beneath his bow issue the same mournful sounds as formerly came from the flute; but when he tries to repeat the tune that Yakov played when he sat on the threshold-stone, the fiddle emits sounds so passionately sad and full of grief that the listeners weep; and he himself rolls his eyes and ejaculates “Wachchch!”. . . But this new song so pleases everyone in the town that wealthy traders and officials never fail to engage Rothschild for their social gatherings, and even force him to play it as many as ten times.

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MAXIM GORKY Russian novelist and critic, 1868–1936. Gorky was a consistent advocate of Jewish emancipation, and expressed his deep sympathy with the Jewish masses in many sketches and special articles. The following story appeared in Shchit, Moscow, 1916, and in The Shield, edited by Gorky, Andreyev and Sologub, and translated by A. Yarmolinsky, New York, Alfred A. Knopf, 1917. It is published here with the kind permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. and Mr. Yarmolinsky.

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THE LITTLE BOY

I

T IS hard to tell this little story—it is so simple. When I was a youth, I used to gather the children of our street on Sunday mornings during the spring and summer seasons and take them with me to the fields and woods. I took great pleasure in the friendship of these little people, who were as gay as birds. The children were only too glad to leave the dusty, narrow streets of the city. Their mothers provided them with slices of bread, while I brought them dainties and filled a big bottle with cider, and, like a shepherd, walked behind my carefree little lambs, while we passed through the town and the fields on our way to the green forest, beautiful and caressing in its array of Spring. We always started on our journey early in the morning when the church bells were ushering in the early mass, and we were accompanied by the chimes and the clouds of dust raised by the children’s nimble feet. In the heat of the noon, exhausted with playing, my companions would gather at the edge of the forest, and after that, having eaten their food, the smaller children would lie down and sleep in the shade of hazel and snowball trees, while the ten-year-old boys would flock around me and ask me to tell them stories. I would satisfy their desire, chattering as eagerly as the children themselves, and often, in spite of the self-assurance of youth and the ridiculous pride which it takes in the miserable crumbs of worldly wisdom it pos37

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sesses, I would feel like a twenty-year-old child in a conclave of sages. Overhead is the blue veil of the spring sky, and before us lies the deep forest, brooding in wise silence. Now and then the wind whispers gently and stirs the fragrant shadows of the forest, and again does the soothing silence caress us with a motherly caress. White clouds are sailing slowly across the azure heavens. Viewed from the earth, heated by the sun, the sky appears cold, and it is strange to see the clouds melt away in the blue. And all around me—little people, dear little people, destined to partake of all the sorrows and all the joys of life. These were my happy days, my true holidays, and my soul, already dusty with the knowledge of life’s evil, was bathed and refreshed in the clear-eyed wisdom of childlike thoughts and feelings. Once, when I was coming out of the city on my way to the fields, accompanied by a crowd of children, we met an unknown little Jewish boy. He was barefooted and his shirt was torn; his eyebrows were black, his body slim, and his hair grew in curls like that of a little sheep. He was excited and he seemed to have been crying. The lids of his dullblack eyes, swollen and red, contrasted with his face, which, emaciated by starvation, was ghastly pale. Having found himself face to face with the crowd of children, he stood still in the middle of the road, burrowing his bare feet in the dust, which early in the morning is so deliciously cool. In fear, he half opened the dark lips of his fair mouth—the next second he leaped right on to the sidewalk. “Catch him!” the children started to shout gaily and in a chorus. “A Jewish boy! Catch the Jew-boy!”

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I waited, thinking that he would run away. His thin, bigeyed face was all fear; his lips quivered; he stood there amid the shouts and mocking laughter. Pressing his shoulders against the fence and hiding his hands behind his back, he stretched and, strangely, appeared to have grown bigger. But suddenly he spoke, very calmly and in a distinct and correct Russian. “If you wish, I will show you some tricks.” I took this offer for a means of self-defence. But the children at once became interested. The larger and coarser boys alone looked with distrust and suspicion on the little Jewish boy. The children of our street were in a state of guerilla warfare with the children of other streets; in addition, they were deeply convinced of their own superiority and were loath to brook the rivalry of other children. The smaller boys approached the matter more simply. “Come on, show us,” they shouted. The handsome, slim boy moved away from the fence, bent his thin body backward, and touching the ground with his hands, he tossed up his feet and remained standing on his arms, shouting: “Hop! Hop! Hop!” Then he began to spin in the air, swinging his body lightly and adroitly. Through the holes of his shirt and pants we caught glimpses of the greyish skin of his slim body, of his sharply bulging and angular shoulder-blades, knees and elbows. It seemed to us as if with one more twist of his body his thin bones would crack and break into pieces. He worked hard until the shirt grew wet with sweat about his shoulders. After each especially daring feat he looked into the children’s faces with an artificial, weary smile, and it was unpleasant to see his dull eyes, grown large

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with pain. Their strange and unsteady glance was not like that of a child. The lads encouraged him with loud outcries. Many imitated him, rolling in the dust and shouting for joy, pain and envy. But the joyous minutes were soon over when the boy, bringing his exhibition to an end, looked upon the children with the benevolent smile of a thoroughbred artist and stretching forth his hand said: “Now give me something.” We all became silent, until one of the children said: “Money?” “Yes,” said the lad. “Look at him,” said the children. “For money, we could do those tricks ourselves.” The audience became hostile toward the artist, and betook itself to the field, ridiculing and insulting him. Of course, none of them had any money. I myself had only seven kopecks about me. I put two coins in the boy’s dusty palm. He moved them with his finger and with a kindly smile said: “Thank you.” He went away, and I noticed that his shirt around his back was all in black blotches and was clinging close to his shoulder-blades. “Hold on, what is it?” He stopped, turned about, scrutinized me and said distinctly, with the same kindly smile: “You mean the blotches on my back? That’s from falling off the trapeze. It happened on Easter. My father is still lying in bed, but I am quite well now.” I lifted his shirt. On his back, running down from his left shoulder to the side, was a wide dark scratch which had now become dried up into a thick crust. While he was

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exhibiting his tricks the wound broke open in several spots and red blood was now trickling from the openings. “It doesn’t hurt any more,” said he with a smile. “It doesn’t hurt, it only itches.” And bravely, as it becomes a hero, he looked in my eyes and went on, speaking like a serious grown-up person: “You think I have been doing this for myself? Upon my word—I have not. My father. . . there is not a crust of bread in the house, and my father is lying badly hurt. So you see, I have to work hard. And to make matters worse, we are Jews, and everybody laughs at us. Good-bye.” He spoke with a smile, cheerfully and courageously. With a nod of his curly head, he quickly went on, passing by the houses which looked at him with their glass eyes, indifferent and dead. All this is insignificant and simple, is it not? Yet many a time in the darkest days of my life I remembered with gratitude the courage and bravery of the little Jewish boy. And now, in these sorrowful days of suffering and bloody outrages which fall upon the gray head of the ancient nation, the creator of Gods and Religion, I think again of the boy, for in him I see a symbol of true manly bravery; not the pliant patience of slaves, who live by uncertain hopes, but the courage of the strong who are certain of their victory.

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RICARDA HUCH Swiss German novelist and poetess, 1864–. The following story appears in English translation, by H. Steinhauer and H. Jessiman, in Modern German Short Stories, London, Oxford University Press, 1938. Speaking of Ricarda Huch, in the Introduction to that anthology, H. Steinhauer says: “She shares with (Gottfried) Keller a wholesome realism softened by a kindly humor, and a wonderful ability to throw a comic cloak over an action which is essentially tragic. The Jew’s Grave is worthy to be compared with the master’s immortal tales about the people of Seldwyla.”

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THE JEW’S GRAVE

I

N JEDDAM there was only one Jew and he had strayed there in this wise: his wife, whom he loved most loyally, had been born in Jeddam. When her father died, leaving a considerable estate, it seemed advisable that she should go in person to take over her inheritance. Homesickness awoke within her at the thought of seeing her childhood’s home; and the whole family, father, mother and two adolescent children, set out on the long journey. Seeing Jeddam, which was a village rather than a town, lying so proudly and pleasantly among its easy slopes, its fertile fields and green meadows watered by the tiny river Melk, and since his wife was so happy amid familiar scenes, the easy-going husband agreed to settle there. To manage such an estate himself was not to be thought of, and he engaged a young overseer, while he himself opened in the town a business of the kind which he had formerly owned. This was the first of its kind in Jeddam, whose inhabitants had been accustomed to make their purchases in the nearest city. The shop would therefore have had a good chance of success if its proprietor had not been a Jew, a race with whom the people of Jeddam would have no dealings. There were sales enough made, but few receipts taken; and when Herr Samuel took his debtors into court he found to his dismay that the authorities refused to act on his behalf, so that he had to bear the expense of litigation without receiving justice. He often thought apprehensively of what might be the end of it all, and he would gladly have left the place with his family if he could 45

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have collected his debts and realized his wife’s estate without too great loss. Some years passed in this way, until one day Herr Samuel fell ill and sent for the doctor in the next town. The first call proved fruitless, and when in answer to the second he was told that the doctor was very busy and regretted he would not be able to attend him, he began to feel seriously disturbed. He realized for the first time that he might perish miserably in this place. To his family who sat anxiously around his bed taking counsel together, he said, “The best thing for me, now that I’m ill, would be to die and leave you in peace, and be happy.” His wife, Rosette, and the two children, Anitza and Emmanuel, would not allow him to speak so, declaring that without him they would be unhappy even in Paradise. Herr Ive, the overseer, who was now engaged to Anitza, said that this would be no solution, in any case, for the people of Jeddam would be just as bitterly opposed to the apostate wife of a Jew and his children remaining in their midst. “But how would it be,” said Anitza, “if we gave out that you had died, father, and were buried, while you went back to your own town, and Ive, as our friend and natural protector, wound up our affairs and then brought us home to you?” At first, Herr Samuel would not hear of this scheme, but when the overseer confidently assured him that it could be carried out successfully, and since his wife and children were gleefully eager for the fun of hoaxing the people of Jeddam, he finally agreed to go through with it. As soon as he was fit to travel, he left Jeddam by night and managed to reach the nearest seaport unobserved, where he boarded a ship.

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Meanwhile, Frau Rosette and Anitza, with the aid of Herr Ive, stuffed a good-sized dummy, fitted a mask with a horse-hair beard to its straw head, and placed this figure, wrapped in a white shroud, on Herr Samuel’s bed. They covered the face with a handkerchief, but the waxen hands, adorned with the diamond ring which Herr Samuel always wore on his index finger, they left exposed to view to heighten the deception. The ruse would probably have been found out, in spite of all, if it had not been that the Jew’s house was avoided like that of a leper. There was no lack of curious eyes, to be sure, when the news of the death spread, but they spied from afar, and only the servants of the household peeped timidly at the sham corpse, from the threshold of the death-chamber. Herr Ive next went to the parish authorities to report the death and make arrangements for the funeral; but the councillors sent him to the pastor, who attended to these matters. This was a man with thick, bushy hair, and a narrow, board-like forehead surmounting a wide face, who said little, not from temperament or intention, but because he had nothing to say. His big eyes flickered anxiously and fearfully out of the huge void of his skull, but on the whole he was a stupid and harmless man rather than a vicious one, except when certain ecclesiastical questions were at stake. Whenever any matter came up upon which he had an opinion and on which he could assume any sort of authority, he seized upon it fiercely, puffing himself up and spitting venom against any who opposed him, urged by a hidden impulse to revenge himself for his usual insignificance and uselessness. When Herr Ive called at his house, he knew already what had happened, and received him with the words, “What is it, Herr Ive? Something se-

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rious, it must be, to bring you to me with it; you don’t usually bother me, neither in my own house nor in the house of God. Since those people of yours don’t need any spiritual care, I suppose it’s a question of the inheritance, or perhaps of marriage.” Herr Ive made some polite excuses and said that he merely wanted to report the death of Herr Samuel; it was his duty as trustee for the family. “And a pretty task you’ve taken upon yourself,” said the pastor; “don’t you know that he who touches pitch will be defiled? Don’t talk to me of your dead Jew, I’ve got nothing to do with it. Leave me in peace.” Herr Ive explained that the parish council had sent him to the pastor, whose usual custom it was to look after the formalities of funerals. “Yes,” cried the pastor, flaring up, “the funerals of Christian people, certainly. Let the rabbis and Pharisees bury the Jew in their own soil and themselves as well. It would be the best thing for them and us, too.” His reverence knew quite well, Herr Ive replied, that there were neither Pharisees nor Sadducees in Jeddam and still less a Jewish cemetery, and so it was impossible to carry out the pastor’s wishes; the deceased Herr Samuel would have to be buried, for good or ill, beside the departed citizens of Jeddam. Arching his thin eyebrows above his great rolling eyes, the pastor struck his clenched fist thrice upon the table and cried, “Nothing of the kind! Get out with you! Dump your dead Jew where you like, but don’t show your face with him in our Christian churchyard.” At this, Herr Ive, whose blood was boiling by this time, turned about and banged the door behind him, as he strode furiously back to the parochial authorities.

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The councillors laid their heads together and argued back and forth, until at last Herr Ive forced his way to the mayor, who did not usually allow himself to be disturbed in his own affairs. He was a portly gentleman who, beneath a suave exterior, concealed a supreme contempt for the majority of his fellow men and imagined that he had been chosen mayor solely on account of his intellectual superiority and his urbanity of manner. His chief concern was to preserve his reputation for infallibility, and his popularity; he was therefore as agreeable to talk with as he was hard to move to any sort of action. Breathless with anger, Herr Ive related his experience at the house of the pastor, frequently interrupted by questions from the mayor upon insignificant details; these interruptions were intended partly to prove his professional thoroughness and his human sympathy, and partly to gain time. When Herr Ive had exhausted all he had to say upon the matter and was impatiently waiting a decision, the mayor inclined his head to one side, folded his hands over his stomach and said thoughtfully, “A pity, a great pity, that Herr Samuel had to die! An industrious man, a nice man, a good father and a useful citizen, but a Jew, unquestionably a Jew! He ought to have gone on living a while longer!” Herr Ive said impatiently, “Your Worship will show that love of justice for which you are so justly famous; you will not allow one whom Your Worship yourself describes as a useful citizen to be thrown into a ditch like rotten fruit, instead of being given proper burial?” “Thrown into a ditch like rotten fruit,” cried the mayor in horror. “That would be an offence which I should punish severely, yes, indeed. The clergy, as we all know, are some

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times carried away by pious zeal, but the civic head of this community executes incorruptible justice. Never shall a deceased Jew who has lived a decent life be allowed to lie in the street like rotten fruit.” In that case, Herr Ive assumed, the mayor would issue an order for the proper burial of the deceased man, in the general burying ground. Certainly, he would do that, answered the mayor, after he had assembled the council and consulted their wishes. “For,” he added with a smile, “I have no desire to play the tyrant just because I am in a position to do so.” Herr Ive had to content himself with this unsatisfactory answer, and hurried away to give the Samuel family an account of the interview. Under the pressure of the moment he had almost forgotten that his future father-in-law was not really dead, but the amused faces that met him recalled this to him, and he had to laugh at the passion the mayor had worked up over an imaginary situation. The charming Anitza sank down on a divan and laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks, stifling her shrieks of amusement with a cushion. Her mother, a tall, powerful woman who would stand no nonsense, got up, however, and said, “Ive, you’re a good fellow, but you’ve got the spirit of a sheep; you don’t know how to handle these people; it’s no use to treat them courteously, you must be rude and brazen, because that’s what they understand. I suppose you waited modestly at the door and asked for permission, instead of saying, ‘I tell you we will bury my father-in-law tomorrow, and if you try to stop me, I will pound you to a jelly with my fists.’” “I behaved firmly and decidedly as a man should,” said Herr Ive, whose keen, handsome face had turned bright scarlet at the accusation of timidity. “I can lay about me,

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too, when it is necessary, but I did not think the time had come for that yet.” “You know, mamma,” said young Emmanuel, “these people are within their rights. A Christian cemetery is for Christians, a Jewish one for Jews. It isn’t so simple a matter as you imagine.” Frau Rosette flew into a flaming passion and cried, “I’ve no patience with your hair-splitting! Your father isn’t a thief or a murderer, but a better man than all those Jeddam fools, who ought to feel honored to have such a man buried in their cemetery. Do you think they would treat you or me or Anitza with any more respect, although we are good Christians? But they’ve reckoned without me in this matter. I’ll take it up with some one very different from a wooden-headed parson and that windbag of a mayor.” Clapping her hands with delight, Anitza said to her brother, “Mamma would like us both to die, so that she might spite the parson by making him give us Christian burial.” And Emmanuel, who loved to tease his mother, replied, “No, a wife and children take the man’s status, and I doubt whether we have the right to be buried in Jeddam cemetery.” “Idiot,” cried his mother. “My great-grandfather, my grandfather, and my father are buried there and I’d like to see the man who can prevent me from lying beside them. I’ll take the matter to the Emperor, if necessary, just to show these upstarts where I may be buried!” Herr Ive did his best to persuade the irate lady to await the council’s decision, and set out once more to learn what it might be. Before he was ushered into the council-chamber, where the pastor and the councillors were assembled, the mayor said to them, “I wouldn’t dream of attempting

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any tyrannical perversion of justice, and I realize that legally a Jew may not be buried in our Christian cemetery. Still, I always remember the Latin motto, and try to be inflexible in deed but kind and gracious in manner, therefore I shall break it as gently as possible to the young man that the decision is unfavorable.” So, when Herr Ive was admitted, the mayor received him graciously and, gently stroking the minute book which lay open before him, he said, “You are a worthy citizen, Herr Ive, and so was the deceased Herr Samuel, in so far as he was a citizen; but from the point of view of religion he was an alien to me. I put it to you, yourself, is there a Jewish community in this place?” The only answer Herr Ive could give to this question was, “No.” Whereupon the mayor continued, “There is no Jewish community here, and what amounts to the same thing, no Jews. Now, if there are no Jews here, there is no Jew here either, and so Herr Samuel, who was a Jew, never existed here in a legal sense. His family may weep for him; his friends—and indeed all feeling hearts—may mourn his death, but the community as such must regard him as non-existent and therefore cannot give him burial.” “Then I should like to ask Your Worship,” cried Herr Ive fiercely, “where I am to bury him, for bury him somewhere I must.” “That is certainly desirable, and far be it from me to put any barrier in the way of the survivors. But the Christian cemetery must be left out of your plans, and you know as well as I do that no corpse may remain within the city limits.” Herr Ive’s patience came to an end; the blood rushed to his face as he cried, “If you could tolerate the living Jew

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among you, you can also endure the dead one’s presence. I ask for no tolling of bells or droning of prayers at his grave, but only a spot of earth where he may lie in peace, and that he shall have in spite of you. I give you fair warning that I shall bring him to the burial ground myself tomorrow, and I will knock any one down who tries to stop me.” These violent words kindled a hot argument which was interrupted by the sudden entry of Frau Rosette. Tired of waiting, she had come in person to bring these people to reason and to put an end to the matter with a few plain words. As she stood majestically on the threshold, dressed in black from head to foot, they all fell silent and the mayor hastened towards her with words of consolation. “No condolences, Your Worship,” she said waving him off, “I set no store by them. I ask for nothing but my rights. I wish to bury my husband in the churchyard where my father and mother, my grandfathers, and my great-grandfathers rest, and I demand of you, that you help rather than hinder me in this matter.” “Your late father was my esteemed friend,” said the mayor, mopping the perspiration from his brow with a large colored silk handkerchief, “and his grave is honored in our cemetery. He was a good citizen and a good Christian, and no more is needed in order to be well received and buried in Jeddam.” “I think then,” said Frau Rosette, “that I also have earned this courtesy. But I desire to lie by my husband’s side one day, and for that no Christian wife can be blamed.” The mayor again mopped his brow while he stood thinking. The pastor, who had remained silent until now, seized the opportunity, “Will you bow before this proud and idol-

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atrous Jezebel? Woman, you have brought a monster into your family and into our community, but you shall not bring him into God’s acre here. There are enough rubbish heaps on the earth where you may fling your unbelieving bones, but they shall not enter our consecrated burial ground.” Stepping up close to the pastor, Frau Rosette retorted, “Listen, you, it is a poor honor for me to be buried among your mouldering skeletons, but I will not allow you to rob me of what is my right by birth and inheritance, and I would be willing to die here on the spot, so that you would have to watch me make my entry into your dirty boneyard.” The councillors lost their tempers also at the pointed remarks of Frau Rosette, and one of them muttered, “A Jew’s wife has no rights in Jeddam.” “Yes, you greedy beasts, you would have liked to wolf down my dowry,” she sneered. “Better a wolf than a pig,” cried another, for thus Jews were regarded in Jeddam. Pale with anger, Frau Rosette cried, “You dog, to insult the noble dead!” Placing her hand on Herr Ive’s arm, she drew him away, saying, “Come, we will take our case into our own hands.” While the mayor discoursed fluently on how a wise man and a man of the world behaved in such circumstances, not using violent language but insisting gently yet firmly on the letter of the law, the pastor became alarmed lest the high-handed Frau should secretly smuggle her husband into the churchyard. She certainly meant to do so; not by stealth, however, but publicly and ceremoniously, in the light of day, presuming that no one would dare to start a brawl in the

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churchyard. But the pastor found time to collect a mob of villagers and harangue them. “My children,” he said, “this dead Jew will infect our good earth! You must not suffer it! Let him lie in the fields, for the ravens and crows. If you don’t defend yourselves, poison and pestilence and murrain will follow.” The result was that when the bearers of the coffin that contained the stuffed Samuel reached the cemetery they found the way barred by a hostile mob who refused to let them enter. Frau Rosette, Herr Ive, and the children, who were following in an open carriage, saw to their astonishment a violent struggle developing in which their servants, who were outnumbered, were getting the worst of it. For a while Herr Ive watched the skirmish with the expert eye of youth and with growing impatience. At last, unable to restrain himself any longer, he jumped out of the carriage and, pulling off his coat as he ran, rushed into the fray with a shout. Emmanuel, whose dark eyes were filling with the lust of battle, was preparing to follow his brother-in-law, and Frau Rosette had difficulty in restraining him while at the same time admonishing, by frowns and clutching, the volatile Anitza who was overcome with merriment at the sight of her lover’s prowess. Although Frau Rosette viewed with satisfaction and approval Herr Ive’s action, she nevertheless called on him to desist for the present, in view of the overwhelming superiority of the enemy’s numbers, and the impossibility of vanquishing them. Once warmed to the fight, Herr Ive was unwilling to give up, but he finally realized that she was right, and led the party back to their home, the children hilarious and Frau Rosette boiling with fury. Those who were left kept up the fight with such zeal that the town police had difficulty in separating them when

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night fell. The riot caused such concern to the mayor and council that they assembled again in a private room of the inn, which often served as a meeting-place on pressing occasions, and sought a happy solution for this delicate problem. “It cannot be denied,” began the mayor benignly, toying with the lid of his beer mug, “that a dead man should be buried somewhere. Nor can we expect that Frau Rosette should bury her husband among her wheat and potatoes.” “On no account,” cried the vicar in threatening tones, “can he be allowed to contaminate our Christian ground. Out with him, I say! Away with him. Bury him outside, as we bury horses and dogs.” The mayor continued to tap his lid thoughtfully and said, “I admit, Your Reverence, that a Jew is not a Christian, but should he therefore be classed with the beasts?” A long discussion followed, and after much deliberation one of the councillors suggested, “You all know, gentlemen, that there is one corner of the cemetery, overgrown with weeds, for it is not the caretaker’s business to attend to it, where those unfortunate infants are buried who were stillborn, or died before they could receive baptism. These infants seem to me to be like the Jew in so far as they are also unbaptized, and it should not be improper to bury him quietly there.” Before the mayor could pronounce his qualified approval of this proposal, the pastor broke out, wringing his hands with vexation, “Is this your Christianity? You talk like heathen or infidels. Don’t you know that children who die before, or immediately after birth, are angels? Little angelic beings who have never opened their bright eyes,

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or allowed them to be dimmed by the spectacle of this sinful earth. They have spread their wings upon the threshold of life and flown back into heaven.” Overcome by his own affecting picture of the state of these little ones, the pastor’s tears began to flow and a few of the councillors were also seen to wipe their eyes, while the mayor protested, “No one is preventing the children from flying to heaven, nor the Jew from going to hell; nevertheless, from a legal point of view they are both unbaptized, therefore it seems right and proper to me that they should be buried in the same place.” He could not altogether forget that Herr Samuel’s relatives-in-law were important and well-to-do citizens, who, though they had had little to do with him in life, might resent any indignity done to one of the family. The pastor could make no impression on the councillors, who were unanimous, but he took the matter to his flock, encouraging them to resent the grave injury that would be done to the community, and to use their fists, in God’s name, to prevent it. “Would you stand meekly by while some one brought a wolf into your sheepfold?” he cried. “Yet they are seeking to bring such a Judas into the midst of your innocent children, whose angels intercede for sinful men at the throne of the Most High. Pestilence, war, deluge, fire, and famine will descend upon you if you allow the hallowed ground to be desecrated by this unbeliever.” The citizens of Jeddam needed no urging, but rose in a body and swore that they would annihilate anyone who tried to bring the dead Samuel to their churchyard. The most violent of them all was a rich farmer named Pomilko, a giant of a man with pale blond hair who could have routed the whole village with his retinue of tenants, relations,

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dependants, and servants. True, he hadn’t looked into the matter, but as soon as word was brought to him had gone off, cursing and gnashing his teeth, among his fields and had not returned for two days. Still, he regarded it as a gross insult that a Jew should be buried near his offspring, and he declared loudly that neither mayor nor Emperor could take such liberties with Pomilko, as he would show should they dare to try. By his first marriage he had a grown-up daughter named Sorka, a tall, strong girl with bold, flashing eyes and a handsome mouth with teeth, as strong as cobblestones, that gleamed like yellow marble. When this girl had heard that a stepmother would arrive at the house, she told her father that she would not tolerate it, and he had better not attempt it. This only made him hurry on the marriage. At the first meal Sorka absented herself and her father called her in, while the stepmother filled and served her a plateful of soup, very ungraciously. Sorka pushed away the plate so violently that the tablecloth was drenched, and cried, with a wicked grin, “I won’t eat the food that you have cooked.” “Then you may starve,” retorted her father angrily; “there is no other food for you.” Laughing disdainfully, Sorka said, “I’ll seek my own bread, then,” and left the house there and then, with her belongings. Having nowhere to go immediately, she took service with a small farmer and soon became engaged to his son, meeting with no objection on the part of her master, old Darinko, who knew that Pomilko could not keep from the girl what she had inherited from her mother. This affair had filled Pomilko with such ill-humor and vindictiveness, that in his anger he was ready to seize upon any excuse for quarrelling and attacking someone.

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The mayor could not conceal from himself that a veritable uprising was brewing among the people, and in his embarrassment he published a proclamation in which he said he would place the question of the Jew’s grave in the hands of the Emperor himself. Meanwhile, they were to go about their proper business and conduct themselves quietly, assured that their welfare was safe in his care. He did not actually go to the Emperor, however, but to the commander of the garrison in the nearest town. This officer declared himself in favor of the proposal to bury Herr Samuel in the corner of the cemetery where the unbaptized infants lay. He also allowed the mayor a small detachment of troops, to keep the peace in case of any disturbance during the funeral. Frau Rosette was now informed where and how she might bury her husband, and was also requested to have the burial performed by night, so as to avoid giving offence. Her pride was not quite satisfied, but she reminded herself that it was not her Samuel who was to be buried thus, after all, but only a stuffed effigy. It might be as well, she reflected, to have the ruse brought to a conclusion before it was found out, and let it be forgotten as soon as possible. And so she undertook to carry out the mayor’s instructions. Faced with the soldiers, Jeddam decided that it would take no notice of the funeral, but keep out of the way decently. So the black curtained hearse jogged through the empty streets by night, as though the village had been under a spell, or turned to stone. Nothing was heard but the trotting of the horse and the rolling of the wheels, except the low voices of Frau Rosette and Herr Ive, who followed the coffin in a light cart. With the help of the grave-digger, the bogus Samuel was hastily consigned to

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the appointed corner, and the family, whose trunks were already packed, set out on the journey that would reunite them with their father. Herr Ive remained behind temporarily, to finish the business which had been the original cause of the hoax. But the feud was by no means over yet. On the day after the burial, it was found that the wall of the churchyard surrounding the place where the unbaptized infants lay was covered with rudely chalked insults, “The Pig-Market,” “Jeddam Dunghill,” “Dumping Ground,” and other vile epithets. This soon reached the ears of the parents whose children were buried there. Chief among the outraged parents was Pomilko, who had sided with the authorities, and who was convinced that old Darinko, at whose place his daughter was living, had perpetrated this deadly insult, especially against him. Thus Darinko became the head of the clerical party, which continued to protest against the presence of the late Samuel in the cemetery. Darinko did indeed deny that he had chalked up the opprobrious epithets, but he was not ill-pleased at the prominence into which the accusation brought him, and he carried on the fight merrily under the protection of the church and the pastor. Gradually both factions forgot the dead Jew who had been the original cause of contention, and made use of the feud to fight out old quarrels of all kinds. They harried each other in every possible way and there were in consequence so many bloody heads, broken limbs, and blazing barns in Jeddam, that the police and the barber-surgeon, not to mention the fireman, were kept busy day and night. The mayor was inclined to support Pomilko, who was easily the richest of his flock, and was moreover fighting for the mayor’s side, but the clerical party outnumbered the other so far

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that he did not dare to offend them either. The pastor, drunk with his own importance, continually declaimed, “Fire and conflagration is here! Parricide and fratricide are here. Did I not prophesy it to you? Did I not warn you that Jeddam would be infected and poisoned with unbelief. Cast out the festering sore from the midst of Jeddam. Out with the unbaptized bones of the Jew, lest we all miserably perish! Children, I say unto you, we shall all perish!” He wept aloud as he spoke, convinced that it was so by his own eloquence. The mayor, also in tears, begged him to stop making these inflammatory speeches, and rather try to calm the seething mob; but this only infuriated the pastor the more and he indignantly refused to sell his Saviour, even for a hundred pieces of gold. Jeddam might have perished in blood and flames if the mayor had not sought the aid of the military once more. The news that the Emperor himself was coming at the head of a regiment to quell the rebellion paralyzed the villagers with terror and they slunk home one by one to their work. “Darinko,” said the pastor that day to the son of the old farmer who led the clericals, “I promise you that you will wed Sorka and receive her dowry intact, if you will go to the cemetery to-night, dig out the Jew from his grave and throw him into the Melk.” “I’m quite ready to do that,” said young Darinko. “I wonder we haven’t done it long ago.” “Do it to-night,” said the pastor, “and you shall not regret it.” All of this Darinko faithfully related to Sorka, who volunteered to help her lover. It would have been a difficult task for him to accomplish alone, for he had to provide himself with implements not only to open the grave, but the heavy oak coffin as well, since he could not carry

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it to the river. All was dark and silent when they stole from the farm-yard and set out for the cemetery. They had a long search for the grave which bore no distinguishing mark, and the perspiration dripped from their brows as they dug around, until they finally found the large coffin they were seeking. Breathing a sigh of relief they crouched down together on the heaped-up earth, for they had the night before them, and Sorka spread out the bread, cheese, and beer which she had brought to refresh them. Happy in the prospect of immediate marriage revealed by the pastor, they shared the food, clasped hands and kissed, while Sorka declared, “As far as I’m concerned, I don’t mind if the old Jew was left lying here, just to spite my father for marrying my stepmother.” “Was she really such a bad one?” asked Darinko curiously. “No worse than I am,” shrugged Sorka, “but I didn’t like her and that’s why I ran away and made fun of her temper.” She laughed till her yellow teeth shone in the darkness. Presently they took up their task again. Opening the coffin was all the more difficult because they dared not make much noise. When they had succeeded, Darinko said, “Now comes the toughest job of all; it’s a pitch black night and we are all alone with it.” Sorka gave him a sly look, “Are you nervous?” she asked. “You weren’t nervous when you kissed me the first time, and I could have boxed your ears better than a dead Jew.” Reminded of his own heroism, Darinko’s courage revived; he threw back the lid and grasped the corpse about the middle. It was his intention to hurry off with it as quickly as possible and throw it in the river without looking at it. But scarcely had he grasped it when he dropped it again

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with a cry, the straw effigy felt so different from the corpse he expected. Sorka burst into a shout of laughter at his surprise and bent over the collapsed dummy to see what was so strange about it. When they realized that they had only a straw man with waxen face and hands to deal with, Darinko stood gaping in astonishment, while Sorka threw herself on the ground and rolled about in a fit of laughter. “But what can it mean?” said Darinko at last, uncertain whether magic or the devil’s art had come into play. “What does it matter to us,” said Sorka. “We can’t throw any other Jew into the Melk except the one we’ve found here; whether it’s the right one or not, is no concern of ours.” She stood up as she spoke and eagerly examined the diamond ring which she had spied on the index finger of the waxen hand. It had been left there by Frau Rosette, either because she had forgotten it, or as a freewill offering for the success of her bold scheme. Sorka now was frightened in her turn, for Heaven knew what diabolical trap might be concealed here, she thought. Quickly reviewing the strange situation, she soon convinced herself that a valuable ring was a valuable ring and nothing more, and that they were justly entitled to accept the find as a reward for a difficult piece of work. Pledging themselves to secrecy, they took possession of the ring, overjoyed at their good fortune. For a little longer they lay enjoying their happiness on the cemetery earth, then Darinko dragged the strange doll over to the Melk while Sorka shovelled the earth into the empty grave and smoothed it over as it had been before. The soldiers who marched into Jeddam the next day found nothing to occupy them and, since it was hard to discover who were the real incendiaries and leaders in the various brawls, no severe sentences were imposed.

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Some time later, the unsuspecting Herr Samuel, who had not been told the story of what had happened in Jeddam, embraced his loved ones again, his homely face shining with the joy of reunion, while at the same moment, the pastor of Jeddam was sitting at the table with the mayor, who remarked, “It is well known that you, Your Reverence, are wiser than my humble self in theology and all matters of religion. Yet I cannot help observing that pestilence, fire, and war have ceased in this community since the soldiers appeared, although the dead Samuel still lies among the unbaptized infants.” “That he does not, by Heaven,” exulted the pastor, striking a resounding blow on the table. “The night before the soldiers came, I had him dug out of his grave and thrown into the Melk, which has long ere this swept him down to the ocean to rot among the dead fish and other rubbish.” The mayor was so astonished that he did not know whether to laugh or be shocked. “Do you really believe,” he asked at last, “that this is the reason why peace and prosperity have returned to our midst?” “What else?” cried the pastor. “The life of the village was in deadly danger, and I have saved it. Not that I would boast about it; I give God the glory.” And he raised a full wine-glass and drank to the mayor who, although piqued by his defeat, thought it best to drink in silence.

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ANATOLE FRANCE French novelist, critic and academician, 1844–1924. He expressed his contempt for anti-Semitism in historical novels, satires and essays. See Marvin Lowenthal, “Anatole France’s Jews,” in The Menorah Journal, 1925, pp. 14 ff. The following selection is Chapter 19 of The Amethyst Ring, translated by B. Drillien, New York, 1922, and is used here by permission of the publishers, Dodd, Mead and Company, Inc.

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AN ANTI-SEMITE IN THE COUNTRY

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AVING risen early one morning, M. Bergeret, Professor of Latin Literature, went for a walk into the country with Riquet.The two loved each other dearly, and were nearly always together. They had the same tastes, and both preferred a quiet, uneventful, and simple life. Riquet’s eyes always followed his master closely on these walks. He was afraid to let him out of his sight one instant, because he was not very sharp-scented, and, had he lost his master, could not have tracked him again. His beautiful, loving look was very engaging as he trotted by the side of M. Bergeret with an important air quite pretty to see. The Professor of Latin Literature walked slowly or quickly according to the trend of his capricious fancy. As soon as Riquet was a stone’s throw ahead of his master, he turned round and waited for him with his nose in the air, and one of his front paws lifted in an attitude of attention and watchfulness. It did not take much to amuse either of them. Riquet plunged into gardens and shops alike, coming out again as hastily as he had entered. On this particular day he bounded into the coal-seller’s office, to find himself confronted by a huge snow-white pigeon that flapped its wings in the darkness, to his extreme terror. He came, as usual, to relate his adventure, with eyes and paws and tail, to M. Bergeret, who said jokingly: “Yes, indeed, my poor Riquet, we have had a terrible encounter, and have escaped the claws and beak of a winged monster. That pigeon was an awe-inspiring creature!” 67

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And M. Bergeret smiled. Riquet knew that smile, and knew that his master was making fun of him. This was a thing he could not bear. He stopped wagging his tail, and walked with hanging head, hunched-up back, and legs wide apart, as a sign of annoyance. “My poor Riquet,” said M. Bergeret to him again, “that bird, which your ancestors would have eaten alive, alarms you. You are not hungry, as they would have been, and you are not as brave as they were; the refinement of culture has made a coward of you. It is questionable whether civilization does not tend to make men less courageous as well as less fierce. But civilized man, out of respect for his species, affects courage and makes of it an artificial virtue far more beautiful than the natural one. While, as for you, you shamelessly display your fear.” Riquet’s annoyance, to tell the truth, was but slight, and only lasted a few minutes. All was forgiven and forgotten when the man and the dog entered the Josde woods just at the hour when the grass is wet with dew and light mists rise from the hills. M. Bergeret loved the woods, and at sight of a blade of grass would lose himself in boundless reveries. Riquet, too, loved the woods. As he sniffed at the dead leaves, his soul was filled with strange delight. In deep meditation, therefore, they followed the pathway leading to the Carrefour des Demoiselles, when they met a horseman returning to the town. It was M. de Terremondre, the county councillor. “Good day, M. Bergeret,” he cried, reining in his horse. “Well! Have you thought over my arguments of yesterday?” He had explained the evening before at Paillot’s the reason why he was against the Jews.

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When in the country, especially during the hunting season, M. de Terremondre’s proclivities were anti-Jewish. When in Paris he dined with rich Jews, whom he tolerated to the extent of inducing them to buy pictures at a profit to himself. At County Council meetings, with due consideration to the feelings that were paramount in his county town, he was a Nationalist and an Anti-Semite. But as there were no Jews in that town, the anti-Jewish crusade consisted principally in attacks upon the Protestants, who formed a small, austere, and exclusive community of their own. “So we are enemies,” went on M. de Terremondre. “I am sorry for that, because you are a clever man, but you live quite outside the social movement, and are not mixed up in public life. If you did as I do, and entered into it, your sympathies would be anti-Jewish.” “You flatter me,” said M. Bergeret. “The Jewish race which peopled Chaldea, Assyria, and Phoenicia in former times, and which founded cities all along the Mediterranean coast, is composed today of Jews scattered the world over, and also of the countless Arab populations of Asia and Africa. My heart is not great enough to contain so many hatreds. Old Cadmus was a Jew, but I really couldn’t be the enemy of old Cadmus!” “You are joking,” replied M. de Terremondre, holding in his horse, who was nibbling at the bushes. “You know as well as I do that the anti-Jewish movement is directed solely against the Jews who have settled in France.” “Therefore I must hate 80,000 persons,” said M. Bergeret. “That is still too many; I have not the strength for it!” “No one asks you to hate them,” said M. de Terremondre. “But Jews and Frenchmen cannot live together. The antagonism is ineradicable; it is in the blood.”

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“I believe, on the contrary,” said M. Bergeret, “that the Jews are particularly assimilable, and have the most plastic and malleable natures in the world. With the same readiness that the niece of Mordecai entered the harem of Ahasuerus in bygone days, so the daughters of our Jewish financiers marry nowadays the heirs to the greatest names in Christian France. After marriages such as these, it is rather late in the day to speak of incompatibility of race. Then, I think it is a bad thing to make a distinction of race in any country; it is not the race that makes the nation, and there is not a single country in Europe that has not been founded on a multitude of mixed and different races. When Caesar entered Gaul it was peopled by Celts, Gauls, Iberians, all differing in origin and religion. The tribes that set up the cromlechs were not of the same blood as those who honored bards and druids. Into this human mixture the different invasions poured Germans, Romans, Saracens, and out of the whole a nation arose, the brave and lovable people of France, who, not so very long ago, were the teachers of justice, liberty, and philosophy to the entire world. Think of the beautiful words of Renan; I wish I could remember them exactly: ‘What makes a nation is the memory of the great things its people have done together, and the will they have to accomplish others.’ ” “Excellent!” said M. de Terremondre. “But as I have not the will to accomplish great things with the Jews, I remain an anti-Semite.” “Are you quite sure that it is possible for your feelings to be wholly anti-Jewish?” asked M. Bergeret. “I do not understand you,” replied M. de Terremondre. “Then I will explain myself,” said M. Bergeret. “There is one fact that never varies: each time there is an attack

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on the Jews, a goodly number of them side with the enemy. That is just what happened to Titus.” At this point in the conversation Riquet sat down in the middle of the road and looked resignedly at his master. “You will agree,” went on M. Bergeret, “that between the years 67 and 70 A.D., Titus was a strong anti-Semite. He took Jotapata, and exterminated its inhabitants. He conquered Jerusalem, burned the Temple, and reduced to ashes and ruins the city which afterwards received the name of Ælia. Capitolina. The seven-branched candlestick was carried in his triumphal procession to Rome, and, I think, without doing you an injustice, I may say that that was anti-Semitism carried to a degree which you people can never hope to attain. Well! Titus, the destroyer of Jerusalem, had many friends among the Jews. Berenice was deeply attached to him, and you know as well as I do that it was against his will and against hers that he left her. Flavius Josephus was his friend, and Flavius was not one of the least of his nation. He was descended from the Asmonean kings, lived the life of a strict Pharisee, and wrote Greek correctly enough. After the demolition of the Temple and holy city he followed Titus to Rome and became the intimate friend of the Emperor. He received the freedom of the city, the title of Roman Knight, and a pension. And do not imagine, Monsieur, that in so doing he was betraying his race. On the contrary, he remained faithful to the law, and applied himself to the collection of national antiquities. In short, he was a good Jew in his own way and a friend of Titus. Now there have always been men like Flavius in Israel. As you pointed out, I live a secluded life and know nothing of what goes on in the world, but it would be a great surprise to me if in the present crisis

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the Jews were not divided amongst themselves, and if a great number of them were not on your side.” “Some of them are with us, as you say,” replied M. de Terremondre. “All the more credit to them.” “I thought as much,” said M. Bergeret. “And what is more, I am sure that there are some clever ones among them who will make their mark in this crusade against themselves. About thirty years ago a senator, a very clever man, who admired the Jewish faculty for getting on, and who cited as an example a certain chaplain of Jewish origin, used the following words, which have since been much quoted. ‘See,’ said he, ‘here is a Jew who has gone into the Church, and now he is a Monseigneur. Let us not revive the prejudices of barbaric times. Let us not ask if a man is a Jew or Christian, but only if he is an honest man and capable of serving his country.’ ” M. de Terremondre’s horse began to plunge, and Riquet, coming up to his master, begged him, with gentle, loving look, to continue the interrupted walk. “Do not run away with the idea,” went on M. de Terremondre, “that I include all Jews in the same blind feeling of dislike. I have many excellent friends among them, but my love for my country makes an anti-Semite of me.” He held out his hand to M. Bergeret, and turned his horse around. He was quietly proceeding on his way when the professor called him back. “Hi! A word in your ear, dear M. de Terremondre! Now that the die is cast, and that you and your friends have quarrelled with the Jews, be very careful that you owe them nothing, and give them back the God you have taken from them—for you have taken their God.” “Jehovah?” asked M. de Terremondre.

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“Yes, Jehovah! If I were in your place, I would beware of Him. He was a Jew at heart, and who knows whether He has not always remained a Jew? Who knows whether at this moment He is not avenging His people? All that we have seen lately, the confessions that burst forth like thunder-claps, the plain speaking, the revelations proceeding from all parts, the assembly of red-robed judges which you were not able to hinder even when you seemed all-powerful, who can tell whether Jehovah has not dealt these crushing blows? They savor of His old biblical style, and I seem to recognise His handiwork.” M. de Terremondre’s horse was already disappearing behind the bushes round the bend of the path, and Riquet trotted along contentedly through the grass. “Beware!” repeated M. Bergeret. “Do not keep their God.”

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THOMAS NELSON PAGE American diplomat and novelist, 1853–1922. The following selection consists of chapters 2 and 3 of his novel, John Marvel, Assistant, New York, 1909, in which Page portrayed a Jew who gave his life for the social and economic emancipation of the masses. It is included here with the permission of the publishers, Charles Scribner’s Sons.

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THE JEW AND THE CHRISTIAN

I

ARRIVED rather late and the term had already begun, so that all the desirable rooms had been taken. I was told that I would either have to room out of college or take quarters with a young man by the name of Wolffert— like myself, a freshman. I naturally chose the latter. On reaching my quarters, I found my new comrade to be an affable, gentlemanly fellow, and very nice looking. Indeed, his broad brow, with curling brown hair above it; his dark eyes, deep and luminous; a nose the least bit too large and inclining to be aquiline; a well-cut mouth with mobile, sensitive lips, and a finely chiselled jaw, gave him an unusual face, if not one of distinction. He was evidently bent on making himself agreeable to me, and as he had read an extraordinary amount for a lad of his age, and I, who had also read some, was lonely, we had passed a pleasant evening when he mentioned casually a fact which sent my heart down into my boots. He was a Jew. This, then, accounted for the ridge of his well-carved nose, and the curl of his soft brown hair. I tried to be as frank and easy as I had been before, but it was a failure. He saw my surprise as I saw his disappointment—a coolness took the place of the warmth that had been growing up between us for several hours, and we passed a stiff evening. He had already had one roommate. Next day, I found a former acquaintance who offered to take me into his apartment, and that afternoon, having watched for my opportunity, I took advantage of my roommate’s absence and moved out, leaving a short note saying 77

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that I had discovered an old friend who was very desirous that I should share his quarters. When I next met Wolffert, he was so stiff that, although I felt sorry for him and was ready to be as civil as I might, our acquaintance thereafter became merely nominal. I saw, in fact, little of him during the next months, for he soon forged far ahead of me. There was, indeed, no one in his class who possessed his acquirements or his ability. I used to see him for a while standing in his doorway looking wistfully out at the groups of students gathered under the trees, or walking alone, like Isaac in the fields, and until I formed my own set, I would have gone and joined him or have asked him to join us but for his rebuff. I knew that he was lonely; for I soon discovered that the cold shoulder was being given to him by most of the students. I could not, however, but feel that it served him right for the “airs” he put on with me. That he made a brilliant exhibition in his classes and was easily the cleverest man in the class did not affect our attitude toward him; perhaps, it only aggravated the case. Why should he be able to make easily a demonstration at the blackboard that the cleverest of us only bungled through? One day, however, we learned that the Jew had a roommate. Bets were freely taken that he would not stick, but he stuck—for it was John Marvel. Not that any of us knew what John Marvel was; for even I, who, except Wolffert, came to know him best, did not divine until many years later what a nugget of unwrought gold that homely, shy, awkward John Marvel was! It appeared that Wolffert had a harder time than any of us dreamed of. He had come to the institution against the advice of his father, and for a singular reason: he thought it the most

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liberal institution of learning in the country! Little he knew of the narrowness of youth! His mind was so receptive that all that passed through it was instantly appropriated. Like a plant he drew sustenance from the atmosphere about him and transmuted what was impalpable to us to forms of beauty. He was even then a man of independent thought; a dreamer who peopled the earth with ideals, and saw beneath the stony surface of the commonplace the ideals and principles that were to reconstruct and resurrect the world. An admirer of the Law in its ideal conception, he reprobated with the fury of the Baptist the generation that had belittled and cramped it to an instrument of torture of the human mind, and looked to the millenial coming of universal brotherhood and freedom. His father was a leading man in his city; one who, by his native ability and the dynamic force that seems to be a characteristic of the race, had risen from poverty to the position of chief merchant and capitalist of the town in which he lived. He had been elected mayor in a time of stress; but his popularity among the citizens generally had cost him, as I learned later, something among his own people. The breadth of his views had not been approved by them. The abilities that in the father had taken this direction of the mingling of the practical and the theoretical had, in the son, taken the form I have stated. He was an idealist: a poet and a dreamer. The boy from the first had discovered powers that had given his father the keenest delight, not unmingled with a little misgiving. As he grew up among the best class of boys in his town and became conscious that he was not one of them, his inquiring and aspiring mind began early

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to seek the reasons for the difference. Why should he be held a little apart from them? He was a Jew. Yes, but why should a Jew be held apart? They talked about their families. Why, his family could trace back for two thousand and more years to princes and kings. They had a different religion. But he saw other boys with different religions going and playing together. They were Christians, and believed in Christ, while the Jew, etc. This puzzled him till he found that some of them—a few—did not hold the same views of Christ with the others. Then he began to study for himself, boy as he was, the history of Christ, and out of it came questions that his father could not answer and was angry that he should put to him. He went to a young rabbi who told him that Christ was a good man, but mistaken in His claims. So, the boy drifted a little apart from his own people, and more and more he studied the questions that arose in his mind, and more and more he suffered, and more and more he grew strong. The father, too proud of his son’s independence to coerce him by an order which might have been a law to him, had, nevertheless, thrown him on his own resources and cut him down to the lowest figure on which he could live, confident that his own opinions would be justified and his son return home. Wolffert’s first experience very nearly justified this conviction. The fact that a Jew had come and taken one of the old apartments spread through the college with amazing rapidity and created a sensation. Not that there had not been Jews there before, for there had been a number there at one time or another. But they were members of families of distinction, who had been known for generations as bear-

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ing their part in all the appointments of life, and had consorted with other folk on an absolute equality, so that there was little or nothing to distinguish them as Israelites except their name. If they were Israelites, it was an accident and played no larger part in their views than if they had been Scotch or French. But here was a man who proclaimed himself a Jew; who proposed that it should be known, and evidently meant to assert his rights and peculiarities on all occasions. The result was that he was subjected to a species of persecution which only the young Anglo-Saxon, the most brutal of all animals, could have devised. As the college filled rapidly, it soon became necessary to double up, that is, put two men in one apartment. The first student assigned to live with Wolffert was Peck, a sedate and cool young man—like myself, from the country, and like myself, very short of funds. Peck would not have minded rooming with a Jew, or, for that matter, with the Devil, if he had thought he could get anything out of him; for he had few prejudices, and when it came to calculation, he was the multiplication table. But Peck had his way to make, and he cooly decided that a Jew was likely to make him bear his full part of the expenses—which he never had any mind to do. So he looked around, and within forty-eight hours moved to a place out of college where he got reduced board on the ground of belonging to some peculiar set of religionists, of which I am convinced he had never heard till he learned of the landlady’s idiosyncrasy. I had incurred Peck’s lasting enmity—though I did not know it at the time—by a witticism at his expense. We had never taken to each other from the first, and one evening, when someone was talking about Wolffert, Peck joined in and said that that institution was no place for

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any Jew. I said, “Listen to Peck sniff. Peck, how did you get in?” This raised a laugh. Peck, I am sure, had never read Martin Chuzzlewit; but I am equally sure he read it afterward, for he never forgave me. Then came my turn and desertion which I have described. And then, after that interval of loneliness, appeared John Marvel. Wolffert, who was one of the most social men I ever knew, was sitting in his room meditating on the strange fate that had made him an outcast among the men whom he had come there to study and to know. This was my interpretation of his thoughts: he would probably have said he was thinking of the strange prejudices of the human race—prejudices to which he had been in some sort a victim all his life, as his race had been all through the ages. He was steeped in loneliness, and as, in the mellow October afternoon, the sound of good-fellowship floated in at his window from the lawn outside, he grew more and more dejected. One evening it culminated. He even thought of writing to his father that he would come home and go into his office and accept the position that meant wealth and luxury and power. Just then there was a step outside, and someone stopped and after a moment, knocked at the door. Wolffert rose and opened it and stood facing a new student—a florid, round-faced, round-bodied, bowlegged, blue-eyed, awkward lad of about his own age. “Is this number—?” demanded the newcomer, peering curiously at the dingy door and half shyly looking up at the occupant. “It is. Why?” Wolffert spoke abruptly. “Well, I have been assigned to this apartment by the Proctor. I am a new student and have just come. My name

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is Marvel—John Marvel.” Wolffert put his arms across the doorway and stood in the middle of it. “Well, I want to tell you before you come in that I am a Jew. You are welcome not to come, but if you come I want you to stay.” Perhaps the other’s astonishment contained a query, for he went on hotly: “I have had two men come here already and both of them left after one day. The first said he got cheaper board, which was a legitimate excuse—if true—the other said he had found an old friend who wanted him. I am convinced that he lied and that the only reason he left was that I am a Jew. And now you can come in or not, as you please, but if you come you must stay.” He was looking down in John Marvel’s eyes with a gaze that had the concentrated bitterness of generations in it, and the latter met it with a gravity that deepened into pity. “I will come in and I will stay; Jesus was a Jew,” said the man on the lower step. “I do not know him,” said the other bitterly. “But you will. I know Him.” Wolffert’s arms fell and John Marvel entered and stayed. That evening the two men went to the supper hall together. Their table was near mine and they were the observed of all observers. The one curious thing was that John Marvel was studying for the ministry. It lent zest to the jokes that were made on this incongruous pairing, and jests, more or less insipid, were made on the Law and the Prophets; the lying down together of the lion and the lamb, etc. It was a curious mating—the light-haired, moon-faced, slow-witted Saxon, and the dark, keen Jew with his intel-

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lectual face and his deep-burning eyes in which glowed the misery and mystery of the ages. John Marvel soon became well known; for he was one of the slowest men in the college. With his amusing awkwardness, he would have become the butt of many jokes except for his imperturbable good-humor. As it was, he was for a time a sort of object of ridicule to many of us— myself among the number—and we had many laughs at him. He would disappear on Saturday night and not turn up again till Monday morning, dusty and disheveled. And many jests were made at his expense. One said that Marvel was practising preaching in the mountains with a view to becoming a second Demosthenes; another suggested that, if so, the mountains would probably get up and run into the sea. When, however, it was discovered later that he had a Sunday school in the mountains, and walked twelve miles out and twelve miles back, most of the gibers, except the inveterate humorists like myself, were silent. This fact came out by chance. Marvel disappeared from college one day and remained away for two or three weeks. Wolffert either could not or would not give any account of him. When Marvel returned, he looked worn and ill, as if he had been starving, and almost immediately he was taken ill and went to the infirmary with a case of fever. Here he was so ill that the doctors quarantined him and no one saw him except the nurse—old Mrs. Denny, a wrinkled and bald-headed, old, fat woman, something between a light-wood knot and an angel—and Wolffert. Wolffert moved down and took up his quarters in the infirmary—it was suggested, with a view to converting

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Marvel to Judaism—and here he stayed. The nursing never appeared to make any difference in Wolffert’s preparation for his classes; for when he came back he still stood easily first. But poor Marvel never caught up again, and was even more hopelessly lost in the befogged region at the bottom of the class than ever before. When called on to recite, his brow would pucker and he would perspire and stammer until the class would be in ill-suppressed convulsions, all the more enjoyable because of Leo Wolffert’s agonizing over his wretchedness. Then Marvel, excused by the professor, would sit down and mop his brow and beam quite as if he had made a wonderful performance (which indeed, he had), while Wolffert’s thin face would grow whiter, his nostrils quiver, and his deep eyes burn like coals. One day a spare, rusty man with a frowzy beard, and a lank, stooping woman strolled into the college grounds, and, after wandering around aimlessly for a time, asked for Mr. Marvel. Each of them carried a basket. They were directed to his room and remained with him some time, and when they left, he walked some distance with them. It was at first rumored and then generally reported that they were Marvel’s father and mother. It became known later that they were a couple of poor mountaineers named Shiflett, whose child John Marvel had nursed when it had the fever. They had just learned of his illness and had come down to bring him some chickens and other things which they thought he might need. This incident, with the knowledge of Marvel’s devotion, made some impression on us, and gained for Marvel, and incidentally for Wolffert, some sort of respect.

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All this time I was about as far aloof from Marvel and Wolffert as I was from any one in the college. I rather liked Marvel, partly because he appeared to like me and I helped him in his Latin, and partly because Peck sniffed at him and Peck I cordially disliked for his coldblooded selfishness and his plodding way. I was strong and active and fairly good-looking, though by no means so handsome as I fancied myself when I passed the large plate-glass windows in the stores; I was conceited but not arrogant except to my family and those I esteemed my inferiors; was a good poker-player; was open-handed enough, for it cost me nothing; and was inclined to be kind by nature. I had, moreover, several accomplishments which led to a certain measure of popularity. I had a retentive memory, and could get up a recitation with little trouble; though I forgot about as quickly as I learned. I could pick a little on a banjo; could spout fluently what sounded like a good speech if one did not listen to me; could write, what someone had said looked at a distance like poetry and, thanks to my father, could both fence and read Latin. These accomplishments served to bring me into the best set in college and, in time, to undo me. For there is nothing more dangerous to a young man than an exceptional social accomplishment. A tenor voice is almost as perilous as a taste for drink; and to play the guitar about as seductive as to play poker. I was soon to know Wolffert better. He and Marvel, after their work became known, had been admitted rather more within the circle, though they were still kept near the perimeter. And thus, as the spring came on, when we all assembled on pleasant afternoons under the big trees

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that shaded the green slopes above the athletic field, even Wolffert and Marvel were apt to join us. I would long ago have made friends with Wolffert, as some others have done since he distinguished himself; for I had been ashamed of my poltroonery in leaving him; but, though he was affable enough with others, he always treated me with such marked reserve that I had finally abandoned my charitable effort to be on easy terms with him. One spring afternoon we were all loafing under the trees, many of us stretched out on the grass. I had just saved a game of baseball by driving a ball that brought in three men from the bases, and I was surrounded by a group. Marvel, who was strong as an ox, was second-baseman on the other nine and had missed the ball as the centerfielder threw it wildly. Something was said—I do not recall what—and I raised a laugh at Marvel’s expense, in which he joined heartily. Then a discussion began on the merits in which Wolffert joined. I started it, but as Wolffert appeared excited, I drew out and left it to my friends. Presently, at something Wolffert said, I turned to a friend, Sam Pleasants, and said in a half-aside with a sneer: “He did not see it; Sam, you—” I nodded my head meaning, “You explain it.” Suddenly, Wolffert rose to his feet and, without a word of warning, poured out on me such a torrent of abuse as I had never heard before or since. His least epithet was a deadly insult. It was out of a clear sky, and for a moment my breath was quite taken away. I sprang to my feet and, with a roar of rage, made a rush for him. But he was ready, and with a step to one side, planted a straight blow on my jaw that, catching me unprepared, sent me full length on my back. I was up in a second and made another rush for

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him only to be caught in the same way and sent down again. When I rose the second time, I was cooler. I knew that I was in for it. Those blows were a boxer’s. They came straight from the shoulder and were as quick as lightning, with every ounce of the giver’s weight behind them. By this time, however, the crowd had interfered. This was no place for a fight, they said. The professors would come on us. Several were holding me and as many more had Wolffert; among them, John Marvel, who could have lifted him in his strong arms and held him as a baby. Marvel was pleading with him with tears in his eyes. Wolffert was cool enough now, but he took no heed of his friend’s entreaties. Standing quite still, with the blaze in his eyes all the more vivid because of the pallor of his face, he was looking over his friend’s head and was cursing me with all the eloquence of a rich vocabulary. So far as he was concerned, there might not have been another man but myself within a mile. In a moment an agreement was made by which we were to adjourn to a retired spot and fight it out. Something that he said led someone to suggest that we settle it with pistols. It was Peck’s voice. Wolffert sprang at it. “I will, if I can get any gentleman to represent me,” he said with a bitter sneer, casting his flashing, scornful eyes around on the crowd. “I have only one friend and I will not ask him to do it.” “I will represent you,” said Peck, who had his own reasons for the offer. “All right. When and where?” said I. “Now, and in the railway-cut beyond the wood,” said Wolffert.

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We retired to two rooms in a neighboring dormitory to arrange matters. Peck and another volunteer represented Wolffert, and Sam Pleasants and Harry Houston were my seconds. I had expected that some attempt at reconciliation would be made; but there was no suggestion of it. I never saw such cold-blooded young ruffians as all our seconds were, and when Peck came to close the final cartel he had an air between that of a butcher and an undertaker. He looked at me exactly as a butcher does at a fatted calf. He positively licked his chops. I did not want to shoot Wolffert, but I could cheerfully have murdered Peck. While, however, the arrangements were being made by our friends, I had had a chance for some reflection and I had used it. I knew that Wolffert did not like me. He had no reason to do so, for I had not only left him, but had been cold and distant to him. Still, I had always treated him civilly and had spoken of him respectfully; which was more than Peck had always done. Yet, here, without the least provocation, he had insulted me grossly. I knew there must be some misunderstanding, and I determined on my “own hook” to find out what it was. Fortune favored me. Just then Wolffert opened the door. He had gone to his own room for a few moments and, on his return, mistook the number and opened the wrong door. Seeing his error, he drew back with an apology, and was just closing the door when I called him. “Wolffert! Come in here a moment. I want to speak to you alone.” He re-entered and closed the door, standing stiff and silent. “Wolffert, there has been some mistake, and I want to know what it is.” He made not the least sign that he heard,

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except a flash, deep in his eyes, like a streak of lightning in a far-off cloud. “I am ready to fight you in any way you wish,” I went on. “But I want to know what the trouble is. Why did you insult me out of a clear sky? What had I done?” “Everything.” “What! Specify. What was it?” “You have made my life Hell—all of you!” His face worked and he made a wild sweep with his arm and brought it back to his side with clenched fist. “But I?” “You were the head. You all have done it. You have treated me as an outcast—a Jew! You have given me credit for nothing, because I was a Jew. I could have stood the personal contempt and insult, and I have tried to stand it; but I will put up with it no longer. It is appointed once for a man to die, and I can die in no better cause than for my people.” He was gasping with suppressed emotion, and I was beginning to gasp also—but for a different reason. He went on: “You thought I was a coward because I was a Jew, and because I wanted peace—treated me as a poltroon because I was a Jew. And I made up my mind to stop it. So this evening my chance came. That is all.” “But what have I done?” “Nothing more than you have always done; treated the Jew with contempt. But they were all there, and I chose you as the leader when you said that about the Jew.” “I said nothing about a Jew. Here, wait! Did you think I insulted you as a Jew this afternoon?” I had risen and walked over in front of him.

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“Yes.” He bowed. “Well, I did not.” “You did—you said to Sam Pleasants that I was a ‘damned Jew.’” “What! I never said a word like it—yes I did—I said to Sam Pleasants, that you did not see the play, and said, ‘Sam, you—’ meaning, ‘you tell him.’ Wait. Let me think a moment. Wolffert, I owe you an apology and will make it. I know there are some who will think I do it because I am afraid to fight. But I do not care. I am not, and I will fight Peck if he says so. If you will come with me, I will make you a public apology and then, if you want to fight still, I will meet you.” He suddenly threw his arm up across his face, and, turning his back to me, leaned on it against the door, his whole person shaken with sobs. I walked up close to him and laid my hand on his shoulder helplessly. “Calm yourself,” I began, but could think of nothing else to say. He shook for a moment and then, turning, with his left arm still across his face, he held out his right hand, and I took it. “I do not want you to do that. All I want is decent treatment—ordinary civility,” he faltered between his sobs. Then he turned back and leaned against the door for he could hardly stand. And so standing, he made the most forcible, the most eloquent, and the most burning defence of his people I have ever heard. “They have civilized the world,” he declared, “and what have they gotten from it but brutal barbarism. They gave

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you your laws and your literature, your morality and your religion—even your Christ, and you have violated every. law, human and divine, in their oppression. You invaded our land, ravaged our country, and scattered us over the face of the earth, trying to destroy our very name and Nation. But the God of Israel was our refuge and consolation. You crucified Jesus and then visited it on us. You have perpetuated an act of age-long hypocrisy, and have, in the name of the Prince of Peace, brutalized over his people. The cross was your means of punishment—no Jew ever used it. But if we had crucified him it would have been in the name of Law and Order; your crucifixion was in the name of Contempt; and you have crucified a whole people through the ages—the one people who have ever stood for the one God, who have stood for Morality and for Peace. A Jew! Yes, I am a Jew. I thank the God of Israel that I am. For as he saved the world in the past, so he will save it in the future.” This was only a part of it, and not the best part; but it gave me a new insight into his mind. When he was through, I was ready. I had reached my decision. “I will go with you,” I said, “not on your account, but on my own, and make my statement before the whole crowd. They are still on the hill. Then, if anyone wants to fight he can get it. I will fight Peck.” He repeated that he did not want me to do this, and he would not go; which was as well, for I might not have been able to say so much in his presence. So I went alone with my seconds, whom I immediately sought. I found the latter working over a cartel at a table in the

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next room, and I walked in. They looked as solemn as owls, but I broke them up in a moment. “You can stop this infernal foolishness. I have apologized to Wolffert. I have treated him like a pig and so have you. And I have told him so, and now I am going to tell the other fellows.” Their astonishment was unbounded and, at least, one of the group was sincerely disappointed. I saw Peck’s face fall at my words and then he elevated his nose and gave a little sniff. “Well, it did not come from our side,” he said in a half undertone with a sneer. I suddenly exploded. His cold face was so evil. “No, it did not. I made it freely and frankly and I am going to make it publicly. But if you are disappointed, I want to tell you that you can have a little affair on your own account. And in order that there may be no want of pretext, I wish to tell you that I believe you have been telling lies on me, and I consider you a damned, sneaking hypocrite.” There was a commotion, of course, and the others all jumped in between us. And when it was over, I walked out. Three minutes later I was on the hill among the crowd, which now numbered several hundred, for they were all waiting to learn the result; and, standing on a bench, I told them what I had said to Wolffert and how I felt I owed him a public apology, not for one insult, but for a hundred. There was a silence for a second, and then such a cheer broke out as I never got any other time in my life! Cheers for Wolffert—cheers for Marvel, and even cheers for me. And then a freckled youth with a big mouth and a blue, merry eye broke the tension by saying:

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“All bets are off and we sha’n’t have a holiday tomorrow at all.” The reprobates had been betting on which of us would fall, and had been banking on a possible holiday. Quite a crowd went to Wolffert’s room to make atonement for any possible slight they had put on him; but he was nowhere to be found. But that night, he and Marvel sat at our table and always sat there afterward. He illustrated George Borrow’s observation that good manners and a knowledge of boxing will take one through the world.

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JOHAN AUGUST STRINDBERG Swedish dramatist and novelist, 1849–1912. The following brief extract is from his sketch, Peter the Hermit, which appeared in 1907, and is found in his Historical Miniatures, translated from the 9th German edition by Claud Field, London, G. Allen & Co., 1913, pp. 232–237. It is republished here with the permission of George Alien & Unwin, Ltd.

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PETER THE HERMIT

I

N THE little town Tiberias, on the shore of the Lake of Gennesaret, sat the old Jew Eleazar, with his family, prepared to celebrate the Passover. It was the fourteenth day of the month Nisan of the year 1098. The lake shone clear, and its banks were green; the oleanders were in blossom, the lilies had sprung up in the pleasant season when the earth rejoices. It was evening; all members of the family were dressed as though for a journey, with shoes on their feet and staves in their hands. They stood round the covered table on which the roasted lamb smoked in a dish surrounded by bitter lettuce. The ancestral wine-cup was filled with wine, and white unleavened bread laid on a plate close by. After the head of the family had washed his hands, he blessed the gifts of God, drank some wine, took some of the bitter herbs, and ate and gave to the others. After that, the second cup of wine was served, and the youngest son of the house asked, according to the sacred custom, “What is the meaning of this feast?” The father answered: “The Lord brought us with a strong hand out of the Egyptian bondage.” Thereafter a blessing was pronounced on the unleavened bread, and they sat down to eat. The old Eleazar spoke of past times, and contrasted them with the present: “Man born of woman lives but a short time, and is full of trouble; he cometh up like a flower, and is cut down; he fleeth hence like a 97

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shadow, and continueth not. A stranger and a sojourner is he upon earth, and therefore he should be always ready for his journey as we are, this holy evening.” The eldest son, Jacob, who had come home in the evening after a journey, seemed to wish to say something, but did not venture to do so till the fourth and last cup was drunk. “Now, Jacob,” said Eleazar, “you want to talk. You come from a journey, though somewhat late, and have something new to tell us. Hush! I hear steps in the garden!” All hurried to the window, for they lived in troublous times; but as no one was to be seen outside, they sat down again at the table. “Speak, Jacob,” Eleazar said again. “I come from Antioch, where the Crusaders are besieged by Kerboga, the Emir Mosul. Famine has raged among them, and of three hundred thousand Goyim, only twenty thousand remain.” “What had they to do here?” “Now, on the roads, they are talking of a new battle which the Goyim have won, and they believe that the Crusaders will march straight on Jerusalem.” “Well, they won’t come here.” “They won’t find the way, unless there are traitors.” “The Christians are misguided, and their doctrine is folly. They believe the Messiah has come, although the world is like a hell, and men resemble devils! And it ever gets worse. . ..” Then the door was flung open, and on the threshold appeared a little man, emaciated as a skeleton, with burning eyes—Peter the Hermit. He was clothed in rags, carried a cross in his hands, and bore a red cross-shaped sign on his shoulder.

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“Are you Christians?” he asked. “No,” answered Eleazar, “we are of Israel.” “Out with you!—down to the lake and be baptized, or you will die the death!” Then Eleazar turned to the Hermit, and cried, “No! I and my house will serve the Lord, as we have done this holy evening according to the law of our fathers. We suffer for our sins, that is true, but you, godless, cursed man, pride not yourself on your power, for you have not yet escaped the judgment of Almighty God.” The Hermit had gone out to his followers. Those within the house closed the window-shutters and the door. There was a cry without: “Fire the house!” “Let us bless God, and die!” said Eleazar, and none of them hesitated. Eleazar spoke: “‘I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that He will stand at the latter day upon the earth. And when I am free from my flesh, I shall see God. Him shall I see and not another, and for that my soul and my heart cry out.’ ” The mother had taken the youngest son in her arms, as though she wished to protect him against the fire which now seized on the wall. Then Eleazar began the Song of the Three Children in the Fire, and when they came to the words, ‘O thank the Lord, for He is good, And His mercy endureth for ever,’ their voices were choked, and they ended their days like the Maccabees.

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PER HALLSTRÖM Swedish novelist, 1866–. Arsareth is the first story in his collection Purpur, Norrkoping, M. W. Wallberg & Co., 1895; 3rd ed., Stockholm, Albert Bonniers Forlag, 1908. It was translated specially for this anthology by Bjarne Landa and the editor, and is included here with the kind permission of Albert Bonnier Publishing House of New York.

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ARSARETH

O

N THE mountains the snow lingered in dirty heaps; farther down were forests of chestnut trees still dark and naked; and yet farther down, in the hollow, was the town. It was only half a day’s journey from the ocean, but one would not have thought so here. Spring was overdue, but here the sun shone meagerly, and the soil was more sluggish than elsewhere. Flitting clouds alone indicated that the winter was past. The town was crowded together as in a kettle, and had only itself to look at. Clinging to rough hillocks and wet precipices, the dark gray houses nudged one another, stretched themselves by means of narrow, gloomy gables, and stared down on each other in sullen haughtiness in the direction of the river’s ravine across which a similar aggregation of houses met their glances in defiance. Above them all was the castle with its rusty-brown wooden roof and the thin jutty of pinnacles protruding like an old giant’s teeth. Below them all was the Jews’ quarter. The last section of town, over-crowded with people and darkened by the mountain shadow, was the object of everybody’s ridicule and contempt. There the river made a turn under a low arch, providing a concourse for the filth which issued from all the slopes. In summer, the sickening water, bubbling yellowish-dark, was speckled with fat and drew the grounded boats down into the mire. Corpses of animals lay there with swollen hides and grimaced with loosened teeth. In floodtime, the water surmounted the 103

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green bridge-planking, rotted the arches, pulled the chain cables, licked the thresholds and gates, flowed into basements, and drove out wailing humans and beasts. Even the first snow that fell there was dirty and foul. This whole section, dense and noisy, sat as it were in the stocks of disgrace with its limbs pressed together by force, with its eyes weary and mournful. Pale men in black cloaks, pale women in black veils, all of them wore a badge sewed upon their shoulders, a yellowish heraldic lily like those branded on criminals, that their race might be readily recognized. But that was not enough. To provoke more mockery and sharpen the disgrace, the sign was made to resemble a hoof. And this they had to wear as a constant reproach even in their own quarter. Above, in the Christian section, they were compelled to bare the head before anyone they met and bend low to each glance that coldly and insolently passed over them. Their presence there was forbidden during the entire Holy Week, when they were expected to close their ears to the tolling of the bells. But one of their number, in rotation, had to appear in the Christian church, to receive a blow on his ashen cheek for the crime committed of old, and carry the mark home to his children and relatives as a remembrance and a warning. Miserable as their quarter was, it was nevertheless home. It was the only piece of ground they had. Here they might at least live, for, within memory, no one had been murdered here for the sake of one’s nation, except in an occasional riot. Here they might gather possessions, if they could hide them well. Here they might eat their bread standing. Here they might die in peace, and, on a knoll near by, there was a cemetery with stones raised as close together as arms in

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a crowd of people, where they could sleep quietly, awaiting their Messiah. They believed he was to come soon. It was far worse abroad, where hate beset them from all sides: hate and malice from the populace, hate and avidity from the princes, who pressed blood and gold out of them and spared them only like cattle for the slaughter. There, when they fell asleep at night, mental agony had long called to them out of the dark. From Rome they were struck by fiery damnations issued by the popes, and were stung with cunning words uttered with the brutality of the southern Moor, who burnt the wounds he inflicted. Or they were harrassed by mobs of Christian soldiers, who murdered for fun. In the East all was terror and confusion. Consequently, the Messiah must certainly come soon, if he was not to come too late. They prayed for him in the morning before proceeding to their tasks, and, washing their hands in the evening, they prayed for him again. He must come, the Messiah, for they needed him so sorely. He must come and tend to his vineyard, whose blossoms were lying in the dirt. He was sure to come! Indeed, many generations before, the sage Rabbi ben Issa had predicted his arrival, and it was to occur in the two hundred and fifty-sixth cycle of the moon. It could not occur in any other. They had miscalculated previously, but ben Issa was wise and never miscalculated. And now, the time was near, their rabbi told them. All rabbis round about said so, and sent the word to one another, and shook their grey heads. They dared not doubt ben Issa, but they also did not quite believe that the end of their suffering could really be at hand. It was almost the evening of the Sabbath. Rachel was sitting on the threshold of the back-yard leading to the

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bank of the river. She was waiting for the noise behind her to quiet down. She was tired of it and of being shut in, tired of the winter which tarried, and tired of the spring which was approaching and bringing her nothing. Spring was not for her and her people. It gave nothing; it only deprived. It would come with a ray of hope, with a ring in the air, with joy to be felt, a song to be sung, with beauty to sparkle and flare, and a yearning to be cried out. But it was not for them. How should they give, whose hands were tied? How should they rejoice, who were weighted down with anxiety; how shine, who were shut into darkness; how complain, whose mouths were closed with blows? No, to rest their heads in their hands, to stare down at their knees, to nurse mutely their misery and grief, to hush their voices and lull themselves to death—that was best. Stillness was all that was worth something. And it came so seldom. Crammed together, heaped upon each other, they trembled with each trembling in the mass, saw each other’s pain and sickness by the mere lifting of the eye, touched each other’s wounds by the mere moving of a limb. Each affliction became more oppressive through its echoing in everybody’s ears. Each beggarly expression of joy sounded the more pitiful through the abundance of discord. There was no air to breathe that was not already sultry with sighing and babbling. And at nightfall, when one was alone with one’s soul, everything trembled with anxiety and with the dreams that are born of fatigue. Now and then a succession of screams pierced the stillness. When someone from up yonder came down to the Jewish quarter to hunt for pleasure, there might be the sound of unspeakable horror to listen to. Or when a woman

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brought a new life into the world—that was the most horrible sound of all. Then Rachel would press her hands over her burning eyes, her future would seem to become dark and cruel, and she could not understand why she should live. And the river—what did it want? Why did it rise, why did it rush and roar and call? Like a painfully heaving bosom, it lifted the boats and then let them sink again, carrying along in its course torn-off stems and bushes; and it moaned, and it called. And it seemed to Rachel that all should come to an end soon, and that the river would cover everything. In leaps and bounds it would throw itself over everything, hurl down houses, thrust the heavy into the mire, and whirl the light to nothingness in its foam. And it would be just as well. Suddenly something whistled up the river, shrilly as a bird of prey. A boat shot downstream, black on lead-colored foam. A man was standing erect in it, and she knew from the waving of his hand that she must step aside to let him jump exactly where she was sitting. Without time to shudder at his dangerous venture, she recoiled against the doorpost. He struck the oar so hard against a stone that the wood broke. Then two black arms were extended towards her. A jump, and he was at her side. Rachel had never seen him before, and she did not know him. She pointed to the boat. “Take hold of it, or you will lose it.” The man stretched out his foot and kicked the gunwale so violently that it broke. The boat shot out into the vortex, was thrown forward, shattered itself against the arch of the bridge, and was drawn down. Rachel looked at him in amazement as he straightened his back. He was pale,

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shimmering with perspiration or water, and his eyes stared wildly. “Are you one of us?” she asked. “No,” he answered, without looking at her. “But your clothing is Jewish—,” she hesitated, not daring to point to the yellow sign on his shoulder. “You have been in danger.” Now he turned his eyes to her. His voice was severe. “Your speech is Jewish,” he said. “I have not been in danger. I am of Jewish birth. I come from the grottoes.” Rachel understood. “Then you are one of the Mourners of Zion,” she said, trembling at the mere mention of the name and all the rumors of stern renunciation and ascetic piety which it conjured up. “Have you always lived there among the stones, and fasted and prayed? Have you never been here before?” He scarcely seemed to hear. He shook the water from his hair. “I am not one of them now,” he said. “Now all mourning is at an end. Now is the time of expectation and silence!” And he stretched his limbs with a strange, testing gesture. It was as though he were forcing back a cry of triumph and choking down a gleaming spark in the depth of his glance. Rachel did not understand him. She was frightened by the change in his face. “And the boat?” she stammered. “Why—?” He turned and stretched his arm toward the vortex of the water so forcefully that it seemed as though he would sling her into it. “Because it carried me hither, but is not to carry me hence. Because my way is new, and behind me is a wall!” He seized her hand, pulled her up from the

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threshold, and said: “Come now. Who are you? Is it far to your home? Lead me to the rabbi!” “I am Rachel. My father is Hanan, the rabbi. It is not far from home; it is here.” She lifted her arms and shrugged her shoulders in an expression of fatigue and wretched discontent. But he did not look her way. He paced rapidly forward with his head bent and his lips pressed together. Rachel followed. At the door in the hallway, she took his cloak, and they walked in quietly. He stopped before the rabbi and scanned him with searching eyes. He saw a stooping figure, with shaded, keen eyes staring themselves into distracted blindness, and with a mild and resigned mouth. The stranger understood readily, and let his eye-lids droop. “My name is Menahem,” he said. “I come from the grottoes to stay here for a while. I do not wish to be your guest, but to follow you into the temple to see.” Rachel was hurt at the apparent affront, at the stranger’s indifference to the hospitality of her home, and she left the room without a farewell. But when she heard his steps in the street, she walked out softly and followed him to the temple, to see his countenance there, and to see whom he would follow home. The low hallway of the women’s section in the temple was almost empty and quite cold, but several men were there. The small lamps threw a faint light on the yellow faces, and shadows crossed each other on the floor. The stranger bowed deep before the Holy Ark. He murmured at length and inarticulately. Before raising his head, his eyes searched hurriedly and sharply. The men he confronted were all alike. They all seemed to be drooping

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under an oppressive burden. Only one stood erect; it was the blind Ussia. Perhaps it was because he could not see that he did not cast down his eyes before his God. His countenance was a riddle. Rachel noticed that the stranger directed his attention to the blind man. During the singing and offering, he stood there silent, and afterwards, without looking around any more, he stepped forward to Ussia, and went out with him. But Ussia was a severe and scoffing man, and it grieved Rachel that he was the chosen one. In the days immediately following, Rachel did not see him, but she knew that he was there. The atmosphere was charged with his nearness; it trembled as if close to a flame. Everything was restless. The voices, the faces quivered. The air was a panting chase of shadows, and high up migratory birds stopped and swung their wings lingeringly. Rachel’s hands shook, her voice was choked with overwhelming sensations, and she listened and watched with every nerve in her body. In the streets, everything seemed to have changed. People did not pass one another silently and hurriedly on their way to work. They stopped and conversed fast and low. Crowds filled the alleys. They neglected to measure and weigh their wares and to attend to their shops. Strange words from their speech found their way into her chamber, outcries that escaped in the street or agitated voices within the rabbi’s house. In all was the name of Menahem. Like a tempestuous wind it carried with it age-old echoes of rumors. And there was also another name, Messiah! The old name which she and unnumbered generations before her had heard repeatedly, which had been stamped on more than a thousand years of suffering, the golden ship of their dreams sailing on an ocean of tears, the glimmering

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spark which only helped to reveal the utterly black and heavy darkness all around! The old hope against hope, the ancient faith which was not unmixed with doubt! Once again the age-old yearning assumed reality. Still, it was no conviction, absolutely certain of victory. It was rather a hope-raising rumor, a profound querying, a passionate anxiety. And everywhere the name of the stranger was bandied: “Menahem says; Menahem promises; Menahem has seen in a dream; Menahem has heard a Voice!” A tone of doubt and struggle, as one doubts and struggles with a possibility, not a fiction. Menahem stirred up the youth. He enticed them with a false glitter. He did not know more than they knew. He was foolish and dangerous. Might not suspicion be aroused up yonder, in the town and in the castle above? Could it not be sensed in the very air what perilous adventures were whispered about? Should not the matter be kept altogether secret? Nor could Rachel comprehend what the stranger wanted, and she thought he was mad, insane! Yet she was always drawn by the mention of his name. Then one day, when the sun was peeping only scantily through worn, dark blue clouds, she was by the river and she met him again. He was staring down into the water and murmuring now softly and inarticulately, now sharply and shrilly. Once in a while he threw his head back, laughed against the white gleam in the swells of water and against something that was living in his vision, and his eyes and teeth glittered coldly. He saw her, and he scrutinized her silently and sadly. “You come hither often,” he said at last. Rachel’s voice trembled: “It is only here one can breathe!”

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He walked up close to her and took her hand, but not to greet her. He looked at it and held it as though for an inspection. Then, in a voice disdainful and severe he said: “Too white, too white. Within there are hands which are not white—tired, weak, blue hands which are not even able to wring themselves in despair. Your hand is too white and your eyes too dry! Within there are eyes which have never seen for weeping. You cannot breathe there, you cannot weep there; therefore, you turn your back to it! You sit here by the water dreaming of purple shoes, red flowers, and a place where the weeping cannot be heard. You dream of a boat with a tent of scarlet that shall carry you up stream, far, far away. There you shall not be able to hear anything that disturbs, there where nothing but purple and sweetness exist, where you may fall into eternal sleep with your head on a soft pillow. “But the stream rushes downwards, and downwards it pulls everything. Your ship of dreams crashed in the whirlpool underneath there a long time ago. Look, is this the atmosphere for a ship of dreams? Iron is in the air. The light comes as a flash of axes and spears. Your sorrow and your joy are too small for the river. Turn! Within there is grief like yours. There it is fitting. Here the grief is too great.” He rejected her hand with a violence that hurt. “Within the grief is too small for me, and I am not seeking joy here,” said Rachel, scowling. “And you, why are you here?” He seemed not to hear her words, and remained silent. But Rachel continued: “You also are tired—why not I, then? You have observed their grief. They count the blows which they receive, and the big ones are of the same account to them as the small

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ones. Counting has become a relief for them. They dull their senses with noise, and do not hear their own cry. Here I can see, and here the grief is big, but not complete.” He bent her head close to his shoulder without moving his glance, and pointed outward, toward a white gleam. And she felt her ears become deaf from the din of his voice, felt herself rocked and transported by its deep sound. She trembled at the touch of his arm, and rejoiced at being caught by it. “Shining spears are marching! The waters stand like a wall on the right and on the left. No one is frightened out of his proud silence of victory. They were a people cast in bondage and despair. Then came a man who stretched out his arm, and even the night and the sea fled before him. “Here the joy is great. Can you feel it? “Can you dance like Miriam, with timbrel in hand, dance and sing, ‘Praise ye the Lord, for He is highly exalted! Glorious is the work He hath done!’ Can you see her hair dart like flames, and her fingers whiten? Can you hear her tones shoot forth like arrows towards the hills, whence they are lifted repeatedly by resounding voices, by the response of men prancing in freedom? That is the Song of Victory.” From a break in the clouds a sunbeam shot forth in flaming color, and the water appeared as if covered with golden shells. He released his hold of her, and looked in the face which he had previously ignored. His eyes were aglow, so much so that their pupils became almost invisible. All was consummate rapture. Then he continued: “A man is coming. He is coming soon. Perhaps he is here already! Rabbi ben Issa foretold it a thousand years

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ago, when they waited as they wait now and trembled with impatience; and Issa, disconsolate and serene, saw clearly. “Now, this is the time Rabbi ben Issa foretold, and I, Menahem, have seen, felt, and heard. It has been singing in my sleep. After fasting for three days, I saw it. It happened toward morning, as I was sitting tired by the hill, and the sun suddenly penetrated the darkness, rent the clouds, and looked at me. Figures glided by quickly, rigid figures but with faces half-turned in a quest for something, a silent procession in plaited garments. Behind them it was coming. I was blinded by the sun. They went by me like black silhouettes, but it was not black, it shone as blood and swelled as a large blossom. “And listen, Rachel! That Messiah who is coming is greater than Moses. He leads out of serfdom, not into a thousand years of conflict, but into a thousand years of glory. Our country, the crown of the earth, lies barren and forsaken. There our forebears were slaughtered and our cities were burned to the ground. But greater splendor will be manifested there. God will stamp its soil, and it shall bloom under His footsteps. Weeping we shall kiss our land, and joyously will it kiss us in return, and a blush shall burn on its cheeks. Eternal peace will be there. No mourner, no slave will be there.” As he looked into his visions, his face became calm, and it was as though the outline of that country were drawn in his eyes. They grew brighter and bigger, and his voice had a distant clang: “It was our country. But farther away, still farther away, behind red rivers and glittering mountains, lies the country for the few.” He checked himself and paused, but his

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eyes still looked into his vision, his voice changed its pitch, and he spoke with mild disdain: “You will reach the soil of your fathers; you will see the Jordan. It shall rob you of your dreams, and you will not deem it worth walking a step to draw closer to it. The river will lie as a ribbon of gold. You will see, and you will wish to do nothing else but see.” Rachel peered into the distance. She felt her whole being drink in that remote atmosphere, felt all her desires take on strong wings, felt her claims on happiness and wide, clear horizons assume concreteness. “Is that country only beautiful and pleasant?” she asked gently. “Is it not compact with voices and glances? Is the air light to breathe there? Is there nothing there which ensnares with pleasure and binds with sorrow? Is there nothing base there? Does no one there look yearningly beyond the river when the sun rises?” Menahem looked into her eyes in wild triumph. He spoke softly as in a sanctuary, but every word had the weight of certainty: “That country in the distance, Arsareth! There, the air is light and cool, and the sun is near, and there is no crowding on the pathways of men, and it is quiet. There the bushes burn in the twilight, as formerly within the sight of Moses, and no smoke rises from sacrifices. There the Shekinah abides, with its great peace-giving power, and the horizon extends far beyond the yellow mountains.” “But it is not for women!” “But you, Rachel, dare you follow to the initial stage? Would you like to take part? Can you dance and sing like

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Miriam of old, and feel the joy of victory, or are you afraid to leave your corner?” Rachel met his glance. “I am afraid of staying here,” she said. “Of nothing else!” Menahem laughed shrilly, and turning around he stretched both hands toward the gloomy houses. He gave vent to his victory in a loud voice, but he did not speak to Rachel. He spoke as if she were not there to hear him. “A woman is the first one to say it,” he cried out in an insulting tone. “A woman is the first one. Who has whispered it into her ear? Someone among them was bound to think so; someone had to understand. Perhaps all of them think so, and remain silent only to test me. So it isn’t altogether hopeless when even women feel it!” And with swinging gait and long steps he went away. Rachel wept at his words, but not for long. She soon listened to the echo of his voice in her memory and to the roar of the water, and her meditation led her into his mysterious world. Then she was glad and proud that it was she who had felt the sting of his scorn and seen the gleam in his eyes. The following day she saw nothing of him, but she felt his nearness even more than before. Strangers arrived in town, fugitives from over the mountains, where new murders had been perpetrated. Rachel caught a glimpse of their pale, hollow faces. She heard their coughing voices recount the old tale of iron, of lighted wood-piles, of panic and of flight. Ordinarily such a tale would have made them bend their backs in utter resignation, but now there was a restlessness in the air, a questioning and counselling—Menahem!

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At nightfall it became more quiet than usual, but the silence was pregnant with whispering. Rachel was not afraid. She trusted Menahem. She did not know what he was to bring, but she was certain that his was not an idle faith. And when Menahem appeared in the door, she turned toward him in splendor and confidence. He was excited as usual, awful in eyes and feature, as he stood within reach of the interplaying shadows. As he hurried in he seemed scarcely to notice her; then he stopped quite close to her. “Rachel,” he said, “tomorrow is Passover.” Rachel did not answer, but turned to the flaming lamps, and was full of happiness and peace that he saw her thus. “In a few days it will be their Easter. Hiskia, whose turn it is to attend their church, does not want to go. I talked with him; it is all I have been able to do. But do you believe, Rachel, that I could rouse his pride? He had none of it. So I roused his fear. I lied to him. I said that they planned to burn him afterwards. Then he refused to go. And would not fire be the only means to cleanse him from such disgrace? Thus the foundation is laid, and now the building must come. It ought to be a beautiful building, Rachel, for the timber is magnificent!” He paced back and forth like a caged animal, and murmured as though thinking aloud: “There is only one soul to be found here, and that is blind. Do you know Ussia? He is blind, and dead, and lazy, sly and evil. Life has worn him out and consumed him, and the white ashes make him cold. Yet there is one burning spark in him. It is still smoldering, and may kindle. Ussia can hate. You others can only bend your backs and laugh humbly; but he can hate, hate those up there,

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all of them, including the unborn. He laughs when some one there dies and their bells whine like whipped dogs. He hates you down here, and does not even take the pains to notice your distress. He hates me, whom he would like to stamp out as a firebrand. But most of all he hates Messiah. And do you know why? Because we have been lulled to rest by that name, and no trumpets have awakened us. Because we have shed tears of joy over it, and have embraced it in our grief. Because in the evening, when the sky is reddest, we have watched, and hoped, and trembled in our hope, and yet he has not come. And our misery has grown deeper, and our visions dimmer; young hands have become weaker, and young hearts cowardly. And all this has occurred as often as the harvests have ripened. “And Ussia wants to live only to meet him once in order to be able to tell him, ‘Hosanna, Son of David, Prince of Righteousness and Victory! Clap your hands, good people, and praise the Lord with joyful voices! But do not tread hard with your feet, lest ye awaken the dead from their dust!’ These are Ussia’s thoughts, and he thinks them often; but he has considered only me worthy of being told about them. Or, perhaps he has not dared to tell others. Oh, terrible is Ussia!” He turned to Rachel to observe her terror, but she stood silently smiling as before. His words did not affect her. He was close to her, and bliss was around her. On the morrow, after worship, they gathered to talk about Hiskia’s revolt. They would not discuss their disgrace in the temple—they were ashamed before their God— and since the paschal feast was to be celebrated in common, they thronged the rooms and hallway of the rabbi’s

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house, where the curtains had been pushed aside to make one large room, so that many might hear and see. And thither came the men and women. They stood close together on the thresholds and on the stairways, and the yard below and the nearby alleys were dark with the waiting multitude. That evening they had laid aside their black coats with the mark of shame. They were to celebrate their victory; they must be free to act and speak. But new rumors were bruited in the crowd, reports of perseeution close at hand. And whither were they to turn to escape these threats? Up toward the wind-beaten, restless sky of spring, or down in the frozen, black earth? Death was all around. And beyond them, in the north, it was worse. Peasant mobs, led by robbers and madmen, and guided by a goose or a goat on their trek toward the Holy Land, surged ahead at random. Howling in rude and fierce ecstasy, they threw themselves on the Jews of the towns and clubbed them to death. The helpless, bewildered communities cried for their Messiah, but there was no hope; and men bared their throats to the knife, and women filled their bosoms with stones and plunged into the Rhine. The horror of the rumors grew with the morbidness of the people’s imagination. It seemed unbearably imminent and inevitable. A sudden murmur rose from the stairways. Menahem came through, wearing his black cloak, and the yellow badge burned all eyes as though they had never seen it before. They whispered and pointed. What did he mean by this? Ussia grasped the significance of the whispers and, turning to his neighbor, he asked, “Has he the mark on?” When he heard the answer, he nearly choked with laughter. “Good!

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At our victory celebration! Oh, that I might have done it! Too bad I cannot see it! Tell me, is he wearing a big yellow hoof?” Menahem was in the middle of the room. He stood at the table, and his voice rose over the din. “You look at my apparel as though you never saw a Jew. Have you never worn cloaks, good people? Have you never felt the stigma on your shoulders? Did not your wives receive yellow lilies on their wedding days, and did not your mothers look at these yellow flowers while bearing you in their wombs? Do you believe that God has not seen them before, that He shrinks from the festive table on account of this mark of slavery which has proclaimed your shame for hundreds of years? “I tell you that He turned away from you in scorn, away from the mark of the slave in the open places, in your buying and selling, in your base thoughts and cringing glances. Would you see a light in His eyes? Then lift the emblem high with one cry: Here it is! Here we have worn it, and here we cast it to the ground and trample it under foot! Here, to Thy glory, O God, our disgrace ends!” He dropped the cloak and trampled it. Those who saw it were moved with admiration, but no eye was yet ablaze. Then Menahem determined, as he swiftly scanned the crowd, to play his highest card. “You are not here to commemorate the Passover; every one might have done that at home and gone quietly to bed. You are here to select a man for them up there, a man to be abused in their church. You know that Hiskia refuses to go. Does anyone volunteer to take his place? You Mar Isaac, you Ezra, you Petahia, you Hanan? Is there one among you who wants to go?”

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They all huddled together, oppressed by a keen sense of shame. It was as though every one named had been touched with a red hot iron. Then Menahem continued deliberately: “I, Menahem, will do it, then, if you desire it so. I shall don my cloak again, walk up hill, and turn my cheek to them. I shall not smite back. I shall listen to their song, observe their mockery, restrain my voice, and look not up to God. I shall press my lips together, turn my cheek, and accept the shame. Speak, do you want me to do it?” As if led by one impulse, they rushed forward to him. That must not happen. It shall not happen, else all would be lost. They stretched out their hands towards him. “Speak, do you want me to do it?” “No, no!” Menahem burst forth in wild laughter for joy. His lips crimsoned, his eyes gleamed, and his hands were lifted as if he were administering a solemn oath: “And none of you wants to bear that insult?” “No, no!” “You are tired of bending, tired of groveling. You are ready to meet threats with defiance, to set your feet firm on the ground, to brush the hair away from your faces, to feel the air play and sing around you!” His hand dropped, his expression changed, and he extended his arms in embracing love. His whole soul was in his eyes. “You have all heard it and said it, but you have not known it and felt it. The time has come, and it is breaking forth like a blooming forest. The sun has not yet risen, and no one can see it. Out, then, to meet it, to see the dawn! We must throw off the garments of our enslavement, shake off the dust from the field, and leave the country of our humiliation!

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“Messiah will not come hither. He is not to crawl under narrow vaults and knock at filthy doors. He is calling, and we must come. See the shimmering over all the lands, the opening of the gates, and the filling of the roads with jubilation and dancing. There is a rush toward Canaan, a welling from hills and caves, a flowing together, a flooding over. There is a roaring toward Canaan! “You tremble like birds that spread their wings and dare not fly. You think the road is far and hard. Do you wish Messiah to be alone in his golden land, the trumpets to receive only the echo of their call? “It is Passover. Four of you have staves in your hands, in accord with the ancient ceremony of the Exodus, but you have forgotten the day. Now we march, a mere handful from Nerac. We hurry down the mountain slopes, make a turn with the river, where a flock from Argonne meets us. Together we press forward, increasing in number as we advance. Then we come to the road from the southern mountains, to Ibarr and Mangeac. The sun rises, and we are many. The road is open before us, without obstruction. Shall Messiah be kept waiting alone? Throw away what is heavy, take one another by the hand, and march! Do you not want to?” Did they not want to? They were all his. But, what about that leap into utter darkness? The dull tolling of a bell penetrated the air. It was the signal from the church that they extinguish their fires. They had been prepared for it and had bolted the windows, but many started automatically to quench the lights. Menahem swooped on the faint-hearted as a falcon on its prey, and cried: “Let their bells rattle! This is Passover! Here our lights

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burn like stars of promise! Listen, how hollow and faint their bells sound. One by one the tones go out and sink down like tired birds. Darkness overtakes them and stifles them. But there is something else rustling through the town. Can you hear its strokes along the wall outside? Can you perceive its breath, the groping of its hands, the alluring depth of its eyes? It is the Angel of the Lord! Did you make the sign of the blood on your door? Did you prostrate yourselves before the Almighty? Stretch your arms towards the hills, and make ready to leave the place of His wrath. God will take vengeance after you! March out into the night in garments of purple, with eyes wide open toward the east, and with hearts full of gladness and victory. Before you, God prepares a way!” The people around him were now like water driven by the wind, stirred up and swelling. Was the tide to ebb, or was it to flow on irresistibly? They believed him. Their eyes and cheeks were aglow. Their hands were clenched, but somewhere hung a weight of doubt. Then Rachel, moved and trembling, ran forward and pleaded. “Take me with you! Take us all with you!” The high water found an outlet, rushing onward in tumult and joy. “Up, up! Take us all with you!” Menahem extended his hand to Rachel, supported her for a moment, and then left her. He had been victorious. Now, away, away instantly! Were they ready? Yes, yes! With arms uplifted they sang in their hearts: Away, away! They must scatter to look to the sick and the little ones, the finest ornament for the Lord! Then together again, concordant, swift, and irresistible. Some spoke for caution, but were checked. “Will you remain where death and shame abide? Will you remain

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here in craven fear to be slaughtered?” Doubtful, they followed. Only Ussia stood composed and scornful. “Go,” he said. “I shall not follow. I shall wait here for Messiah. He may perhaps come hither. He knows the way. The air is cool and good for walking. I am tired and will sleep a while. Somebody has to be here to greet you when you come back.” And they avoided him like the pest, for they were afraid to listen to his words. Menahem did not know it. Clothed with the responsibility of power, he gave freely of his courage and faith. He sent word to prepare and gather the people. He told them about the road they were to take and the meeting-places where they were to join their fellow pilgrims. Thus, the people assembled and the street was filled with hushed voices. Menahem hurried out on the stairway and cut his hand against a door-handle. Standing there between two torches, with the dark crowd beneath and the night closing in, he laughed triumphantly. There, in the gloom, their humiliation was cast off like an empty shell. There, all their baseness and shame were shed. There, only empty chambers concealed memories of weeping and want. All their misery was behind them. Then Menahem gave them a sign. He painted with the blood of his wounded hand a gigantic cross on the door. It was their token of farewell and glad riddance from their house of torment, their expiatory sacrifice to their God of Vengeance, a mark of their red-flaming victory awaiting the break of day to shine. Then he pointed with the other hand: “There! There is the road to the Promised Land! Now, do not utter a word or look behind! Let me pass through to the front. Then, out into the darkness!”

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Thus they left the town whose walls sighed with the echo of their steps. Wherever the black mass of humanity proceeded, it looked as though the earth itself was rising to give battle to the night, a battle against death, and pave the way to light and liberty. They walked hand in hand, rejoicing, helping along the aged, assisting with the babes. And some had their arms around each other. The trek downhill was easy, and they seemed to be carried on wings. They marched on, with the steep river bank on one side and an open stretch of land on the other. The stars increased in number. As the night waned, they were no longer afraid of being discovered. They might talk aloud, only they had nothing to say. They bent their heads back, breathing deeply. Menahem walked ahead, his eyes fixed upon a distant goal. Rachel was close behind him, looking only at him, and changing her position now and then in order that she might see one of the pale, big stars over his head. Where the road made a turn across the river, they had hoped to see their city. They turned their heads and peered into the dusk, but saw nothing, only gloomy hills in broken, irregular lines. Perhaps the city disappeared; perhaps it had never been aught but a tormenting dream. Their steps resounded on the bridge; a fanfare of sounds arose and died away on the stones on the other side. Underneath flowed the heavy, gray stream. Before them stood a gate of trees, two long rows of dark stems. They marched on. And Menahem spoke in brief, sharp and abrupt sentences. Those in front heard him and drank in his words, and when his voice rested, his utterances were passed from mouth to mouth through the crowd. They were like strophes in a hymn.

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He spoke of their country, resplendent in the evening sun, like a burning pyre between the blue walls of a mountain-pass. He saw it, and he wondered who would be the first there to feel the Cherubim fan away the curse from one’s bent brow. Who would be the first to lay down the weary head and sleep oneself to health there within one night? He spoke of their sin, their heavy burden of sin, that must be ground into nothingness on the way, put to flight into the darkness of the caves, drowned in the gloomy mountain lakes and somber marshes by the road. And he spoke of Arsareth, the land of rubies, a name hewn from the half-forgotten story of Esdras. Arsareth, high up on the mountain’s yellow stairways, in the spacious atmosphere of stillness! What was it? They did not comprehend, but they were invigorated by the pride in his words as by the sound of trumpets. The procession moved forward. The hours slipped by as the people went now uphill, now downwards on paths gleaming with frost. At last they came to the three roads, the appointed meeting place, but there was no crowd to be seen, no sound of rejoicing as they approached. Only a solitary man crept out of the thicket to meet them. “Menahem,” he cried, “Menahem, turn back. They did not believe. They dared not come. There are soldiers abroad who, sensing something amiss, may move hither.” Then their strength gave way, and their voices grew faint. “The road is closed. There are soldiers abroad.” But Menahem cried: “They did not believe. They dared not. That does not concern us. Forward anew!” “But the blocked road, and the soldiers!?”

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“It is a sign from God, a sign from God. He will work a miracle before our eyes!” Menahem pointed with both his hands. “There is the way!” “But there is the ocean!” Its roar was already in the sound of their voices. He cried even louder. “There is the way! There! Did you never hear of Moses? Did you never hear of Joshua and the march of his tribes? Did you never hear of Arsareth and the spacious waters? People, there is the way!” He hastened forward. The final stretch was steep. A cloud of flapping wings shot out of the dismal thicket, homing birds finding their way in the darkness. The people followed him. The ground echoed again with their tramping. But there was doubt in their hearts. Whither were they going? Would there be anything but the ocean? Maybe he had a ship awaiting them. His eyes were so strange, and anything might happen. Maybe he was leading them to despair. Well, they were accustomed to that. They were tired, and the road, though going downhill, became arduous. But Menahem was unmindful of it. He walked and spoke as before. And Rachel followed him, seeing a big, flame-like star over his head. She had scarcely noticed the interruption, scarcely understood. If they were to witness a great wonder and to have great faith, she was ready, calm and glad. And the vision of Menahem became more intoxicating. Arsareth in the gleam of purple! On, toward greater wonders, forward toward a more glorious goal! Arsareth and its still, lofty spaces! As worn garments fall from one’s shoulders, as the involucre drops from the flower, so must all ties be severed! The world viewed from the perspective of a mountain-top—blue, distant lines and flickering lights, and life as a song!

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The light became brighter. The star above Menahem’s head had faded away. The sun appeared, and revealed a mass of faces that were weary to death and eyes staring in perplexity and ready to weep. But Menahem did not look behind, nor did Rachel and those close to her. A wall of mist melted in the horizon, and a glowing expanse met their eyes: the ocean with streaks of flame and black, the sky with its open fireplace. A glimpse of Arsareth. Arsareth! But in the rear, there was a cry of anxiety and distress: no path, no ship, no deliverance, only the ocean! And Menahem climbed up on a rock, and extended his hand toward the water. “Your cry of fear is forgiven you, but have you forgotten the season? Is it not Passover, with the same ordeal now as then, and the same God? “‘The waters saw Thee, O God; the waters saw Thee, they were in pain; the depths also trembled. “‘Thy way was in the sea, and Thy path in the great waters, and Thy footsteps were not known.’ “People, O people of Moses. There is the way! There is the wonder and the day awaited for a thousand years! Now, follow. Leap into the unknown, and put your trust in a God of Might! Behind you is endless grief, before you endless glory. Who will be the first? Who will? Wherever his foot shall descend, the depth will turn into a cleared pathway. Forward!” He jumped off the rock and ran downwards, his cheeks shining, his eyes beaming. Others followed, hair aflutter and arms uplifted. They could hardly be discerned in the glow of the sun.

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Horror engulfed the rest, who stopped with despair tugging at their hearts. He was surely a fool, perhaps a demon, an evil power that lured them to death. For a moment they were numb with fear, hid their faces in their hands, and fell to the ground. Then they turned and ran, with terror in pursuit. From behind came the sound of a splash and a cry, a wild cry of exultation or pain. The light was more dazzling, for the sun was entirely up; but few looked back. Fearstricken they fled, climbing precipices with mangled knees and torn hands, crawling back to the disgrace of Easter and the scorn of Ussia’s greeting, perhaps to plague and death. Rachel was not among those who returned. Full of excitement and expectancy she had rushed forward, clinging to Menahem. Ten others were missing, and none stopped to bewail them. All fled for their lives. Thus they reached their homes, and lived on as formerly, scorned and trampled in dirt, eating their bread in tears. And at times, when grief made their minds wander, they reviewed with their inner eyes the joy and the hope of that night, and their ears were full of the din of tramping feet, of the surging sound of the song of victory and of bells, and they could see the water flaming red in the morning sun, but they knew not whether it was the lure of life or of death. Gradually it became customary to say that the young and faithful ones, who had plunged into the water, had reached their destination. Not the land of their fathers, to be sure, for no one had heard of their arrival there; but the unknown region of broad spaces, where all sorrow is remote, Arsareth, the strange land of the saga, the land of rubies, which glitters and beckons at the rising of the sun.

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COUNT VILLIERS de l’ISLE ADAM French novelist, 1838–89. The story reproduced here, which, according to Huneker, recalls Poe at his best, is taken from his volume of fantastic prose-poems, Contes Cruels, and appears, anonymously translated, in an American collection of tales, from which it was reprinted in Great Short Stories of the World, collected by Barrett H. Clark and Maxim Lieber, New York, Robert M. McBride & Co., 1924, pp. 358–62.

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THE TORTURE OF HOPE

M

ANY years ago, as evening was closing in, the venerable Pedro Arbuez d’Espila, sixth Prior of the Dominicans of Segovia, and third Grand Inquisitor of Spain, followed by a fra redemptor and preceded by two familiars of the Holy Office, the latter carrying lanterns, made their way to a subterranean dungeon. The bolt of a massive door creaked, and they entered a mephitic in pace, where the dim light revealed between rings fastened to the wall a bloodstained rack, a brazier, and a jug. On a pile of straw, loaded with fetters and his neck encircled by an iron carcan, sat a haggard man, of uncertain age, clothed in rags. This prisoner was no other than Rabbi Aser Abarbanel, a Jew of Aragon, who—accused of usury and pitiless scorn for the poor—had been daily subjected to torture for more than a year. Yet “his blindness was as dense as his hide,” and he had refused to abjure his faith. Proud of a filiation dating back thousands of years, proud of his ancestors—for all Jews worthy of the name are vain of their blood—he descended talmudically from Othoniel and consequently from Ipsiboa, the wife of the last judge of Israel, a circumstance which had sustained his courage amid incessant torture. With tears in his eyes at the thought of this resolute soul rejecting salvation, the venerable Pedro Arbuez d’Espila, approaching the shuddering rabbi, addressed him as follows: “My son, rejoice! Your trials here below are about to end. If in the presence of such obstinacy I was forced to 133

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permit, with deep regret, the use of great severity, my task of fraternal correction has its limits. You are the fig tree which, having failed so many times to bear fruit, at last withered, but God alone can. judge your soul. Perhaps Infinite Mercy will shine upon you at the last moment! We must hope so. There are examples. So sleep in peace tonight. To-morrow you will be included in the auto da fé: that is, you will be exposed to the quémadero, the symbolical flames of the Everlasting Fire: it burns, as you know, only at a distance, my son; and Death is at least two hours (often three) in coming, on account of the wet, iced bandages with which we protect the heads and hearts of the condemned. There will be forty-three of you. Placed in the last row, you will have time to invoke God and offer to Him this baptism of fire, which is of the Holy Spirit. Hope in the Light, and rest.” With these words, having signed to his companions to unchain the prisoner, the prior tenderly embraced him. Then came the turn of the fra redemptor, who, in a low tone, entreated the Jew’s forgiveness for what he had made him suffer for the purpose of redeeming him; then the two familiars silently kissed him. This ceremony over, the captive was left, solitary and bewildered, in the darkness. Rabbi Aser Abarbanel, with parched lips and visage worn by suffering, at first gazed at the closed door with vacant eyes. Closed? The word unconsciously roused a vague fancy in his mind, the fancy that he had seen for an instant the light of the lanterns through a chink between the door and the wall. A morbid idea of hope, due to the weakness of his brain, stirred his whole being. He dragged himself toward the strange appearance. Then, very gently and cautiously, slipping one finger into the crevice, he drew

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the door toward him. Marvelous! By an extraordinary accident the familiar who closed it had turned the huge key an instant before it struck the stone casing, so that the rusty bolt not having entered the hole, the door again rolled on its hinges. The rabbi ventured to glance outside. By the aid of a sort of luminous dusk he distinguished at first a semi-circle of walls indented by winding stairs; and opposite to him, at the top of five or six stone steps, a sort of black portal, opening into an immense corridor, whose first arches only were visible from below. Stretching himself flat he crept to the threshold. Yes, it was really a corridor, but endless in length. A wan light illumined it: lamps suspended from the vaulted ceiling lightened at intervals the dull hue of the atmosphere—the distance was veiled in shadow. Not a single door appeared in the whole extent! Only on one side, the left, heavily grated loopholes, sunk in the walls, admitted a light which must be that of evening, for crimson bars at intervals rested on the flags of the pavement. What a terrible silence! Yet, yonder, at the far end of that passage there might be a doorway of escape! The Jew’s vacillating hope was tenacious, for it was the last. Without hesitating, he ventured on the flags, keeping close under the loopholes, trying to make himself part of the blackness of the long walls. He advanced slowly, dragging himself along on his breast, forcing back the cry of pain when some raw wound sent a keen pang through his whole body. Suddenly the sound of a sandaled foot approaching reached his ears. He trembled violently, fear stifled him, his sight grew dim. Well, it was over, no doubt. He

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pressed himself into a niche and, half lifeless with terror, waited. It was a familiar hurrying along. He passed swiftly by, holding in his clenched hand an instrument of torture—a frightful figure—and vanished. The suspense which the rabbi had endured seemed to have suspended the functions of life, and he lay nearly an hour unable to move. Fearing an increase of tortures if he were captured, he thought of returning to his dungeon. But the old hope whispered in his soul that divine perhaps, which comforts us in our sorest trials. A miracle had happened. He could doubt no longer. He began to crawl toward the chance of escape. Exhausted by suffering and hunger, trembling with pain, he pressed onward. The sepulchral corridor seemed to lengthen mysteriously, while he, still advancing, gazed into the gloom where there must be some avenue of escape. Oh! oh! He again heard footsteps, but this time they were slower, more heavy. The white and black forms of two inquisitors appeared, emerging from the obscurity beyond. They were conversing in low tones, and seemed to be discussing some important subject, for they were gesticulating vehemently. At this spectacle Rabbi Aser Abarbanel closed his eyes: his heart beat so violently that it almost suffocated him; his rags were damp with the cold sweat of agony; he lay motionless by the wall, his mouth wide open, under the rays of a lamp, praying to the God of David. Just opposite to him the two inquisitors paused under the light of the lamp—doubtless owing to some accident due to the course of their argument. One, while listening to his companion, gazed at the rabbi! And, beneath the look—whose absence of expression the hapless man did

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not at first notice—he fancied he again felt the burning pincers scorch his flesh; he was to be once more a living wound. Fainting, breathless, with fluttering eyelids, he shivered at the touch of the monk’s floating robe. But— strange yet natural fact—the inquisitor’s gaze was evidently that of a man deeply absorbed in his intended reply, engrossed by what he was hearing; his eyes were fixed—and seemed to look at the Jew without seeing him. In fact, after the lapse of a few minutes, the two gloomy figures slowly pursued their way, still conversing in low tones, toward the place whence the prisoner had come; he had not been seen! Amid the horrible confusion of the rabbi’s thoughts, the idea darted through his brain: “Can I be already dead that they did not see me?” A hideous impression roused him from his lethargy: in looking at the wall against which his face was pressed, he imagined he beheld two fierce eyes watching him! He flung his head back in a sudden frenzy of fright, his hair fairly bristling! Yet, no! His hand groped over the stones: it was the reflection of the inquisitor’s eyes, still retained in his own, which had been refracted from two spots on the wall. Forward! He must hasten toward that goal which he fancied(absurdly, no doubt) to be deliverance, toward the darkness from which he was now barely thirty paces distant. He pressed forward faster on his knees, his hands, at full length, dragging himself painfully along, and soon entered the dark portion of this terrible corridor. Suddenly the poor wretch felt a gust of cold air on the hands resting upon the flags; it came from under the little door to which the two walls led. Oh, Heaven, if that door should open outward. Every nerve in the miserable fugitive’s body thrilled with hope.

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He examined it from top to bottom, though scarcely able to distinguish its outlines in the surrounding darkness. He passed his hand over it: no bolt, no lock! A latch! He started up, the latch yielded to the pressure of his thumb: the door silently swung open before him. “Halleluja!” murmured the rabbi in a transport of gratitude as, standing on the threshold, he beheld the scene before him. The door had opened into the gardens, above which arched a starlit sky, into spring, liberty, life! It revealed the neighboring fields, stretching toward the sierras, whose sinuous blue lines were relieved against the horizon. Yonder lay freedom! Oh, to escape! He would journey all night through the lemon groves, whose fragrance reached him. Once in the mountains and he was safe! He inhaled the delicious air; the breeze revived him, his lungs expanded! He felt in his swelling heart the veni foràs of Lazarus! And to thank once more the God who had bestowed this mercy upon him, he extended his arms, raising his eyes toward Heaven. It was an ecstasy of joy! Then he fancied he saw the shadow of his arms approach him—fancied that he felt these shadowy arms inclose, embrace him—and that he was pressed tenderly to someone’s breast. A tall figure actually did stand directly before him. He lowered his eyes—and remained motionless, gasping for breath, dazed, with fixed eyes, fairly driveling with terror. Horror! He was in the clasp of the Grand Inquisitor himself, the venerable Pedro Arbuez d’Espila, who gazed at him with tearful eyes, like a good shepherd who had found his stray lamb.

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The dark-robed priest pressed the hapless Jew to his heart with so fervent an outburst of love, that the edges of the monachal haircloth rubbed the Dominican’s breast. And while Aser Abarbanel with protruding eyes gasped in agony in the ascetic’s embrace, vaguely comprehending that all the phases of this fatal evening were only a prearranged torture, that of HOPE, the Grand Inquisitor, with an accent of touching reproach and a look of consternation, murmured in his ear, his breath parched and burning from long fasting: “What, my son! On the eve, perchance, of salvation— you wished to leave us?”

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I. L. CARGIALE Roumanian novelist and dramatist, 1852?–1912. The following masterpiece depicts graphically the terror that engulfs the isolated Roumanian Jew, driving the hero of this story to insanity and destruction. The author observes correctly that vengeance and murder, even under the emergency of self-defense, are contrary to the habit of the Jew and the genius of his faith. This is suggested subtly when Leiba Zibal, crazed by fear and by his own deed, rises to spiritual dignity and feels that he must go “to Jassy to tell the rabbi that Leiba Zibal is a Jew no longer.” The story was translated by Lucy Byng for her Roumanian Stories, London, 1921, and is included here with the permission of the publishers, John Lane the Bodley Head Ltd., of London.

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THE EASTER TORCH

L

EIBA ZIBAL, mine host of Podeni, was sitting, lost in thought, by a table placed in the shadow in front of the inn; he was awaiting the arrival of the coach which should have come some time ago; it was already an hour behind time. The story of Zibal’s life is a long and cheerless one: when he is taken with one of his feverish attacks it is a diversion for him to analyze one by one the most important events in that life. Huckster, seller of hardware, jobber, between whiles even rougher work perhaps, seller of old clothes, then tailor, and bootblack in a dingy alley in Jassy; all this had happened to him since the accident whereby he lost his situation as office boy in a big wine-shop. Two porters were carrying a barrel down to a cellar under the supervision of the lad Zibal. A difference arose between them as to the division of their earnings. One of them seized a piece of wood that lay at hand and struck his comrade on the forehead, who fell to the ground covered in blood. At the sight of the wild deed the boy gave a cry of alarm, but the wretch hurried through the yard, and in passing gave the lad a blow. Zibal fell to the ground fainting with fear. After several months in bed he returned to his master, only to find his place filled up. Then began a hard struggle for existence, which increased in difficulty after his marriage with Sura. Their hard lot was borne with patience; Sura’s 143

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brother, the innkeeper of Podeni, died; the inn passed into Zibal’s hands, and he carried on the business on his own account. Here he had been for the last five years. He had saved a good bit of money and collected good wine—a commodity that will always be worth good money. Leiba had escaped from poverty, but they were all three sickly, himself, his wife, and his child, all victims of malaria; and men are rough and quarrelsome in Podeni—slanderous, scoffers, revilers, accused of vitriol throwing. And the threats! A threat is very terrible to a character that bends easily beneath every blow. The thought of a threat worked more upon Leiba’s nerves than did his attacks of fever. “Oh, wretched Gentile!” he thought, sighing. This “wretched” referred to Gheorghe—wherever he might be!—a man between whom and himself a most unpleasant affair had arisen. Gheorghe came to the inn one autumn morning, tired with his walk; he was just out of hospital—so he said— and was looking for work. The innkeeper took him into his service. But Gheorghe showed himself to be a brutal and a sullen man. He swore continually, and muttered to himself alone in the yard. He was a bad servant, lazy and insolent, and he stole. He threatened his mistress one day when she was pregnant, cursing her, and striking her on the stomach. Another time he set a dog on little Strul. Leiba paid him his wages at once, and dismissed him. But Gheorghe would not go: he asserted with violence that he had been engaged for a year. Then the innkeeper sent to the townhall to get guards to remove him. Gheorghe put his hand swiftly to his breast, crying:

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“Jew!” and began to rail at his master. Unfortunately a cart full of customers arrived at that moment. Gheorghe began to grin, saying: “What frightened you, Master Leiba? Look, I am going now.” Then bending fiercely over towards Leiba, who drew back as far as possible, he whispered: “Expect me on Easter Eve; we’ll crack red eggs together, Jew! You will know then what I have done to you, and I will answer for it.” Just then, customers entered the inn. “May we meet in good health at Easter, Master Leiba!” added Gheorghe as he left. Leiba went to the town-hall, then to the sub-prefecture to denounce the threatener, begging that he might be watched. The sub-prefect was a lively young man; he first accepted Leiba’s humble offering, then he began to laugh at the timid Jew and make fun of him. Leiba tried hard to make him realize the gravity of the situation, and pointed out how isolated the house stood from the village and even from the high road. But the sub-prefect, with a more serious air, advised him to be prudent; he must not mention such things, for, truly, it would arouse the desire to do them in a village where men were rough and poor, ready to break the law. A few days later an official with two riders came to see him about Gheorghe; he was “wanted” for some crime. If only Leiba had been able to put up with him until the arrival of these man! In the meanwhile, no one knew the whereabouts of Gheorghe. Although this had happened some time ago, Gheorghe’s appearance, the movement as though he would have drawn something from his breast, and the threatening words had all remained deeply impressed upon

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the mind of the terror-stricken man. How was it that that memory remained so clear? It was Easter Eve. From the top of the hill, from the village lying among the lakes about two miles away, came the sound of church bells. One hears in a strange way when one is feverish, now so loud, now so far away. The coming night was the night before Easter, the night of the fulfilment of Gheorghe’s promise. “But perhaps they have caught him by now!” Moreover, Zibal only means to stay at Podeni till next quarter-day. With his capital he could open a good business in Jassy. In a town, Leiba would regain his health, he would go near the police station—he could treat the police, the commissionaires, the sergeants. Who pays well gets well guarded. In a large village, the night brings noise and light, not darkness and silence as in the isolated valley of Podeni. There is an inn in Jassy—there in the corner, just the place for a shop! An inn where girls sing all night long, a Café Chantant. What a gay and rousing life! There, at all hours of the day and night, officials and their girls, and other Christians, will need entertainment. What is the use of bothering oneself here where business keeps falling off, especially since the coming of the railway which only skirts the marshes at some distance? “Leiba,” calls Sura from within, “the coach is coming, one can hear the bells.” The Podeni valley is a ravine enclosed on all sides by wooded hills. In a hollow towards the south lie several deep pools caused by the springs which rise in the hills; above them lie some stretches of ground covered with

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bushes and rushes. Leiba’s hotel stands in the center of the valley, between the pools and the more elevated ground to the north; it is an old stone building, strong as a small fortress: although the ground is marshy, the walls and cellars are very dry. At Sura’s voice Leiba raises himself painfully from his chair, stretching his tired limbs; he takes a long look towards the east; not a sign of the diligence. “It is not coming in; you imagined it,” he replied to his wife, and sat down again. Very tired, the man crossed his arms on the table, and laid his head upon them, for it was burning. The warmth of the spring sun began to strike the surface of the marshes and a pleasant lassitude enveloped his nerves, and his thoughts began to run riot as a sick man’s will, gradually taking on strange forms and colors. Gheorghe—Easter Eve—burglars—Jassy—the inn in the center of the town—a gay restaurant doing well—restored health. And he dozed. Sura and the child went without a great deal up here. Leiba went to the door of the inn and looked out on to the road. On the main road there was a good deal of traffic, an unceasing noise of wheels accompanied by the rhythmic sound of horses’ hoofs trotting upon the smooth asphalt. But suddenly the traffic stopped, and from Coupu a group of people could be seen approaching, gesticulating and shouting excitedly. The crowd appeared to be escorting somebody: soldiers, a guard and various members of the public. Curious onlookers appeared at every door of the inn.

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“Ah,” thought Leiba, “they have laid hands on a thief.” The procession drew nearer. Sura detached herself from the others, and joined Leiba on the steps of the inn. “What is it, Sura?” he asked. “A madman escaped from Golia.” “Let us close the inn so that he cannot get at us.” “He is bound now, but a while ago he escaped. He fought with all the soldiers. A rough Gentile in the crowd pushed a Jew against the madman and he bit him on the cheek.” Leiba could see well from the steps; from the stair below Sura watched with the child in her arms. It was, in fact, a violent lunatic held on either side by two men: his wrists were tightly bound over each other by a thick cord. He was a man of gigantic stature with a head like a bull, thick black hair, and hard, grizzled beard and whiskers. Through his shirt, which had been torn in the struggle, his broad chest was visible, covered, like his head with a mass of hair. His feet were bare; his mouth was full of blood, and he continually spat out hair which he had bitten from the Jew’s beard. Everyone stood still. Why? The guards unbound the lunatic’s hands. The crowd drew to one side, leaving a large space around him. The madman looked about him, and his fierce glance rested upon Zibal’s doorway; he gnashed his teeth, made a dash for the three steps, and in a flash, seizing the child’s head in his right hand and Sura’s in his left, he knocked them together with such force that they cracked like so many fresh eggs. A sound was heard, a scrunching impossible to describe, as the two skulls cracked together. Leiba, with bursting heart, like a man who falls from an immense height, tried to cry out: “The whole world

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abandons me to the tender mercies of a madman!” But his voice refused to obey him. “Get up, Jew!” cried someone, beating loudly upon the table with a stick. “It’s a bad joke,” said Sura from the doorway of the inn, “Thus to frighten the man out of his sleep, you stupid peasant!” “What has scared you, Jew?” asked the wag, laughing. “You sleep in the afternoon, eh? Get up, customers are coming, the mail coach is arriving.” And, according to his silly habit which greatly irritated the Jew, he tried to take his arm and tickle him. “Let me alone!” cried the innkeeper, drawing back and pushing him away with all his might. “Can you not see that I am ill? Leave me in peace.” The coach arrived at last, nearly three hours late. There were two passengers who seated themselves together with the driver, whom they had invited to share their table. The conversation of the travelers threw a light upon recent events. At the highest posting station, a robbery with murder had been committed during the night in the inn of a Jew. The murdered innkeeper should have provided a change of horses. The thieves had taken them, and while other horses were being found in the village the curious travelers could examine the scene of the crime at their leisure. Five victims! But the details! From just seeing the ruined house one could believe it to have been some cruel vendetta or the work of some religious fanatic. In stories of sectarian fanaticism one heard occasionally of such extravagant crimes. Leiba shook with a violent access of fever and listened aghast.

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What followed must have undoubtedly filled the driver with respect. The young passengers were two students, one of philosophy, the other of medicine; they were returning to amuse themselves in their native town. They embarked upon a violent academic discussion upon crime and its causes, and, to give him his due, the medical student was better informed than the philosopher. Atavism; alcoholism and its pathological consequences; defective birth; deformity; paludism; then nervous disorders! Such and such conquest of modern science—but the case of reversion to type! Darwin, Häckel, Lombroso. At the case of reversion to type, the driver opened wide his eyes in which shone a profound admiration for the conquests of modern science. “It is obvious,” added the medical student. “The socalled criminal proper, taken as a type, has unusually long arms, and very short feet, a flat and narrow forehead, and a much developed occiput. To the experienced eye his face is characteristically coarse and bestial; he is rudimentary man: he is, as I say, a beast which has but lately got used to standing on its hind legs only, and to raising its head towards the light.” At the age of twenty, after so much excitement, and after a good repast with wine so well vinted and so well matured as Leiba’s, a phrase with a lyrical touch came well even from a medical student. Between his studies of Darwin and Lombroso, the enthusiastic youth had found time to imbibe a little Schopenhauer—“towards the sky, towards the light!” Leiba was far from understanding these “illuminating” ideas. Perhaps for the first time did such grand words and fine subtleties of thought find expression in the damp at-

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mosphere of Podeni. But that which he understood better than anything, much better even than the speaker, was the striking illustration of the theory: the case of reversion to type he knew in flesh and blood, it was the portrait of Gheorghe. This portrait, which had just been drawn in broad outline only, he could fill in perfectly in his own mind, down to the most minute details. The coach had gone. Leiba followed it with his eyes until, turning to the left, it was lost to sight around the hill. The sun was setting behind the ridge to the west, and the twilight began to weave soft shapes in the Podeni valley. The gloomy innkeeper began to turn over in his mind all that he had heard. In the dead of night, lost in the darkness, a man, two women and two young children, torn without warning from the gentle arms of sleep by the hands of beasts with human faces, and sacrificed one after the other, the agonized cries of the children cut short by the dagger ripping open their bodies, the neck slashed with a hatchet, the dull rattle in the throat with each gush of blood through the wound; and the last victim, half-distraught, in a corner, witness of the scene, and awaiting his turn. A condition far worse than execution was that of the Jew without protection in the hands of the Gentile—skulls too fragile for such fierce hands as those of the madman just now. Leiba’s lips, parched with fever, trembled as they mechanically followed his thoughts. A violent shivering fit seized him; he entered the porch of the inn with tottering steps. “There is no doubt,” thought Sura, “Leiba is not at all well, he is really ill; Leiba has got ‘ideas’ into his head. Is

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not that easy to understand after all he has been doing these last days, and especially after what he has done today?” He had had the inn closed before the lights were lit, to remain so until the Sabbath was ended. Three times had some customers knocked at the door, calling to him, in familiar voices, to undo it. He had trembled at each knock and had stood still, whispering softly and with terrified eyes: “Do not move—I want no Gentiles here.” Then he had passed under the portico, and had listened at the top of the stone steps by the door which was secured by a bar of wood. He shook so that he could scarcely stand, but he would not rest. The most distressing thing of all was that he had answered Sura’s persistent questions sharply, and had sent her to bed, ordering her to put out the light at once. She had protested meanwhile, but the man had repeated the order curtly enough, and she had had unwillingly to submit, resigning herself to postponing to a later date any explanation of his conduct. Sura had put out the lamp, had gone to bed, and now slept by the side of Strul. The woman was right. Leiba was really ill. Night had fallen. For a long time Leiba had been sitting, listening by the doorway which gave on to the passage. What is that? Indistinct sounds came from the distance—horses trotting, the noise of heavy blows, mysterious and agitated conversations. The effort of listening intently in the solitude of the night sharpens the sense of hearing: when the eye is disarmed and powerless, the ear seems to struggle to assert its power.

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But it was not imagination. From the road leading hither from the main road came the sound of approaching horses. Leiba rose, and tried to get nearer to the big door in the passage. The door was firmly shut by a heavy bar of wood across it, the ends of which ran into holes in the wall. At his first step the sand scrunching under his slippers made an indiscreet noise. He drew his feet from his slippers, and waited in the corner. Then, without a sound that could be heard by an unexpectant ear, he went to the door in the corridor, just as the riders passed in front of it at walking pace. They were speaking very low to each other, but not so low but that Leiba could quite well catch these words: “He has gone to bed early.” “Supposing he has gone away?” “His turn will come; but I should have liked—” No more was intelligible; the men were already some distance away. To whom did these words refer? Who had gone to bed or gone away? Whose turn would come another time? Who would have liked something? And what was it he wanted? What did they want on that by-road—a road used only by anyone wishing to find the inn? An overwhelming sense of fatigue seemed to overcome Leiba. Could it be Gheorghe? Leiba felt as if his strength was giving way, and he sat down by the door. Eager thoughts chased each other through his head, he could not think clearly or come to any decision. Terrified, he reëntered the inn, struck a match, and lighted a small petroleum lamp. It was an apology for a light; the wick was turned so low as to conceal the flame in the brass receiver; only by means of the opening round the receiver could some of the vertical shafts of light penetrate into a gloom that was

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like the darkness of death—all the same it was sufficient to enable him to see well into the familiar corners of the inn. Ah! How much less is the difference between the sun and the tiniest spark of light than between the latter and the gloom of blindness. The clock on the wall ticked audibly. The monotonous sound irritated Leiba. He put his hand over the swinging pendulum, and stayed its movement. His throat was parched. He was thirsty. He washed a small glass in a three-legged tub by the side of the bar and tried to pour some good brandy out of a decanter; but the mouth of the decanter began to clink loudly on the edge of the glass. This noise was still more irritating. A second attempt, in spite of his effort to conquer his weakness, met with no greater success. Then, giving up the idea of the glass, he let it fall gently into the water, and drank several times out of the decanter. After that he pushed the decanter back into its place; as it touched the shelf it made an alarming clatter. For a moment he waited, appalled by such a catastrophe. Then he took the lamp, and placed it in the niche of the window which lighted the passage: the door, the pavement, and the wall which ran at right angles to the passage were illuminated by almost imperceptible streaks of light. He seated himself near the doorway and listened intently. From the hill came the sound of bells ringing in the Resurrection morning. It meant that midnight was past, day was approaching. Ah! If only the rest of this long night might pass as had the first half! The sound of sand trodden underfoot! But he was sitting in the corner, and had not stirred; a second noise, followed by many such. There could be no doubt someone was out-

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side, here, quite near. Leiba rose, pressing his hand to his heart, and trying to swallow a suspicious lump in his throat. There were several people outside—and Gheorghe! Yes, he was there; yes, the bells on the hill had rung the Resurrection. They spoke softly: “I tell you he is asleep. I saw when the lights went out.” “Good, we will take the whole nest.” “I will undo the door, I understand how it works. We must cut an opening—the beam runs along here.” He seemed to feel the touch of the men outside as they measured the distance on the wood. A big gimlet could be heard boring its way through the dry bark of the old oak. Leiba felt the need of support; he steadied himself against the door with his left hand while he covered his eyes with the right. Then, through some inexplicable play of the senses, he heard, from within, quite loud and clear: “Leiba! Here comes the coach.” It was surely Sura’s voice. A warm ray of hope! A moment of joy! It was just another dream! But Leiba drew his left hand quickly back; the point of the tool, piercing the wood at that spot, had pricked the palm of his hand. Was there any chance of escape? Absurd! In his burning brain the image of the gimlet took inconceivable dimensions. The instrument, turning continually, grew indefinitely, and the opening became larger and larger, large enough at last to enable the monster to step through the round aperture without having to bend. All that surged through such a brain transcends the thoughts of man; life rose to such a pitch of exaltation that everything seen, heard, felt, appeared to be enormous, the sense of proportion became chaotic.

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The work outside was continued with method and perseverance. Four times in succession Leiba had seen the sharp steel tooth pierce through to his side and draw back again. “Now, give me the saw,” said Gheorghe. The narrow end of the saw appeared through the first hole, and started to work with quick, regular movements. The plan was easy to understand; four holes in four corners of one panel; the saw made cuts between them; the gimlet was driven well home in the center of the panel; when the piece became totally separated from the main body of the wood it was pulled out; through the opening thus made a strong hand inserted itself, seized the bar, pushed it to one side and—Gentiles are in Leiba’s house. In a few moments, this same gimlet would cause the destruction of Leiba and his domestic hearth. The two executioners would hold the victim prostrate on the ground, and Gheorghe, with heel upon his body, would slowly bore the gimlet into the bone of the living breast as he had done into the dead wood, deeper and deeper, till it reached the heart, silencing its wild beatings and pinning it to the spot. Leiba broke into a cold sweat; the man was overcome by his own imagination, and sank softly to his knees as though life were ebbing from him under the weight of this last horror, overwhelmed by the thought that he must abandon now all hope of saving himself. “Yes! Pinned to the spot,” he said, despairingly. “Yes! Pinned to the spot.” He stayed a moment, staring at the light by the window. For some moments he stood aghast, as though in some other world, then he repeated with quivering eyelids: “Yes! Pinned to the spot.”

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Suddenly a strange change took place in him, a complete revulsion of feeling; he ceased to tremble, his despair disappeared, and his face, so discomposed by the prolonged crisis, assumed an air of strange serenity. He straightened himself out with the decision of a strong and healthy man who makes for an easy goal. The line between the two upper punctures of the panel was finished. Leiba went up, curious to see the working of the tool. His confidence was more pronounced. He nodded his head as though to say: “I still have time.” The saw cut the last fiber near the hole towards which it was working, and began to saw between the lower holes. “There are still three,” thought Leiba, and with the caution of the most experienced burglar he softly entered the inn. He searched under the bar, picked up something, and went out again as he entered, hiding the object he had in his hand as though he feared somehow the walls might betray him, and went back on tiptoe to the door. Something terrible had happened; the work outside had ceased—there was nothing to be heard. “What was the matter? Has he gone? What has happened?” flashed through the mind of the man inside. He bit his lower lip at such a thought, full of bitter disappointment. “Ha, ha!” It was an imaginary deception; the work began again, and he followed it with the keenest interest, his heart beating fast. His decision was taken; he was tormented by an incredible desire to see the thing finished. “Quicker!” he thought, with impatience. “Quicker!” Again the sound of bells ringing on the hill. “Hurry up, old fellow, the daylight will catch us!” said a voice outside, as though impelled by the will of the man within.

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The work was pushed on rapidly. Only a few more movements and all the punctures in the panel would be united. At last! Gently the drill carried out the four-sided piece of wood. A large and supple hand was thrust in; but before it reached the bars it sought, two screams were heard, while, with great force, Leiba enclosed it with the free end of the noose, which was round a block fixed to the cellar door. The door was ingeniously contrived: a long rope fastened round a block of wood; lengthwise, at the place where the sawn panel had disappeared, was a spring-ring which Leiba held open with his left hand, while at the same time his right hand held the other taut. At the psychological moment he sprang the ring, and rapidly seizing the free end of the rope with both hands he pulled the whole arm inside by a supreme effort. In a second the operation was complete. It was accompanied by two cries, one of despair, the other of triumph: the hand is “pinned to the spot.” Footsteps were heard retreating rapidly: Gheorghe’s companions were abandoning to Leiba the prey so cleverly caught. The Jew hurried into the inn, took the lamp and with a decided movement turned up the wick as high as it would go: the light concealed by the metal receiver rose gay and victorious, restoring definite outlines to the nebulous forms around. Zibal went into the passage with the lamp. The burglar groaned terribly; it was obvious from the stiffening of his arm that he had given up the useless struggle. The hand was swollen, the fingers were curved as though they would seize something. The Jew placed the lamp near it—a shudder, the fever returning. He moved the light quite close,

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until, trembling, he touched the burglar’s hand with the burning chimney; a violent convulsion of the fingers was followed by a dull groan. Leiba was startled at the sight of this phenomenon. Leiba trembled—his eyes betrayed a strange exaltation. He burst into a shout of laughter which shook the empty corridor and resounded in the inn. Day was breaking. Sura woke up suddenly—in her sleep she seemed to hear a terrible moaning. Leiba was not in the room. All that had happened previously returned to her mind. Something terrible had taken place. She jumped out of bed and lighted the candle. Leiba’s bed had not been disturbed. He had not been to bed at all. Where was he? The woman glanced out of the window; on the hill in front shone a little group of small bright lights, they flared and jumped, now they died away, now, once more, soared upwards. They told of the Resurrection. Sura undid the window; then she could hear groans from down by the door. Terrified, she hurried down the stairs. The corridor was lighted up. As she emerged through the doorway, the woman was astonished by a horrible sight. Upon a wooden chair, his elbows on his knees, his beard in his hand, sat Leiba. Like a scientist, who, by mixing various elements, hopes to surprise one of nature’s subtle secrets which has long escaped and worried him, Leiba kept his eyes fixed upon some hanging object, black and shapeless, under which, upon another chair of convenient height, there burnt a big torch. He watched, without turning a hair, the process of decomposition of the hand which most certainly would not have spared him. He did not hear the

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groans of the unhappy being outside: he was more interested, at present, in watching than in listening. He followed with eagerness each contortion, every strange convulsion of the fingers till one by one they became powerless. They were like the legs of a beetle which contract and stretch, waving in agitated movement, vigorously, then slower and slower until they lie paralyzed by the play of some cruel child. It was over. The roasted hand swelled slowly and remained motionless. Sura gave a cry. “Leiba!” He made a sign to her not to disturb him. A greasy smell of burnt flesh pervaded the passage: a crackling and small explosions were heard. “Leiba! What is it?” repeated the woman. It was broad day. Sura stretched forward and withdrew the bar. The door opened outwards, dragging with it Gheorghe’s body, suspended by the right arm. A crowd of villagers, all carrying lighted torches, invaded the premises. “What is it? What is it?” They soon understood what had happened. Leiba, who up to now had remained motionless, rose gravely to his feet. He made room for himself to pass, quietly pushing the crowd to one side. “How did it happen, Jew?” asked someone. “Leiba Zibal,” said the innkeeper in a loud voice, and with a lofty gesture, “goes to Jassy to tell the rabbi that Leiba Zibal is a Jew no longer. Leiba Zibal is a Christian—for Leiba Zibal has lighted a torch for Christ.” And the man moved slowly up the hill, towards the sunrise, like the prudent traveler who knows that the long journey is not achieved with hasty steps.

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KARL KLOSTERMANN Czech novelist, 1848–1923. Klostermann expressed his sympathy with the Jews in a number of works, in his novel Spravedlnost lidská (“Human Justice”), in his novelette Potrestán (“Punished”), and in the short story reproduced here, which appeared first in the German publication Politik, of Prague, and in the volume Böhmerwaldskizzen, and then, in 1918, in a revised and improved Czech version, in Topicuv sbornik and in the volume Šumavské povidky. See H. Waidhas, “Die neuere tschechische Literatur in ihrer Stellung zu den Juden,” in Slavitische Studien, dedicated to Franz Spina, p. 161 f.; Oskar Donath, Böhmische Dorfjuden, Brünn, M. Kral, 1926, pp. 70 ff., 103 ff. The English translation, done for this anthology by Stella Heineman, is based on the Czech version, and is included here with the kind permission of Topic of Prague.

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THE JEW OF S. . .

I

N ONE of the free parishes of the Wozd Woods—I shall designate it only by the initial S. . .— there settled many years ago a Jewish family, probably the first ever to set foot on this soil. Whence these people came, what circumstances and hopes drove or allured them hither, where certainly no Promised Land had beckoned them, I cannot say. I do not even know their name, and I shall content myself, as did the parishioners, by calling the head of the family Srul, his mother, who came with them, “the Old Woman,” and his wife, “the Young Woman.” They brought three children with them, of whom I remember only one, a beautiful, black-eyed girl. Of the others I know absolutely nothing more than what my reader will hear. Our people are in general good-natured folk, but they have an unconquerable distrust of strangers. Srul, a small, weakly person, was the first to arrive, and he went directly to the burgomaster, with whom he had a long conference. The burgomaster was quite an enlightened and kindhearted man, so it was not at all surprising that, as his attendants soon reported everywhere, he said to the Jew, who was taking leave with humble bows: “If you c’n move up here, you c’n stay. I’ll fix it.” With this authorization by the head of the community, which encroached somewhat on the rights and prerogatives of the common council, Srul appeared after a few days with his tribe of five in a rather massive wagon loaded with 163

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his not exactly rich belongings. The wagon was topped by a coarse canvas meant somehow to protect the contents against rain. It has always been a mystery to me how the vehicle managed to get up here, considering the condition of the road and especially of the old nag that pulled the cart and that threatened, according to eye-witnesses, to keel over at any moment because of infirmity of age and emptiness of stomach. This horse did not survive the arrival of Srul in S. . . by more than six weeks, and the conduct of the kindly inhabitants of this free parish and the reception accorded the wretched owner of the unfortunate animal were probably not without blame for it. It is difficult to describe what happened in S. . . in those days. Hardly had the news spread through the parish that a Jew had come, when whole processions began to converge on the inn where he had settled. Men, women, and children stared for hours at the poor wretch and his family. Even the above mentioned nag and wagon were subjected to close inspection, and treated with obvious fear and aversion. I must note that it was only through the direct intervention of the burgomaster that Srul and his family had found quarters in the inn. The good-natured man (I speak of the innkeeper) had been prevailed upon after much persuasion to allow the strangers to stay in an unused, dilapidated stable, observing that they themselves might repair to the best of their ability the breaches in the roofless ceiling and walls. But he forbade them to enter the inn proper, saying, “In here you must not come. This room is sacred.” During the first few days he provided them with some food; afterwards he refused to do even that, as the distrust which he had already harbored in no slight degree became intensified through outside influence.

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The attitude toward Srul became very hostile. The people were soon not content with mere staring, but resorted to the kind of talk which, though incredibly absurd, omitted nothing by way of precision. The women were the worst. According to their aspersions it followed that Srul alone had instigated and administered the crucifixion of Christ. Then, one day, there appeared an apostle, Ferdl-Sepp by name, who used to go down often into the country and who probably got his inspiration somewhere in Neuern; and he delivered himself of the following address, which must have been dictated by a power other than the Holy Spirit: “I heard down below of Srul. He’s a fine one. The Jewish elders cursed him. Yes, they pronounced a curse on his head, his hands, his feet, his wife, and his children. Such a scoundrel is he. Not even the Jews will have him. And such a fellow the burgomaster has permitted to settle here. And do you know why? Because he paid him, paid him with wages of sin, with money that is bewitched and that is under an evil spell.” “Just so,” nodded the men. “Jesus! Jesus!” cried the women. And some knew that the Jews slaughter Christian children, counterfeit money, cast a spell on cattle, induce sickness by magic, in short, perpetrate things that make one shudder. Such silly yet poisonous talk could not but have its effect. It led to grandiose deeds of heroism. Night after night large stones banged against poor Srul’s dwelling, so that the rotted laths creaked and the meager remnants of mortar clattered on the floor. The children screamed, and the women wept and wailed. Srul dared not appear in the rickety door, knowing well what fate would await him there. He displayed the passive valor and persistence which characterize his

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race. He said not a word when a gang of young ruffians threw into his window a sack full of frogs’ forelegs and yelled variations of the sneering taunt: “Here, fill up on these, since you Jews won’t feed on hind parts.” As these cruelties did not induce Srul to move away, the people began to starve him out systematically. They would not sell him a pound of flour, a potato, or a drop of milk. But Srul’s perseverance prevailed again. Under cover of the night he would repair to a hamlet three hours distant, and lay in supplies for a week at a time. It is hard to conceive the abject misery in which this family lived, and it were incredible had not the burgomaster himself seen it. The latter became tired of the situation and made an earnest effort to put an end to it. The parson, too, intervened and rebuked the public from the pulpit for their stupid hard-heartedness. Maybe the appeal of these two men helped, maybe the people just wearied of the battle, but the persecution stopped shortly, and before long Srul dared even to offer for sale to his neighbors all sorts of articles, needles, thread, combs, and the like. In turn he bought from them hides, horns, claws, and similar things for which, before his coming, they had never been able to find a market. And he was so moderate in his demands, so unpretentious and modest, satisfied with such slight profits, that even the dullest and most narrow-minded folk must have noticed it. He went about his way quietly, never hurt anyone in any manner, offered his assistance often to those who would accept it, in short, behaved so that his former enemies became in time quite friendly with him. He could now rent a respectable domicile, establish a small store, and in a few years he fared tolerably well, according to the circumstances—naturally,

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in S. . . it was not likely that he would ever become a Rothschild. No one could say the slightest thing against him or his wife or mother. The poor old lady particularly won the complete confidence of the entire neighborhood. Women who came on Sundays from a great distance to attend church could now, to their great satisfaction, bring their children along: the “Old Woman” undertook to supervise them while the mothers offered their devotions. She performed this task with a zeal that could not be praised sufficiently. Thus things stood until, in the year 18—, a terribly hot summer came. Fallow mists rose from the endless swamps which, interspersed with dismal forests, surrounded the parish of S. . . for miles. These fogs, like the haze of the northern marshes, lay through the day motionless, coiled up over their mournful birthplaces, covering the knotty dwarf pines and the meager black birches with their soiled veils. Then, toward evening, if a cool wind arose, the vapors moved slowly toward the rim of the plateau and rolled soundlessly, like the billows of a ghostly cataract, down the valley, and especially amid the clearings where the forest offered no resistance. These were followed by swarms of terribly harrassing gnats. The noxious insects came in such profusion that the herds left their grazing plots, the woodsmen fled from the forests, and neither smoke nor flame could stop the pest. Sometimes a storm would break; huge quantities of water would pour over the woods and moors, but they brought no cooling relief. The heated earth steamed, but the damp, hot air became more sultry. Green algae gathered about the springs and wells. After several weeks of terrific humidity, disquieting rumors began to circulate. Here and there were cases of a

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sickness which was at first sporadic but soon gained the momentum of an epidemic. It was insidious and fatal, attacking adults as well as children. A physician found his way up to the village, and in the report he submitted to the authorities he mentioned putrid dysentery. Scenes of despair were repeated daily. Whole families and numerous children were wiped out within a few days. And there was no relief in sight. Steel-gray clouds discolored the sky: one could look at the sun with the naked eye, and the same unusual sultriness still filled the air. The stars had lost their glitter, and hung in the canopy of heaven like the heads of gigantic brass nails. The moon, resembling a white, lusterless disc, revealed two, sometimes three, rings of leaden gray. Day after day the simple, wooden church building was full of petitioners seeking redress. Processions were held. The chapel up in the woods was stuffed with ex voto pictures. But it was all in vain. Heaven seemed to be deaf, and no supplication penetrated its brazen arch. Job’s pest kept on coming. Even the burgomaster’s brother, the strongest man in the community, a giant in stature, and barely forty years of age, was swept away by the plague, along with two of his children. Despair broke loose. The doctor, who had come up again, was driven back with contempt and scorn, and could thank God that he escaped with his life. In the square before the church there gathered immediately a crowd of men and women, gesticulating, shouting, raising a clamor of curses and lamentation. “And I tell you,” screeched an inhuman voice, “I tell you it’s the Jew.” “Yes, yes,” roared an echo, “it’s the Jew. I have a book at home which tells what they do, those

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dogs, those evil beasts. . .” “That’s their curse. They poison the wells. That’s the plague that rages.” The word was uttered, and an indescribable howl followed, pierced by shrill yells. The mob rushed madly toward the nearby house of the unfortunate Srul. He had been standing in the doorway of his store; and, sensing trouble, hurried into the adjoining living room, locking the door behind him. In one move the enraged mob demolished, tore, trampled, and threw out everything in the shop. The contents of a few floursacks filled the place and covered them all, so that they looked like millers. Not one section of the desk was left intact. Then they charged against the door of the living room, which did not withstand the attack for ten seconds. Those in the front broke in, pushed by the crowd behind. But the leaders had hardly crossed the threshold when they fell back in horror, in spite of the pushing mob that was shouting and howling in the store. Srul, deathly pale, was leaning against a bed on which lay a dying child with a vacant stare. Nearby on a stool sat his wife, with covered face, holding a dead child in her arms. Her lips quivered and muttered unintelligible words. The third child, the oldest girl of whom I spoke at the beginning, stood speechless by her father, her big, black eyes riveted on the intruders. Perhaps the majesty of Death impressed them. A youth, whose broad hands had just swung a heavy club, called out in a thunderous voice: “Back! They are dying here too. Srul didn’t do it.” Horror showed on the faces of those who had broken in. “Back, back!” shouted a number of voices. The surging mob stopped, swayed for several seconds, then suddenly fell back and ran from the store. A minute later

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one or another of these figures, with lowered head might still be seen slinking away across the church square. But inside the store, Srul wrung his hands and moaned: “God All-righteous, Thou hast chastened me sore.” The following Sunday the parson delivered an impressive sermon, perhaps the finest of his life. He must have made some of them understand what Christian duty and neighborly love really meant, because, for a fact, two men went immediately after the sermon to Srul and, accusing themselves, each one said: “Please, Srul, forgive me. I was very wicked; but, you see, it was temper. How much do you want, Srul, for the damage?” Srul was so moved that tears came to his eyes, and he almost begged forgiveness of them. “I understand,” he sobbed. “Haven’t I, too, lost my children? One scarcely knows what to do for pain and sorrow.” They were full of good-will, these “quick-tempered” inhabitants of S. . .— that cannot be denied. But whether they compensated poor Srul for the losses which they had inflicted on him through the destruction of his store, and whether they wiped away with their penitence the tears from off the unhappy mother and grandmother and atoned for the mortal fright they had caused them, are questions which I shall not venture to answer. The epidemic had meanwhile reached its peak, and went as fast as it had come. Srul continued to live quietly in S. . ., attended to his business, and the utmost favor he ever requested of his Christian fellow-citizens was to blow out the light on the eve of his Sabbath. The “Old Woman” continued to care for the peasant children during the hours of high mass and of dance-music, earning some gratitude for her trouble. The family was as far from amassing wealth now as before. This might have happened only if

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Srul had lived in S. . . during “the year of the beetles,”* when the peasants squandered their money most foolishly. I have always thought also that Srul was not endowed with the necessary business sense which distinguishes so many of his coreligionists. He knew skins, but he did not understand how to buy timber cheap at wholesale; and no one will say that, after well-nigh thirty years of trading, he ever cheated any one. But I must not run ahead of my story. Srul did not live through the blessed “beetle year” at all, at least not in S. . . And it happened in this way. The only daughter left to him—let us call her Mollie— grew to be, as we have already indicated, an exceedingly pretty girl. I always saw in her the ideal beauty of the daughters of Zion, whose charm had been so fateful to the Romans. This Mollie’s pulchritude did not affect the Romans, but it captivated the heart of the burgomasters son, much to the sorrow of the parents of both. The burgomaster was indeed an enlightened man, and had treated Srul as a human being, but he would rather have sunk into the ground than permit a love affair, much less a marriage, between his son and a Jewess. Such a thing was then, and still is, an impossibility among our mountaineers. And as for Srul, he was much too pious a Jew not to maintain the same principles, mutatis mutandis, with respect to a Christian. He would not oppose the burgomasters son openly but, knowing the nature of women and fearing disaster, he had recourse to the tactics with which he was most familiar, those of persistent passive resistance. He locked Mollie up as a *The scab beetle caused great damage in the Bohemian forest in the seventies of the last century. Large stretches of woodland had to be cleared. This brought the inhabitants unusual earnings, which they spent promptly and lavishly.

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Turkish pasha would his odalisks, and on the rare occasions when the girl left the house, she was not permitted to go unaccompanied. Either the “Old Woman” or the “Young Woman” was ever at her side, to the great chagrin of the youth, who was constantly loitering about Srul’s house. The romance of the crownprince of S. . . could not go unnoticed, and it soon drew comments and criticism in the manner usual among us. Obscure poets improvized stanzas, which were circulated orally and soon were on every tongue, being sung on all occasions, festive and otherwise, in innumerable more or less clever variations. Sarcastic remarks and biting references made aloud in the presence of the burgomaster’s son infuriated him so that he nearly lost his mind. But he swallowed the insults and would not renounce the object of his adoration. The affair was enough to drive the burgomaster mad, and he finally arranged for an interview with Srul. “This must stop,” he said, “this business ‘tween the lad and the hussy. What’ll we do, Srul?” “Just as the burgomaster says,” replied Srul. “It must stop. It can’t go on.” “Well, what’ll you do, Srul?” asked the burgomaster. “What’ll I do?” said Srul. “God punish me if I won’t look for a bridegroom and marry her off.” Henceforth Srul was in search of a bridegroom for Mollie. He attended all the fairs in the neighboring villages and towns, far into the Bohemian country. When he personally could not go, he sent his wife and at times his mother. But his efforts were without success. Winter returned. The forests and mountains were shrouded in a glittering white mantle. In W. . . , five hours from S. . . , there was a fair. This time Mollie had driven there

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with the “Old Woman,” and the father awaited their homecoming. He was not worried, for the two women had gone with at least ten peasants in a straw-padded wagon, well protected against the moderate cold. What could happen to them? It was past noon. The caravan was expected momentarily, for the people must have certainly departed from W. . . at daybreak. Srul waited patiently, patience being a commodity which he always had in reserve. The supposition that the people had left W. . . quite early was correct. But Shoemaker Sepp had sold a pair of oxen, Martin Franz a calf, Gregory Hans a cow, the poultry-farmer, Mrs. Gigerl, ten pieces of linen; in short, they all had some money and thought that that was reason enough for them to stop awhile at each village and inn which they passed. Thus it happened that it was five o’clock in the afternoon when the party finally reached the mountain which had to be crossed before entering the limits of S. . . The road serpentined upward toward a summit which was connected with many sidepaths. It became pitch dark, and a rather forceful drift set in. It became more and more difficult for the wagon to proceed. The oxen, already over-tired, sank down into the snow with each step, and struggled in vain. “It’s no use,” said one of the men. “The beasts can’t make it. We’ll have to get off the wagon.” “Leave the ‘Old Woman’ on, or she’ll get stuck in the snow,” said another. But the “Old Woman” protested that she could climb quite well, and she got off with the rest. “Hi, hi,”— the oxen pulled, the company plodded alongside, talking to each other, and the “Old Woman” and her

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granddaughter trailed along behind the others. The storm became more violent, and it grew darker. After half an hour, the wagon reached the top, and the company came with it. Srul heard it rolling in, and he hurried to meet it. “Where are my women-folk,” he inquired. “They were just behind us a while ago. They’ll come along soon,” said the men, who disappeared into the tavern at the church square. But no one came along. Srul ran in the dark, trying to follow the tracks of the wagon, which the wind quickly covered with fine snow. In a quarter of an hour he returned, alone. He raised a loud lament. The inn was quickly emptied of its numerous guests who hurried, some with torches, down the mountain. They separated into groups. They called. But all in vain. Not a sound was heard except for the howling of the wind, which gathered ever more snow in its drift. All night long they searched. Poor, unhappy Srul tore his hair in despair. Not till the third day were the corpses found deep in the snow. The two women had tarried behind, and in the darkness had slipped into an abrupt though not particularly deep declivity. The roar of the brook, whose clear waters streamed toward the mill hanging on the mountain side, and the blast of the wind had drowned their cries for help. The “Old Woman” had broken a limb. The young girl, though but slightly injured, had undoubtedly refused to leave her grandmother alone. The treacherously mounting snow had then completed its work. Srul was notified of the dismal find. He stared mutely at the two bodies when they were brought in. His wife too stood speechless, wringing her hands and weeping. They buried their dear ones way down in the valley, where the Jews had a cemetery.

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After the funeral they returned, sat for a week on the mourners’ stool, and then sold out their business. They moved away, lonely, unaccompanied, nobody knowing whither. The burgomaster’s son appeared at first to be deeply affected by the loss of his beloved one. Gradually, however, he seemed to regain his poise, and at the end of about a year, he married. The nickname Srul clung to him, the only memento which the poor Jew, who had sojourned in S. . . for twelve years, left behind.

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ADAM SZYMANSKI Polish novelist, 1852–1916. In Srul—from Lubartów, written in 1885, the author follows the tradition of Mickiewicz and portrays the patriotic sentiments of the Jew. The story was translated by Else Benecke, and appears in her Tales by Polish Authors, Oxford, B. H. Blackwell, 1915, pp. 119–136. It is included here with the permission of the publisher.

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SRUL—FROM LUBARTÓW I

I

T HAPPENED in the year. . . ; but no matter what year. Suffice it to say that it happened, and that it happened at Yakutsk in the beginning of November, about a month after my arrival at that citadel of frosts. The thermometer was down to 35 degrees Réamur. I was therefore thinking anxiously of the coming fate of my nose and ears, which, fresh from the West, had been making silent but perceptible protests against their compulsory acclimatization, and to-day were to be submitted to yet further trials. These latest trials were due to the fact that one of the men in our colony, Peter Kurp, nicknamed Baldyga, had died in the local hospital two days before, and early that morning we were going to do him a last service by laying his wasted body in the half-frozen ground. I was only waiting for an acquaintance, who was to tell me the hour of the funeral, and I had not long to wait. Having wrapped up my nose and ears with the utmost care, I set out with the others to the hospital. The hospital was outside the town. In the courtyard, and at some distance from the other buildings, stood a small shed—the mortuary. In this mortuary lay Baldyga’s body. When the doors were opened, we entered, and the scene within made a painful impression on the few of us present. We were about ten people, possibly a few more, and we all 179

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involuntarily looked at one another: we were standing opposite a cold and bare reality, not veiled by any vestige of pretence. . . In the shed—which possessed neither table nor stool, nothing but walls white with hoarfrost and a floor covered with snow—lay a large bearded corpse, equally white, and tied up in some kind of sheet or shirt. This was Baldyga. The body, which was completely frozen, had been brought near the light to the door, where the coffin was standing ready. Never shall I forget Baldyga’s face as I saw it then with the light full upon it and washed by the snow. There was something strange and indescribably sad in the rough, strongly marked countenance; the large pupils and projecting eye-balls seemed to look far away into the distance towards the stern frosty sky. “That man—he was a good sort,” one of those present said to me, noticing the impression which the sight of Baldyga made on me. “He was always steady and industrious; people who were hard up used to go to him and he would help them. But there never was anyone so obstinate as Kurp; he believed to the last that he would go back to the Narev. Yet before the end came it was plain that he knew he would never get there.” Meanwhile the petrified body had been laid in the coffin, and placed upon the small one-horse Yakut sledge. Then the tailor’s wife—a person versed in religious practices—undertook the office of priest for such time as we could give her, and began to sing Ave Maria, while we joined in with voices broken with emotion. After this we proceeded to the cemetery. We walked quickly; the frost was invigorating, and made

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us hasten our steps. At last we reached the cemetery. We each threw a handful of frozen earth onto the coffin. . . A few deft strokes of the spade. . . and in a moment only a small freshly turned mound of earth remained to bear witness to Baldyga’s yet recent existence in this world. This witness would not last long, however—scarcely a few months. The spring would come, and, thawed by the sun, the mound on the grave would sink and become even with the rest of the ground, and grass and weeds would grow upon it. After a year or two the witnesses of the funeral would die, or be dispersed throughout the wide world, and if even the mother who bore him were to search for him, she would no longer find a trace on earth. But, indeed, none would seek for the dead man, nor even a dog ask for him. Baldyga had known this; we knew it too; and we dispersed to our houses in silence. The day following the funeral the frost was yet more severe. There was not a single building to be seen on the opposite side of the fairly narrow street in which I lived, for a thick mist of snow-crystals overspread the earth, like a cloud. The sun could not penetrate this mist, and, although there was not a living soul in the street, the air was so highly condensed through the extreme cold that I continually heard the metallic sound of creaking snow, the sharp reports of the walls and ground cracking in the frost, or the moaning song of a Yakut. Evidently those Yakut frosts were beginning which reduce the most terrible Arctic cold to insignificance. They fill human beings with unspeakable dread. Every living thing feels its utter helplessness, and, although it cowers down and shrinks into itself for protection, knows quite well—like the cur worried by fierce mas-

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tiffs—that all is in vain, for sooner or later the inexorable foe is bound to be victorious. And Baldyga was continually in my mind, as if he were alive. I had sat for hours at my half-finished task. Somehow I could not stick to work; the pen fell from my hand, and my unruly thoughts ranged far away beyond the snowy frontier and frosty ground. In vain I appealed to my reason, in vain I repeated wholesome advice to myself for the tenth time. Hitherto I had offered some resistance to the sickness which had consumed me for several weeks; to-day I felt completely overcome and helpless. Homesickness was devouring and making pitiless havoc of me. I had been unable to resist dreaming so many times already; was it likely I should withstand the temptation today? The temptation was stronger, and I was weaker than usual. So begone frost and snow, begone the existence of Yakutsk! I threw down my pen and, surrounding myself with clouds of tobacco smoke, plunged into the waters of feverish imagination. And how it carried me away!. . . My thoughts flew rapidly to the far West, across morasses and steppes, mountains and rivers, across countless lands and cities, and spread a scene of true enchantment before me. There on the Vistula lay my native plains, free from misery and human passions, beautiful and harmonious. My lips cannot utter, nor my pen describe their charm! I saw the golden fields, the emerald meadows; the dense forests murmured their old legends to me. I heard the rustle of the waving corn; the chirping of the feathered poets; the sound of the giant oaks as they haughtily bid defiance to the gale.

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And the air seemed permeated by the scent of those aromatic forests and those blossoming fields, adorned in virgin freshness by the blue cornflowers and that sweetest beauty of Spring—the innocent violet. . . . Every single nerve felt the caress of my native air. . . I was touched by the life-giving power of the sun’s rays; and although the frost outside creaked more fiercely and showed its teeth at me on the windowpanes more menacingly, yet the blood circulated in my veins more rapidly, my head burnt, and I sat as if spellbound, deaf, no longer seeing or hearing anything round me . . . II I did not notice that the door opened and someone entered my room, neither did I see the circles of vapor which form in such numbers every time a door is opened that they obscure the face of the person entering. I did not feel the cold: it penetrates human dwellings here with a sort of shameless, premeditated violence. In fact, I had seen or heard nothing until suddenly I felt a man close to me, and, even before catching sight of him, found myself involuntarily putting him the usual Yakut question: “Tcho nado?” (“What do you want?”) “If you please, sir, I am a hawker,” was the answer. I looked up. Although he was dressed in ox and stag’s hide, I had no doubt that a typical Polish Jew from a small town stood before me. Anyone who had seen him at Lossitz or Sarnak would have recognized him as easily in Yakut as in Patagonian costume. I knew him at once. And since, as I have said, I was as yet only semi-conscious, and had asked the question almost mechanically, the Jew standing

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before me did not interrupt my train of thought too harshly; the contrast was, therefore, not too disagreeable. Quite the reverse. I gazed into the well-known features with a certain degree of pleasure; the Jew’s appearance at that moment seemed quite natural, since it carried me in thought and feeling to my native land, and the few Polish words sounded dear to my ear. Half dreaming still, I looked at him kindly. The Jew stood still for a moment, then turned, and retreating to the door, began to pull off his multifarious coverings. Then I came to myself, and realized that I had not yet answered him, and that my sagacious countryman, quite misinterpreting my silence, was anxious to dispose of his wares to me. I hastened to undeceive him. “In heaven’s name, man, what are you doing?” I cried quickly, “I do not want to buy anything; I am not wanting anything. Do not unload yourself in vain, and go away with God’s blessing!” The Jew stopped undoing his things, and after a moment’s consideration came towards me with his long fur coat half trailing behind him, and began to mumble quickly in broken sentences: “It’s all right; I know you won’t buy anything, sir. I saw you, for I have been here a long time, a very long time. . . I didn’t know before that you had come. . .You come from Warsaw, don’t you, sir? They only told me yesterday evening that you had been here four months already; what a pity it was such a long time before I heard of it! I should have come at once. I have been searching for you today for an hour, sir. I went quite to the end of the town—and there’s such a frost here— confound it! . . . If you will allow me, sir—I won’t interrupt for long?. . .Only just a few words. . .”

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“What do you want of me?” “I should only like to have a little chat with you, sir.” This answer did not greatly surprise me. I had already come across not a few people, Jews among them, who had called solely for the purpose of “having a little chat” with a man recently arrived from their country. Those who came were interested in the most varied topics imaginable; there were the inquisitive gossipers pure and simple, there were the people who only enquired after their relations, and there were the politicians, including those whose heads had been turned. Among those who came, however, politics always played a specially important part. So it did not surprise me, I repeat, to hear the wish expressed by a fresh stranger, and although I should have been glad to rid my cottage as quickly as possible of the unpleasant odor of the ox-hide coat—badly tanned, as usual—I begged him in a friendly way to take it off and sit down. The Jew was evidently pleased. He took a seat beside me at once and I could now observe him closely. All the usual features of the Jewish race were united in the face beside me: the large, slightly crooked nose and penetrating hawk’s eyes, the pointed beard of the color of a well-ripened pumpkin, the low forehead, surrounded by thick hair; all these my guest possessed. And yet, strange to say, the haggard face expressed a certain frank sincerity, and did not make a disagreeable impression on me. “Tell me where you come from, what your name is, what you are doing here, and why you wish to see me?” “Please, sir, I am Srul, from Lubartów. Perhaps you know it—just a stone’s throw from Lublin?—Well, at home everyone thinks it a long way from there, and formerly I thought so too. But now,” he added with emphasis, “we

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know that Lubartów is quite close to Lublin, a mere stone’s throw.” “And have you been here long?” “Very long; three good years.” “That is not so very long; there are people who have lived here for over twenty years, and I met an old man from Vilna on the road, who had been here close upon thirty years. Those have really been here a long time.” But the Jew snubbed me. “As to them, I can’t say. I only know that I have been here a long time.” “You must certainly live quite alone, if the time seems so long to you?” “With my wife and child—my daughter. I had four children when I set out, but, may the Lord preserve us, it was such a long way, we were travelling a whole year. Do you know what such a journey means, sir?. . . Three children died in one week—died of travelling, as it were. Three children! . . . An easy thing to say! . . . There was nowhere even to bury them, for there was no cemetery of ours there. . . I am a Husyt,” he added more quietly. “You know what that means, Sir?. . . I keep the Law strictly. . . and yet God punishes me like this. . .” He grew silent with emotion. “My friend,” I tried to say to console him a little, “no doubt under such circumstances it is difficult to remember that it makes no difference; but all earth is hallowed.” But the Jew jumped as if he had been scalded. “Hallowed! How hallowed! In what way is it hallowed! What are you saying, sir? It’s unclean! It’s damned! . . . Hallowed earth?. . . You must not talk like that, sir; you ought to be ashamed! Is earth hallowed which never thaws? This earth is cursed! God doesn’t wish human beings to live here;

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it wouldn’t have been like this if He had wished it. Cursed! Bad! Damned! Damned!” And he began to spit about him, and stamp his feet, threatening the innocent Yakut earth with tightened lips and shrivelled hands, and muttering Jewish maledictions. At last, exhausted by the effort, he fell rather than sat down at the table beside me. All exiles, without regard to religion or race, dislike Siberia: evidently a fanatic does not learn to hate it so halfheartedly. I paused until he had calmed himself. Educated in a severe school, the Jew quickly regained his selfpossession and mastered his emotion, and when I gazed questioningly into his eyes the next moment, he immediately answered me: “You must pardon me; I do not speak of this to anyone, for to whom should I speak here?” “Then are there very few Jews here?” “Those here? Do you call them Jews, sir? They’re such low fellows, not one of them keeps the Law strictly.” Fearing another outburst, I would not, however, allow him to finish, and decided to change the conversation by asking him straight out what he wanted to talk to me about now. “I should like to know the news from there, sir. I have been here so many years, and I have never yet heard what is going on there.” “You are asking a great deal, for I can’t exactly tell you everything. I don’t know what interests you—politics, perhaps?” The Jew was silent. I concluded that my present guest, like many of the others, was interested in politics; but as I myself did not un-

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derstand the very elements of the subject, I began to give the very stereotyped account I had already composed with a view to frequent repetition of the situation of European politics, our own, and so forth. But the Jew fidgeted impatiently. “Then this does not interest you?” I asked. “I have never thought about it,” he answered candidly. “Ah, now I know why you have come! I am sure you wish to know how the Jews are doing, and how trade is going?” “They are better off than I am.” “Exactly. I am sure, under the circumstances, you will wish to know if living is dear with us, what the market prices are, how much for butter, meat, etc.” “What does it concern me if it is ever so cheap there, if I can get nothing here?” “Quite right again; but what the devil did you actually come here for?” “Since I don’t know myself, I ask you, sir, how am I to tell you? You see, sir, I often get thinking. . . I think so much. . . that Ryfka (that’s my wife) asks, ‘Srul, what’s the matter with you?’ And what can I tell her, for I don’t know myself what it is. Perhaps some people would laugh at me?” he added, as if fearing I were amongst them. But I did not laugh; I was interested. Something, the cause of which he himself could not explain or express in words, was evidently weighing on him, and his unusually poor command of language added to this difficulty. In order to help him I re-assured him by telling him that I was in no hurry; as my work was not urgent and there would therefore be no harm in our having an hour’s talk, and so on.

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The Jew thanked me with a glance, and after a moment’s thought opened the conversation thus: “When did you leave Warsaw, sir?” “According to the Russian calendar, at the end of April.” “Was it cold there then or warm?” “Quite warm. I travelled in a summer suit at first.” “Well just fancy, Sir! Here it was freezing!” “Then you have forgotten, is that it? Anyway, with us the fields are sown in April, and all the trees are green.” “Green?” Joy shone in srul’s eyes. “Why, yes, yes— green:—and here it was freezing!” Now at last I knew why he had come to me. Wishing to make certain, however, I was silent: The Jew was evidently getting animated. “Well, sir, you might tell me if there is any—with us now. . . but you see, I don’t know what it’s called; I have already forgotten Polish,” he apologized shyly, as if he had ever known it—“it’s white like a pea blossom, yet it’s not a pea, and in summer it grows in gardens round houses, on those tall stalks?” “Kidney beans?” “That’s just it! Kidney beans! Kidney beans!” he repeated to himself several times, as if wishing to impress those words on his memory for ever. “Of course there are plenty of those. But are there none here?” “Here! I have never seen a single pod all these past years. Here the peas are what at home we should not expect the. . . the. . .” “The pigs to eat,” I suggested. “Well, yes! Here they sell them by the pound, and it’s not always possible to get them.”

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“Are you so fond of kidney beans?” “It’s not that I am so fond of them, but they are so beautiful that. . . I don’t know why. . . I often get thinking and thinking how they may be growing round my house. Here there’s nothing!” “And now, sir,” he recommenced, “will you tell me if those small grey birds are still there in the winter—like this—” and he measured with his hand. “I have forgotten their names too. Formerly there were a great many, when I used to pray by the window. They used to swarm round! Well, whoever even looked at them there? Do you know, sir, I could never have believed that I should ever think about them! But here, where it’s so cold that even the crows won’t stop, you can’t expect to see little things like that. But they are sure to be there with us? They are there, aren’t they, sir?. . .” But I did not answer him now. I no longer doubted that this old fanatical Jew was pining for his country just as much as I was, and that we were both sick with the same sickness. This unexpected discovery moved me deeply, and I seized him by the hand, and asked in my turn: “Then that was what you wished to talk to me about? Then you are not thinking of the people, of your heavy lot, of the poverty which is pinching you; but you are longing for the sun, for the air of your native country! . . . You are thinking of the fields and meadows and woods; of the little songsters, for whom you could not spare a moment’s attention there when you were busy; and now that these beautiful pictures are fading from your recollection, you fear the solitude surrounding you, the vast emptiness which meets you and effaces the memories you value? You wish me to

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recall them to you, to revive them; you wish me to tell you what our country is like?. . .” “Oh, yes, sir, yes, sir! That was why I came here,” and he clasped my hands, and laughed joyfully, like a child. “Listen, brother. . .” And my friend, Srul, listened, all transformed by listening, his lips parted, his look rivetted to mine; he kindled, he inspired me by that look; he wrested the words from me, drank them in thirstily, and laid them in the very depth of his burning heart. . . I do not doubt that he laid them there, for when I had finished my tale he began to moan bitterly, “O weh mir! weh mir!” He struck his red beard, and in his misery tears like a child’s rolled fast down his face. . . And the old fanatic sat there a long time sobbing, and I cried with him. . . Much water has flowed down the cold Lena since that day, and not a few human tears have rolled down suffering cheeks. All this happened long ago. Yet in the silence of the night, at times of sleeplessness, the statuesque face of Baldyga, bearing the stigma of great sorrow, often rises before me, and invariably beside it Srul’s yellow, drawn face, wet with tears. And when I gaze longer at that nightvision, many a time I seem to see the Jew’s trembling pale lips move, and I hear his low voice whisper: “Oh Jehovah, why art Thou so unmerciful to one of Thy most faithful sons?. . .”

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HAMLEN HUNT American authoress, 1911–. The following tale appeared originally in Story, May 1937, was included among the O. Henry Memorial Award Prize Stories of 1937, edited by Harry Hansen, Doubleday, Doran & Co., 1937, and is reprinted here with the kind permission of Story and the The Story Press of New York.

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THE SALUTING DOLL

B

ACK of the people hung the tapestrylike room with books, pictures, bowls of flowers, bowls of fruit, more books, more furniture, the plum-colored rug, all woven into a rich, uncrowded design. The things themselves were beautiful but very much used, for the room, like the people who lived in it, was never in display, always at ease. Helen, whose feet had been blistered by job hunting, lay on the sofa with her red leather bedroom slippers heel to heel on the arm of the sofa. She said, “Hello, I’m afraid if I get up you might take the sofa.” “Of course,” said Leo, “I taught you that years ago.” He sank into a chair and began to talk to the three nearest people while Janice sat beside Helen and looked around her peacefully, smelling the duck they would have for dinner, lighting a cigarette. Mrs. Klingman, a massive, handsome woman with wavy black hair scraped back with a comb from her forehead, stood before the fireplace talking to her sister. When she bent to throw another lump of canel coal on the fire the canary-colored brocade of her house coat undulated and threw the Chinese landscape into fantastic perspective. Leo’s father, Jake Klingman, was at the carved oak sideboard between the two big windows that looked out over Washington Square. It was the nature of that sideboard to give forth the particular liquor you wanted at the mo195

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ment, though you could not have named it for yourself. Jake would open it up with a flourish, then stand communing with the forest of bottles thus revealed, his head tilted to hear a secret voice; when it spoke, he would give a little nod, plunge his hand down unhesitatingly into the tropics of alcohol and pluck forth blossoms, perhaps an earthenware jug of kümmel, a bottle of slivovitz, some light, sweet wine. “This is it,” he would say, handing you a glass, and it always was. Now he brought Janice some sherry and gave Leo a round glass half full of whisky and stood for a moment surveying the roomful of people who were comfortable, who were laughing and talking, and who were about to be fed at his table. Anyone who came to Jake Klingman’s house was instantly his friend; when his friends were around him, he was happy. “Did you get that department store you were after?” Janice asked Helen. “No,” Helen said, looking at her red-slippered feet, moving them restlessly. “It seems my name shouldn’t be Klingman.” “What do you mean?” Janice cried. “You mean that’s why you didn’t get it?” “Yes,” Helen said a little bitterly, “I wish I could find out beforehand what places don’t want Jews. I’d save time and blisters.” “Oh, you’ll get something,” Janice said comfortingly, though she knew Helen had wanted this particular job badly and for a long time. It was like the ideal apartment she and Leo had found in a house where there were no Jewish names over any doorbell; just as they were about to sign the lease, they were told someone else had been ahead of them. It was the first time Janice had regretted her maiden

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name of Elder. But only the name, she thought, looking over at Leo. As if she had heard Helen and were following the train of thought, Mrs. Klingman said suddenly, “I heard from Rose—my Berlin sister, you know—yesterday. She has seen the records and they show Adolf was released two months ago.” Janice knew that this Adolf she had never seen had been in a concentration camp for publishing too radical a magazine. There had been no news of him for months, until this word today. “What does that mean?” she asked, confused. “Why hasn’t he been home then?” Mrs. Klingman shrugged. “Rose thinks of course he is dead.” She was silent for a minute and then she went out to see about the duck. It was cooked, and everyone gradually assembled in the dining room for dinner. Conversation rose in crescendos of interest and fell in lulls of eating but never quite ceased. Anti-Semitism seemed to be in the air tonight—sometimes it was politics, sometimes books or the theater—because Janice heard Sidney Radzek, who designed machinery and made potato pancakes, say, “It’s amazing to see it spread in this country.” Someone answered, “It’s true. What fools a lot of people is that of course it doesn’t begin with storm troops. At first, besides the basic causes, it’s just a feeling—just a few words, little things like all-Gentile apartment houses, that no one pays attention to. Then it grows.” Jake Klingman said as he got up to carve again, “Sure, I get more labor cases these days, more civil liberties cases.

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When people who work are in trouble, Jews are in trouble. Even here.” After dinner more people came to the Klingmans’ apartment until a party developed, and it was after one when Janice and Leo got home. Even so, it took them hours to get around to going to sleep, their hands clasped, their heads on one pillow, and the next morning they could not rid themselves of the idea that it should be Sunday. The only trouble was it was Wednesday; it was a quarter to nine; they both had jobs. Leo would never get to Brooklyn on time nor Janice to Battery Place. She ran down three flights of stairs, snatched at the mail and raced toward the mines of the subway. The train was piled high with newly dug humanity and it was a miracle when some unseen pickax dislodged the man directly in front of Janice so that she had a place to sit. She picked up the thin badly printed newspaper he had left and it was still in her hand when she got to the office. Miss Case was even later than Janice. She came in hurriedly, in a bad temper. “Honestly!” she said. “I never saw such a crowd as there was this morning! There’s something about the way Jews push. . .” Janice didn’t answer, thinking as long as she worked for Mueller and Kurtz, Importers of Novelties, she might as well be insensitive to remarks about Jews. Nobody meant them personally, she reminded herself. Nobody knew she had a Jewish husband. She kept her maiden name because she knew the firm preferred unmarried girls and next year, when their Connecticut acres had been paid for, she would resign. It would be a pleasure then to announce that her name was Mrs. Leo Klingman; doing it now would only cost her a good job.

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At her desk she surreptitiously looked through the mail she had brought from home. Two letters for Leo, one for her, one for both of them from the Fir Tree Inn in Vermont. They had written for reservations in late June because they were planning a real vacation this year. “We regret. . . that we have no vacancies at the time you request. . .” Mr. Fir Tree Inn said politely. But he added, “P. S. We cater to a strictly Christian clientele.” Janice could hardly decide whether to be indignant or amused at the ambivalent quality of the letter, and as she threw it away she glanced at the newspaper she had picked up on the subway. For several seconds the words she read seemed to be in some language she did not understand. JEWS AGAIN THREATEN WORLD PEACE ! Aid Spanish Red Government. CHRISTIAN PARTY ADVOCATES STATE RESERVATIONS FOR JEWS! Put the Jews back into the Ghetto! Stupidly she turned over the paper in which she had expected to read simple, countrified news—the paper was printed in North Carolina—and saw that the back page was devoted to an editorial under the headline AMERICA NEEDS A POGROM ! “It can’t be serious” she insisted to herself, but she couldn’t make herself believe it was a joke. She crumpled up the paper, then tore bits out of it, going to the window to scatter the dirty confetti over the harbor. She was still watching the wind stand the harbor’s green scales upright when Mr. Mueller came looking for his secretary. He was rotund and dark, with a curious meatlike look, as if he were fresh out of a butcher’s icebox; even his walk was heavy and slapping, like a fore-quarter being slammed down on a chopping board. “So here you are, Miss Elder,” he said. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mueller.” As she turned a streak of

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sunlight glinted on the club emblem in his lapel and she thought she saw a tiny black swastika in the central design. For some reason it almost frightened her, though she had seen that pin for three years. He smiled. “I only wanted to show you the new shipment. Some very good novelties this time.” Janice followed him into the other office where, on the display table, he had set out samples of the stock unpacked that day. It was September and these were all things for the Christmas trade. Mr. Mueller picked up something, there was a whirring sound, and he set down on the table a little doll in a brown shirt. It raised and lowered its tin hand in the Nazi salute and every gesture jerked its painted black boots across an inch of the table-top. “You can’t beat the old country,” Mr. Mueller said, winding up another doll. “They always got something new.” His face was red with laughter and he could not wind dolls fast enough or set them down quickly enough. “See,” he said. “Pretty soon we have a whole regiment saluting.” By now the first doll’s mechanism had run down and it stood forlornly with its tin hand held out in pleading. Rewound, it finished its salute and stupidly began another. “Take one home,” Mr. Mueller said. “Free sample.” She stared down at the saluting doll. Again she was almost frightened, as if a lot of unrelated and trivial incidents had suddenly added up into a significant sum. And then she began to laugh, looking at the doll, shaking her head at Mr. Mueller because she could not speak. Here she was, haunted by pogroms, reading a sinister meaning into casual remarks, even into a club pin, all because she had found a newspaper on the subway. Now this toy suddenly reduced the whole notion to its own and rightful six-inch size. She

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laughed in delight. “Thank you, I’d love a doll. I have a friend. . .” She could go no farther for laughter, thinking of Leo’s face when she brought him home her new toy. Mr. Kurtz, who was bone to Mr. Mueller’s meat, being thin and hairless and rigid, smiled and said, “You like our new toys?” She said, “Lots of clever things this time.” “Franz,” Mr. Kurtz asked, “You are leaving early with me today?” On Wednesdays both men usually left early because it was the day their German social club met. They drank beer and had dinner at one of the Hofbraus in the eighties and had more beer. On Thursdays the German-speaking stenographer was kept busy all day long; both men were very businesslike, perhaps, Janice suspected, to conceal the fact that they had been too sociable the night before. “Sure,” Mr. Mueller said. “Let’s take along some of the dolls, yes? We start the ball rolling.” He laughed half a dozen resonant ha-ha’s. When Janice got home that night Leo was not there and she remembered that he was having dinner with Roy somewhere. She got out a can of sardines and had a dismal little supper by herself. By the time Leo got home she had given herself a facial, washed her hair and was letting it dry over her shoulders because Leo liked to see it that way, and was rinsing out stockings and socks. “Have a good time?” she asked. Leo came into the bathroom and kissed her, then sat on the tub to talk to her while she finished her washing. He shrugged. “Interesting, I guess.” He was silent for a minute until Janice prodded him into speech. A little gossip

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was the least she deserved for having eaten sardines in solitude. Leo told her that he had gone to meet his friend, Roy Jacobs, who was writing an article on propaganda methods, at the Bavarian Hofbrau on Eighty-Sixth Street. “Want you to see what goes on there,” he had told Leo. So Leo, who got there first, found himself a table in the back room. He left his card with the cashier at the front door and told her he was expecting a Mr. Jacobs to join him, and then settled down to watching the other diners. It was a popular place, for almost every table was filled and waiters in forest-green knee-pants and peaked felt hats raced back and forth. The atmosphere was one of hearty, simple merriment. Tonight a little party was going on in the back room where Leo sat. About twenty prosperous middle-aged Germans were eating and drinking and talking. Leo gathered that they ate there regularly—they must be a club of some sort—for the waiters gave them very good service. Before each man was a typed report of some kind, a newspaper and a tin doll which someone was always winding up and setting in motion, though Leo could not quite see what the doll did. Roy was late and he tried to get a waiter to bring him some beer to drink while he waited. He had very bad luck; sometimes a waiter glanced almost directly at him and he made violent motions, but while other people got their beer steins refilled, and got more butter, he could not get a waiter to come near him. He began to get impatient, but it was as if a circle had been drawn around his table that prevented anyone from coming near him. It was almost as if he were invisible. At last, out of sheer boredom, he began to listen to the speeches of the group at the near-by table. They

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were in German, a language he happened to know well. His face grew attentive, his fingers moved cautiously as he struck a match, and once or twice he drew in his breath sharply. A waiter carried a birthday cake over to the table and a little flag stuck in its center waved frantically. The men drank a toast, someone made the suggestion and the rest wound the mechanical dolls in front of them, laughing and joking, and a ruddy-faced man at the far end of the table made a long speech. Roy Jacobs hurried over to Leo’s table. “Damn it, this is the fourth time I’ve been in here,” he said impatiently. “I thought you’d gone to the wrong place.” “I left my card and a message for you,” Leo said. “Anyway, we’re leaving.” They walked out of the room, almost deafened by the amiable clatter of dishes and glasses and voices. At the cashier’s desk Leo stopped. “This is the friend I was waiting for,” he said. “He says he didn’t get the card I left for him.” “You left nothing,” the thin cashier said. Leo flushed. “Oh, I’m sure I did,” he said politely. “When I came in, remember?” “Jews do not come in here,” the cashier said in a flat unpleasant voice. The boss suddenly appeared and stood listening to the conversation. At last he said, “We are very busy tonight.” Leo said, “We get the idea. In fact to anyone who understands German the whole idea of this place, particularly that little party back there, is more than plain. Very interesting.” The boss’s features did not move but his little light eyes suddenly became watchful. “Ja?”

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“Ja,” Leo said. “Come on, Roy, let’s not give these birds our business.” When they were on the subway, Leo said, “Funny, I don’t seem to be very objective about what’s just happened.” Roy shrugged. “I told you it went on openly, didn’t I?” Leo said, “Yes, but that was an American Nazi organization—no more, no less. They get out a newspaper and spread propaganda—follow very definite instructions. They were celebrating some new ones they’d got today along with a shipment of toys, God!” Under her hand Janice felt his shoulder jerk suddenly as if he were cold or uncomfortable. “Oh well,” he said, “just as well to know what goes on.” They went back into the living room and Leo picked up the doll from the little table on which the telephone stood. “Where’d you get this?” he demanded sharply. “They gave it to me at the office,” Janice said. She wound it slowly, sorry she had brought it home this particular evening. “Came in from Germany today. I thought it would amuse you, but now I’m not so sure.” Leo said, “God, for a minute I thought it must have followed me down from the Hofbrau.” “What on earth are you talking about?” Janice asked. “That’s what those guys had for favors,” he said. “I couldn’t quite make out what it was doing there, but now I know.” Janice said slowly, thinking of their lovely acres in Connecticut that would now be farther off than ever, “Then I guess it’s time I got another job. That must be the social club Mr. Mueller and Mr. Kurtz go to every Wednesday.” She shivered a little and felt fright swirl around her

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again. She remembered words. “At first it’s just little things nobody pays attention to. . .” Leo said, “That almost makes a complete circle, doesn’t it? Gives the incident an air of medieval terror. As if that tin doll were really dangerous to us this minute.” He laughed and, as if to convince himself how fantastic it was to be afraid of a mechanical toy and whatever he thought it represented, he started it saluting. The doll was still in his hand when the telephone rang and he put it down to answer it. “Yes?” he said. “Yes. Speaking.” Janice could hear the voice almost as clearly as Leo. “You should not go where you are not wanted, Jew Klingman,” the voice said. “Better forget about tonight. Better you don’t write more dirty red articles. From now on, Klingman, wherever you go, whatever you are doing, remember somebody is watching. Somebody who doesn’t like you and doesn’t care what happens to you, maybe.” “Oh, no,” Janice whispered, standing close to Leo. “No. It isn’t true. Of course it isn’t.” But the circle was complete and it surrounded them. Mr. Mueller who laughed so much and wore a swastika in his buttonhole. Mr. Kurtz who was so polite. The German stenographer who was so busy on Thursdays. The newspaper in the subway. The saluting doll. Leo slowly put the receiver back into place. His hand knocked over the little tin doll, but even after that it went on saluting for a long time.

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ELIZA ORZESZKO Polish novelist, essayist, and champion of the underprivileged, 1841–1910. Orzeszko wrote much about the spiritual and economic struggle of the children of the ghetto. See H. Wilczynski, Yidishe ´ Tipn in der Poilisher Literatur, Warsaw, Kultur-Lige, 1928, pp. 83– 112; Joshua Kunitz, Russian Literature and the Jew, New York, Columbia University Press, 1929, p. 93 f. The following story, Daj Kwiatek, appeared in 1878, and was translated, in a slightly abridged version, for this anthology by Szymon St. Deptula.

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“GIVE ME A FLOWER!”

T

HE streets of Ongród are crowded and noisy. Carriages rattle along the center of the roads, while on the narrow sidewalks, pedestrians jostle one another in the moving mass Every one is in a hurry to get somewhere, somehow. In the midst of this crowd, do you, ladies and gentlemen, notice perchance an old woman slowly creeping along the far end of the street, keeping close to the brick houses against which her ragged clothing frequently brushes? She stops often for a brief rest, leaning her humped back against the wall, her breast heaving sharply, and drops of sweat beading her wrinkled forehead. She is obviously tired, but not simply from the day’s walking. Whole days, months, years—indeed, all her long life—she wandered about in this fashion, in crowds which have kept pushing her into the most uncomfortable places, onto the sharpest cobblestones of the pavement, against the walls of brick houses when they would be coldest in the winter or hottest in the summer. Behold, ladies and gentlemen, how her body has humped itself, one might say, archwise, how her coarse-skinned face has thinned and shrivelled, how deeply her yellow lips have sunk under the protruding cheekbones, how her once dark eyes have faded, how her lashless lids twitch and blink. And how many wrinkles there are on her low, dark forehead! That forehead looks like a piece of paper that has 209

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long been blown about in damp and dark places, that some hand, mighty and ruthless, has crumpled and twisted out of all shape and form. Above it, there is no hair visible, for the head is covered with a kerchief which, though old, still retains its yellow color. Its ends, tied from behind, fall on the woman’s back, which is covered by a loose sweater with motley patches on the sleeves, back, and front. Her feet, trudging along the sharp cobblestones, are shod in thin-soled, low shoes and grey stockings, which can be seen at times from underneath the skirt, fringed at the bottom with strips of various lengths, as if they were tassels, heavy with the dust and mud of the streets that have accumulated for years. So you don’t know this woman, ladies and gentlemen? I know her quite well. Her name is Chaita, by trade a ragpicker. But, dear, dear, will you ever forgive me, ladies and gentlemen, for desiring to acquaint you with a person of so humble a station? I can hear you say that it’s both improper and unnecessary, for what can there be in common between you and a ragpicker? Please forgive me! I like old Chaita, and whenever I look at her it always seems to me that there exists one great, unbreakable bond between her and me. She and I belong to the same immense and unfortunate family called Humanity! So she is my relative, and—once again let me beg your pardon, ladies and gentlemen—yours, too. As far as her humble station is concerned, if our positions in life were to be measured by toil and suffering, let

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me assure you that Chaita, the ragpicker, would, in the evening of her life, stand high, very high! For that matter, she hasn’t always been a ragpicker. Her past. . . I have a strange, curious impulse to learn, to discover the past of such creatures with their wrinkled foreheads and quivering yellow eyelids which cover those bloodshot eyes, wet from tears and faded by Time, by Time that has looked so long into them that it has absorbed all their color and lustre. I remember once seeing such a face on canvas in some foreign art gallery. Neglecting many beautiful landscapes and marvelous paintings of ladies in velvet dresses, I stood long before that old and shriveled face. Looking into her faded eyes, gazing at her wilted and sunken lips, I smiled sympathetically at her and asked myself: What kind of girl were you years ago? Where did you live? Whom did you love? What sufferings, consolations, disappointments, toils, marked your long road until it led you to the brink of the grave in which you now rest? Believe me, ladies and gentlemen, there is nothing in the world that I would like so much as to know the whole histories, from beginning to end, of all the humble and poor ones crushed by Fate and Time, the humped, the wrinkled, the weary. Incidentally, this desire has nothing magnanimous about it. It is far from being altogether altruistic. For an acquaintance with such histories enriches the heart of the average human being. To a writer, it constitutes a living source of wisdom. I even pity any writer who is neither interested in, nor curious about, such histories. His lute must be poor in strings, and the colors in his palette quite pale. . .

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Chaita wasn’t always a ragpicker. When she was young— would you believe it, ladies and gentlemen?—she was a slender, lively girl, with a raven braid, and a bloom in her olive cheeks, and dark eyes whose flaming depths brought to mind the brightness and warmth of Eastern skies. She was born in the country—and pardon me, ladies and gentlemen, for mentioning such a sordid detail—in a tavern. It was a very small tavern, gloomy, quite narrow, with sloping walls and a rotting roof, but around it spread carpets of exquisitely fresh fields, wide plains that in the winter gleamed with a downy covering of immaculately white snow, and in the summer billowed with golden waves of grain. Nearby, amidst forget-me-nots, a stream wound its way, tinkling like silver day and night, and somewhat farther beyond, oak groves disappeared in the evening air behind veils of whitish mists, groves that at dawn were rosy with the radiance of the morning star. Not more than a few hundred feet from the little tavern there was also an old, sprawling, splendid garden. It belonged to the mansion of the owner of the village who was also the owner of this small, dingy tavern which was rented by Chaita’s father. Poor was this tavern and poor was its keeper. He had many children, and he married them off as best he could— undoubtedly none too well. When Chaita was fifteen, she was packed off to the city of Ongród. There she became the wife of Leibe, a poor man since all he owned was a horse and wagon, with which he transported heavy sacks of grain and flour from the mill. It was this flour that made him look all his life like an albino with a white face and clothes, white hair and brows. Whenever he stirred, flour poured from him like snow from one who had been out in a winter storm.

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With her introduction to the city pavements, Chaita separated forever from the idyllic scene of her childhood, from the verdant meadows in whose tall grasses she was wont to sleep, warmed by the May sun and fanned by the branches of the spreading hawthorn. She parted with the stream where weeping birches sank their drooping shoulders, on which she would rock slowly, swinging and watching the incessant flow of the waters that tinkled with tongues of silver and shimmeringly reflected her own eyes, as though they were black stars. She parted with the field in whose waving grain she used to giggle while hiding from her frolicking brothers, and with the old garden where she was permitted at times to enter and to stroll about gravely under the canopy of ancient trees. She parted with her father’s mean tavern in whose stable a few goats, her cordial friends, bleated; in whose small rooms her industrious mother, with faded face, bustled all day long; and before whose threshold her elder brother would sit after sunset, and draw out, in the evening calm, untutored, lingering melancholy sounds from his violin. Then, sitting on a low bench beside a younger brother, she would throw her arm around his neck, listen to the music, and stare into the white mist swirling over the fields like waters rocked by the wind. As he played, her brother would often have tears in his eyes. She would then ask him why he wept, but he never answered her. Neither knew why the other was so sad. They were ignorant, inarticulate. They longed after something, they were both depressed, and a little afraid. . . As Chaita’s brother played longer, and more dolefully, his small brothers and sisters would gather at his knees, and lift up attentive faces towards him. In the dark vestibule, his mother sighed aloud,

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and his father, red-bearded and somber-eyed, prayed in the chamber by the window, ever louder, ever more fervently, with ever more groaning and with quickened intonations. . . With her first introduction to the city pavements, Chaita parted with all this, and perhaps with something else besides. . . Perhaps at times, on a torrid summer day, in the silvery surface of the stream over which she would swing hanging from a branch of the weeping birch, there had appeared to her fiery eyes a handsome youth, soft-palmed, his forehead shining with the wisdom of those great, old masters of Israel, of whom she had often heard her father tell her brothers. . . Perhaps—certainly one doesn’t have to be a princess to dream of happiness. . . “Happiness! Quel animal est ça?” Chaita might ask today if she knew French. But she doesn’t know French; and so in her native and very homely jargon, as she stands daily upon rising at the window of her room, she begins her prayer with the words: “Blessed art Thou, O Lord our God, King of the World, who hast made me according to Thy will!” The city swallowed her up, just as when a minute atom falls into an agglomeration of atoms and is together with them sucked into a pitiless whirlpool. In the human maelstrom into which she was hurled one foot resented the encroachment of another, one breast tried to steal every bit of air from another, one mouth seized every crumb of nourishment from another; brows burned from drudgery, and hearts hardened and wilted at the constant impact of impregnable stones and faded faces that were never touched by voices, sights, or caresses, however imperceptible, of a free and pure nature. What could she do there in order to survive, to help her

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husband—whose likeness, forsooth, the silvery surface of the stream had not shown her—in his hard work, and to bring up and feed her children who surrounded her in an ever more numerous brood? She did a multitude of things. She delivered parcels about the city, packed in several small cartons which she hung all over herself so that from a distance she had the appearance of a hunchback from the front and from the back; then she delivered fruit in big baskets, the weight of which made her gait unsteady as if she were limping badly; then later. . . But I shall not continue to relate what Chaita was and what she has done all her long life. I must say one thing more, though. Very frequently she went to the cemetery, to that Hebrew cemetery which, about a verst from the city, looms within a low enclosure like a forest of reddish stones on sandy soil. Chaita would go often to this sandy height, and when she went, there rode before her along the unevenly paved street a rattling wagon with a longish wooden box. Chaita would follow the wagon, sobbing loudly, and after each of these walks, one stone more would loom against the horizon of the sandy height. Various names were spelled out on these stones: those of Chaita’s husband, of the brother who had been so good to her, of the mother who had lived with her in her old age, of the son who had been a jewel in his mother’s cried-out eyes, and of the daughter who had blossomed like a rose in Chaita’s thorny garland. As so often happens with many old people, Chaita had lost all her children and all but one of her relatives through death or separation. Some had died, others had gone far away, still others had grown indifferent towards her. Left desolate, she was forced to make her way by buying and

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selling old clothes. Sometimes she even picked out old rags from the garbage cans, carried them on her back in a big willow basket, and sold this unusual merchandise to buyers who were even more unusual; and thus she lived on. But did she then live without any consolation and pleasure? Was there nothing in the whole wide world to light up her faded eyes with a glinting sparkle and bring to her wilted lips a fond smile that was almost joyful? You might once have seen her bent under the weight of her basket, moving along the edge of the street, and rubbing her torn sweater against the walls of the houses. She half lifted up her head in its yellow kerchief, her eyes brightened with an almost ardent gleam, she smiled and in a quavering voice called out: “Heiemke! Nu, Heiemke!” A small, six-year old boy, running about in the street, heard the call, rushed up to her, threw his arms around her neck as she stooped, loudly kissed her wrinkled forehead, and quickly turned his back on her, laughing and shouting, and chasing after a crowd of older and younger boys who ran at full speed in the direction of an immense sign, hung up a few days before, with an enormous giant in pink pantaloons and a green blouse painted on it. To enter the temple over which the giant hovered required an admission fee, but in the pleasure of gazing at the suspended image Heiemke and his companions could indulge for hours free of charge. No, Chaita was not alone in the world. Heiemke was her grandson, left by her youngest daughter, the one rose in the thorny garland of Chaita’s life. When Death had swept from the earth the old lagwoman’s rose, Chaita had seemed to detect her living image in the child left behind.

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Heiemke had his mother’s chestnut hair with a wealth of ringlets, and such eyes as his grandmother had had long ago, large, black, wide-open, set in a drawn, pallid face. Heiemke was a pretty child. His clothing attested very clearly to his grandmothers trade: for a year now he had been wearing a vest of white percale with black dots, as well as a coat and cap of percale. A leather visor, quite crumpled, was sewn to the cap, but Heiemke seldom wore his cap, because he usually forgot it at home and appeared on the street in a reddish skullcap which barely covered the top of his curly hair. Chaita herself had made Heiemke’s clothes. It’s true that this happened infrequently, but it was an ever striking sight to see an old woman with large-sized glasses, whose rims extended half way up her wrinkled forehead, with a yellow kerchief tightly wrapped around her head, sitting on a low stool by the light of a high-chimneyed lamp, cutting out, fitting, sewing faded rags with her dark hands. Unduly straining her vision, she would now and again murmur to herself. Talking to herself was an old habit with Chaita. “Who lives there now?” she sometimes whispered. She would be thinking then of the dirty little tavern in which she had been born and brought up. “Ai! Ai! but they were beautiful!” This was always in reminiscence of the old trees in the mansion garden under whose shade she had walked at times, as a child. Sometimes she would smile and shake her head with a sort of jocular threat. Before her eyes would flow with a silver tinkle the stream fleetingly reflecting the black eyes of the girl gazing into it.

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At another time, however, she would sigh heavily. “When he died, he became whiter than that flour which he always carried on his back! He died young. All his life he carried heavy sacks to the wagon. . . He became very tired, and. . . he went. . .” Then she would add: “Lord of the universe! Unite his soul with the souls of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and with all those who are dear to Thee!” And at other times she would say: “Man is like a breath! His days vanish like a shadow!” She thought then of her young daughter, Heiemke’s mother, the rose whom Death had swept off the earth. However, there were moments when the thick needle fell from her hand, and she clenched her fist in great anger, her eyes blazing furiously from behind her glasses: “Ai! Ai! The bad woman, the thief! the scoundrel! How she’s robbed me! How she’s deceived me! She took two zlotys from me for this rag, and who’ll give me so much for it? Woe is me! She’s ruined me!” She thought it over, and, as her anger subsided, she added: “Nu! Who’ll give me so much for it? That girl with those wealthy people! She doesn’t know anything, and is always just laughing and skipping about. I’ll sew for her these shining buttons on the sweater, and I’ll show it to her not from the side where the holes are but from the one which has the shining buttons. Maybe she’ll give me three zlotys yet! O golden profit! Won’t I be happy then!” Wrapped in the thought of making the immense profit of a zloty, and smiling cannily to herself at the idea of dazzling the silly young chambermaid with the glittering buttons, Chaita felt that she was beginning to fall asleep. Her feet hurt her terribly from the cobblestones over which she

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had tramped all day. Deciding to go to bed, she got up, but felt that somebody was lying at her feet. She took the lamp in her trembling hand, and bent down towards the floor. It was Heiemke, who a little while before had been sitting at her knees, chattering and looking up at the garments being prepared for him, now lying at her feet, doubled up, asleep, and in his tightly clenched fist holding the remainder of a pretzel. Chaita’s sunken lips parted in a broad grin. She put the lamp on the table, took her grandson in her arms, and loudly kissing his face, pink from sleep, said: “You little sleepyhead! I almost stumbled over you!” At her last words she laughed lustily, almost guffawing. Heiemke awoke, opened his sleepy eyes, and with all speed shoved the uneaten pretzel into his mouth. The grandmother put him under the featherbed. “Granny?” queried the child. “Nu?” asked the grandmother, busy taking off the sweater. “Where is that ten groschen which I got today from the squire?” “Where is that ten groschen?” she exclaimed. “I threw it out of the window. You begged it, and didn’t I tell you not to beg! I’ll whip you next time you don’t obey me!” Heiemke no longer heard either his grandmothers reproaches or her threats. He was sleeping again, his arm, covered with a thick, dirty sleeve, thrown over his head. His dark lashes cast long shadows on his pink cheeks, and he smiled pleasantly. The old grandmother continued frowning a moment longer, then took out of her pocket the coin her grandson had begged, and looked it over from every angle as if to convince herself that she had not done anything so senseless as to throw it out of the window. At

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the same time she sighed heavily, shook her head sadly, and, slipping it under the featherbed, muttered: “Nu! what can one do!” And she added: “I don’t know! That’s poverty for you!” At times the grandmother and grandson had a great deal of fun together, just the two of them. This happened most frequently when Chaita, quite late at night, returned home carrying on her back a big basket full of rags which she had bought or picked out of garbage cans. Chaita’s home was located in the very center of that labyrinth of alleys and houses which constituted the Jewish quarter of the city Ongród. It consisted of a room so small that Chaita could easily touch with her hand the blackened beams of the ceiling, and so narrow that the clay stove occupied the greater part of the space. Through the one narrow window, made up of tiny panes, virtually no street could be seen, for the little house stood in the midst of several backyards. These back-yards were so many that a stranger unacquainted with the neighborhood would most likely have lost his bearings there. Separated by small houses and rotting fences that leaned forward, they overlapped one another and possessed the most variegated shapes: they were long and winding like corridors, and square or circular with black stables and shops opening out of them, with high heaps of garbage, with everlasting puddles here and there midst sharp stones, with piles of old boards on which, during the day, crowds of children played seesaw, and which during the night creaked and knocked against each other in the wind. It happened sometimes that Heiemke got in from his wandering about the city pavements before his granny. He was a very clever child. In the midst of the gloom reigning

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in the little room, he would find matches, light the small lamp, and set it on the window sill so that it might light up for his grandmother the long, winding passageway, serving as a yard, which she had to cross. All this he would do with dignity, slowly, carefully. Then he would begin his explorations. First he would plunge into the gloomy regions behind the stove, and from the rustling one could tell that he was poking about in the pile of old papers; then he would look under the table, under his grandmother’s featherbed and pillow, and under his own little featherbed lying in a corner on the floor. Sometimes these searches yielded nothing; frequently, however, Heiemke found a stale roll, a pretzel, or a piece of bread or cheese behind the stove or under the featherbed. Then he would sit down with his booty in a corner of the room and eat the foraged delicacy with relish as he awaited his grandmother’s coming. Shortly afterwards he would hear from behind the window the flapping sound of Chaita’s shoes plodding along the cobblestones. The low door would open wide, and there would appear through it first the glaring yellow kerchief wrapped around the old woman’s head, then her bowed shoulders, and then a large basket brimming over with varicolored rags and glistening here and there with a metal button ornamenting some discarded garment. Heiemke would jump from the floor, run to his grandmother, help her lift the burden from her shoulders, and then stretch out to her his tiny hand with the half-eaten pretzel or piece of cheese, and exclaim: “Eat, Granny!” Sometimes Chaita took the proffered food and ate it. More often, however, she was so tired that with a loud

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groan she sank down on the floor beside the basket, and let her hands fall helplessly. Heiemke would take the lamp from the window, put it on the floor, sit down opposite his grandmother, and greedily plunge both his hands into the basket. Then, what joy! What exclamations of delight would be heard! Splendor after splendor would issue from the basket in rapid succession! One night, for instance, Heiemke’s itchy and impatient hands pulled out, with some difficulty, a large, long flounced dress of lily-colored muslin. The dress was full of spots and holes, but Heiemke didn’t see them: he saw only the beautiful lily color and with gaping mouth he gazed at the leaf pattern. Next a straw hat appeared, very rumpled, with the lining pulled out, but ornamented with a large rose and a band of pink ribbon. At the sight of the rose, Heiemke put both his hands to his head in sheer admiration, and then, undoubtedly to inspect the beautiful object better, placed it on his grandmothers head. Chaita did not stop him; indeed, her eyes sparkled and laughed from under the rose overshadowing her yellow forehead, while the enchanted Heiemke, gazing at her, shook his little head to and fro, and called out: “Pretty Granny! Ah! Pretty Granny!” The hat was followed by a pair of children’s shoes, torn, dirty, but of bright-red leather. Chaita had not bought them, but had picked them up in a spacious court-yard near the window of some fine residence. In the twinkling of an eye the crimson shoes were on Heiemke’s feet. He hopped about the room and, bending his head, looked at them with extreme admiration. Chaita looked at the happy child as she rested. “Heiemke, did you get anything while you were out today?” She was evidently ashamed of her own question,

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for while she uttered these words, her lips trembled a little, and her eyelids quivered nervously. When to this question Heiemke answered that he had got nothing, Chaita made no reply. She murmured something quietly, shook her head, and sighed. But on those occasions when, as now, he reached into his pocket and took out a copper or silver coin, the old grandmother snatched the money from his hand, threw it on the floor, and fell into a rage. “You’ve been begging again,” she cried out, getting up from the ground and stretching her arms ominously toward the child, who retreated to his little featherbed. “And what have I told you? Haven’t I told you that it’s a shame and a sin to beg! I’m going to thrash you for this!” When she carried on in this way, the expression in her eyes was so fierce and her head and hands shook so much that although these scenes occurred frequently, they always filled little Heiemke with such terror that he hid, head and all, under his featherbed. This time only his little feet in their crimson shoes peeped out from under one end, while through a small opening at the other end a black eye looked out half-impishly at his grandmother. Chaita stood before the pair of crimson shoes and expostulated to them at length about the shame and sin of begging. Finally she cried out angrily: “Take off those shoes! Did you think I brought them for you?” “Granny!” a plaintive voice called from under the featherbed. “Nu! Take those shoes off right now!” “Granny, please let me sleep with them on for just one night!” His thin voice sounded so winningly plaintive that Chaita

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made an indulgent gesture with her hands, and went to her own bed. From there she turned once more, and perceived the child’s head, a-riot with chestnut-colored curls, already looking out from under his little featherbed. He smiled at her and whispered: “I love you, Granny!” When Heiemke opened his sleepy eyes the next morning, the bluish light of daybreak filled the narrow yard outside the window and permeated the room. Against its misty background Chaita’s humped body stood out more clearly, dressed in a sleeveless sapphire-blue sweater, her face turned towards the window, praying fervently. With rapid, short bows, she recited half-aloud: “Blessed art Thou, O Lord our God, King of the Universe, who raisest up them that are bowed down. “Blessed art Thou, O Lord our God, King of the Universe, who givest strength to the weary. “Blessed art Thou, O Lord our God, King of the Universe, who removest sleep from mine eyes and slumber from mine eyelids.” Heiemke got out from under this featherbed, and, standing in his little grey shirt and crimson shoes behind his grandmother, began to bow like her and to say: “Blessed art Thou, O Lord our God, King of the Universe, who hast not made me either an idolator or a slave. “Blessed art Thou, O Lord our God, King of the Universe, who hast made me a man.” And he continued the morning prayer which the learned Shimshel, the father of his very dear chum, little Mendele, had taught him out of pity for the poor, neglected child. His old grandmother could not teach him anything, for not only was she never at home during the day, but she herself hadn’t the least bit of learning.

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Having gazed his fill one afternoon at the painted giant on the sign, Heiemke went on in the direction of the city square which, surrounded by a low fence and a few scrawny trees, in Ongród boasted the grandiose name of a boulevard. Other children headed in the same direction, but being older got there quicker. Heiemke and his very dear friend Mendele, a year younger than he, walked slowly, holding each other’s hand. On the way, they stopped before some of the shop windows: here looking at the shining golden objects in the jeweler’s window, elsewhere smiling with delight at the sight of pyramids of rolls and crescent buns in the bakery window. At the sight of these delicacies, little Mendele, in his pink jacket from under which the holy white fringes were always dangling, stretched out his hands. But Heiemke, a year older, explained to him that one mustn’t covet these rolls and buns, for even if one should somehow obtain them they would be worthless since they were not kosher. Mendele was still quite in the dark as to the exact meaning of kosher. Heiemke knew about it, but couldn’t explain it to his friend, so he told him that as soon as they saw Henoch, Mendele’s nine-year old brother, who had been studying for five years and was already quite learned and pious, they would ask him about it. Thus conversing, they reached the boulevard, and saw a stripling sitting on a bench, wearing a long, grey, tight coat, and a cap pulled down low over his forehead. This was Henoch, son of the learned Shimshel and Mendele’s brother. Around him were grouped a few boys of his own age who, discoursing, constantly turned towards him as if to an oracle or to their master. Apparently young Henoch, already famous for his learning and piety, occupied among his equals the same position that his father, the learned Shimshel, held

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among the elders. Considering Henoch’s tender years, this beginning was auspicious and seemed to prophesy for him a most splendid future. Only the drawn, beautifully molded face of the small sage was pale and thin, and his black eyes, large and deeply sunken, looked out at the world with a strange expression of mingled suffering and solemnity! He looked as if that great store of learning for which he was famous, collecting in his head, had drained all his blood, and as though that great piety which distinguished him at so early an age had produced a sort of inert stiffness in his slender body and created an air of vague melancholy about him. Heiemke stood opposite Henoch, resting both his elbows on the latter’s knees, and lifting up his round, lively face, framed by wind-tossed chestnut-colored curls, to that of his grave-faced companion, asked: “Henoch, you tell us, both Mendele and me, what is trefe and what is kosher? Why wouldn’t we be allowed to eat those rolls when there are so many of them in the bakery window?” Henoch’s face lighted up somewhat at this question, and he was just about to begin answering the two lads standing before him, when the other boys, sitting on the bench and standing behind it, unanimously protested that they knew all about that already and so did not want to hear it again, but entreated and demanded that Henoch tell them instead some interesting story. Henoch knew a whole flock of such interesting stories. He had learned them in the heder (for he had already covered the entire Pentateuch and was now beginning the study of the Talmud with Rashi’s commentary). And so briefly explaining to Heiemke the meaning of trefe and kosher, he began to describe with grave gestures the Egyptian plagues that preceded the exodus of Israel

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from the house of bondage. It was one of Henoch’s scariest stories. Plague after plague succeeded one another, and each was more terrible than the one before it. The children listened in mute astonishment to the account of the thick darkness in which Egypt had been plunged; the tale of the locusts swooping down upon Egypt made less of an impression on them; but Moses’ rod turning into a serpent fascinated them immensely. Wouldn’t it have been wonderful if they could likewise have changed various objects into anything they desired! Little Mendele, for instance, would immediately have transformed the pebble, lying at his feet, into a beautiful twisted loaf of bread; and Heiemke would have commanded the dry twig, which he was holding in his hand, to become a rose, as beautiful as that which adorned the old hat which he had found in his grandmothers basket. Henoch’s lively tale held the interest of his young listeners, but at times, slight incidents, having no connection with the story, interrupted it. For example, boorish Mordke, wishing to find himself nearer to the story-teller, pushed Mendele so hard that the latter swayed, stepped on his dangling fringes, and fell. Heiemke’s eyes blazed with fury at the wrong done his friend. With clenched fist he punched Mordke on the back several times, then bent down to help Mendele up, kissed him on the forehead that was besmeared with sand, smoothed his cheek wet with tears, and then putting his arm tightly around him hugged him close. Mendele stopped crying, but this incident created a sort of hubbub in the group to which, however, Henoch paid not the least attention; and despite the fact that they were now only half listening to him, he continued. This perseverance, as usual, was successful, for when the

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narrative reached its climax—that is, the simultaneous death of all the Egyptian first-born sons—the rapt attention of the listeners once again returned to the narrator. The simultaneous deaths of the first-born aroused general consternation. They listened to this part with wideopen mouths, fear and sorrow reflected in their eyes. Evidently these children did not as yet differentiate between the peoples inhabiting this world, and did not know that one nation can hate another and rejoice at its misfortunes. Their wisdom had not yet reached the stage which includes the consciousness of hatred and revenge. So they were sorry for the Egyptian first-born, just as much as if they had been Israelites. But Henoch was already approaching the above-mentioned level of culture, and did not feel the least pity for the Egyptian children. With gleaming eyes and sweeping gestures he was just beginning to describe the wailing and lamentation heard in all parts of Egypt on that fatal night, when suddenly— “Look! Look!” shouted all the listeners, pointing their fingers in one direction, while Heiemke trembled for joy. A woman wearing a filmy white dress, her dark silken hair wound round her head in braids, with an immense bouquet of beautiful flowers in her covered arm, was approaching the boulevard. She was accompanied by several handsome and well-dressed gentlemen. Henoch was now all alone on his bench; but paying no heed to the fact that his audience had run away, he held forth with ever greater zeal to the two scrawny trees whose puny branches swayed above the bench. The beautiful lady, crossing the boulevard, and the enchanting flowers which she carried in her arm could arouse no interest in

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him, for he had long since put away the glittering vanities of this world and devoted his whole mind to serious study. Leaving him and his story, however, the frivolous and worldly-minded companions of Henoch ran after the spectacle that fascinated them. A cloud of dust rose from under the feet of the gang, and their cries pierced the air. Heiemke especially couldn’t tear his eyes away from the gorgeous bouquet. Hitherto he had seen only the flowered patterns on old dresses stuffed in Chaita’s basket, or those faded and crumpled, lifeless ornaments which decorated the hats full of holes that were picked out of garbage cans. Never before in his life had he seen live flowers. Now they were before his very eyes, and his whole body was agitated with inarticulate ecstasy. In his enthusiasm, he even forgot little Mendele who, unable to keep up with his companion, sat down in the middle of the boulevard sidewalk and, weeping copiously, shrieked with all his might. The other boys, not quite so bold, or perhaps less passionately attracted towards things of beauty, continued to run after the lady in white, but kept at some distance from her, confining themselves only to pointing with their fingers at her and her bouquet. But Heiemke ran in front of her, and, stretching his hands towards the flowers, lifted entreating eyes at her. At first she paid no attention either to the child or to his half-shy, half-rude movements, until Heiemke suddenly seized her skirt and tugged at it lightly. She stopped and smilingly looked at the urchin. Her calm eyes were arrested by the sparkling, diamondlike look in the child’s black eyes. Stooping somewhat, she asked: “What do you want, little boy?”

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With a shy gesture, Heiemke touched her flowers with the tip of a finger. She laughed and placed her hand on the child’s curly locks. “Ask for it nicely,” she said. Heiemke stood motionless, and with a somewhat frightened glance looked into her eyes. At the same time his lips began to quiver as if he were about to start crying. No wonder. He did not understand Polish, the language in which the lady was speaking to him. “Little boy, say this: Give me a flower!” Heiemke guessed that the woman was teaching him to say some foreign words. Understanding and alertness were reflected in his eyes, which opened even wider. At first he stammered and mumbled incoherently, but soon after, with an outburst of joy and childishly transforming the difficult words, he exclaimed loudly and distinctly: “Give me a flower!” Then the woman in the white dress gaily but keenly looked into the boy’s eyes, took a large part of her bouquet, and gave it to the child. Heiemke clung to her hand, and covered it with ardent kisses. A minute later he was running along the street leading to the Jewish quarter. He held the flowers high above his head, ran swiftly, did not hear the shouts of his companions chasing him, and defended himself with his hands and feet from those who caught up with him. In this manner he ran through a few narrow alleys and several small yards of various dimensions, and burst into his grandmother’s room. The sun was just setting. Its slanting rays struck the small panes and the decaying framework of the little window.

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May you be blessed, O sun! who gildest at times the dark walls of such dingy rooms, who embracest with scarlet streaks such clumsy clay ovens, and who placest a warm kiss on the wrinkled forehead of such a humped, tired, old ragpicker! In the roseate beams of the setting sun, the flowers lifted aloft, the breathless Heiemke stood before his grandmother who, seated on a stool, was sorting torn rags with her palsied hands. Snow-white lilies, many-petaled roses, forget-me-nots as blue as the sky, and tall ferns with silvered edges sparkled in the sun as though a bit of rainbow had fallen from the heavens. The intoxicating perfume filled the room from the blackened ceiling to the earthen floor. Chaita clapped her hands, opening wide her eyes and mouth with astonishment. “Heiemke!” she called out, “Ai! Ai! Heiemke! And where did you get these beauties? Where did you find such jewels? Give them here to me, I want to feast my eyes on them! Ai! How they smell!” A feeling of inarticulate bliss was reflected on Chaita’s face when, taking the beautiful flowers from her grandson, she looked at them at close range and from a distance, half-closed her eyes, buried almost her whole nose topped by a large pair of spectacles in a lily cup, and smoothed the wide silvered ferns with her palm as if they were beloved children, ever exclaiming: “Ai! Ai! How pretty they are! And how it smells and gleams!” It would be difficult to tell which of these two creatures, child or grandmother, rejoiced more passionately over these masterpieces of Nature that suddently shone forth in their dark and stuffy city cell, a glimmer of luxury which illuminated the gloom of poverty about them. They were

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both naively happy and noisy, but the child’s rejoicing lasted longer. A quarter of an hour later, Chaita began to shake her head sadly, and sighed. “When I was young. . .” she whispered, and continued mumbling something to herself, while Heiemke sat in the corner on his little featherbed and told his grandmother about the beautiful lady and how he had got the flowers from her, and then from time to time he kissed the roses and the lilies. That night the grandmother was restless; she woke up in the darkness, groaned, sighed, and heard the child’s winning plea repeated in his sleep: “Give me a flower!” Heiemke dreamt of the woman in white and of the flowers, and no wonder, for he was breathing in the perfume that was blowing his way. For that night, like another Heliogabalus, he slept on flowers. Fearing lest they should disappear somewhere, he put them under his pillow, his poor little pillow with the blue ticking. A painful awakening! The next morning, while Chaita recited her morning prayers as usual, she heard behind her a loud sobbing. She turned around, and beheld the following scene. On a bundle of straw covered with his thin featherbed sat Heiemke, his hair still disheveled, his knees covered with a worn nightshirt, and his bare feet strewn over with dead flowers. Immediately upon awakening, he had reached under the pillow and got out his treasures, but in what a state! The velvety leaves of the lilies were torn and yellowed, the roses hung wilted and half-stripped of their former glory, the wide green ferns were unrecognizable. . . These were no longer flowers, but faint shadows of them. With drooping hands, Heiemke looked at them and wept.

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His grandmother tried to console him, but all in vain. She then scolded him, threatening to chastise him. . . Heiemke neither heard nor saw anything. His large tears flowed out in a copious stream, and, falling on the wilted flowers, sprinkled them with a precious dew. There was still a single spray of forget-me-nots which retained a little freshness and color. The tiny blue stars with their golden eyes seemed to look tenderly at the weeping boy. . . It was a sad autumn evening. Outside of Chaita’s dingy room, the wind raced through the narrow courtyard with a melancholy soughing, and when it died down a moment, one could hear the patter of the rain falling on the city pavements. Chaita lay in bed, groaning and sighing. The lamp’s narrow ray of light flickered across the face of Heiemke sleeping beside her. Her motionless eyes were fixed on that face, and, according to habit, she mumbled to herself: “Poor, unfortunate child of mine! What will become of you when my soul and body part? What will happen to you when the Eternal will summon my soul to go hence and join, under the wings of the Shekina, the souls of my mother and father, my busband Leibe and my brother Abraham, my two sons and my beloved daughter Malka? And what will I tell my Malka when she will ask me in that other world: ‘Mammy, what have you done with my little boy Heiemkele? Did you provide some one to put bread into his mouth and wisdom into his head?’ When she will ask me thus, I shall not be able for shame to lift my eyes to her, to my beloved Malka, only I shall cry my eyes out for her dear little son Heiemke, whom I shall have left all alone in this world. . . He is so small, and he

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can’t do anything for himself yet. . . His hands are so tiny that he still can’t earn anything with them, and his mind is so silly that it will lead him into terrible misfortunes and evil ways! O poor, miserable me!” Thus Chaita pondered and lamented. That particular evening she was thinking of death. Outside it was dark and dreary. The wind moaned pitifully. Her bones ached as did her head, wrapped in its yellow kerchief, and she felt such a strange pain about her heart that with each breath she thought a bit of her soul was already flying away from her body. Moreover, she had been suffering for some days from bitter remorse. Whether it was due to her lack of strength for keen competition, or to the fact that her rival, Yente, both younger and healthier than she, had outbid her in the bargaining and outstripped her to the garbage cans, she had earned hardly anything for a week. She had even told Heiemke openly a few times: “Nu, try to beg a few pennies today from the gentlemen.” It was already late, and high time for her to undress and slip under the featherbed, but the old grandmother lay in her clothes, mumbling to herself for a long time and keeping her eyes fixed on the face of the sleeping child. Then she got up with difficulty, threw a ragged shawl over her head and shoulders, and, unmindful of the pitchblack darkness or the rain and wind, left her room. Bent over, with one hand in front of her, her face beaten by sheets of rain which soaked her tattered clothing as well, she crossed winding courtyards and narrow alleys. Her feet slipped constantly on the sharp cobblestones, or slid into deep holes full of water. Proceeding very slowly, she finally reached her destination, entered the dark vestibule of a

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small, low house, and knocked on the door which she found blindly. “Who’s there?” called out a male voice from within. Chaita quietly identified herself. “Come in!” The room which Chaita entered was quite large but poorly furnished. At the far end, on a plain stool, before a table on which was lying a large open folio, there sat a man in a long worn coat reaching to the floor, his face swarthy and almost wholly grown over with black hair. It was clear that he had been deeply engrossed in his reading, for when he lifted up his eyes to view the visitor, they were vague, seemingly finding it difficult to tear themselves away from the object of their concentration. But the disturbance did not make him angry, and he asked in a kind voice: “What brings you here at such a late hour? Has some misfortune occurred?” “Ever since I left my parents’ home, misfortune has always dogged my footsteps,” whispered the woman. “That is evidently the will of the Eternal,” he replied somewhat sternly. “What is it you want?” Chaita stooped, and seizing his swarthy hand, put it to her lips. “Rebbe!” she said, “I came to entreat you in behalf of my grandson, an innocent little child, who may be very unfortunate if you will not take pity on him!” Here she began to relate the cares and anxieties with which the child’s future fate filled her. “Rebbe,” she continued, “I shall open my heart to you. I’ve committed a great sin: I myself have taught the child to beg. . . Rebbe! Let your eye not look down on me with anger. . . It’s hard

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for me to make a living. . . I am greatly afraid for that child. He has already learned to beg, and that’s a bad habit. . . It may eventually make a thief of him! Ai! Ai! Rebbe! I don’t want that to happen! I’m very much afraid that that will happen.” And she began to shake as if in a fever. “Rebbe! I have more than one sin on my conscience! It sometimes happened that I would sell a poor rag for a good one, and buy a good rag as if it were worthless; and at other times I would show my merchandise to the buyer only from the side which was whole, and hide the tattered side as best I could! Sometimes I would be very jealous, nurse a hatred in my heart for Yente, that Yente who also deals in rags; I would quarrel and fight with her over a few pennies! You see, Rebbe, I’m opening my whole heart to you, but pray, don’t look down with anger and scorn for what I did—because. . . because it’s hard for me to make a living! . . . But remember, Rebbe, that I don’t want my Heiemke to have to sin as I have sinned! I’m very much afraid of that! Take pity on a poor innocent child! He is so pretty and so smart, though still so young! Take my grandson, Rebbe, take him under your care as you have already done with so many other poor children! Let him study, put some knowledge into his head, so that when my soul leaves my body, he won’t know the want of bread. You’re good, Rebbe, you always pity poor people! Your goodness, like your wisdom, is famous all over the world! May I, too, find grace in your eyes and mercy in your heart!” The rabbi listened attentively and silently to the halting plea of the old woman. He pondered for a while, and then he said: “Be calm, woman! I’ll fulfill your request and take care of your grandson! I’ll take him into my home, take

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up a collection for him, send him to a Talmud Torah to study the Pentateuch, and I myself will teach him!” Chaita’s face, so full of pain and entreaty a moment before, shone with joy and inexpressible gratitude. Then she broke out into loud weeping. “Why do you cry!” asked the rabbi. “O, Rebbe! Forgive me these tears! They are silly tears, but they come right from my heart to my eyes, and I can’t stop them. When you take my Heiemke into your house, I shall lose my only child. . . I have no one else in the world, he is my only possession. . . He and I, we have so far lived together like two drops of water which the wind blows into the sand, and which are constantly looking at each other. When you, Rebbe, will take my Heiemke into your home, I shall be left without him like a socket without an eye, like a body without a soul. Only allow me, Rebbe, to come to your house often, and feast my old eyes on him. . .” The next day Reb Nohim called on Chaita, and, taking the freightened and weeping Heiemke by the hand, led him to his home. Who is Reb Nohim? Reb Nohim is widely known among the Jewish people for his scholarship, piety and charity. He is an exceedingly able Talmudist, and an indefatigably diligent student of the profound Cabala. Some say that there is nothing on earth or in heaven hidden from his eyes, but I cannot vouch for this with certainty. Of his great charity, however, I have irrefutable proof, for I have seen with my own eyes some of his deeds and their consequences. I have seen him often gathering about him crowds of poor, ragged,

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hungry Jewish children. I have seen him give his arm for support to helpless, humped old men. . . But this is no time to speak of this. . . I shall mention only that phase of Reb Nohim’s character which, in my opinion, is likely to exert a strong influence on the education of Heiemke. Reb Nohim, aside from the Hebrew language and the common Yiddish jargon, neither speaks nor understands a single word of any other language. Wholly engrossed in religious studies, especially in the exploration of the secrets of the Cabala, which work, let me assure you, ladies and gentlemen, is no trifle, he possibly had no time to learn the language of the country which has been the home of his greatgrandparents for centuries. However, I suppose that besides the lack of time there was probably another reason for this ignorance of Reb Nohim. . . Heiemke lives with Reb Nohim, attends the Talmud Torah, and in the evenings Reb Nohim frequently teaches him himself. He holds long conversations with the child, tells him many stories drawn from the holy books of Israel, and that is no small sacrifice, for these conversations consume precious time and compel him to tear himself away from his beloved studies and prayers. But what won’t Reb Nohim do when he sees that some poor creature needs his help, or when he can arouse in some tiny heart a great love for the Jewish people and their faith! The other evening, Reb Nohim was teaching Heiemke. They sat, facing each other, in the low, grey room: the swarthy-faced man with the thick growth of beard leaned his elbow on the table, and lifted his hand high, while the child with his round, intelligent face sat up straight on a high stool, his feet dangling, his interlocked hands resting

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on the table, diligently paying attention, his large eyes fixed on the master’s countenance. Reb Nohim is a mystic. He believes in all the supernatural beings of which his books tell, but his heart burns with a specially tender love for certain angels. That evening he told Heiemke about the angel Sandalphon, who, standing at the gates of heaven, catches the prayers soaring from the earth, changes them into flowers of breathless beauty, and weaves garlands of them which he places at the feet of Jehovah. Heiemke listened with intense rapture to the story of the angel of prayer, and, as if trying to see him, lifted his eyes heavenwards. Suddenly there appeared in his imagination the woman in white whom he had once seen on the boulevard. He saw her kind face bending down to him, her eyes shining like silver, and looking into her face he entreated loudly and smilingly: “Give me a flower!” Reb Nohim was greatly puzzled by the foreign words spoken by the child. . .

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LEOPOLD VON SACHER-MASOCH Austrian novelist, 1835–1895. The following short story, written in French, is included in his Jewish Tales, a selection of twenty-six of his character studies dealing with Jewish life in Central and Eastern Europe, translated by Harriet Lieber Cohen, and published in Chicago in 1894. It is included here with the kind permission of A. C. McClurg & Co. of Chicago.

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CALEB JEKARIM

T

WO lights vied with each other in a little attic—the light of a half consumed candle, and that of the morning sun, the latter penetrating feebly through a shabby green curtain. One resembled the last sigh of the dying, the other the breath of a new-born child; one a spirit about to take its flight, the other a soul awakening from sleep. The fulvous, trembling light of the candle fell upon the timestained leaves of a large book open on the table, while the rosy light of dawn caressed the pale forehead of a young man who had sunk back in a moth-eaten arm-chair and was so deeply buried in reverie that for him time was not. His emaciated frame was enveloped in a threadbare caftan; from beneath a small black velvet cap a mass of brown, tangled, curly hair fell loosely over a face that had evidently never known the joys of a happy springtime, a face the lines of which spoke of suffering, resignation, and tireless study. His great eyes shone with a glory of their own—sombre eyes that gazed heavenward, eyes that had detached themselves from earth, and were turned toward another world—a world where the sight was not dimmed by brilliant colors, where there was no sound, no consciousness of space; a world where mind, freed from matter, reigned solitary and sublime. Sick and poor was Galeb Jekarim, this Jewish student who had sat through the watches of the night poring over his books, and yet he was happy. He had no mother, his 243

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lips had never touched the perfumed lips of a woman, and yet he had found a mistress more beautiful than any mortal creature, more richly adorned than all the queens of the East. He was so wretchedly poor that he had absolutely nothing he could call his own; even the Talmud before him, the wellspring of all his delights, did not belong to him; but when he had lost himself in its yellow, well-thumbed leaves, the heaviness and oppression of this earth would fall away, and, yielding to the ecstasy that possessed him, he would be borne aloft toward radiant heights ever upward, upward into the realms of light and splendor. The smoke and traffic of cities; narrow, darksome valleys; broad, fertile plains; the limitless expanse of waters— all, all would sink from view, would be lost in the luminous immensity in which his spirit floated. He would forget everything—his misery, his solitude, his yearning for love, the visions of bliss that fluttered to him from the wings of night. He would forget his sorrows and the slow fever that consumed him. One thing alone he could not forget. When the rays of the sun glided in through the green curtain and gilded the dilapidated wall, it was as though an invisible hand was writing in letters of fire these words of the Spanish Jewish poet, Judah ben Halevi: “Never will I forget thee, O Jerusalem!” When the moon flooded the small chamber with its gentle light, a silvered brush painted the same inspiring words upon the blackened beams. When day was dying, and the poor student sat, deepmusing, in the cemetery, a soft wind would stir the cypress,

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and from their topmost boughs mysterious voices sang the sweet refrain: “Never will I forget thee, O Jerusalem!” He suffered from nostalgia, a wasting nostalgia. He longed to set foot in the home of his fathers—a home that he had never seen; a home that he knew of only from the sacred writings. His longing to rest in the shadow of its walls was greater than his love of country or of kin, was greater than his poverty and destitution. He was entirely dependent upon his sister for the means of subsistence. She it was who paid for the bare chamber he occupied, the scanty food that supplied his needs. There was not a single being in the world from whom he could have borrowed the money for such a journey; and yet when day broke after this night of prayer and reverie his resolution had been taken, his plans formed. The sun rose higher in the heavens, filling the silent plain with its warmth and light. Galeb rose, put on his hat, took his stick, and went forth into the unknown—into the great world where envy and hatred are rife, into the great illusive world; for in that way only could he reach the land of his longing, the promised land, Jerusalem! Stealthily he crossed the garden, opened the little gate, and struck into the narrow path that ran through fields and waving meadows. At the edge of a wood he paused before a thatched hut occupied by some Jewish laborers. The men were at work in the fields, and Midotia, the daughter of the owner of the wretched farm, was pasturing the cows in the brush-wood. Seeing Galeb, she cracked her whip, and the black eyes that met his were filled with an expression of mingled compassion and mockery. “I am glad to see that you have ventured out of your shell,” she said with a light attempt at banter. “You are

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studying too hard, Galeb, you are killing yourself with your books.” The young man shook his head, but remained where he was. He knew that the girl was fond of him, and at the sight of the bright, pretty creature he was conscious that his heart beat more loudly, that the blood flowed more quickly in his veins. “You do not understand me, Midotia, I am impelled by a sacred duty.” “Oh, I know very well what you want. You want a wife, such a wife as I would make. If you would let me I would very soon teach you some common sense.” For reply, Galeb gave a melancholy smile, shook his head, and pursued his path through the woods. When he had emerged from their shadow, the sun had pierced the clouds and spilled his glory on the waves of mist that floated slowly earthward. It was a sublime spectacle. The solemn silence of Morning held sway over Nature. “The Lord is here!” exclaimed Galeb, in a voice trembling with emotion; then, raising his arms, and turning his pale face toward the sun, he lifted his voice in prayer and thanksgiving to the Universal Father. The pilgrim travelled afoot. The grand idea that dominated him inspired courage and endurance such as his weak frame had never known. The sun was his guide. He knew that the sea lay beyond him, and beyond the sea, Jerusalem. He crossed Galicia, Bukowina, and entered Moldavia. Scorching sun-rays burned fiercely on his head, rain and hail lashed his weary back, the lightning played madly about him, uncharitableness and ill-nature met his

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timid approaches; he was insensible to all, his goal lay before him, he plodded onward, ever onward. At nightfall, if he were happy enough to discover a house whose door-post was inscribed with a verse from the Bible, he would beg a night’s lodging and a morsel of food, and on such occasions the wanderer found open doors and open hearts. Fortune, however, was not always ready to serve him, and at times the greenwood would be his couch, the sky his canopy, while again he would have to sleep in the open field, lying close to a sheaf for warmth and protection. In one of the narrow valleys of the Carpathians, he fell into the hands of brigands. It did not occur to him to protect himself; he simply said: “I am a pilgrim on my way to Jerusalem!” The holy calm of the pale face touched the hearts of the robbers. “To Jerusalem!” repeated the captain. Curiosity and veneration were depicted on the faces of the lawless band. The chief motioned Galeb to follow, and they stood in front of a great cavern before which a fire crackled boisterously. The brigands offered their prisoner food and shelter, and the next morning, putting him on the right path, the chief said: “When you reach Jerusalem, pray for me; there is but one God above us all.” The Danube was reached at last. A little farther journeying and then—the sea! The sea! That vast watery plain with its silver foam, its fair, glistening sails, and its shadowy coasts fading into the horizon. Here our wanderer embarked on a Turkish vessel, paying his way by doing what work he could on board; but on

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the second night of the passage, a storm arose, the boat was wrecked and fell into the hands of a Tripolitan corsair. The pirate thanked Allah for capturing such a prize as our pious pilgrim, and took him straightway to the slave market in one of the small towns of Asia Minor. There he was purchased by a rich Mohammedan who made him his gardener. A gardener! Poor Galeb Jekarim, the only flowers he had seen grow were those that blossomed in the verses of the Bible or in the legends of the Talmud. A wild overgrown garden was it that Galeb was set to cultivate: flowers grew in rank profusion, spreading cypress cast their gloomy shade, narcotic plants filled the air with their heavy perfume, the tireless waves of the sea beat against its banks. The pilgrim worked faithfully at his task, and yet how often would he gaze upon the silvery sea with all the passion of longing, and, as his eyes rested upon the distant, white-winged boats, his lips would murmur with a sigh: “Never will I forget thee, O Jerusalem!” How often would burning tears course down his hollow cheeks as he watched the moon rise in solemn splendor and float majestically over the vast expanse! Frequently, at set of sun, a veiled woman enveloped in a thick bernouse would take her evening walk in the garden, and on these occasions her glances fell with a more than kindly sympathy upon the slave who bowed profoundly before his mistress. One cloudless moonlight night, the unhappy captive was standing on the beach, his eyes gazing heavenward, his lips moving in silent prayer. Suddenly a warm, soft hand was laid upon his shoulder, and turning around, he saw the Turkish woman at his side.

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“Silence!” she murmured. “Answer my questions quickly. You are unhappy. Have you left behind you a wife or a sweetheart?” Galeb shook his head. “Why do you weep, then?” “I was making a pilgrimage to Jerusalem when I was taken prisoner by a pirate. I feel that the Angel of Death is approaching, and I may not die until I have kissed the Holy Land.” The woman looked at him in blank amazement. Slowly she threw back her veil and let her bernouse fall from her shoulders. “Am I not beautiful?” she asked. “Yes, you are as beautiful as a dream.” “Then give me your heart, for you have won mine.” She clasped her jewelled arms about his neck, and gazed lovingly into his eyes. Galeb shuddered at her touch. “Ask my life,” he said in a stifled voice, “but not my heart. My whole soul has gone out to the Temple whose spires reach heavenward and invoke Jehovah’s blessings upon his People. My heart belongs to Jerusalem, and I cannot love you.” The woman bent her head, and a tear stole down her pretty cheek; then, suddenly standing erect, she gathered her veil about her, and moving on, signed the pilgrim to follow. At a turn in the brushwood she pointed to a boat swinging on its chain, and said under her breath: “Take the oars; save yourself.” Galeb threw himself on his knees, kissed her feet, and then jumping into the boat pushed out into the stream. For a long time he saw his fair deliverer on the shore,

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waving her veil, then shadows supervened, a light fog shrouded the moonlight, and soon the figure of the woman, the waving cypress, the turrets of the house, all faded into nothingness. He was alone on the sea, the studded arch overhead, the friendliness of the night about him, hope singing her song in his breast. An English vessel took the fugitive on board and landed him at Jaffa. Once more he continued his journey afoot, along stony, sun-beaten paths, through cactus thickets, across arid wastes of sand. Occasionally, he would see some straggling village in the distance, and from time to time he chanced upon a well where he might slake his thirst. A slow fever consumed him, his strength was failing him, but his enthusiasm never slackened; he journeyed on. He dared not rest for any length of time for fear of falling into the sleep that knows no waking. His indomitable courage defied heat, hunger, thirst, exhaustion. At night, his fever would summon spectres to his side; but these spectres were arrayed in white, and they hovered about him with their angel wings, and pointed out the way to the Promised Land. Awaking one morning from a restless sleep, he descried in the distance the walls of the Sacred City. Jerusalem! Galeb Jekarim threw himself upon the ground, kissed the holy soil, then rising in all reverence he hastily resumed his journey. He was no longer conscious of fatigue, thirst, or hunger. The morning sun cast a wondrous light upon the gilded domes. The olive and cactus woods, the luxuriant flowers, the waving grasses all seemed to bow and do him homage as he passed. The fields were alive with beau-

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ty and color. The soft breath of heaven whispered sweetly in his ear, the air, freighted with the perfume of roses and myrrh, gently caressed his burning face. Jerusalem! He looked neither to the right nor to the left. He pressed onward. Another hundred paces. At last! The holy wall, the last remains of the mighty pile that has crumbled beneath man’s shortsightedness and Time’s ruthless march. The pilgrim sank exhausted at its foot, but with a supreme effort he lifted himself and grasped the stones for support. A prayer escaped his lips. Was it not rather a cry of joy from the depths of his soul? Once more he sank to earth, this time to rise no more. Before him stood the guardian angel who had led him onward; an invisible choir sang in unison with his soul; light was everywhere. Again he pressed the holy wall, and with a sigh of rapturous content his lips parted and breathed forth, “Jerusalem!”

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¯ ERNESTS BIRZNIEKS-UPITS Lettish novelist, 1871–. From his childhood days on, the author came in close contact with Jews, whom he portrays with sympathy in his Diary. He treats with the same tenderness the hero of the following sketch, translated into English by the editor of this anthology, and published here with the kind permission of the author and the formal approval of the Latvian Chamber of Letters and Arts. See Jidn un Lotvisn, by H. Etkins, Riga, Logos, 1938, pp. 81–95.

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SESKINŠ

I

DO NOT know what his real name was. In our neighborhood he was called Seskin. In fact, all the Jewish peddlers in the vicinity were known by nicknames, as, for example, “The Cap,” “Smearer,” “Dusk.” Perhaps he was dubbed so because of his eager quest for polecat* furs. But there was no insinuation of malodor about this appelation. Everybody called him so to his face, and even he always referred to himself by that name: “Well, dear friends, Seskin brought you kerchiefs of the latest style. . . Surely you won’t let Seskin depart this time without a sale. . . Seskin will stay here with you over night. . .” I always greeted Seskin’s arrival with joy. There were many pretty things in his pack, and I loved to look at them. I was always in the very front when he laid his bundle on the table, and I watched intently how he first opened the little black case, put aside his prayer-shawl sack, and then started to unfold small wooden boxes. “It is useless, Seskin, for you to open your pack. We need nothing,” one of the women would say, and then she herself would come over to view its contents. Seskin would not let himself be discouraged or dissuaded. His task was to bring and display his wares in each household, and for the display he charged nothing. “Whoever needs something will buy, and whoever doesn’t need anything won’t buy,” was his retort, while he calmly unwrapped the paper and *Seska means a pole-cat, fitchew. 255

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put one little box next to the other. But Seskin’s exhibits were never in vain: Trina suddenly developed an appetite for hooks, Jeva, the maid, discovered a need for leaden buttons, Lizzie’s daughter wanted yarn, and Kate the shepherdess a knitting-needle. And there was never an occasion for much haggling: “Seskin’s hooks, Trina’s pennies; let each keep his own.” Seskin would then calmly replace the merchandise in his pack. After tying the pack and preparing to leave, Seskin would often take a seat at the table, and, without looking directly at any one in particular, he would begin to talk, as if to himself: Mrs. Druyvin wanted Seskin to stay for dinner, but he did not stay. He said it was necessary to hurry on to Lejeniekes, where people were waiting for him. That meant that Seskin was hungry, and the housekeeper gave him some ready food, usually herring with bread, and, sometimes, a drink of milk. Here, again, was something to behold. I knew that he would first wash his hands, offer a benediction, take a bite of bread, and then sit down to his meal—nevertheless, I could not take my eyes off him all the while. He ate with much relish. His long gray beard swayed in rapid rhythm. Before departing, he would leave something for the food, a box of matches or the like. I used to look forward to Seskin’s visits with special delight at the time of New Year. He would then bring new calendars. Mother bought from him each year a copy of Stephenhagen’s Concerning the Times, Old and New, and I managed to read through also The Vidzeme Almanac before nightfall. That was a real event. I usually perused it during the afternoon, and at night, when all would gather after work in the house, I reread it aloud for everybody, not omitting the articles on “True Love,” and on “The Ruins

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of Cesis Castle.” Seskin, too, listened attentively to the very end, though the sack of straw was ready for him on the stove-couch. I had to go through the whole almanac, with all its announcements and weather forecasts, before we thought of retiring. Seskin would then wrap the almanac with the other calendars in a paper and put it in his hat. I don’t know why, but he always carried two or three calendars in his hat. Perhaps it was the almanac that made us feel closer to Seskin than to other Jews. When he spent a night at our house and boiled potatoes as the sole ingredient of his supper, I brought him kindling and assisted to the best of my ability. For this he would promise to tell me about “Ivan and the Gray Wolf.” Evidently that was the only tale he knew. He would tell it over and over again, and each time I would listen to it intently, though I knew it by heart and corrected him whenever he omitted a detail. He also taught me Hebrew script, dots and curved lines, written from right to left. This continued until I went to school. Then I had less leisure, and we would no longer occupy ourselves with the story of “Ivan and the Gray Wolf,” or with Jewish lettering. Instead he would tell me about his sons, the oldest of whom had left for America, while the rest studied at home. The emigrant had written letters that he was doing well, that his prospects were bright, and that the middle son would follow him to the New World by spring. “The trip,” Seskin explained, “lasts about a month—that’s how far it is.” The following spring, the middle son departed, and Seskin was left with his youngest son and two grown-up daughters. Concerning the latter, he would sometimes observe that it were better had they been sons: then he

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would indeed have no further worry. They, too, would now be in America, or Australia. I did not understand him. “Aren’t you at all sorry that your sons are so far away?” “Sorry? A father is not sorry when his children fare well. I pitied them as long as they were still at home. . .” And his long, white beard shook with excitement when he described how anxiously he used to look at his grownup sons and think of the future that awaited them here, a future so much like their father’s past. He himself had to put a heavy pack on his back while he was still a very young lad, and thus, with a stick in his hand, stooping under the burden, he had been trudging along ever since, forever dodging dogs, dogs that drove him off with threatening barks from the one house and dogs that encountered him with threatening barks at the other. His fare— dry bread, the tail of a herring, and a pitcher of water. A piece of butter and a drop of milk were rarities. His bedding—a thick, black sack of straw, that had to be spread out anew each night in a different place. Coming home once in two weeks, he never brought with him as much as half of what he really needed for his subsistence even on the bare cobblestones of his town. “We have nothing of our own growing here, nothing that is worth even as little as a hair. Our nest is on a rock. We must pay even for each bit of wood out of the miserable pennies that we collect on our wanderings. Can I anticipate with confidence and serenity such a future for my children?” Conditions grew worse daily, he would say. More and more stores were constantly opening up, and his sales dropped accordingly. Nevertheless, thank God, he was doing better than the rest. He had been endowed with a

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quick mind, and he was therefore received better than the others. That was true. He was accorded better treatment in our house. We would often manage somehow to get along without an article, and wait for Seskin’s visit. No other Jewish peddler was even mentioned. From that day on Seskin assumed for me the appearance of a very old and pathetic figure. His gray hair seemed all the more gray, the old face all the more wrinkled, the nose even more pointed, the brown eyes more deeply sunken, the back altogether bent, almost curved, the shoulders protruding in a droop. His long woolen coat did not fit, and hung down to the ground in broad folds. The tops of his boots slumped down, and stood off at his ankles. In later years, Seskin spoke only about his sons in America. That was to him a most wonderful land. He knew each of his sons’ letters by heart. Much he did not comprehend realistically, yet he insisted that it was exactly as he imagined it. America is the largest and mightiest country in the world. Its metropolis teems with millions of human beings. In our capital, Jews are forbidden entry even when sick and in need of medical care; but there, all Jews live freely wherever they please, whether in the capital city or elsewhere. The buildings there are twenty stories high, and everybody rides home in a train. There are no serfs there, only gentlemen; and all work. His sons earn about twenty dollars a week, and have sent travelling expenses for the older sister and a dowry for the younger one, who has a fiancé in Warsaw. I shared in Seskin’s joy, and I suggested that he would

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no longer need to wander about with his pack. His sons would support him. But he would not hear of it. It would be enough if they would assist the youngest one to go to America. Let them take care of themselves. It was time that they should get married and think about their own future. He and his wife needed very little and he would manage that. From the children he would accept nothing as long as he was able to earn something for himself. In a couple of years Seskin remained alone with his wife. All his children had left the nest, and had flown away: four to America, and one to Warsaw. Old Seskin now walked quite slowly, with not so heavy a pack, without rushing. He walked a little, supported the bundle on his unpainted cane, straightened out his back, rested a while, and proceeded further. Coming into a house, he displayed his wares, as was his wont, but did not hurry to depart. He waited for some one to ask about America and about his sons; and when nobody inquired, he volunteered the information: “In America people live wherever they please. My sons are in the very capital, and each one of them earns about twenty dollars a week.” He was proud of his sons, and he now had a higher regard for himself. He did not take it amiss when he was called Seskin, but he no longer referred to himself by that nickname. Now, if anybody haggled about the price, he said: “My wares, your money; let each keep his own.” I was about to be confirmed. I attended the last winter of school. It was during the Lenten season. We made a thorough review of our sacred studies, for all of us were to appear for an examination at the pastor’s house during the last

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week before Easter. To be prepared all the more adequately, I remained at school altogether for an entire week. On one Monday, however, I went home after school, for all the men had departed for several days in connection with their work, and I, as the only male, had to tend the colts and to assist the women when necessary. It snowed very heavily all that day, and I was up to my knees in the snow as I trudged along toward home. The whole plain was covered with the white, soft blanket, not a trace of anything else being visible. The trees were sparkling white, the branches drooping under their thick load. The uneven house-tops seemed to have been levelled out. The chimneys were completely buried beneath the snow, and blue streaks of smoke stuck out of them like congealed threads. Two narrow crooked lanes, one leading to the store and the other to the cattle-barn, indicated that people had not slept there for nearly three centuries. The sparrows uttered a chirp, then nestled close to each other in the straw under the roof. They anticipated the frost of the approaching night. The cold awakened me that night in my sleep. A blizzard was coming from the north, the wind tearing at the shutters and beating at the dampers of the ovens. I pulled the fur-piece over my shoulders and fell asleep again. In the morning I found the window looking out into the courtyard half immersed in the snow. In front of all the buildings were large mounds. The spot of the pump was noticeable only by the bent pole that protruded from it. Of the shrubs by the pond there was not a sign left to view. The task of clearing the doorways, paths and hedges dragged on from early morning till noon, and there was no question of going to school that day. In the afternoon, notice came that one male member of each household must

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appear early the next morning near the old inn with a shovel to clear the road. Thus I was to miss school the next day too, and to dig the snow if the men should happen not to return home from their work that evening. The prospect did not please me at all, not because the work might be too hard, nor because that would involve absence from school, but because I had never yet taken part in any public function of the community. I would not know how to behave. There would be many strangers, perhaps Jurke* Silin, and he would make fun of me, as he always made fun of everybody. Jurke Silin was a grown-up young man, to whom there still clung the title Jurke, which was bestowed upon him when he was a mere youngster but already known throughout the district as a particularly clever harmonica player. It was because of this talent that everybody enjoyed being near him, though otherwise people detested him for his sharp tongue. The men did not return home, and very early on Wednesday morning, I was at the old inn with my shovel in hand. More than twenty people gathered, mostly youths, but there were a few middle-aged men, and even a couple of old men. The older ones were left to work right near the tavern, and fourteen of us, the young ones, or “green ones,” as the leader called us, he took along to dig at the edge of the forest. The snow was still soft and unsettled, so that it was easy to shovel, and the work proceeded briskly. Besides, the leader knew how to bolster our energy, bracing up now the one now the other. At midday, there was only about a verst left to shovel. * Jurke means boor.

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At noon we gathered in the old inn for a bite. Some ate dry things, a few ordered beer. We all sat about the table in the large room, eating and chattering aloud, Jurke Silin talking more than all the rest to some of the young workers with whom he had become quite chummy during the morning. When we were about through, one of them called out: “How about us green ones ordering some half dozen bottles of beer?” The majority agreed, but I was annoyed, first of all, because I had never drunk in a tavern, secondly, because I did not have a penny with me. While the subject was still under discussion, I tied up my breadsack quietly, closed the knife, left the table, and walked over to the window. “Lead not my children astray on the path of wickedness,” I heard someone proclaim. Unwittingly I turned, for it reminded me strongly of my teacher’s words, and I saw Jurke standing, his hand uplifted, and his finger pointing at me. It was evident he was mimicking the teacher and addressing me. I blushed, and that only increased the laughter. My eyes became filled with tears, so that I could see nothing. Fortunately, someone left the room just then, and I followed him automatically. I heard only a few more comments about the schoolboy. Outside, I calmed down quickly, though my heart ached for a long time. Why should they ridicule the teacher? Were they not all his pupils recently, and did he not wish and do them well? They might laugh at me, but why slur him? I brooded over the matter, and I chided myself for acting improperly. Indeed, I should not have sneaked out of the place; I should have voiced my objection plainly, stating

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that I did not care to take part in the proposed action, that I had no money. Then they would have had no reason to mock me. As soon as Jurke Silin had spoken, I should have upbraided him openly, protesting that he had no right to hold a teacher up to scorn. Let him confine his ridicule to me, if I deserved it. These thoughts kept on revolving in my mind, and I was greatly dissatisfied with myself. I was standing with the older men in the afternoon when the green youths passed on their way toward their assigned location, and I trailed along in the rear. The leader remained at the tavern, admonished us to shovel vigorously, and promised to join us soon. We spread out in a long row and started to shovel. The field alongside of the road was quite elevated and much snow accumulated on it. The heaped up snow on the edge became a veritable bulwark, and the cleared road stretched like a gigantic garden-bed over the white broad plain. Traffic began to appear. A neighboring peasant passed by in a wagon from the side of the old tavern. From the edge of the forest came the courier of the district, and went to the inn. A moment later another figure emerged from the side of the forest, walking slowly. From behind the piles of snow one could see only the pedestrian’s gray head gradually moving forward. The man approached the other end of the line of shovelers, and then I heard a sudden outburst of laughter, resounding sneers, and a few voices bellowing repeatedly: “Lei-be, Lei-be!” I grasped the situation at once. I had heard that Jurke Silin and his companions hooted like that whenever they saw a Jew. This time most of them yelled in unison. The head of the passer-by, the victim of these jeers and gibes,

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moved on slowly behind the snow, without hurrying but also without halting. “Lei-be, Lei-be!” the taunts mingled in the uproar. Now I saw the pedestrian quite clearly. It was Seskin, stooping, with a long cane in his gloved hand, the skirts of his coat tucked under the belt, crawling step by step over the melted snow without looking to either side. His mittened left hand hung down from the shoulder to the ground, and moving slowly helped him little by little to steer his way forward. The cracked legs of his old boots flapped at each step. . . Such a sight of him must have evoked only sympathy and pity in the bosom of every one individually, but the individual’s sentiments were quite dulled in the mass, and over the still, snowy plain resounded the cry, “Seskin, Seskin!” My shovel struck my foot, but I felt no pain. I was burning up with shame and inner distress. He, who throughout his long life had never harmed us by a hair, who had done me only good, should find me among the scoffers, the tormentors. He walked through the workers’ camp as through a gauntlet, not like a criminal but like a martyr. His wrinkled old face was pallid, his eyes were cast down but they saw all. The long gray beard hung over his breast, and trembled at each footstep. He passed by very close to me, but did not look at me. He showed no sign of having observed me. And slowly, step by step, he wandered away on the cleared road. Only after passing a considerable distance did he halt for a brief while; he leaned the pack on the long stick, straightened his back, rested, and then, without looking back, he walked on. His composure gave him the air of a hero who

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towers high above the masses and to whom the disdain of the mob does not cling. And I, I seemed to shrink in my own eyes and appear so miserably small, so pitiably inane. I did not even have the courage to tell my comrades how indecent and vile their conduct was. Throwing the shovel over my shoulder, I left my work and went home. All through the winter I could not remove from my mind the thought of Seskin and the snow-diggers. The scene would reappear before my eyes frequently, each time producing a blush on my face. Once I saw Seskin in a dream: He had large gray wings, he climbed up on high wooden stilts, and he began to soar. His hollow eyes gazed motionlessly on the high snow over the field, and I knew that he was gazing at his sons in America, that he saw them and longed to come near them. He lifted himself on his wings, but we, the entire mob together with Jurke Silin, held him back by the long unpainted stick which he would not let go, and we pulled him back into the snow. I was aware even in my dream that we were doing him wrong, yet I helped in holding the stick, though my heart ached. I did not see Seskin the entire winter, but I had an intense desire to meet him, to beg his pardon, to tell him something pleasant, to show him my sympathy. I was absolutely convinced that I would see him before confirmation; but the day of confirmation came and went, and Seskin did not appear. On the Saturday before Easter I took a trip to town with my father. He left on a train, and I remained there all day to await his return the same evening. I passed my time promenading on the streets, and I found myself before the synagogue. Here it occurred to me that Seskin might be attending services. . .

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I paced up and down the sidewalk opposite the Jewish house of study, waiting for the worshipers to depart, and indeed, after most of them had left, Seskin emerged. But it was not the Seskin that I had seen the last time. A new black hat adorned his head, and he was dressed in a very long black gaberdine, white socks and new shoes. He appeared to me so much more venerable and more cheerful. I paused and involuntarily stared at him. He recognized me at once and seemed greatly pleased at the meeting. I accepted his invitation to come home with him, where he promised to show me the latest photographs of his sons and their letters. At his residence, we were received by an old, stout, neatly dressed woman with a glossy black wig over her head. I guessed she was his wife. The house was not big, but clean and pleasantly furnished. On the table near the window were two shining brass candlesticks with glass ornaments, and between the candlesticks lay several letters bearing foreign stamps. It was evident that these documents were there that day for public display. Seskin went away for a moment to the other end of the dwelling, behind the curtain, and she, knowing exactly the purpose of my visit, at once took some photographs from the envelopes and showed them to me. This is the older one, and this is his wife; this is the middle son, and this is his fiancée; and here is the youngest, who left but recently, still a youngster. Seskin returned presently. He opened several letters, written in Yiddish script, and as I could not read these, he recounted their contents, that there in America they have twenty-story houses, and that everybody rides home in a train. His sons had sent him money before Passover and had promised to send a regular monthly allowance of fifteen, twenty

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dollars. They did not want him to wander about any more. He did not fail to add also that Jews live there wherever they please, even in the capital. Happiness radiated from the faces of the old couple. That day, too, I did not muster the courage to refer to that which had happened at the shoveling of the snow.

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STEPHEN VINCENT BENÉT American poet and novelist, 1898–. The following story, which appeared in the Saturday Evening Post, May 14, 1938, is reproduced here, with the author’s kind permission, from Tales Before Midnight, published by Farrar & Rinehart, Inc., and copyrighted, 1935, 1937, 1938, 1939, by Stephen Vincent Benét.

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JACOB AND THE INDIANS

I

T GOES back to the early days—may God profit all who lived then—and the ancestors. Well, America, you understand, in those days was different. It was a nice place, but you wouldn’t believe it if you saw it today. Without busses, without trains, without states, without Presidents, nothing! With nothing but colonies and Indians and wild woods all over the country and wild animals to live in the wild woods. Imagine such a place! In these days you children don’t even think about it; you read about it in schoolbooks, but what is that? And I put in a call to my daughter, in California, and in three minutes I am saying “Hello, Rosie,” and there is Rosie and she is telling me about the weather, as if I wanted to know! But things were not always that way. I remember my own days, and they were different. And in the time of my grandfathers grandfather, they were different still. Listen to the story. My grandfathers grandfather was Jacob Stein, and he came from Rettelsheim, in Germany. To Philadelphia he came, an orphan in a sailing ship, but not a common man. He had learning—he had been to the heder—he could have been a scholar among the scholars. Well, that is the way things happen in this bad world. There was a plague and a new grand duke—things are always so. He would say little of it afterward—they had left his teeth in his mouth, but he would say little of it. He did not have to say—we 271

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are children of the Dispersion—we know a black day when it comes. Yet imagine—a young man with fine dreams and learning, a scholar with a pale face and narrow shoulders, set down in those early days in such a new country. Well, he must work, and he did. It was very fine, his learning, but it did not fill his mouth. He must carry a pack on his back and go from door to door with it. That was no disgrace; it was so that many began. But it was not expounding the Law, and at first he was very homesick. He would sit in his room at night, with the one candle, and read the preacher Koheleth, till the bitterness of the preacher rose in his mouth. Myself, I am not sure that Koheleth was a great preacher, but if he had had a good wife he would have been a more cheerful man. They had too many wives in those old days—it confused them. But Jacob was young. As for the new country where he had come, it was to him a place of exile, large and frightening. He was glad to be out of the ship, but, at first, that was all. And when he saw his first real Indian in the street—well, that was a day! But the Indian, a tame one, bought a ribbon from him by signs, and after that he felt better. Nevertheless, it seemed to him at times that the straps of the pack cut into his very soul, and he longed for the smell of the heder and the quiet streets of Rettelsheim and the good smoked goosebreast pious housewives keep for the scholar. But there is no going back—there is never any going back. All the same, he was a polite young man, and hardworking. And soon he had a stroke of luck—or at first it seemed so. It was from Simon Ettelsohn that he got the trinkets for his pack, and one day he found Simon Ettelsohn arguing a point of the Law with a friend, for Simon

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was a pious man and well thought of in the Congregation Mikveh Israel. Our grandfather’s grandfather stood by very modestly at first—he had come to replenish his pack and Simon was his employer. But finally his heart moved within him, for both men were wrong, and he spoke and told them where they erred. For half an hour he spoke, with his pack still upon his shoulders, and never has a text been expounded with more complexity, not even by the great Reb Samuel. Till, in the end, Simon Ettelsohn threw up his hands and called him a young David and a candle of learning. Also, he allowed him a more profitable route of trade. But, best of all, he invited young Jacob to his house, and there Jacob ate well for the first time since he had come to Philadelphia. Also he laid eyes upon Miriam Ettelsohn for the first time, and she was Simon’s youngest daughter and a rose of Zion. And after that, things went better for Jacob, for the protection of the strong is like a rock and a well. But yet things did not go altogether as he wished. For, at first, Simon Ettelsohn made much of him, and there was stuffed fish and raisin wine for the young scholar, though he was a peddler. But there is a look in a man’s eyes that says “H’m? Son-in-law?” and that look Jacob did not see. He was modest—he did not expect to win the maiden overnight, though he longed for her. But gradually it was borne in upon him what he was in the Ettelsohn house—a young scholar to be shown before Simon’s friends, but a scholar whose learning did not fill his mouth. He did not blame Simon for it, but it was not what he had intended. He began to wonder if he would ever get on in the world at all, and that is not good for any man. Nevertheless, he could have borne it, and the aches and

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pains of his love, had it not been for Meyer Kappelhuist. Now there was a pushing man! I speak no ill of anyone, not even of your Aunt Cora, and she can keep the De Groot silver if she finds it in her heart to do so; who lies down in the straw with a dog, gets up with fleas. But this Meyer Kappelhuist! A big, red-faced fellow from Holland with shoulders the size of a barn door and red hair on the backs of his hands. A big mouth for eating and drinking and telling schnorrer stories—and he talked about the Kappelhuists, in Holland, till you’d think they were made of gold. The crane says, “I am really a peacock—at least on my mother’s side.” And yet, a thriving man—that could not be denied. He had started with a pack, like our grandfather’s grandfather, and now he was trading with the Indians and making money hand over fist. It seemed to Jacob that he could never go to the Ettelsohn house without meeting Meyer and hearing about those Indians. And it dried the words in Jacob’s mouth and made his heart burn. For, no sooner would our grandfathers grandfather begin to expound a text or a proverb than he would see Meyer Kappelhuist looking at the maiden. And when Jacob had finished his expounding, and there should have been a silence, Meyer Kappelhuist would take it upon himself to thank him, but always in a tone that said: “The Law is the Law and the Prophets are the Prophets, but prime beaver is also prime beaver, my little scholar!” It took the pleasure from Jacob’s learning and the joy of the maiden from his heart. Then he would sit silent and burning, while Meyer told a great tale of Indians, slapping his hands on his knees. And in the end he was always careful to ask Jacob how many needles and pins he had sold that day; and when Jacob told him, he would smile and say very

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smoothly that all things had small beginnings, till the maiden herself could not keep from a little smile. Then, desperately, Jacob would rack his brains for more interesting matter. He would tell of the Wars of the Maccabees and the glory of the Temple. But even as he told them, he felt they were far away. Whereas Meyer and his accursed Indians were there, and the maiden’s eyes shone at his words. Finally he took his courage in both hands and went to Simon Ettelsohn. It took much for him to do it, for he had not been brought up to strive with men, but with words. But it seemed to him now that everywhere he went he heard of nothing but Meyer Kappelhuist and his trading with the Indians, till he thought it would drive him mad. So he went to Simon Ettelsohn in his shop. “I am weary of this narrow trading in pins and needles,” he said, without more words. Simon Ettelsohn looked at him keenly; for while he was an ambitious man, he was kindly as well. “Nu,” he said. “A nice little trade you have and the people like you. I myself started in with less. What would you have more?” “I would have much more,” said our grandfathers grandfather stiffly. “I would have a wife and a home in this new country. But how shall I keep a wife? On needles and pins?” “Nu, it has been done,” said Simon Ettelsohn, smiling a little. “You are a good boy, Jacob, and we take an interest in you. Now, if it is a question of marriage, there are many worthy maidens. Asher Levy, the baker, has a daughter. It is true that she squints a little, but her heart is of gold.” He folded his hands and smiled.

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“It is not of Asher Levy’s daughter I am thinking,” said Jacob, taken aback. Simon Ettelsohn nodded his head and his face grew grave. “Nu, Jacob,” he said, “I see what is in your heart. Well, you are a good boy, Jacob, and a fine scholar. And if it were in the old country, I am not saying. But here, I have one daughter married to a Seixas and one to a Da Silva. You must see that makes a difference.” And he smiled the smile of a man well pleased with his world. “And if I were such a one as Meyer Kappelhuist?” said Jacob bitterly. “Now—well, that is a little different,” said Simon Ettelsohn sensibly. “For Meyer trades with the Indians. It is true, he is a little rough. But he will die a rich man.” “I will trade with the Indians too,” said Jacob, and trembled. Simon Ettelsohn looked at him as if he had gone out of his mind. He looked at his narrow shoulders and his scholars hands. “Now, Jacob,” he said soothingly, “do not be foolish. A scholar you are, and learned, not an Indian trader. Perhaps in a store you would do better. I can speak to Aaron Copras. And sooner or later we will find you a nice maiden. But to trade with Indians—well, that takes a different sort of man. Leave that to Meyer Kappelhuist.” “And your daughter, that rose of Sharon? Shall I leave her, too, to Meyer Kappelhuist?” cried Jacob. Simon Ettelsohn looked uncomfortable. “Nu, Jacob,” he said. “Well, it is not settled, of course. But—” “I will go forth against him as David went against Goliath,” said our grandfathers grandfather wildly. “I will go

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forth into the wilderness. And God should judge the better man!” Then he flung his pack on the floor and strode from the shop. Simon Ettelsohn called out after him, but he did not stop for that. Nor was it in his heart to go and seek the maiden. Instead, when he was in the street, he counted the money he had. It was not much. He had meant to buy his trading goods on credit from Simon Ettelsohn, but now he could not do that. He stood in the sunlit street of Philadelphia like a man bereft of hope. Nevertheless, he was stubborn—though how stubborn he did not yet know. And though he was bereft of hope, he found his feet taking him to the house of Raphael Sanchez. Now, Raphael Sanchez could have bought and sold Simon Ettelsohn twice over. An arrogant old man he was, with fierce black eyes and a beard that was whiter than snow. He lived apart in his big house, with his granddaughter, and men said he was learned, but also very disdainful, and that to him a Jew was not a Jew who did not come of the pure Sephardic strain. Jacob had seen him, in the Congregation Mikveh Israel, and to Jacob he had looked like an eagle, and fierce as an eagle. Yet now, in his need, he found himself knocking at that man’s door. It was Raphael Sanchez himself who opened. “And what is for sale today, peddler?” he said, looking scornfully at Jacob’s jacket where the pack straps had worn it. “A scholar of the Law is for sale,” said Jacob in his bitterness, and he did not speak in the tongue he had learned in this country but in Hebrew. The old man stared at him a moment.

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“Now am I rebuked,” he said. “For you have the tongue. Enter, my guest,” and Jacob touched the scroll by the doorpost and went in. They shared the noon meal at Raphael Sanchez’s table. It was made of dark, glowing mahogany and the light sank into it as sunlight sinks into a pool. There were many precious things in that room, but Jacob had no eyes for them. When the meal was over and the blessing said, he opened his heart and spoke, and Raphel Sanchez listened, stroking his beard with one hand. When the young man had finished, he spoke. “So, scholar,” he said, though mildly, “you have crossed an ocean that you might live and not die, and yet all you see is a girl’s face.” “Did not Jacob serve seven years for Rachel?” said our grandfathers grandfather. “Twice seven, scholar,” said Raphael Sanchez dryly, “But that was in the blessed days.” He stroked his beard again. “Do you know why I came to this country?” he said. “No,” said Jacob Stein. “It was not for the trading,” said Raphael Sanchez. “My house has lent money to kings. A little fish, a few furs— what are they to my house? No, it was for the promise— the promise of Penn—that this land should be an habitation and a refuge, not only for Gentiles. Well, we know Christian promises. But so far, it has been kept. Are you spat upon in the street here, scholar of the Law?” “No,” said Jacob. “They call me Jew, now and then. But the Friends, though Gentiles, are kind.” “It is not so in all countries,” said Raphael Sanchez, with a terrible smile.

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“No,” said Jacob quietly, “it is not.” The old man nodded. “Yes, one does not forget that,” he said. “The spittle wipes off the cloth, but one does not forget. One does not forget the persecutor or the persecuted. That is why they think me mad, in the Congregation Mikveh Israel, when I speak what is in my mind. For, look you”—and he pulled a map from the drawer—“here is what we know of these colonies, and here and here our people make a new beginning, in another air. But here is New France—see it?—and down the great river come the French traders with their Indians.” “Well?” said Jacob in puzzlement. “Well?” said Raphael Sanchez. “Are you blind? I do not trust the King of France—the king before him drove out the Huguenots, and who knows what he may do? And if they hold the great rivers against us, we shall never go westward.” “We?” said Jacob in bewilderment. “We,” said Raphael Sanchez. He struck his hand on the map. “Oh, they cannot see it in Europe—not even their lords in parliament and their ministers of state,” he said. “They think this is a mine, to be worked as the Spaniards worked Potosi, but it is not a mine. It is something beginning to live, and it is faceless and nameless yet. But it is our lot to be part of it—remember that in the wilderness, my young scholar of the Law. You think you are going there for a girl’s face, and that is well enough. But you may find something there you did not expect to find.” He paused and his eyes had a different look. “You see, it is the trader first,” he said. “Always the trader, before the settled man. The Gentiles will forget that,

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and some of our own folk too. But one pays for the Land of Canaan; one pays in blood and sweat.” Then he told Jacob what he would do for him and dismissed him, and Jacob went home to his room with his head buzzing strangely. For at times it seemed to him that the Congregation Mikveh Israel was right in thinking Raphael Sanchez half mad. And at other times it seemed to him that the old man’s words were a veil, and behind them moved and stirred some huge and unguessed shape. But chiefly he thought of the rosy cheeks of Miriam Ettelsohn. It was with the Scotchman, McCampbell, that Jacob made his first trading journey. A strange man was McCampbell, with grim features and cold blue eyes, but strong and kindly though silent, except when he talked of the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel. For it was his contention that they were the Indians beyond the Western Mountains, and on this subject he would talk endlessly. Indeed, they had much profitable conversation, McCampbell quoting the doctrines of a rabbi called John Calvin, and our grandfather’s grandfather replying with Talmud and Torah till McCampbell would almost weep that such a honey-mouthed scholar should be destined to eternal damnation. Yet, he did not treat our grandfather’s grandfather as one destined to eternal damnation, but as a man, and he, too, spoke of cities of refuge as a man speaks of realities, for his people had also been persecuted. First they left the city behind them, and then the outlying towns and, soon enough, they were in the wilderness. It was very strange to Jacob Stein. At first he would wake at night and lie awake listening, while his heart pounded, and each rustle in the forest was the step of a

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wild Indian, and each screech of an owl in the forest, the whoop before an attack. But gradually this passed. He began to notice how silently the big man, McCampbell, moved in the woods; he began to imitate him. He began to learn many things that even a scholar of the Law, for all his wisdom, does not know—the girthing of a pack-saddle and the making of fires, the look of dawn in the forest and the look of evening. It was all very new to him, and sometimes he thought he would die of it, for his flesh weakened. Yet always he kept on. When he saw his first Indians—in the woods, not in the town—his knees knocked together. They were there as he had dreamt of them in dreams, and he thought of the spirit, Agrath bath Mahlath, and her seventy-eight dancing demons, for they were painted and in skins. But he could not let his knees knock together before heathens and a Gentile, and the first fear passed. Then he found they were grave men, very ceremonious and silent at first, and then, when the silence had been broken, full of curiosity. They knew McCampbell, but him they did not know, and they discussed him and his garments with the frankness of children, till Jacob felt naked before them, and yet not afraid. One of them pointed to the bag that hung at Jacob’s neck—the bag in which, for safety’s sake, he carried his phylacteries— then McCampbell said something and the brown hand dropped quickly, but there was a buzz of talk. Later on, McCampbell explained to him that they, too, wore little bags of deerskin and inside them sacred objects—and they thought, seeing his, that he must be a person of some note. It made him wonder. It made him wonder more to eat deer meat with them, by a fire. It was a green world and a dark one that he had fallen

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in—dark with the shadow of the forest, green with its green. Through it ran trails and paths that were not yet roads or highways—that did not have the dust and smell of the cities of men, but another scent, another look. These paths Jacob noted carefully, making a map, for that was one of the instructions of Raphael Sanchez. It seemed a great labor and difficult and for no purpose; yet, as he had promised, so he did. And as they sank deeper and deeper into the depths of the forest, and he saw pleasant streams and wide glades, untenanted but by the deer, strange thoughts came over him. It seemed to him that the Germany he had left was very small and crowded together; it seemed to him that he had not known there was so much width to the world. Now and then he would dream back—dream back to the quiet fields around Rettelsheim and the red-brick houses of Philadelphia, to the stuffed fish and the raisin wine, the chanting in the heder and the white twisted loaves of calm Sabbath, under the white cloth. They would seem very close for the moment, then they would seem very far away. He was eating deer’s meat in a forest and sleeping beside embers in the open night. It was so that Israel must have slept in the wilderness. He had not thought of it as so, but it was so. Now and then he would look at his hands—they seemed tougher and very brown, as if they did not belong to him any more. Now and then he would catch a glimpse of his own face, as he drank at a stream. He had a beard, but it was not the beard of a scholar—it was wild and black. Moreover, he was dressed in skins, now; it seemed strange to be dressed in skins at first, and then not strange. Now all this time, when he went to sleep at night, he

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would think of Miriam Ettelsohn. But, queerly enough, the harder he tried to summon up her face in his thoughts, the vaguer it became. He lost track of time—there was only his map and the trading and the journey. Now it seemed to him that they should surely turn back, for their packs were full. He spoke of it to McCampbell, but McCampbell shook his head. There was a light in the Scotchman’s eyes now—a light that seemed strange to our grandfathers grandfather—and he would pray long at night, sometimes too loudly. So they came to the banks of the great river, brown and great, and saw it, and the country beyond it, like a view of the Jordan. There was no end to that country— it stretched to the limits of the sky and Jacob saw it with his eyes. He was almost afraid at first, and then he was not afraid. It was there that the strong man, McCampbell, fell sick, and there that he died and was buried. Jacob buried him on a bluff overlooking the river and faced the grave to the west. In his death-sickness, McCampbell raved of the Ten Lost Tribes again and swore they were just across the river and he would go to them. It took all Jacob’s strength to hold him—if it had been at the beginning of the journey, he would not have had the strength. Then he turned back, for he, too, had seen a Promised Land, not for his seed only, but for nations yet to come. Nevertheless, he was taken by the Shawnees, in a season of bitter cold, with his last horse dead. At first, when misfortune began to fall upon him, he had wept for the loss of the horses and the good beaver. But when the Shawnees took him, he no longer wept; for it seemed to him that he was no longer himself, but a man he did not know.

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He was not concerned when they tied him to the stake and piled the wood around him, for it seemed to him still that it must be happening to another man. Nevertheless he prayed, as was fitting, chanting loudly; for Zion, in the wilderness he prayed. He could smell the smell of the heder and hear the voices that he knew—Reb Moses and Reb Nathan, and through them the curoius voice of Raphael Sanchez, speaking in riddles. Then the smoke took him and he coughed. His throat was hot. He called for drink, and though they could not understand his words, all men know the sign of thirst, and they brought him a bowl, filled. He put it to his lips eagerly and drank, but the stuff in the bowl was scorching hot and burned his mouth. Very angry then was our grandfather’s grandfather, and without so much as a cry he took the bowl in both hands and flung it straight in the face of the man who had brought it, scalding him. Then there was a cry and a murmur from the Shawnees and, after some moments, he felt himself unbound and knew that he lived. It was flinging the bowl at the man while yet he stood at the stake that saved him, for there is an etiquette about such matters. One does not burn a madman, among the Indians; and to the Shawnees, Jacob’s flinging the bowl proved that he was mad, for a sane man would not have done so. Or so it was explained to him later, though he was never quite sure that they had not been playing catand-mouse with him, to test him. Also they were much concerned by his chanting his death-song in an unknown tongue and by the phylacteries that he had taken from its bag and bound upon brow and arm for his death hour, for these they thought strong medicine and uncertain. But in any case, they released him, though they would not give

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him back his beaver, and that winter he passed in the lodges of the Shawnees, treated sometimes like a guest, but always on the edge of peril. For he was strange to them, and they could not quite make up their minds about him, though the man with the scalded face had his own opinion, as Jacob could see. Yet when the winter was milder and the hunting better than it had been in some seasons, it was he who got the credit for it, and the holy phylacteries also; and by the end of the winter, he was talking to them of trade, though diffidently at first. Ah, our grandfather’s grandfather, selig, what woes he had! And yet it was not all woe, for he learned much woodcraft from the Shawnees and began to speak in their tongue. Yet he did not trust them entirely; and when spring came and he could travel, he escaped. He was no longer a scholar then, but a hunter. He tried to think what day it was by the calendar, but he could only remember the Bee Moon and the Berry Moon. Yet when he thought of a feast he tried to keep it, and always he prayed for Zion. But when he thought of Zion, it was not as he had thought of it before—a white city set on a hill—but a great and open landscape, ready for nations. He could not have said why his thought had changed, but it had. I shall not tell all, for who knows all? I shall not tell of the trading post he found deserted and the hundred and forty French louis in the dead man’s money belt. I shall not tell of the half-grown boy, McGillvray, that he found on the fringes of settlement—the boy who was to be his partner in the days to come—and how they traded again with the Shawnees and got much beaver. Only this remains to be told, for this is true.

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It was a long time since he had even thought of Meyer Kappelhuist—the big pushing man with red hairs on the backs of his hands. But now they were turning back toward Philadelphia, he and McGillvray, their packhorses and their beaver; and as the paths began to grow familiar, old thoughts came into his mind. Moreover, he would hear now and then, in the outposts of the wilderness, of a redhaired trader. So when he met the man himself, not thirty miles from Lancaster, he was not surprised. Now, Meyer Kappelhuist had always seemed a big man to our grandfather’s grandfather. But he did not seem such a big man to him when met in the wilderness by chance, and at that Jacob was amazed. Yet the greater surprise was Meyer Kappelhuist’s, for he stared at our grandfather’s grandfather long and puzzledly before he cried out, “But it’s the little scholar!” and clapped his hand on his knee. Then they greeted each other civilly and Meyer Kappelhuist drank liquor because of the meeting, but Jacob drank nothing. For, all the time they were talking, he could see Meyer Kappelhuist’s eyes fixed greedily upon his packs of beaver, and he did not like that. Nor did he like the looks of the three tame Indians who traveled with Meyer Kappelhuist and, though he was a man of peace, he kept his hand on his arms, and the boy, McGillvray, did the same. Meyer Kappelhuist was anxious that they should travel on together, but Jacob refused, for, as I say, he did not like the look in the red-haired man’s eyes. So he said he was taking another road and left it at that. “And the news you have of Simon Ettelsohn and his family—it is good, no doubt, for I know you are close to them,” said Jacob before they parted.

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“Close to them?” said Meyer Kappelhuist, and he looked black as thunder. Then he laughed a forced laugh. “Oh, I see them no more,” he said. “The old rascal has promised his daughter to a cousin of the Seixas, a greeny, just come over, but rich, they say. But to tell you the truth, I think we are well out of it, scholar—she was always a little too skinny for my taste,” and he laughed coarsely. “She was a rose of Sharon and a lily of the valley,” said Jacob respectfully, and yet not with the pang he would have expected at such news, though it made him more determined than ever not to travel with Meyer Kappelhuist. And with that they parted and Meyer Kappelhuist went on his way. Then Jacob took a fork in the trail that McGillvray knew of, and that was as well for him. For when he got to Lancaster, there was news of the killing of a trader by the Indians who traveled with him; and when Jacob asked for details, they showed him something dried on a willow hoop. Jacob looked at the thing and saw the hairs upon it were red. “Scalped all right, but we got it back,” said the frontiersman, with satisfaction. “The red devil had it on him when we caught him. Should have buried it, too, I guess, but we’d buried him already and it didn’t seem feasible. Thought I might take it to Philadelphy, sometime—might make an impression on the governor. Say, if you’re going there, you might—after all, that’s where he came from. Be a sort of memento to his folks.” “And it might have been mine, if I had traveled with him,” said Jacob. He stared at the thing again, and his heart rose against touching it. Yet it was well the city people should know what happened to men in the wil-

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derness, and the price of blood. “Yes, I will take it,” he said. Jacob stood before the door of Raphael Sanchez, in Philadelphia. He knocked at the door with his knuckles, and the old man himself peered out at him. “And what is your business with me, frontiersman?” said the old man, peering. “The price of blood for a country,” said Jacob Stein. He did not raise his voice but there was a note in it that had not been there when he first knocked at Raphael Sanchez’s door. The old man stared at him soberly. “Enter, my son,” he said at last, and Jacob touched the scroll by the doorpost and went in. He walked through the halls as a man walks in a dream. At last he was sitting by the dark mahogany table. There was nothing changed in the room—he wondered greatly that nothing in it had changed. “And what have you seen, my son?” said Raphael Sanchez. “I have seen the Land of Canaan, flowing with milk and honey,” said Jacob, scholar of the Law. “I have brought back grapes from Eshcol, and other things that are terrible to behold,” he cried, and even as he cried he felt the sob rise in his throat. He choked it down. “Also there are eighteen packs of prime beaver at the warehouse, and a boy named McGillvray, a Gentile, but very trusty,” he said. “The beaver is very good and the boy under my protection. You will not lose on the journey. And McCampbell died by the great river, but he had seen that land and

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I think he rests well. The map is not made as I would have it, but it shows new things. And we must trade with the Shawnees. There are three posts to be established—I have marked them on the map—and later, more. And beyond the great river there is country that stretches to the end of the world. That is where my friend McCampbell lies, with his face turned west. But what is the use of talking? You would not understand.” He put his head in his arms, for the room was too quiet and peaceful, and he was very tired. Raphael Sanchez moved around the table and touched him on the shoulder. “Did I not say, my son, that there was more than a girl’s face to be found in the wilderness?” he said. “A girl’s face?” said Jacob. “Why, she is to be married and, I hope, will be happy, for she was a rose of Sharon. But what are girls’ faces beside this?” and he flung something on the table. It rattled dryly on the table, like a cast snakeskin, but the hairs upon it were red. “It was Meyer Kappelhuist,” said Jacob childishly, “and he was a strong man. And I am not strong, but a scholar. But I have seen what I have seen. And we must say Kaddish for him.” “Yes, yes,” said Raphael Sanchez. “It will be done. I will see to it.” “But you do not understand,” said Jacob. “I have eaten deer’s meat in the wilderness and forgotten the month of the year. I have been a servant to the heathen and held the scalp of my enemy in my hand. I will never be the same man.” “Oh, you will be the same,” said Sanchez. “And no worse a scholar, perhaps. But this is a new country.”

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“It must be for all,” said Jacob. “For my friend McCampbell died also, and he was a Gentile.” “Let us hope,” said Raphael Sanchez and touched him again upon the shoulder. Then Jacob lifted his head and he saw that the light had declined and the evening was upon them. And even as he looked, Raphael Sanchez’s granddaughter came in to light the candles for Sabbath. And Jacob looked at her, and she was a dove, with dove’s eyes.

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MYRA KELLY Mrs. Allan MacNaughton, Irish American author and educator,– 1910. Myra Kelly depicted “with charming sympathy and humor” the pathos of life among the immigrants on the lower East Side of New York. The following selection is a chapter in her Little Citizens, New York, McClure, Phillips & Co., 1904, and is republished here with the kind permission of Peter Smith, Publisher, of New York.

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MORRIS AND THE HONORABLE TIM

O

N THE first day of school, after the Christmas holidays, teacher found herself surrounded by a howling mob of little savages in which she had much difficulty in recognizing her cherished First-Reader Class. Isidore Belchatosky’s face was so wreathed in smiles and foreign matter as to be beyond identification; Nathan Spiderwitz had placed all his trust in a solitary suspender and two unstable buttons; Eva Kidansky had entirely freed herself from restraining hooks and eyes; Isidore Applebaum had discarded shoe-laces; and Abie Ashnewsky had bartered his only necktie for a yard of “shoestring” licorice. Miss Bailey was greatly disheartened by this reversion to the original type. She delivered daily lectures on nailbrushes, hair-ribbons, shoe polish, pins, buttons, elastic, and other means to grace. Her talks on soap and water became almost personal in tone, and her insistence on a close union between such garments as were meant to be united, led to a lively traffic in twisted and disreputable safety-pins. And yet the First-Reader Class, in all other branches of learning so receptive and responsive, made but halting and uncertain progress toward that state of virtue which is next to godliness. Early in January came the report that “Gum Shoe Tim” was on the war-path and might be expected at any time. Miss Bailey heard the tidings in calm ignorance until Miss Blake, who ruled over the adjoining kingdom, interpreted 293

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the warning. A license to teach in the public schools of New York is good for only one year. Its renewal depends upon the reports of the Principal in charge of the school and of the Associate Superintendent in whose district the school chances to be. After three such renewals the license becomes permanent, but Miss Bailey was, as a teacher, barely four months old. The Associate Superintendent for her vicinity was the Honorable Timothy O’Shea, known and dreaded as “Gum Shoe Tim,” owing to his engaging way of creeping softly up back-stairs and appearing, all unheralded and unwelcome, upon the threshold of his intended victim. This, Miss Blake explained, was in defiance of all the rules of etiquette governing such visits of inspection. The proper procedure had been that of Mr. O’Shea’s predecessor, who had always given timely notice of his coming and a hint as to the subjects in which he intended to examine the children. Some days later he would amble from room to room, accompanied by the amiable Principal, and followed by the gratitude of smiling and unruffled teachers. This kind old gentleman was now retired and had been succeeded by Mr. O’Shea, who, in addition to his unexpectedness, was adorned by an abominable temper, an overbearing manner, and a sense of cruel humor. He had almost finished his examinations at the nearest school where, during a brisk campaign of eight days, he had caused five dismissals, nine cases of nervous exhaustion, and an epidemic of hysteria. Day by day nerves grew more tense, tempers more unsure, sleep and appetite more fugitive. Experienced teachers went stolidly on with the ordinary routine, while beginners devoted time and energy to the more spectacular

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portions of the curriculum. But no one knew the Honorable Timothy’s pet subjects, and so no one could specialize to any great extent. Miss Bailey was one of the beginners, and Room 18 was made to shine as the sun. Morris Mogilewsky, Monitor of the Gold-Fish Bowl, wrought busily until his charges glowed redly against the water plants in their shining bowl. Creepers crept, plants grew, and ferns waved under the care of Nathan Spiderwitz, Monitor of the Window Boxes. There was such a martial swing and strut in Patrick Brennan’s leadership of the line that it inflamed even the timid heart of Isidore Wishnewsky with a war-like glow and his feet with a spasmodic but well-meant tramp. Sadie Gonorowsky and Eva, her cousin, sat closely side by side, no longer “mad on theirselves,” but “mit kind feelings.” The work of the preceding term was laid in neat and docketed piles upon the low book-case. The children were enjoined to keep clean and entire. And Teacher, a nervous and unsmiling Teacher, waited dully. A week passed thus, and then the good-hearted and experienced Miss Blake hurried ponderously across the hall to put Teacher on her guard. “I’ve just had a note from one of the grammar teachers,” she panted. “‘Gum Shoe Tim’ is up in Miss Green’s room! He’ll take this floor next. Now, see here, child, don’t look so frightened. The Principal is with Tim. Of course you’re nervous, but try not to show it, and you’ll be all right. His lay is discipline and reading. Well, good luck to you!” Miss Bailey took heart of grace. The children read surprisingly well, were absolutely good, and the enemy under convoy of the friendly Principal would be much less terrifying than the enemy at large and alone. It was, therefore,

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with a manner almost serene that she turned to greet the kindly concerned Principal and the dreaded “Gum Shoe Tim.” The latter she found less ominous of aspect than she had been led to fear, and the Principal’s charming little speech of introduction made her flush with quick pleasure. And the anxious eyes of Sadie Gonorowsky, noting the flush, grew calm as Sadie whispered to Eva, her close cousin: “Say, Teacher has a glad. She’s red on the face. It could to be her papa.” “No. It’s comp’ny,” answered Eva sagely. “It ain’t her papa. It’s comp’ny the whiles Teacher takes him by the hand.” The children were not in the least disconcerted by the presence of the large man. They always enjoyed visitors, and they liked the heavy gold chain which festooned the wide waistcoat of this guest; and, as they watched him, the Associate Superintendent began to superintend. He looked at the children all in their clean and smiling rows; he looked at the flowers and the gold-fish; at the pictures and the plaster casts; he looked at the work of the last term and he looked at Teacher. As he looked he swayed gently on his rubber heels and decided that he was going to enjoy the coming quarter of an hour. Teacher pleased him from the first. She was neither old nor ill-favored, and she was most evidently nervous. The combination appealed both to his love of power and his peculiar sense of humor. Settling deliberately in the chair of state, he began: “Can the children sing, Miss Bailey?” They could sing very prettily and they did. “Very nice, indeed,” said the voice of visiting authority. “Very nice. Their music is exceptionally good. And are they drilled? Children, will you march for me?”

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Again they could and did. Patrick marshaled his line in time and triumph up and down the aisles to the evident interest and approval of the “comp’ny,” and then Teacher led the class through some very energetic Swedish movements. While arms and bodies were bending and straightening at Teacher’s command and example, the door opened and a breathless boy rushed in. He bore an unfolded note and, as Teacher had no hand to spare, the boy placed the paper on the desk under the softening eyes of the Honorable Timothy, who glanced down idly and then pounced upon the note and read its every word. “For you, Miss Bailey,” he said in the voice before which even the school janitor had been known to quail. “Your friend was thoughtful, though a little late.” And poor palpitating Miss Bailey read: “Watch out! ‘Gum Shoe Tim’ is in the building. The Principal caught him on the back-stairs, and they’re going round together. He’s as cross as a bear. Greene in dead faint in dressing-room. Says he’s going to fire her. Watch out for him, and send the news on. His lay is reading and discipline.” Miss Bailey grew cold with sick and unreasoning fear. As she gazed wide-eyed at the living confirmation of the statement that “Gum Shoe Tim” was “as cross as a bear,” the gentle-hearted Principal took the paper from her nerveless grasp. “It’s all right,” he assured her. “Mr. O’Shea understands that you had no part in this. It’s all right. Your are not responsible.” But Teacher had no ears for his soothing. She could only watch with fascinated eyes as the Honorable Timo-

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thy reclaimed the note and wrote across its damning face: “Miss Greene may come to. She is not fired.—T. O’S.” “Here, boy,” he called; “take this to your teacher.” The puzzled messenger turned to obey, and the Associate Superintendent saw that though his dignity had suffered his power had increased. To the list of those whom he might, if so disposed, devour, he had now added the name of the Principal, who was quick to understand that an unpleasant investigation lay before him. If Miss Bailey could not be held responsible for this system of inter-classroom communication, it was clear that the Principal could. Every trace of interest had left Mr. O’Shea’s voice as he asked: “Can they read?” “Oh, yes, they read,” responded Teacher, but her spirit was crushed and the children reflected her depression. Still, they were marvelously good and that blundering note had said, “Discipline is his lay.” Well, here he had it. There was one spectator of this drama, who, understanding no word nor incident therein, yet dismissed no shade of the many emotions which had stirred the light face of his lady. Toward the front of the room sat Morris Mogilewsky, with every nerve tuned to Teacher’s, and with an appreciation of the situation in which the other children had no share. On the afternoon of one of those dreary days of waiting for the evil which had now come, Teacher had endeavored to explain the nature and possible result of this ordeal to her favorite. It was clear to him now that she was troubled, and he held the large and unaccustomed presence of the “comp’ny mit whiskers” responsible. Countless generations of ancestors had followed and fostered the instinct which now led Morris to propitiate an angry power. Lucki-

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ly, he was prepared with an offering of a suitable nature. He had meant to enjoy it for yet a few days, and then to give it to Teacher. She was such a sensible person about presents. One might give her one’s most cherished possession with a brave and cordial heart, for on each Friday afternoon she returned the gifts she had received during the week. And this with no abatement of gratitude. Morris rose stealthily, crept forward, and placed a bright bromo-seltzer bottle in the fat hand which hung over the back of the chair of state. The hand closed instinctively as, with dawning curiosity, the Honorable Timothy studied the small figure at his side. It began in a wealth of loosely curling hair which shaded a delicate face, very pointed as to chin and monopolized by a pair of dark eyes, sad and deep and beautiful. A faded blue “jumper” was buttoned tightly across the narrow chest; frayed trousers were precariously attached to the “jumper,” and impossible shoes and stockings supplemented the trousers. Glancing from boy to bottle, the “comp’ny mit whiskers” asked: “What’s this for?” “For you.” “What’s in it?” “A present.” Mr. O’Shea removed the cork and proceeded to draw out incredible quantities of absorbent cotton. When there was no more to come, a faint tinkle sounded within the blue depths, and Mr. O’Shea, reversing the bottle, found himself possessed of a trampled and disfigured sleeve link of most palpable brass. “It’s from gold,” Morris assured him. “You puts it in your—’scuse me—shirt. Wish you health to wear it.”

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“Thank you,” said the Honorable Tim, and there was a tiny break in the gloom which had enveloped him. And then, with a quick memory of the note and of his anger: “Miss Bailey, who is this young man?” And Teacher, of whose hobbies Morris was one, answered warmly: “That is Morris Mogilewsky, the best of boys. He takes care of the gold-fish, and does all sorts of things for me. Don’t you, dear?” “Teacher, yiss ma’an,” Morris answered. “I’m lovin’ much mit you. I gives presents on the comp’ny over you.” “Ain’t he rather big to speak such broken English?” asked Mr. O’Shea. “I hope you remember that it is part of your duty to stamp out the dialect.” “Yes, I know,” Miss Bailey answered. “But Morris has been in America for so short a time. Nine months, is it not?” “Teacher, yiss ma’an. I comes out of Russia,” responded Morris, on the verge of tears and with his face buried in Teacher’s dress. Now Mr. O’Shea had his prejudices—strong and deep. He had been given jurisdiction over that particular district because it was his native heath, and the Board of Education considered that he would be more in sympathy with the inhabitants than a stranger. The truth was absolutely the reverse. Because he had spent his early years in a large old house on East Broadway, because he now saw his birthplace changed to a squalid tenement, and the happy hunting grounds of his youth grown ragged and foreign—swarming with strange faces and noisy with strange tongues— Mr. O’Shea bore a sullen grudge against the usurping race. He resented the caressing air with which Teacher held the little hand placed so confidently within her own and he welcomed the opportunity of gratifying his still ruffled

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temper and his racial antagonism at the same time. He would take a rise out of this young woman about her little Jew. She would be comforted later on. Mr. O’Shea rather fancied himself in the role of comforter, when the sufferer was neither old nor ill-favored. And so he set about creating the distress which he would later change to gratitude and joy. Assuredly the Honorable Timothy had a welldeveloped sense of humor. “His English is certainly dreadful,” remarked the voice of authority, and it was not an English voice, nor is O’Shea distinctively an English name. “Dreadful. And, by the way, I hope you are not spoiling these youngsters. You must remember that you are fitting them for the battle of life. Don’t coddle your soldiers. Can you reconcile your present attitude with discipline?” “With Morris—yes,” Teacher answered. “He is gentle and tractable beyond words.” “Well, I hope you’re right,” grunted Mr. O’Shea, “but don’t coddle them.” And so the incident closed. The sleeve link was tucked, before Morris’s yearning eyes, into the reluctant pocket of the wide white waistcoat, and Morris returned to his place. He found his reader and the proper page, and the lesson went on with brisk serenity; real on the children’s part, but bravely assumed on Teacher’s. Child after child stood up, read, sat down again, and it came to be the duty of Bertha Binderwitz to read the entire page of which the others had each read a line. She began jubilantly, but soon stumbled, hesitated, and wailed: “Stands a fierce word. I don’t know what it is,” and Teacher turned to write the puzzling word upon the blackboard.

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Morris’s heart stopped with a sickening suddenness and then rushed madly on again. He had a new and dreadful duty to perform. All his mother’s counsel, all his father’s precepts told him that it was his duty. Yet fear held him in his little seat behind his little desk, while his conscience insisted on this unalterable decree of the social code: “So somebody’s clothes is wrong it’s polite you says ‘ ’scuse’ and tells it out.” And here was Teacher whom he dearly loved, whose ideals of personal adornment extended to full sets of buttons on jumpers and to laces in both shoes, here was his immaculate lady fair in urgent need of assistance and advice, and all because she had on that day inaugurated a delightfully vigorous exercise for which, architecturally, she was not designed. There was yet room for hope that some one else would see the breach and brave the danger. But no. The visitor sat stolidly in the chair of state, the Principal sat serenely beside him, the children sat each in his own little place, behind his own little desk, keeping his own little eyes on his own little book. No. Morris’s soul cried with Hamlet’s: “The time is out of joint;—O cursed spite, That ever I was born to set it right!” Up into the quiet air went his timid hand. Teacher, knowing him in his more garrulous moods, ignored the threatened interruption of Bertha’s spirited résumé, but the windmill action of the little arm attracted the Honorable Tim’s attention. “The best of boys wants you,” he suggested, and Teacher perforce asked: “Well, Morris, what is it?”

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Not until he was on his feet did the Monitor of the GoldFish Bowl appreciate the enormity of the mission he had undertaken. The other children began to understand, and watched his struggle for words and breath with sympathy or derision, as their natures prompted. But there are no words in which one may politely mention ineffective safety-pins to one’s glass of fashion. Morris’s knees trembled queerly, his breathing grew difficult, and Teacher seemed a very great way off as she asked again: “Well, what is it, dear?” Morris panted a little, smiled weakly, and then sat down. Teacher was evidently puzzled, the “comp’ny” alert, the Principal uneasy. “Now, Morris,” Teacher remonstrated, “you must tell me what you want.” But Morris had deserted his etiquette and his veracity, and murmured only: “Nothings.” “Just wanted to be noticed,” said the Honorable Tim. “It is easy to spoil them.” And he watched the best of boys rather closely, for a habit of interrupting reading lessons, wantonly and without reason, was a trait in the young of which he disapproved. When this disapprobation manifested itself in Mr. O’Shea’s countenance, the loyal heart of Morris interpreted it as a new menace to his sovereign. No later than yesterday she had warned them of the vital importance of coherence. “Every one knows,” she had said, “that only common little boys and girls come apart. No one ever likes them,” and the big stranger was even now misjudging her. Again his short arm agitated the quiet air. Again his

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trembling legs upheld a trembling boy. Again authority urged. Again Teacher asked: “Well, Morris, what is it, dear?” All this was as before, but not as before was poor harassed Miss Bailey’s swoop down the aisle, her sudden taking Morris’s troubled little face between her soft hands, the quick near meeting with her kind eyes, the note of pleading in her repetition: “What do you want, Morris?” He was beginning to answer when it occurred to him that the truth might make her cry. There was an unsteadiness about her upper lip which seemed to indicate the possibility. Suddenly he found that he no longer yearned for words in which to tell her of her disjointment, but for something else—anything else—to say. His miserable eyes escaped from hers and wandered to the wall in desperate search for conversation. There was no help in the pictures, no inspiration in the plaster casts, but on the blackboard he read, “Tuesday, January twenty-first, 1902.” Only the date, but he must make it serve. With teacher close beside him, with the hostile eye of the Honorable Tim upon him, hedged round by the frightened or admiring regard of the First-Reader Class, Morris blinked rapidly, swallowed resolutely, and remarked: “Teacher, this year’s nineteen-hundred-and-two,” and knew that all was over. The caressing clasp of Teacher’s hands grew into a grip of anger. The countenance of Mr. O’Shea took on the beautiful expression of the prophet who has found honor and verification in his own country. “The best of boys has his off days and this is one of them,” he remarked.

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“Morris,” said Teacher, “did you stop a reading lesson to tell me that? Do you think I don’t know what the year is? I’m ashamed of you.” Never had she spoken thus. If the telling had been difficult to Morris when she was “glad on him,” it was impossible now that she was a prey to such evident “mad feelings.” And yet he must make some explanation. So he murmured: “Teacher, I tells you ‘scuse. I know you knows what year stands, on’y it’s polite I tells you something, und I had a fraid.” “And so you bothered your Teacher with that nonsense,” said Tim. “You’re a nice boy!” Morris’s eyes were hardly more appealing than Teacher’s as the two culprits, for so they felt themselves, turned to their judge. “Morris is a strange boy,” Miss Bailey explained. “He can’t be managed by ordinary methods—” “And extraordinary methods don’t seem to work today,” Mr. O’Shea interjected. “And I think,” Teacher continued, “that it might be better not to press the point.” “Oh, if you have no control over him—” Mr. O’Shea was beginning pleasantly, when the Principal suggested: “You’d better let us hear what he has to say, Miss Bailey; make him understand that you are master here.” And Teacher, with a heart-sick laugh at the irony of this advice in the presence of the Associate Superintendent, turned to obey. But Morris would utter no words but these, dozens of times repeated: “I have a fraid.” Miss Bailey coaxed, bribed, threatened and cajoled; shook him surreptitiously,

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petted him openly. The result was always the same: “It’s polite I tells you something out, on’y I had a fraid.” “But, Morris, dear, of what?” cried Teacher. “Are you afraid of me? Stop crying now and answer. Are you afraid of Miss Bailey?” “N-o-o-oh m-a-a-an.” “Are you afraid of the Principal?” “N-o-o-oh m-a-a-an.” “Are you afraid,”—with a slight pause, during which a native hue of honesty was foully done to death—“of the kind gentleman we are all so glad to see?” “N-o-o-oh m-a-a-an.” “Well, then what is the matter with you? Are you sick? Don’t you think you would like to go home to your mother?” “N-o-o-oh m a-a-an; I ain’t sick. I tells you ‘scuse.” The repeated imitation of a sorrowful goat was too much for the Honorable Tim. “Bring that boy to me,” he commanded. ‘Til show you how to manage refractory and rebellious children.” With much difficulty and many assurances that the gentleman was not going to hurt him, Miss Bailey succeeded in untwining Morris’s legs from the supports of the desk and in half carrying, half leading him up to the chair of state. An ominous silence had settled over the room. Eva Gonorowsky was weeping softly, and the redoubtable Isidore Applebaum was stiffened in a frozen calm. “Morris,” began the Associate Superintendent in his most awful tones, “will you tell me why you raised your hand? Come here, sir.” Teacher urged him gently, and like dog to heel, he went. He halted within a pace or two of Mr. O’Shea, and lifted a beseeching face toward him.

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“I couldn’t to tell nothing out,” said he. “I tells you ‘scuse. I’m got a fraid.” The Honorable Tim lunged quickly and caught the terrified boy preparatory to shaking him, but Morris escaped and fled to his haven of safety—his Teacher’s arms. When Miss Bailey felt the quick clasp of the thin little hands, the heavy beating of the over-tired heart, and the deep convulsive sobs, she turned on the Honorable Timothy O’Shea and spoke: “I must ask you to leave this room at once,” she announced. The Principal started and then sat back. Teacher’s eyes were dangerous, and the Honorable Tim might profit by a lesson. “You’ve frightened the child until he can’t breathe. I can do nothing with him while you remain. The examination is ended. You may go.” Now Mr. O’Shea saw he had gone a little too far in his effort to create the proper dramatic setting for his clemency. He had not expected the young woman to “rise” quite so far and high. His deprecating half-apology, half-eulogy, gave Morris the opportunity he craved. “Teacher,” he panted; “I wants to whisper mit you in the ear.” With a dexterous movement he knelt upon her lap and tore out his solitary safety-pin. He then clasped her tightly and made his explanation. He began in the softest of whispers, which increased in volume as it did in interest, so that he reached the climax at the full power of his boy soprano voice. “Teacher, Missis Bailey, I know you know what year stands. On’y it’s polite I tells you something, und I had a fraid the while the ‘comp’ny mit the whiskers’ sets und

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rubbers. But, Teacher, it’s like this: your jumper’s sticking out and you could to take mine safety-pin.” He had understood so little of all that had passed that he was beyond being surprised by the result of this communication. Miss Bailey had gathered him into her arms and had cried in a queer helpless way. And as she cried she had said over and over again: “Morris, how could you? Oh, how could you, dear? How could you?” The Principal and “the comp’ny mit whiskers” looked solemnly at one another for a struggling moment, and had then broken into laughter, long and loud, until the visiting authority was limp and moist. The children waited in polite uncertainty, but when Miss Bailey, after some indecision, had contributed a wan smile, which later grew into a shaky laugh, the First-Reader Class went wild. Then the Honorable Timothy arose to say good-by. He reiterated his praise of the singing and reading, the blackboard work and the moral tone. An awkward pause ensued, during which the Principal engaged the young Gonorowskys in impromptu conversation. The Honorable Tim crossed over to Miss Bailey’s side and steadied himself for a great effort. “Teacher,” he began meekly, “I tells you ‘scuse. This sort of thing makes a man feel like a bull in a china shop. Do you think the little fellow will shake hands with me? I was really only joking.” “But surely he will,” said Miss Bailey, as she glanced down at the tangle of dark curls resting against her breast. “Morris, dear, aren’t you going to say good-by to the gentleman?” Morris relaxed one hand from its grasp on his lady and bestowed it on Mr. O’Shea.

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“Good-by,” said he gently. “I gives you presents, from gold presents, the while you’re friends mit Teacher. I’m loving much mit her, too.” At this moment the Principal turned, and Mr. O’Shea, in a desperate attempt to retrieve his dignity, began: “As to class management and discipline—” But the Principal was not to be deceived. “Don’t you think, Mr. O’Shea,” said he, “that you and I had better leave the management of the little ones to the women? You have noticed, perhaps, that this is Nature’s method.”

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BEN AMES WILLIAMS American journalist and novelist, 1889–. The following story, which appeared in Collier’s Weekly, July 10, 1920, and in the Best Short Stories of 1920, edited by Edward J. O’Brien, Boston, Small, Maynard & Co., 1921, is taken, by permission of the publisher, from Williams’ Thrifty Stock, published and copyrighted by E. P. Dutton & Co., Inc., New York, 1923.

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SHEENER I

W

HEN he was sober the man always insisted that his name was Evans, but in his cups he was accustomed to declare, in a boastful fashion, that his name was not Evans at all. However, he never went further than this, and since none of us was particularly interested, we were satisfied to call him Evans, or, more often, Bum for short. He was the second assistant janitor; and whereas, in some establishments, a janitor is a man of power and place, it is not so in a newspaper office. In such institutions, where great men are spoken of irreverently and by their first names, a janitor is a man of no importance. How much less, then, his second assistant. It was never a part of Evans’s work, for example, to sweep the floors. There is something lordly in the gesture of the broom. But the janitor’s first assistant attended to that; and Evans’s regular duties were more humble, not unconnected with such things as cuspidors. There was no man so poor as to do him honor; yet he had always a certain loftiness of bearing. He was tall, rather above the average height, with a long, thin, bony face like a horse, and an aristocratic stoop about his neck and shoulders. His hands were slender; he walked in a fashion that you might have called a shuffle, but which might also have been characterized as a walk of indolent assurance. His eyes were wash-blue, and his straggling mustache drooped at the corners. 313

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Sober, he was a silent man, but when he had drunk he was apt to become mysteriously loquacious. And he drank whenever the state of his credit permitted. At such times he spoke of his antecedents in a lordly and condescending fashion which we found amusing. “You call me Evans,” he would say. “That does well enough to be sure. Quite so, and all that. Evans! Hah!” And then he would laugh, in a barking fashion that with his long, bony countenance always suggested to me a coughing horse. But when he was pressed for details, the man—though he might be weaving and blinking with liquor—put a seal upon his lips. He said there were certain families in one of the Midland Counties of England who would welcome him home if he chose to go; but he never named them, and he never chose to go, and we put him down for a liar by the book. All of us except Sheener. II Sheener was a Jewish newsboy; that is to say, a representative of the only thoroughbred people in the world. I have known Sheener for a good many years, and he is worth knowing; also, the true tale of his life might have inspired Scheherazade. A book must be made of Sheener some day. For the present, it is enough to say that he had the enterprise which adversity has taught his people; he had the humility which they have learned by enduring insults they were powerless to resent, and he had the courage and the heart which were his ancient heritage. And—the man Evans had captured and enslaved his imagination. He believed in Evans from the beginning. This may have been through a native credulity which failed to manifest

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itself in his other dealings with the world. I think it more probable that Evans and his pretensions appealed to the love of romance native to Sheener. I think he enjoyed believing, as we enjoy lending ourselves the illusion of the theater. Whatever the explanation, a certain alliance developed between the two; a something like friendship. I was one of those who laughed at Sheener’s credulity, but he told me, in his energetic fashion, that I was making a mistake. “You got that guy wrong,” he would say. “He ain’t always been a bum. A guy with half an eye can see that. The way he talks, and the way he walks, and all. There’s class to him, J’m telling you. Class, bo.” “He walks like a splay-footed walrus, and he talks like a drunken old hound,” I told Sheener. “He’s got you buffaloed, that’s all.” “Pull in your horns; you’re coming to a bridge,” Sheener warned me. “Don’t be a goat all your life. He’s a gent; that’s what this guy is.” “Then I’m glad I’m a roughneck,” I retorted; and Sheener shook his head. “That’s all right,” he exclaimed. “That’s all right. He ain’t had it easy, you know. Scrubbing spittoons is enough to take the polish off any guy. I’m telling you he’s there. Forty ways. You’ll see, bo. You’ll see.” “I’m waiting,” I said. “Keep right on,” Sheener advised me. “Keep right on. The old stuff is there. It’ll show. Take it from me.” I laughed at him. “If I get you,” I said, “you’re looking for something along the line of Noblesse Oblige! What?” “Cut the comedy” he retorted. “I’m telling you, the old class is there. You can’t keep a fast horse in a poor man’s stable.”

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“Blood will tell, eh?” “Take it from me,” said Sheener. It will be perceived that Evans had in Sheener not only a disciple; he had an advocate and a defender. And Sheener in these roles was not to be despised. I have said he was a newsboy; to put it more accurately, he was in his early twenties, with forty years of experience behind him, and with half the newsboys of the city obeying his commands and worshipping him like a minor god. He had full charge of our city circulation and was quite as important, and twice as valuable to the paper, as any news editor could hope to be. In making a friend of him, Evans had found an ally in the high places; and it became speedily apparent that Sheener proposed to be more than a mere friend in name. For instance, I learned one day that he was drawing Evans’s wages for him, and had appointed himself in some sort a steward for the other. “That guy wouldn’t ever save a cent,” he told me when I questioned him. “I give him enough to get soused on, and I stick five dollars in the bank for him every week. Say, you wouldn’t know him if you run into him in his glad rags.” “How does he like your running his affairs?” I asked. “Like it?” Sheener echoed. “He don’t have to like it. If he tries to pull anything on me, I’ll poke the old coot in the eye.” I doubt whether this was actually his method of dominating Evans. It is more likely that he used a diplomacy which occasionally appeared in his dealings with the world. Certainly the arrangement presently collapsed, for Sheener confessed to me that he had given his savings back to Evans. We were minus a second assistant janitor for a week as a

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consequence, and when Evans tottered back to the office and would have gone to work I told him he was through. He took it meekly enough, but not Sheener. Sheener came to me with fire in his eye. “Sa-a-ay,” he demanded, “what’s coming off here, anyhow? What do you think you’re trying to pull?” I asked him what he was talking about, and he said: “Evans says you’ve given him the hook.” “That’s right,” I admitted. “He’s through.” “He is not,” Sheener told me flatly. “You can’t fire that guy.” “Why not?” “He’s got to live, ain’t he?” I answered, somewhat glibly, that I did not see the necessity, but the look that sprang at once into Sheener’s eyes made me faintly ashamed of myself, and I went on to urge that Evans was failing to do his work and could deserve no consideration. “That’s all right,” Sheener told me. “I didn’t hear any kicks that his work wasn’t done while he was on this bat.” “Oh, I guess it got done all right. Someone had to do it. We can’t pay him for work that someone else does.” “Say, don’t try to pull that stuff,” Sheener protested. “As long as his work is done, you ain’t got any kick. This guy has got to have a job, or he’ll go bust, quick. It’s all that keeps his feet on the ground. If he didn’t think he was earning his living, he’d go on the bum in a minute.” I was somewhat impatient with Sheener’s insistence, but I was also interested in this developing situation. “Who’s going to do his work, anyhow?” I demanded.

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For the first time in our acquaintance I saw Sheener look confused. “That’s all right, too,” he told me. “It don’t take any skin off of your back, long as it’s done.” In the end I surrendered. Evans kept his job; and Sheener—I once caught him in the act, to his vast embarrassment—did the janitor’s work when Evans was unfit for duty. Also Sheener loaned him money, small sums that mounted into an interesting total; and furthermore I know that on one occasion Sheener fought for him. The man Evans went his pompous way, accepting Sheener’s homage and protection as a matter of right, and in the course of half a dozen years I left the paper for other work, saw Sheener seldom, and Evans not at all. III About ten o’clock one night in early summer I was wandering somewhat aimlessly through the South End to see what I might see, when I encountered Sheener. He was running, and his dark face twisted with anxiety. When he saw me he stopped with an exclamation of relief, and I asked him what the matter was. “You remember old Bum Evans?” he asked, and added: “He’s sick. I’m looking for a doctor. The old guy is just about all in.” “You mean to say you’re still looking out for that old tramp?” I demanded. “Sure, I am,” he said hotly; “that old boy is there. He’s got the stuff. Him and me are pals.” He was hurrying me along the street toward the office of the doctor he sought. I asked where Evans was. “In my room,” he told me. “I found him on the street. Last night. He was crazy.

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The D.T.’s. I ain’t been able to get away from him till now. He’s asleep. Wait. Here’s where the doc hangs out.” Five minutes later the doctor and Sheener and I were retracing our steps toward Sheener’s lodging, and presently we crowded into the small room where Evans lay on Sheener’s bed. The man’s muddy garments were on the floor; he himself tossed and twisted feverishly under Sheener’s blankets. Sheener and the doctor bent over him, while I stood by. Evans waked, under the touch of their hands, and waked to sanity. He was cold sober and desperately sick. When the doctor had done what could be done and gone his way, Sheener sat down on the edge of the bed and rubbed the old man’s head with a tenderness of which I could not have believed the newsboy capable. Evans’s eyes were open; he watched the other, and he at last said huskily: “I say, you know, I’m a bit knocked up.” Sheener reassured him. “That’s all right, bo,” he said. “You hit the hay. Sleep’s the dose for you. I ain’t going away.” Evans moved his head on the pillow, as though he were nodding. “A bit tight, wasn’t it, what?” he asked. “Say,” Sheener agreed. “You said something, Bum. I thought you’d kick off, sure.” The old man considered for a little, his lips twitching and shaking. “I say, you know,” he murmured at last. “Can’t have that. Potter’s Field, and all that sort of business. Won’t do. Sheener, when I do take the jump, you write home for me. Pass the good word. You’ll hear from them.” Sheener said: “Sure I will. Who’ll I write to, Bum?” Evans, I think, was unconscious of my presence. He

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gave Sheener a name; his name. Also, he told him the name of the family lawyer, in one of the Midland cities of England, and added certain instructions. . . When he had drifted into uneasy sleep Sheener came out into the hall to see me off. I asked him what he meant to do. “What am I going to do?” he repeated. “I’m going to write this guy’s lawyer. Let them send for him. This is no place for him.” “You’ll have your trouble for your pains,” I told him. “That old soak is a plain liar; that’s all.” Sheener laughed at me. “That’s all right, bo,” he told me. “I know. This guy’s the real cheese. You’ll see.” I asked him to let me know if he heard anything, and he said he would. But within a day or two I forgot the matter, and would hardly have remembered it if Sheener had not telephoned me a month later. “Say, you’re a wise guy, ain’t you?” he derided when I answered the phone. I admitted it. “I got a letter from that lawyer in England,” he told me. “This Evans is the stuff, just like I said. His wife run away with another man, and he went to the devil fifteen years ago. They’ve been looking for him ever since his son grew up.” “Son?” I asked. “Son. Sure! Raising wheat out in Canada somewhere. They give me his address. He’s made a pile. I’m going to write to him.” “What does Bum say?” “Him? I ain’t told him. I won’t till I’m sure the kid’s coming after him.” He said again that I was a wise guy; and I apologized for my wisdom and asked for a share in what was to come. He promised to keep me posted.

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IV Ten days later he telephoned me while I was at supper to ask if I could come to his room. I said: “What’s up?” “The old guy’s boy is coming after him,” Sheener said. “He’s got the shakes, waiting. I want you to come and help me take care of him.” “When’s the boy coming?” I promised to make haste; and half an hour later I joined them in Sheener’s room. Sheener let me in. Evans himself sat in something like a stupor, on a chair by the bed. He was dressed in a cheap suit of ready-made clothes, to which he lent a certain dignity. His cheeks were shaved clean, his mustache was trimmed, his thin hair was plastered down on his bony skull. The man did not look toward me when I came in; and Sheener and I sat down by the table and talked together in undertones. “The boy’s really coming?” I asked. Sheener said proudly: “I’m telling you.” “You heard from him?” “Got a wire the day he got my letter.” “You’ve told Bum?” “I told him right away. I had to do it. The old boy was sober by then, and crazy for a shot of booze. That was Monday. He wanted to go out and get pied; but when I told him about his boy, he begun to cry. And he ain’t touched a drop since then.” “You haven’t let him?” “Sure I’d let him. But he wouldn’t. I always told you the class was there. He says to me: ‘I can’t let my boy see me in this state, you know. Have to straighten up a bit. I’ll need new clothes.’”

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“I noticed his new suit.” “Sure,” Sheener agreed. “I bought it for him.” “Out of his savings?” “He ain’t been saving much lately.” “Sheener,” I asked, “how much does he owe you? For money loaned and spent for him.” Sheener said hotly: “He don’t owe me a cent.” “I know. But how much have you spent on him?” “If I hadn’t have give it to him, I’d have blowed it somehow. He needed it.” I guessed at a hundred dollars, at two hundred. Sheener would not tell me. “I’m telling you, he’s my pal,” he said. “I’m not looking for anything out of this.” “If this millionaire son of his has any decency, he’ll make it up to you.” “He don’t know a thing about me,” said Sheener, “except my name. I’ve just wrote as though I knowed the old guy, here in the house, see. Said he was sick, and all.” “And the boy gets in to-night?” “Midnight,” said Sheener, and Evans, from his chair, echoed: “Midnight!” Then asked with a certain stiff anxiety: “Do I look all right, Sheener? Look all right to see my boy?” “Say,” Sheener told him. “You look like the Prince of Wales.” He went across to where the other sat and gripped him by the shoulder. “You look like the king o’ the world.” Old Evans brushed at his coat anxiously; his fingers picked and twisted; and Sheener sat down on the bed beside him and began to soothe and comfort the man as though he were a child.

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V The son was to arrive by way of Montreal, and at eleven o’clock we left Sheener’s room for the station. There was a flower stand on the corner, and Sheener bought a red carnation and fixed it in the old man’s button-hole. “That’s the way the boy will know him,” he told me. “They ain’t seen each other for—since the boy was a kid.” Evans accepted the attention querulously; he was trembling and feeble, yet held his head high. We took the subway, reached the station, sat down for a space in the waiting room. But Evans was impatient; he wanted to be out in the train shed, and we went out there and walked up and down before the gate. I noticed that he was studying Sheener with some embarrassment in his eyes. Sheener was, of course, an unprepossessing figure. Lean, swarthy, somewhat flashy of dress, he looked what he was. He was my friend, of course, and I was able to look beneath the exterior. But it seemed to me that the sight of him distressed Evans. In the end the old man said, somewhat furtively: “I say, you know, I want to meet my boy alone. You won’t mind standing back a bit when the train comes in?” “Sure,” Sheener told him. “We won’t get in the way. You’ll see. He’ll pick you out in a minute, old man. Leave it to me.” Evans nodded. “Quite so,” he said with some relief. “Quite so, to be sure.” So we waited. Waited till the train slid in at the end of the long train shed. Sheener gripped the old man’s arm. “There he comes,” he said sharply. “Take a brace now.

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Stand right there, where he’ll spot you when he comes out. Right there, bo.” “You’ll step back a bit, eh, what?” Evans asked. “Don’t worry about us,” Sheener told him. “Just you keep your eye skinned for the boy. Good luck, bo.” We left him standing there, a tall, gaunt, shaky figure. Sheener and I drew back toward the stairs that led to the elevated structure, and watched from that vantage point. The train stopped, and the passengers came into the station. At first in a trickle and then in a stream, with porters hurrying before them, baggage-laden. The son was one of the first. He emerged from the gate, a tall chap, not unlike his father. Stopped for a moment, casting his eyes about, and saw the flower in the old man’s lapel. Leaped toward him hungrily. They gripped hands, and we saw the son drop his hand on the father’s shoulder. They stood there, hands still clasped, while the young man’s porter waited in the background. We could hear the son’s eager questions, hear the older man’s drawled replies. Saw them turn at last, and heard the young man say: “Taxi!” The porter caught the bag. The taxi stand was at our left, and they came almost directly toward us. As they approached, Sheener stepped forward, a cheap, somewhat disreputable figure. His hand was extended toward the younger man. The son saw him, looked at him in some surprise, looked toward his father inquiringly. Evans saw Sheener too, and a red flush crept up his gaunt cheeks. He did not pause, did not take Sheener’s extended hand; instead he looked the newsboy through and through. Sheener fell back to my side. They stalked past us, out to the taxi stand.

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I moved forward. I would have halted them, but Sheener caught my arm. I said hotly: “But see here. He can’t throw you like that.” Sheener brushed his sleeve across his eyes. “Hell,” he said huskily. “A gent like him can’t let on that he knows a man like me.” I looked at Sheener, and I forgot old Evans and his son. I looked at Sheener, and I caught his elbow and we turned away. He had been quite right, of course, all the time. Blood will always tell. You can’t keep a fast horse in a poor man’s stable. And a man is always a man, in any guise. If you still doubt, do as I did. Consider Sheener.

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SINCLAIR LEWIS American novelist, 1885–, awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature (1930). In a letter to the editor, Mr. Lewis wrote: “I think my own chief contribution to Jews in fiction is the character of Max Gottlieb, who appears in Arrowsmith as something like a god.” At his suggestion, the following sketch was constructed, by Mr. Irwin Kroening, for this anthology out of excerpts from Arrowsmith, copyright, 1925, by Harcourt, Brace and Company, Inc.

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THE LIFE AND DEATH OF A GOD “

O

H, UH, Professor Gottlieb, will you please sit down there at the far end of the table?” called President Truscott. Then Gottlieb was aware of tensions. He saw that out of the seven members of the Board of Regents, the four who lived in or near Zenith were present. He saw that sitting beside Truscott was not the dean of the academic department but Dean Silva. He saw that however easily they talked, they were looking at him through the mist of their chatter. President Truscott announced: “Gentlemen, this joint meeting of the Council and the regents is to consider charges against Professor Max Gottlieb preferred by his dean and by myself.” Gottlieb suddenly looked old. “These charges are: Disloyalty to his dean, his president, his regents, and to the State of Winnemac. Disloyalty to recognized medical and scholastic ethics. Insane egotism. Atheism. Persistent failure to collaborate with his colleagues, and such inability to understand practical affairs as makes it dangerous to let him conduct the important laboratories and classes with which we have entrusted him. Gentlemen, I shall now prove each of these points, from Professor Gottlieb’s own letters to Dean Silva.” He proved them. 329

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The chairman of the Board of Regents suggested, “Gottlieb, I think it would simplify things if you just handed us your resignation and permitted us to part in good feeling, instead of having the unpleasant—” “I’m damned if I will resign!” Gottlieb was on his feet, a lean fury. “Because you all haf schoolboy minds, golflinks minds, you are twisting my expression, and perfectly accurate expression, of a sound revolutionary ideal, which would personally to me be of no value or advantage whatefer, into a desire to steal promotions. That fools should judge honor—!” His long forefinger was a fish-hook, reaching for President Truscott’s soul. “No! I will not resign! You can cast me out!” “I’m afraid, then, we must ask you to leave the room while we vote.” The president was very suave, for so large and strong and hearty a man. Max Gottlieb was a German Jew, born in Saxony in 1850. Though he took his medical degree, at Heidelberg, he was never interested in practising medicine. He was a follower of Helmholtz, and youthful researches in the physics of sound convinced him of the need of the quantitative method in the medical sciences. Then Koch’s discoveries drew him into biology. Always an elaborately careful worker, a maker of long rows of figures, always realizing the presence of uncontrollable variables, always a vicious assailant of what he considered slackness or lies or pomposity, never too kindly to well-intentioned stupidity, he worked in the laboratories of Koch, of Pasteur, he followed the early statements of Pearson in biometrics, he drank beer and wrote vitriolic letters, he voyaged to Italy and England and Scandinavia, and casually, between two days, he married (as he

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might have bought a coat or hired a housekeeper) the patient and wordless daughter of a Gentile merchant. Then began a series of experiments, very important, very undramatic-sounding, very long, and exceedingly unappreciated. Back in 1881 he was confirming Pasteur’s results in chicken cholera immunity and, for relief and pastime, trying to separate an enzyme from yeast. A few years later, living on the tiny inheritance from his father, a petty banker, and quite carelessly and cheerfully exhausting it, he was analyzing critically the ptomain theory of disease, and investigating the mechanism of the attenuation of virulence of microörganisms. He got thereby small fame. Perhaps he was over-cautious, and more than the devil or starvation he hated men who rushed into publication unprepared. Though he meddled little in politics, considering them the most repetitious and least scientific of human activities, he was a sufficiently patriotic German to hate the Junkers. As a youngster he had a fight or two with ruffling subalterns; once he spent a week in jail; often he was infuriated by discriminations against Jews; and at forty he went sadly off to the America which could never become militaristic or anti-Semitic—to the Hoagland Laboratory in Brooklyn, then to Queen City University as professor of bacteriology. His dearest dream, now and for years of racking research, was the artificial production of antitoxin—its production in vitro. Once he was prepared to publish, but he found an error and rigidly suppressed his notes. All the while he was lonely. There was apparently no one in Queen City who regarded him as other than a cranky Jew catching microbes by their little tails and leering at them—no work for a tall man at a time when heroes were building bridges, experimenting with Horseless Carriages, writing

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the first of the poetic Compelling Ads, and selling miles of calico and cigars. In 1899 he was called to the University of Winnemac, as professor of bacteriology in the medical school, and here he drudged on for a dozen years. Not once did he talk of results of the sort called “practical;” not once did he cease warring on the post hoc propter hoc conclusions which still make up most medical lore; not once did he fail to be hated by his colleagues, who were respectful to his face, uncomfortable in feeling his ironic power, but privily joyous to call him Mephisto, Diabolist, Killjoy, Pessimist, Destructive Critic, Flippant Cynic, Scientific Bounder Lacking in Dignity and Seriousness, Intellectual Snob, Pacifist, Anarchist, Atheist, Jew. They said, with reason, that he was so devoted to Pure Science, to art for art’s sake, that he would rather have people die by the right therapy than be cured by the wrong. Professor Gottlieb was the mystery of the university. It was known that he was a Jew, born and educated in Germany, and that his work on immunology had given him fame in the East and in Europe. He rarely left his small brown weedy house except to return to his laboratory, and few students outside of his classes had ever identified him, but every one had heard of his tall, lean, dark aloofness. A thousand fables fluttered about him. It was believed that he was the son of a German prince, that he had immense wealth, that he lived as sparsely as the other professors only because he was doing terrifying and costly experiments which probably had something to do with human sacrifice. It was said that he could create life in the laboratory, that he could talk to the monkeys which he inoculated, that he

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had been driven out of Germany as a devil-worshiper or an anarchist, and that he secretly drank real champagne every evening at dinner. He was, in fact, an authentic scientist. He was of the great benefactors of humanity. There will never, in any age, be an effort to end the great epidemics or the petty infections which will not have been influenced by Max Gottlieb’s researches, for he was not one who tagged and prettily classified bacteria and protozoa. He sought their chemistry, the laws of their existence and destruction, basic laws for the most part unknown after a generation of busy biologists. It is possible that Max Gottlieb was a genius. Certainly he was mad as any genius. He did a thing more preposterous than any of the superstitions at which he scoffed. He conceived that there might, in this world, be a medical school which should be altogether scientific, ruled by exact quantitative biology and chemistry, with spectaclefitting and most of surgery ignored, and he further conceived that such an enterprise might be conducted at the University of Winnemac! He tried to be practical about it; oh, he was extremely practical and plausible! “I admit we should not be able to turn out doctors to cure village bellyaches. And ordinary physicians are admirable and altogether necessary—perhaps. But there are too many of them already. And on the ‘practical’ side, you gif me twenty years of a school that is precise and cautious, and we shall cure diabetes, maybe tuberculosis and cancer, and all these arthritis things that the carpenters shake their heads at them and call them ‘rheumatism.’ So!” He did not desire the control of such a school, nor any

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credit. He was too busy. But at a meeting of the American Academy of Sciences he met one Dr. Entwisle, a youngish physiologist from Harvard, who would make an excellent dean. Entwisle admired him, and sounded him on his willingness to be called to Harvard. When Gottlieb outlined his new sort of medical school, Entwisle was fervent. “Nothing I’d like so much as to have a chance at a place like that,” he fluttered, and Gottlieb went back to Mohalis triumphant. He was the more assured because (though he sardonically refused it) he was at this time offered the medical deanship of the University of West Chippewa. So simple, or so insane, was he that he wrote to Dean Silva politely bidding him to step down and hand over his school—his work, his life—to an unknown teacher in Harvard! A courteous old gentleman was Dad Silva, a fit disciple of Osler, but this incredible letter killed his patience. He replied that while he could see the value of basic research, the medical school belonged to the people of the state, and its task was to provide them with immediate and practical attention. For himself, he hinted, if he ever believed that the school would profit by his resignation he would go at once, but he needed a rather broader suggestion than a letter from one of his own subordinates! Gottlieb retorted with spirit and indiscretion. He damned the People of the State of Winnemac. Were they, in their present condition of nincompoopery, worth any sort of attention? He unjustifiably took his demand over Silva’s head to that great orator and patriot, Dr. Horace Greeley Truscott, president of the University. President Truscott said, “Really, I’m too engrossed to consider chimerical schemes, however ingenious they may be.”

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“You are too busy to consider anything but selling honorary degrees to millionaires for gymnasiums,” remarked Gottlieb. Next day he was summoned to a special meeting of the University Council. Gottlieb rode his wavering bicycle to the laboratory. It was by telephone message from a brusque girl clerk in the president’s office that he was informed that “his resignation had been accepted.” He agonized, “Discharge me? They couldn’t! I’m the chief glory, the only glory, of this shopkeepers’ school!” He required peace and a laboratory, at once. They’d see what fools they were when they heard that Harvard had called him! He was eager for the mellower ways of Cambridge and Boston. Why had he remained so long in raw Mohalis? He wrote to Dr. Entwisle, hinting that he was willing to hear an offer. He expected a telegram. He waited a week, then had a long letter from Entwisle admitting that he had been premature in speaking for the Harvard faculty. Gottlieb wrote to the University of West Chippewa that, after all, he was willing to think about their medical deanship. . . and had answer that the place was filled, that they had not greatly liked the tone of his former letter, and they did not “care to go into the matter further.” At sixty-one, Gottlieb had saved but a few hundred dollars—literally a few hundred. Like any bricklayer out of work, he had to have a job or go hungry. He was no longer a genius impatient of interrupted creation, but a shabby schoolmaster in disgrace.

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He prowled through his little brown house, fingering papers, staring at his wife, staring at old pictures, staring at nothing. He still had a month of teaching—they had dated ahead the resignation which they had written for him—but he was too dispirited to go to the laboratory. He felt unwanted, almost unsafe. His ancient sureness was broken into self-pity. He waited from delivery to delivery for the mail. Surely there would be aid from somebody who knew what he was, what he meant. There were many friendly letters about research, but the sort of men with whom he corresponded did not listen to intercollegiate faculty tattle nor know of his need. He could not, after the Harvard mischance and the West Chippewa rebuke, approach the universities or the scientific institutes, and he was too proud to write begging letters to the men who revered him. No, he would be business-like! He applied to a Chicago teachers’ agency, and received a stilted answer promising to look about and inquiring whether he would care to take the position of teacher of physics and chemistry in a suburban high school. Before he had sufficiently recovered from his fury to be able to reply, his household was overwhelmed by his wife’s sudden agony. She had been unwell for months. He had wanted her to see a physician, but she had refused, and all the while she was stolidly terrified by the fear that she had cancer of the stomach. Now when she began to vomit blood, she cried to him for help. The Gottlieb who scoffed at medical credos, at “carpenters” and “pill-mongers,” had forgotten what he knew of diagnosis, and when he was ill, or his family, he called for the doctor as desperately as any backwoods lay-

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man to whom illness was the black malignity of unknown devils. In unbelievable simplicity he considered that, as his quarrel with Silva was not personal, he could still summon him, and this time he was justified. Silva came, full of excessive benignity, chuckling to himself, “When he’s got something the matter, he doesn’t run for Arrenhius or Jacques Loeb, but for me!” Into the meager cottage the little man brought strength, and Gottlieb gazed down on him trustingly. Mrs. Gottlieb was suffering. Silva gave her morphine. Not without satisfaction he learned that Gottlieb did not even know the dose. He examined her—his pudgy hands had the sensitiveness if not the precision of Gottlieb’s skeleton fingers. He spoke to Gottlieb not as to a colleague or an enemy but as a patient to be cheered. “Don’t think there’s any tumorous mass. As of course you know, Doctor, you can tell such a lot by the differences in the shape of the lower border of the ribs, and by the surface of the belly during deep breathing.” “Oh, yes-s-s.” “I don’t think you need to worry in the least. We’d better hustle her off to the University Hospital, and we’ll give her a test meal and get her X-rayed and take a look for Boas-Oppler bugs.” She was taken away, heavy, inert, carried down the cottage steps. Gottlieb was with her. Whether or not he loved her, whether he was capable of ordinary domestic affection, could not be discovered. The need of turning to Dean Silva had damaged his opinion of his own wisdom. It was the final affront, more subtle and more enervating

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than the offer to teach chemistry to children. As he sat by her bed, his dark face was blank, and the wrinkles which deepened across that mask may have been sorrow, may have been fear. . . Silva diagnosed it as probable gastric ulcer, and placed her on treatment, with light and frequent meals. She improved, but she remained in the hospital for four weeks, and Gottlieb wondered: Are these doctors deceiving us? Is it really cancer, which by their mystic craft they are concealing from me who knows naught? Robbed of her silent assuring presence on which night by weary night he had depended, he fretted over his daughters, despaired at their noisy piano-practice, their inability to manage the slattern maid. When they had gone to bed he sat alone in the pale lamplight, unmoving, not reading. He was bewildered. One day he went to Chicago to see the teachers’ agency. The firm was controlled by a Live Wire who had once been a county superintendent of schools. He was not much interested. Gottlieb lost his temper: “Do you make an endeavor to find positions for teachers, or do you merely send out circulars to amuse yourself? Haf you looked up my record? Do you know who I am?” The agent roared, “Oh, we know about you, all right, all right! I didn’t when I first wrote you, but—You seem to have a good record as a laboratory man, though I don’t see that you’ve produced anything of the slightest use in medicine. We had hoped to give you a chance such as you nor nobody else ever had. John Edtooth, the Oklahoma oil magnate, has decided to found a university that for plant and endowment and individuality will beat anything that’s ever been pulled off in education—biggest gymnasium in

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the world, with an ex-New York Giant for baseball coach! We thought maybe we might work you in on the bacteriology or the physiology—I guess you could manage to teach that, too, if you boned up on it. But we’ve been making some inquiries—from some good friends of ours, down Winnemac way. And we find that you’re not to be trusted with a position of real responsibility. Why, they fired you for general incompetence! But now that you’ve had your lesson—Do you think you’d be competent to teach Practical Hygiene in Edtooth University?” Gottlieb was so angry that he forgot to speak English, and as all his cursing was in student German, in a creaky dry voice, the whole scene was very funny indeed to the cackling bookkeeper and the girl stenographers. When he went from that place Max Gottlieb walked slowly, without purpose, and in his eyes were senile tears. No one in the medical world had ever damned more heartily than Gottlieb the commercialism of certain large pharmaceutical firms, particularly Dawson T. Hunziker & Co., Inc., of Pittsburgh. The Hunziker Company was an old and ethical house which dealt only with reputable doctors—or practically only with reputable doctors. It furnished excellent antitoxins for diphtheria and tetanus, as well as the purest of official preparations, with the plainest and most official-looking labels on the swaggeringly modest brown bottles. Gottlieb had asserted that they produced doubtful vaccines, yet he returned from Chicago to write to Dawson Hunziker that he was no longer interested in teaching, and he would be willing to work for them on half time if he might use their laboratories, on possibly important research, for the rest of the day.

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When the letter had gone he sat mumbling. He was certainly not altogether sane. “Education! Biggest gymnasium in the world! Incapable of responsibility. Teaching I can do no more. But Hunziker will laugh at me. I haf told the truth about him and I shall haf to—Dear Gott, what shall I do?” Into this still frenzy, while his frightened daughters peered at him from doorways, hope glided. The telephone rang. He did not answer it. On the third irascible burring he took up the receiver and grumbled, “Yes, yes, vot iss it?” A twanging nonchalant voice: “This M. C. Gottlieb?” “This is Dr. Gottlieb!” “Well, I guess you’re the party. Hola wire. Long distance wants yuh.” Then, “Professor Gottlieb? This is Dawson Hunziker speaking. From Pittsburgh. My dear fellow, we should be delighted to have you join our staff.” “I—But—” “I believe you have criticized the pharmaceutical houses—oh, we read the newspaper clippings very efficiently!—but we feel that when you come to us and understand the Spirit of the Old Firm better, you’ll be enthusiastic. I hope, by the way, I’m not interrupting something.” Thus, over certain hundreds of miles, from the gold and blue drawing-room of his Sewickley home, Hunziker spoke to Max Gottlieb sitting in his patched easy-chair, and Gottlieb grated, with a forlorn effort at dignity: “No, it iss all right.” “Well—we shall be glad to offer you five thousand dollars a year, for a starter, and we shan’t worry about the half-time arrangement. We’ll give you all the space and

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technicians and material you need, and you just go ahead and ignore us, and work out whatever seems important to you. Our only request is that if you do find any serums which are of real value to the world, we shall have the privilege of manufacturing them, and if we lose money on ’em, it doesn’t matter. We like to make money, if we can do it honestly, but our chief purpose is to serve mankind. Of course if the serums pay, we shall be only too delighted to give you a generous commission. Now about practical details—” Gottlieb, the placidly virulent hater of religious rites, had a religious-seeming custom. Often he knelt by his bed and let his mind run free. It was very much like prayer, though certainly there was no formal invocation, no consciousness of a Supreme Being— other than Max Gottlieb. This night, as he knelt, with the wrinkles softening in his drawn face, he meditated, “I was asinine that I should ever scold the commercialists! This salesman fellow, he has his feet on the ground. How much more aut’entic the worst counter-jumper than frightened professors! Fine dieners! Freedom! No teaching of imbeciles! Du Heiliger!” But he had no contract with Dawson Hunziker. In the medical periodicals the Dawson Hunziker Company published full-page advertisements, most starchy and refined in type, announcing that Professor Max Gottlieb, perhaps the most distinguished immunologist in the world, had joined their staff. And Max Gottlieb, with his three young and a pale, slowmoving wife, was arriving at the station in Pittsburgh, tugging a shabby wicker bag, an immigrant bundle, and a

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Bond Street dressing-case. From the train he had stared up at the valiant cliffs, down to the smoke-tinged splendor of the river, and his heart was young. Here was fiery enterprise, not the flat land and the flat minds of Winnemac. At the station-entrance every dingy taxicab seemed radiant to him, and he marched forth a conqueror. In the Dawson Hunziker building, Gottlieb found such laboratories as he had never planned, and instead of student assistants he had an expert who himself had taught bacteriology, as well as three swift technicians, one of them German-trained. He was received with acclaim in the private office of Hunziker, which was remarkably like a minor cathedral. Hunziker was bald and business-like as to skull but tortoise-spectacled and sentimental of eye. He stood up at his Jacobean desk, gave Gottlieb a Havana cigar, and told him that they had awaited him pantingly. In the enormous staff dining-room Gottlieb found scores of competent young chemists and biologists who treated him with reverence. He liked them. If they talked too much of money—of how much this new tincture of cinchona ought to sell, and how soon their salaries would be increased—yet they were free of the careful pomposities of college instructors. As a youngster, the cap-tilted young Max had been a laughing man, and now in gusty arguments his laughter came back. Six months passed before he realized that the young technical experts resented what he considered his jolly thrusts at their commercialism. They were tired of his mathematical enthusiasms and some of them viewed him as an old bore, muttered of him as a Jew. He was hurt, for he liked to be merry with fellow workers. He began to ask questions and to explore the Hunziker building.

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He discovered now that the Dawson Hunziker Company was quite all he had asserted in earlier days. They did make excellent antitoxins and ethical preparations, but they were also producing a new “cancer remedy” manufactured from the orchid, pontifically recommended and possessing all the value of mud. And to various billboard-advertising beauty companies they sold millions of bottles of a complexion-cream guaranteed to turn a Canadian Indian guide as lily-fair as the angels. This treasure cost six cents a bottle to make and a dollar over the counter, and the name of Dawson Hunziker was never connected with it. It was at this time that Gottlieb succeeded in his masterwork after twenty years of seeking. He produced antitoxin in the test-tube, which meant that it would be possible to immunize against certain diseases without tediously making sera by the inoculation of animals. It was a revolution, the revolution, in immunology. . . if he was right. He revealed it at a dinner for which Hunziker had captured a general, a college president, and a pioneer aviator. They applauded him and for an hour he was a Great Scientist. Hunziker summoned him to the office next day. “I lay awake half the night thinking about your discovery, Dr. Gottlieb. I’ve been talking to the technical director and sales manager and we feel it’s the time to strike. We’ll patent your method of synthesizing antibodies and immediately put them on the market in large quantities, with a great big advertising campaign—you know—not circus it, of course—strictly high-class ethical advertising. We’ll start with anti-diphtheria serum. By the way, when you receive your next check you’ll find we’ve raised your honorarium to seven thousand a year.” Hunziker was a

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large purring pussy, now, and Gottlieb death-still. “Need I say, my dear fellow, that if there’s the demand I anticipate, you will have exceedingly large commissions coming!” Hunziker leaned back with a manner of “How’s that for glory, my boy?” Gottlieb spoke nervously: “I do not approve of patenting serological processes. They should be open to all laboratories. And I am strongly against premature production or even announcement. I think I am right, but I must check my technique, perhaps improve it—be sure. Then, I should think, there should be no objection to market production, but in ve-ry small quantities and in fair competition with others, not under patents, as if this was a dinglebat toy for the Christmas tradings!” “My dear fellow, I quite sympathize. Personally I should like nothing so much as to spend my whole life in just producing one priceless scientific discovery, without consideration of mere profit. But we have our duty toward the stockholders of the Dawson Hunziker Company to make money for them. Do you realize that they have—and many of them are poor widows and orphans— invested their Little All in our stock, and that we must keep faith? I am helpless; I am but their Humble Servant. And on the other side: I think we’ve treated you rather well, Dr. Gottlieb, and we’ve given you complete freedom. And we intend to go on treating you well! Why, man, you’ll be rich; you’ll be one of us! I don’t like to make any demands, but on this point it’s my duty to insist, and I shall expect you at the earliest possible moment to start manufacturing—” Gottlieb was sixty-two. The defeat at Winnemac had

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done something to his courage. . . And he had no contract with Hunziker. He protested shakily, but as he crawled back to his laboratory it seemed impossible for him to leave this sanctuary and face the murderous brawling world, and quite as impossible to tolerate a cheapened and ineffective imitation of his antitoxin. He began, that hour, a sordid strategy which his proud old self would have called inconceivable; he began to equivocate, to put off announcement and production till he should have “cleared up a few points,” while week on week Hunziker became more threatening. Meantime he prepared for disaster. He moved his family to a small house, and gave up every luxury, even smoking. Among his economies was the reduction of his son’s allowance. Robert was a square-rigged, swart, tempestuous boy, arrogant where there seemed to be no reason for arrogance, longed for by the anemic, milky sort of girl, yet ever supercilious to them. While his father was alternately proud and amiably sardonic about his own Jewish blood, the boy conveyed to his classmates in college that he was from pure and probably noble German stock. He was welcomed, or half welcomed, in a motoring, poker-playing, country-club set, and he had to have more money. Gottlieb missed twenty dollars from his desk. He who ridiculed conventional honor had the honor, as he had the pride, of a savage old squire. A new misery stained his incessant bitterness at having to deceive Hunziker. He faced Robert with, “My boy, did you take the money from my desk?” Few youngsters could have faced that jut of his hawk nose, the red-veined rage of his sunken eyes. Robert spluttered, then shouted:

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“Yes, I did! And I’ve got to have some more! I’ve got to get some clothes and stuff. It’s your fault. You bring me up to train with a lot of fellows that have all the cash in the world, and then you expect me to dress like a hobo!” “Stealing—” “Rats! What’s stealing! You’re always making fun of these preachers that talk about Sin and Truth and Honesty and all those words that’ve been used so much they don’t mean a darn’ thing and—I don’t care! Daws Hunziker, the old man’s son, he told me his dad said you could be a millionaire, and then you keep us strapped like this, and Mom sick—Let me tell you, back in Mohalis Mom used to slip me a couple of dollars almost every week and— I’m tired of it! If you’re going to keep me in rags, I’m going to cut out college!” Gottlieb stormed, but there was no force in it. He did not know, all the next fortnight, what his son was going to do, what he himself was going to do. Then, so quietly that not till they had returned from the cemetery did they realize her passing, his wife died, and the next week his oldest daughter ran off with a worthless laughing fellow who lived by gambling. Gottlieb sat alone. Over and over he read the Book of Job. “Truly the Lord hath smitten me and my house,” he whispered. When Robert came in, mumbling that he would be good, the old man lifted to him a blind face, unhearing. But as he repeated the fables of his fathers it did not occur to him to believe them, or to stoop in fear before their God of Wrath—or to gain ease by permitting Hunziker to defile his discovery.

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Out of the dimness which obscured the people about him, Miriam emerged. She was eighteen, the youngest of his brood, squat, and in no way comely save for her tender mouth. She had always been proud of her father, understanding the mysterious and unreasoning compulsions of his science, but she had been in awe till now, when he walked heavily and spoke rarely. She dropped her piano lessons, discharged the maid, studied the cook-book, and prepared for him the fat crisp dishes that he loved. Her regret was that she had never learned German, for he dropped now and then into the speech of his boyhood. He eyed her, and at length: “So! One is with me. Could you endure the poverty if I went away—to teach chemistry in a high school!” “Yes. Of course. Maybe I could play the piano in a movie theater.” He might not have done it without her loyalty, but when Dawson Hunziker next paraded into the laboratory, demanding, “Now look here. We’ve fussed long enough. We got to put your stuff on the market,” then Gottlieb answered, “No. If you wait till I have done all I can—maybe one year, probably three—you shall have it. But not till I am sure. No.” Hunziker went off huffily, and Gottlieb prepared for sentence. Then the card of Dr. A. DeWitt Tubbs, Director of the McGurk Institute of Biology, of New York, was brought to him. Gottlieb knew of Tubbs. He had never visited McGurk

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but he considered it, next to Rockefeller and McCormick, the soundest and freest organization for pure scientific research in the country, and if he had pictured a heavenly laboratory in which good scientists might spend eternity in happy and thoroughly impractical research, he would have devised it in the likeness of McGurk. He was mildly pleased that its director should have called on him. “Dr. Gottlieb, this is a pleasure. I have heard your papers at the Academy of Sciences but, to my own loss, I have hitherto failed to have an introduction to you.” Gottlieb tried not to sound embarrassed. “It has come to our attention, by a curious chance, that you are on the eve of your most significant discovery. We all wondered, when you left academic work, at your decision to enter the commercial field. We wished that you had cared to come to us.” “You would have taken me in? I needn’t at all have come here?” “Naturally! Now from what we hear, you are not giving your attention to the commercial side of things, and that tempts us to wonder whether you could be persuaded to join us at McGurk. So I just sprang on a train and ran down here. We should be delighted to have you become a member of the Institute, and chief of the Department of Bacteriology and Immunology. Mr. McGurk and I desire nothing but the advancement of science. You would, of course, have absolute freedom as to what researches you thought it best to pursue, and I think we could provide as good assistance and material as would be obtainable anywhere in the world. In regard to salary—permit me to be business-like and perhaps blunt, as my train leaves in one hour—I don’t suppose we could equal the doubtless large

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emolument which the Hunziker people are able to pay you, but we can go to ten thousand dollars a yaer”— “Oh, my God, do not talk of the money! I shall be wit’ you in New York one week from to-day. You see,” said Gottlieb, “I haf no contract here!” The McGurk Building. A sheer wall, thirty blank stories of glass and limestone, down in the pinched triangle whence New York rules a quarter of the world. Ross McGurk was at the time a man of fifty-four, second generation of California railroad men; a graduate of Yale; big, suave, dignified, cheerful, unscrupulous. Even in 1908, when he had founded the Institute, he had had too many houses, too many servants, too much food, and no children, because his wife considered “that sort of thing detrimental to women with large responsibilities.” In the Institute he found each year more satisfaction, more excuse for having lived. When Gottlieb arrived, McGurk went up to look him over. McGurk had bullied Dr. Tubbs now and then; Tubbs was compelled to scurry to his office as though he were a messenger boy; yet when he saw the saturnine eyes of Gottlieb, McGurk looked interested; and the two men, the bulky, clothes-conscious, powerful, reticent American and the cynical, simple, power-despising European, became friends. McGurk would slip away from a conference affecting the commerce of a whole West Indian Island to sit on a high stool, silent, and watch Gottlieb work. Gottlieb had found his own serenity. In the Seventies he had a brown small flat, smelling of tobacco and leather books. His son Robert had graduated from City College and gone bustlingly into business. Miriam kept up her

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music while she guarded her father—a dumpling of a girl, holy fire behind the deceptive flesh. To the McGurk Institute there came now Martin Arrowsmith, one of Gottlieb’s former students at the University of Winnemac. Between the two there had existed a bond of mutual devotion. When the young bacteriologist first entered the reception-room of the Institute, he was unconscious of the room, of the staccato girl attendant, of everything except that he was about to see Max Gottlieb, for the first time in five years. At the door of the laboratory he stared hungrily. Gottlieb was thin-cheeked and dark as ever, his hawk nose bony, his fierce eyes demanding, but his hair had gone gray, the flesh round his mouth was sunken, and Martin could have wept at the feebleness with which he rose. The old man peered down at him, his hand on Martin’s shoulder, but he said only: “Ah! Dis is good. . .Your laboratory is three doors down the hall. . . But I object to one thing in the good paper you send me. You say, ‘The regularity of the rate at which the streptolysin disappears suggests than an equation may be found—” “But it can, sir!” “Then why did you not make the equation?” “Well—I don’t know. I wasn’t enough of a mathematician.” “Then you should not have published till you knew your math!” “I—Look, Dr. Gottlieb, do you really think I know enough to work here? I want terribly to succeed.” “Succeed? I have heard that word. It is English? Oh, yes, it is a word that liddle schoolboys use at the University

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of Winnemac. It means passing examinations. But there are no examinations to pass here. . . Martin, let us be clear. You know something of laboratory technique; you have heard about dese bacilli; you are not a good chemist, and mathematics—pfui!—most terrible! But you have curiosity and you are stubborn. You do not accept rules. Therefore I t’ink you will either make a very good scientist or a very bad one, and if you are bad enough, you will be popular with the rich ladies who rule this city, New York, and you can gif lectures for a living or even become, if you get to be plausible enough, a college president. So anyvay, it will be interesting.” Half an hour later they were arguing ferociously, Martin asserting that the whole world ought to stop warring and trading and writing and get straightway into laboratories to observe new phenomena; Gottlieb insisting that there were already too many facile scientists, that the one thing necessary was the mathematical analysis (and often the destruction) of phenomena already observed. It sounded bellicose, and all the while Martin was blissful with the certainty that he had come home. Gottlieb interrupted their debate: “Perhaps I am a crank, Martin. There are many who hate me. There are plots against me—oh, you t’ink I imagine it, but you shall see! I make many mistakes. But one thing I keep always pure: the religion of a scientist. “To be a scientist—it is not just a different job, so that a man should choose between being a scientist and being an explorer or a bond-salesman or a physician or a king or a farmer. It is a tangle of ver-y obscure emotions, like mysticism, or wanting to write poetry; it makes its victim all different from the good normal man. The normal man,

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he does not care much what he does except that he should eat and sleep and make love. But the scientist is intensely religious—he is so religious that he will not accept quarter-truths, because they are an insult to his faith. “He wants that everything should be subject to inexorable laws. He is equally opposed to the capitalists who t’ink their silly money-grabbing is a system, and to liberals who t’ink man is not a fighting animal; he takes both the American booster and the European aristocrat, and he ignores all their blithering. Ignores it! All of it! He hates the preachers who talk their fables, but he iss not too kindly to the anthropologists and historians who can only make guesses, yet they have the nerf to call themselves scientists! Oh, yes, he is a man that all nice good-natured people should naturally hate! “He speaks no meaner of the ridiculous faith-healers and chiropractors than he does of the doctors that want to snatch our science before it is tested and rush around hoping they heal people, and spoiling all the clues with their footsteps; and worse than the men like hogs, worse than the imbeciles who have not even heard of science, he hates pseudo-scientists, guess-scientists—like these psychoanalysts; and worse than those comic dream-scientists he hates the men that are allowed in a clean kingdom like biology but know only one textbook and how to lecture to nincompoops all so popular! He is the only real revolutionary, the authentic scientist, because he alone knows how liddle he knows. “He must be heartless. He lives in a cold, clear light. Yet dis is a funny t’ing: really, in private, he is not cold nor heartless—so much less cold than the Professional Optimists. The world has always been ruled by the philanthro-

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pists: by the doctors that want to use therapeutic methods they do not understand, by the soldiers that want something to defend their country against, by the preachers that yearn to make everybody listen to them, by the kind manufacturers that love their workers, by the eloquent statesmen and soft-hearted authors—and see once what a fine mess of hell they haf made of the world! Maybe now it is time for the scientist, who works and searches and never goes around howling how he loves everybody! “But once again always remember that not all the men who work at science are scientists. So few! The rest—secretaries, press-agents, camp-followers! To be a scientist is like being a Goethe: it is born in you. Sometimes I t’ink you have a liddle of it born in you. If you haf, there is only one t’ing—no, there is two t’ings you must do: work twice as hard as you can, and keep people from using you. I will try to protect you from Success. It is all I can do. So. . . I should wish, Martin, that you will be very happy here. May Koch bless you!” Then came the War, and America’s entry in the War. Always, in Paris or in Bonn, Max Gottlieb had looked to America as a land which, in its freedom from royalist tradition, in its contact with the realities of cornfields and blizzards and town-meetings, had set its face against the puerile pride of war. He believed that he had ceased to be a German, now, and become a countryman of Lincoln. The European War was the one thing, besides his discharge from Winnemac, which had ever broken his sardonic serenity. In the war he could see no splendor nor hope, but only crawling tragedy. He treasured his months of work and good talk in France, in England, in Italy; he

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loved his French and English and Italian friends as he loved his ancient Korpsbrüder, and very well indeed beneath his mocking did he love the Germans with whom he had drudged and drunk. His sister’s sons—on home-craving vacations he had seen them, in babyhood, in boyhood, in ruffling youngmanhood— went out with the Kaiser’s colors in 1914; one of them became an Oberst, much decorated, one existed insignificantly, and one was dead and stinking in ten days. This he sadly endured, as later he endured his son Robert’s going out as an American lieutenant, to fight his own cousins. What struck down this man to whom abstractions and scientific laws were more than kindly flesh was the mania of hate which overcame the unmilitaristic America to which he had emigrated in protest against Junkerdom. Incredulously he perceived women asserting that all Germans were baby-killers, universities barring the language of Heine, orchestras outlawing the music of Beethoven, professors in uniform bellowing at clerks, and the clerks never protesting. It is uncertain whether the real hurt was to his love for America or to his egotism, that he should have guessed so grotesquely; it is curious that he who had so denounced the machine-made education of the land should yet have been surprised when it turned blithely to the old, old, mechanical mockeries of war. When the Institute sanctified the war, he found himself regarded not as the great and impersonal immunologist but as a suspect German Jew. When Gottlieb insisted to Tubbs at lunch, “I am villing to admit every virtue of the French—I am very fond of

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that so individual people—but on the theory of probabilities I suggest that there must be some good Germans out of sixty millions,” then Col. Dr. Tubbs commanded, “In this time of world tragedy, it does not seem to me particularly becoming to try to be flippant, Dr. Gottlieb!” In shops and on the elevated trains, little red-faced sweaty people when they heard his accent glared at him, and growled one to another, “There’s one of them damn’ barb’rous well-poisoning Huns!” and however contemptuous he might be, however much he strove for ignoring pride, their nibbling reduced him from arrogant scientist to an insecure, raw-nerved, shrinking old man. He had almost recovered from the anxieties of Winnemac and the Hunziker factory; he had begun to expand, to entertain people—scientists, musicians, talkers. Now he was thrust back into himself. He trusted only Miriam and Martin and Ross McGurk; and his deep-set wrinklelidded eyes looked ever on sadness. After the Armistice, Dr. Tubbs, now magnificent with the ribbon of the Legion of Honor, went off on a new enthusiasm, the most virulent of his whole life: he was organizing the League of Cultural Agencies. He was going to standardize and coordinate all mental activities in America by the creation of a bureau which should direct and pat and gently rebuke and generally encourage chemistry and batik-making, poetry and Arctic exploration, animal husbandry and Bible study, Negro spirituals and businessletter writing. There were rumors. Dr. Billy Smith whispered that he had gone in to see Tubbs and heard McGurk shouting at

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him. The morning after, when Martin ambled to his laboratory, he discovered a gasping, a muttering, a shaking in the corridors, and incredulously he heard: “Tubbs has resigned!” “No!” “They say he’s gone to his League of Cultural Agencies. This fellow Minnigen has given the League a scad of money, and Tubbs is to get twice the salary he had here!” Instantly, for all but the zealots like Gottlieb and Martin, research was halted. There was a surging of factions, a benevolent and winning buzz of scientists who desired to be the new Director of the Institute. Rippleton Holabird, Yeo the carpenter-like biologist, Gillingham the joky chief in bio-physics, Aaron Sholtheis the neat Russian Jewish High Church Episcopalian, all of them went about with expressions of modest willingness. They were affectionate with everybody they met in the corridors, however violent they were in private discussions. Added to them were no few outsiders, professors and researchers in other institutes, who found it necessary to come and confer about rather undefined matters with Ross McGurk. The whole Institute fluttered on the afternoon when the Board of Trustees met in the Hall for the election of a Director. They were turned from investigators into boarding-school girls. The Board debated, or did something annoying, for draining hours. At five, past doors made of attentive eyes, the Board of Trustees marched to the laboratory of Max Gottlieb. When the Board had gone, Martin ran into Gottlieb’s laboratory and found the old man standing by his bench, more erect than he had seen him for years.

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“Is it true—they want you to be Director?” panted Martin. “Yes, they have asked me.” “But you’ll refuse? You won’t let ’em gum up your work!” “Vell. . . I said my real work must go on. They consent I should appoint an Assistant Director to do the detail. You see—Of course nothing must interfere with my immunology, but dis gives me the chance to do big t’ings and make a free scientific institute for all you boys. And those fools at Winnemac that laughed at my idea of a real medical school, now maybe they will see—Do you know who was my rival for Director—do you know who it was, Martin? It was that man Silva! Ha!” So Max Gottlieb took charge of the McGurk Institute of Biology. In St. Hubert, an isle of the southern West Indies, there broke out a plague. No one on the island dared speak of it, but they heard, almost without hearing, of this death—and this—and another. No one liked to shake hands with his oldest friend; every one fled from every one else, though the rats loyally stayed with them; and through the island galloped the Panic, which is more murderous than its brother, the Plague. Still there was no quarantine, no official admission. Dr. Inchape Jones vomited feeble proclamations on the inadvisability of too-large public gatherings, and wrote to London to inquire about Haffkine’s prophylactic, but to Sir Robert Fairlamb, the Governor of St. Hubert, he protested, “Honestly, there’s only been a few deaths, and I

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think it’s all passed over. As for the suggestion of Stokes that we burn the village of Carib, merely because they’ve had several cases—why, it’s barbarous! And it’s been conveyed to me that if we were to establish a quarantine, the merchants would take the strongest measures against the administration. It would ruin the tourist and export business.” But Stokes, medical director of St. Swithin’s parish, secretly wrote to Dr. Max Gottlieb, Director of the McGurk Institute, that the plague was ready to flare up and consume all the West Indies, and would Dr. Gottlieb do something about it? It was rumored that Arrowsmith of McGurk had something which might eradicate plague. Then Ross McGurk, over a comfortable steak, hinted, not too diffidently, that this was the opportunity for the Institute to acquire worldfame. Whether it was the compulsion of McGurk or the demands of the public-spirited, or whether Gottlieb’s own imagination aroused enough to visualize the far-off misery of the blacks in the canefields, he summoned Martin and remarked: “It comes to me that there is pneumonic plague in Manchuria and bubonic in St. Hubert. If I could trust you, Martin, to use the phage with only half your patients and keep the others as controls, under normal hygienic conditions but without the phage, then you could make an absolute determination of its value, as complete as what we have of mosquito transmission of yellow fever, and then I would send you down to St. Hubert. What do you t’ink?” Martin swore by Jacques Loeb that he would observe test conditions; he would determine forever the value of phage by the contrast between patients treated and un-

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treated, and so, perhaps, end all plague forever; he would harden his heart and keep clear his eyes. “We will get Sondelius to go along,” said Gottlieb. “He will do the big boom-boom and so bring us the credit in the newspapers which, I am now told, a Director must obtain.” The afternoon before the Commission sailed, Gottlieb spoke to Arrowsmith with hesitation. He looked perplexed; he peered at Martin as though he did not quite recognize him, and begged: “Martin, I grow old—not in years—it is a lie I am over seventy—but I have my worries. Do you mind if I give you advice as I have done so often, so many years? Though you are not a schoolboy now in Queen City—no, at Winnemac it was. You are a man and you are a genuine worker. But— “Be sure you do not let anything, not even your own good kind heart, spoil your experiment at St. Hubert. I do not make funniness about humanitarianism as I used to; sometimes now I t’ink the vulgar and contentious race may yet have as much grace and good taste as the cats. But if this is to be, there must be knowledge. So many men, Martin, are kind and neighborly; so few have added to knowledge. You have the chance! You may be the man who ends all plague, and maybe old Max Gottlieb will have helped, too, hein, maybe? “You must not be just a good doctor at St. Hubert. You must pity, oh, so much the generation after generation yet to come, that you can refuse to let yourself indulge in pity for the men you will see dying. “Dying. . . It will be peace.

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“Let nothing, neither beautiful pity nor fear of your own death, keep you from making this plague-experiment complete. And as my friend—If you do this, something will yet have come out of my Directorship. If but one fine thing could come, to justify me—” As the St. Buryan was warped out into the river, as Martin was suggesting to his Commission, “How about going downstairs and seeing if we can raise a drink?” there was the sound of a panicky taxicab on the pier, the sight of a lean, tall figure running—but so feebly, so shakily— and they realized that it was Max Gottlieb, peering for them, tentatively raising his thin arm in greeting, not finding them in the line at the rail, and turning sadly away. Before Martin Arrowsmith took leave of St. Hubert he had to assemble the notes of his phage experiment; add the observation of the other doctors to his own first precise figures. As the giver of phage to some thousands of frightened islanders, he had become a dignitary. He was called, in the first issue of the Blackwater Guardian after the quarantine was raised, “the savior of all our lives.” He was the universal hero. No one heeded a wry Scotch doctor, diligent but undramatic through the epidemic, who hinted that plagues have been known to slacken and cease without phage. When Martin was completing his notes he had a letter from the McGurk Institute, signed by Rippleton Holabird. Holabird wrote that Gottlieb was “feeling seedy,” that he had resigned the Directorship, suspended his own experimentation, and was now at home, resting. Though Martin had watched Gottlieb declining, it was

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a shock that he could be so unwell as to drop his work even for a few months. He forgot his own self as it came to him that in giving up his experiment, playing the savior, he had been a traitor to Gottlieb and all that Gottlieb represented. When he returned to New York he would have to call on the old man and admit to him, to those sunken relentless eyes, that he did not have complete proof of the value of the phage. The morning after his return he had telephoned to Gottlieb’s flat, had spoken to Miriam and received permission to call in the late afternoon. All the way up-town he could hear Gottlieb saying, “You were my son! I gave you eferyt’ing I knew of truth and honor, and you haf betrayed me. Get out of my sight!” Miriam met him in the hall, fretting, “I don’t know if I should have let you come at all, Doctor.” “Why? Isn’t he well enough to see people?” “It isn’t that. He doesn’t really seem ill, except that he’s feeble, but he doesn’t know any one. The doctors say it’s senile dementia. His memory is gone. And he’s just suddenly forgotten all his English. He can only speak German, and I can’t speak it, hardly at all. If I’d only studied it, instead of music! But perhaps it may do him good to have you here. He was always so fond of you. You don’t know how he talked of you and the splendid experiment you’ve been doing in St. Hubert.” “Well, I—” He could find nothing to say. Miriam led him into a room whose walls were dark with books. Gottlieb was sunk in a worn chair, his thin hand lax on the arm.

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“Doctor, it’s Arrowsmith, just come back!” Martin mumbled. The old man looked as though he half understood; he peered at him, then shook his head and whispered, “Versteh’ nicht.” His arrogant eyes were clouded with ungovernable slow tears. Martin understood that never could he be punished now and cleansed. Gottlieb had sunk into his darkness still trusting him.

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CONINGSBY DAWSON English and American poet and novelist, 1883–, In The Unknown Soldier, published by Hutchinson & Co., London, and by Doubleday, Doran & Co., Garden City, N. Y., 1929, and republished here with the author’s kind permission, Dawson attempted to answer the question, “What would Christ have thought of the Somme if He had been there in khaki?” Dawson chose, quite fittingly, a young Jewish tailor from the East Side of New York to represent Jesus and play the role of the hero in this tale.

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XTRACT from an anonymous letter: “Once he trod our streets—perhaps the very pavements which we daily travel. It never entered his head that he would become a symbol of sacrifice and his tomb a shrine of pilgrimage. If anyone had foretold as much to him, how he would have laughed! If anyone were to reveal to us who he really was—that he had been a cashier in a New York bank or a taxi-driver in Chicago—would he still retain his power so deeply to move us? Who was he, this Unknown Soldier, whom we have exalted out of humanity into sainthood?” The letter continues startingly: “By a series of accidents, I have come to possess the secret of his identity. Since I am a regular-army officer and therefore forbidden to issue published statements—still more because I doubt my own ability to make a statement of this sort read effectively—I am passing on my information, leaving the decision to your discretion as to what use, if any, should be made of it. My excuse for this shifting of responsibility is that the urge to confess has become intolerable. During the years while I have maintained my silence, I have been oppressed by the accusation of an unperformed duty. Perhaps I have been afraid lest the price of frankness might be ridicule. . .” A page of justification for preferring to remain anonymous follows. Then, “At this point I wish to emphasize that my assertions are not made recklessly. In other countries besides our own the best minds have been at work 365

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on this same problem. France, for instance, has shown an almost irreverent curiosity in her attempt to solve the riddle of her Unknown. The wildest guesses have been rife: that the body interred with State honors beneath the Arc de Triomphe belonged formerly to an apache; that it belonged to a German spy; that it is not a man’s but a woman’s. In the confusion of romantic imaginings one conjecture recurs with significant persistence: that in every country where an Unknown Soldier has been enshrined, in his known life he was the same sort of person—so similar that, save for differences of nationality, he might have been in all instances the same person. Which provokes a mystic fancy: that we Americans, French, British, Italians buried replicas of a master man who fought and died in all armies—as a doughboy, a poilu, a tommy. Carrying the extravagance a step further, if one admits the possibility of such a phenomenon, it is conceivable that he also fought and died a comrade-inarms of our recent enemies; so that, had the Austrians imitated the Allies in thus elevating an Unknown Soldier, another replica of him would be entombed as a patriot in Vienna. Mad as such a surmise must sound, I beg you not to lose patience. This is a case of there being more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in the average philosophy. Herewith I forward for your inspection my unadorned narrative, leaving you free to edit, destroy, or employ it as you deem advisable. However you decide, I shall not trouble you further. My concern is ended, now that I have cleared my conscience.” Enclosed was a typed manuscript, bearing no clue to its authorship. It is here produced exactly as received, in the belief that its simple directness will prove the best advocate of its sincerity.

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In October, 1917, I was acting-adjutant of a skeleton battalion, my duties being to allot newly drafted civilians to companies which as yet existed in name only. I suppose, had I been of an imaginative turn of mind, I might easily have permitted myself to become emotional. From morning to night men from every walk of life tramped past me, some of them slicked up in holiday attire, others wearing the rough clothes of humble occupations which varied all the way from working comfort to the rags of poverty. They came burdened with hand-baggage of every size and description, from suitcases, purchased specially for the occasion, to bundles wrapped in newspaper. I had to steel my heart to maintain a correct deportment of military aloofness. Had I not done so, the procession would have been halted interminably. Beneath their surface smiling—and most of the recruits grinned nervously—there wasn’t one who wasn’t feeling lost and lonely. At the slightest sign of sympathy each was willing to recount his life’s history, his hopes, his fears, and the dependents he had left behind him. Poor lads with their bright eyes, so determined to make a brave showing, yet so obviously panic-stricken, none of them knowing or capable of visualizing whither he was going! In the extemporized orderly room, constructed of rough pine, I was seated at my table one morning, typewriters clicking, a clerk at my elbow, whose job it was to produce for instant perusal the enlistment papers of each newly drafted man as his name was called and he was paraded. As a rule the routing proceeded without variations; when everything concerning the man had been found correct, he was issued his serial number, appointed to a company, and given in charge of a sergeant to be marched off to the Quartermaster’s Department that he might be outfitted

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with a uniform, mess-kit, blankets, etc., which was the initial step in his transformation from a civilian to a soldier. On this particular morning a delay occurred when the name of one, Jake Cohen, had been called. I did not notice the delay at first, nor did I look up, for I was busy completing entries of the last man who had filed before me. “This one’s a bit out of the ordinary, sir,” the clerk whispered, thrusting beneath my nose a larger bunch of papers than I was in the habit of receiving with a single individual. Still without looking up, I fell to digesting their contents. Jake Cohen, it appeared, was by occupation a tailor and had been recruited from the lower East Side of New York. Recruited is scarcely the word; he had been drafted out of his turn in lieu of being sent to jail for making seditious utterances. Then came the specific charge against him: during the lunch hour, when sweatshops emptied, he had formed the practice of preaching pacifism to his fellowworkers at street corners. At first the police, not understanding his language, had dispersed his meetings and moved him on. Then someone had laid information against him; he had been caught red-handed and arrested. The magistrate before whom he had been brought had taken a more lenient view of his offence than might have been expected. Discovering that the prisoner was of military age and requirements, he had ordered that he be drafted forthwith into the army—the result being that he had been conducted to my orderly room in the charge of an armed escort. I wanted to be just. Above all, I was anxious to display no prejudice. I tried to view his predicament as he himself probably regarded it. As a foreigner he was out of touch with the wave of patriotism which had swept the country.

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The issues involved in the war were remotely apprehended by him. In preaching pacifism he had had no idea that he was committing a crime which recent legislation had decreed to be as outrageous as burglary. He’d understood that America was a free country and had considered himself well within his rights in expressing an opinion. Possibly he was tinged with socialism, as had been most of our prominent divines up to the day of our declaration of hostility. He’d only been repeating at an inexpedient moment what statesmen had been saying for the best part of three years, namely, that the United States rose superior to petty hatreds of European politics. His sole folly had been the vanity of the halfbaked idealist. Swaying audiences had lent the illusion of spaciousness to his otherwise cramped existence. As I studied his brief history, I became imperceptibly affected by the personality of the man who stood before me. As yet I had not glanced at him. I seemed to hear the pompous magistrate who had condemned him getting off his windy periods concerning the nobility of patriotism. But why should patriotism be obligatory on a man of the prisoner’s traditions? Patriotism entailed love of country. . . Either he or his parents had crossed the Atlantic, fleeing from persecution in the shape of organized massacres. America’s gift to him had been the lingering death of the sweatshop, for which meagre hospitality he was being compelled to make restitution by presenting his body as a target. The bargain was unjust. Something of this sort, proclaimed carelessly at a street corner, had caused his arrest. My duty as his military superior necessitated that I adopt a severe demeanor. Turning abruptly to my sergeant, I ordered the room to be cleared. I was reluctant to shame the man before regu-

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larly drafted recruits who were to be his companions. While my instructions were being carried out, I pretended to continue examining his papers. When the shuffling feet had exited and all had grown quiet, I began gravely: “Well, my man, so you’re Jake Cohen?” “It’s the name they have given me.” A peculiarly gentle voice. Scarcely cultured. Different. A winning voice, slightly Russian in its intonation. For the first time my eyes crept up his body, progressing slowly. At his hands they paused. His hands warned me that his face would come as a surprise. His hands were delicate and pointed. I don’t know anything about art, but I imagine they may have resembled a sculptor’s. And yet I could see the needle-pricks on his fingers and the skin calloused with drawing the thread. “By occupation you’re a tailor?” “They say that, too.” “But look here,” I protested with unpremeditated geniality. “I’m not questioning inquisitively. I have to ask to make certain that your papers are correct.” I raised my eyes and found that his were smiling. His smile is impossible to describe: it was one of sheer friendship, as though he had known and been fond of me always. He was as un-Americanized as if he had just landed at Ellis Island, wearing the silky beard and ringleted hair of a young rabbi. “You’re in the army now,” I said by way of pleasantry. “The first thing you’ll have to do is to get a shave and a haircut.” “I shall have to do many things to which I’ve been unaccustomed,” he responded.

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“You’re in an awkward fix. I’m sorry for you,” I went on conversationally. “The army’s the last place for which you’re fitted. Not that it’ll do you any harm if you survive. Wholesome food and setting-up exercises will improve you. I should judge you’ve often been hungry.” “You judge rightly.” “What I’m trying to say,” I explained, “is that worse things could have befallen you. Of course the method of your drafting is disgraceful. If your fellow-soldiers knew, they might make things awkward. That was why I cleared the room while we had this talk.” “I guessed as much and thank you.” “I’m not keen on being thanked.” I resumed by brusqueness: “My object was to give you a fair start. As far as I’m concerned I shall do my best to repress your previous bad record. As long as you play the game, it’ll be as though it hadn’t happened. If you let me down—” “I shan’t.” “Then, since I can trust you, let’s hope you’ll redeem your honor on the field of battle.” “Let’s hope so.” He spoke as an equal, still smiling curiously. Feeling that I wasn’t holding my end up, I cut short the interview by summoning the next man on the list of the recruited. For some weeks, in the rush of mobilizing a raw battalion, the memory of Jake Cohen faded from my mind. Then one day, in crossing the parade ground, I was saluted by a slim young soldier, graceful and almost girlish in his trimly fitting khaki. Having passed him, I halted a non-commissioned officer. “What’s that man’s name?”

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“Jake Cohen, sir. The men call him ‘Lily.’ ” “Why?” “Because of his hands. It was his hands that started it. They aren’t shaped for killing. The nickname’s stuck on account of—well, I might say his purity.” “How d’you mean?” “He don’t swear, sir, and he don’t tell certain stories.” “That’s to his credit. I hope it doesn’t affect his popularity.” “I wouldn’t call him popular, sir. He hasn’t got our sense of humor; the men play jokes on him.” “How’s he shaping as a soldier?” “Awkward, sir, Sort of left-handed. Not but what he does his best.” “He looks different since he’s visited the barber,” I made light of my curiosity. Then, on the point of parting, “See here, Sergeant, there’s to be no persecution. There’s nothing breaks a man’s heart sooner than nagging.” It may have been three weeks later that the same sergeant tapped at the door of my orderly room, inquiring if he might have a word with me. It was after nightfall and I was alone, stooped above the table beneath a lamp, getting off a long-delayed batch of private correspondence. There was the breath of frost on the man’s tunic, I remember, as he entered. He saluted promptly, standing stiffly to attention. “We’re off parade, Sergeant,” I looked up. “You must be tired with so much standing. Choose a chair and tell me what’s brought you.” “About this man, Jake Cohen, sir. You asked me to keep an eye on him.” “What have you learned?”

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“I don’t feel the fellow’s getting a square deal, sir. Somehow, I don’t know how, the news has got abroad of how he was drafted. That and his oddness don’t make things easy for him. As regards his superiors—there’s nothing gained by mincing words—they pick on him.” “How do they pick on him?” “He gets more fatigues and guard duties than are his share. Why I’ve come to you, sir, is that I’ve remembered what you said about breaking a man’s heart with nagging. In the army you either break his heart or you change a willing man into a barrack-room lawyer.” “Then what you’re really telling me is that Jake Cohen’s becoming a ringleader of malcontents?” “Not exactly, sir; he’s in danger of becoming. He has a sense of justice; then he’s intelligent beyond the average. And lastly, he has the reputation for having been a pacifist. He doesn’t seek out the trouble-makers—not what I’ve noticed; but fellows who’ve landed themselves in trouble go to him.” “Hmph!” I pondered the situation. “To tell the truth,” the sergeant added, “it’s his air of knowing more than you do that does the damage. That’s what gets the goat of the N.C.O.’s placed over him.” “And you have a suggestion?” “I have, sir. That he be given a chance. Why not make him a regimental tailor? Tailoring used to be his occupation. He might be happier at that.” I took the sergeant’s advice, wondering why I hadn’t thought of so practical a solution. From time to time I made inquiries as to Jake Cohen’s progress—I had to be careful lest I be accused of playing favorites. From all I could gather he was giving satisfaction, though there was little

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doubt that with the men he was no more popular. Perhaps less so, because he worked in comparative comfort while they were roughing it on route marches and digging imitation trenches. Anyhow, I’d done my best. A camp wasn’t a nursery. At Christmas something happened to raise his prestige. Entertainments were being arranged and talent hunted. It was discovered that Jake Cohen played the violin marvellously—it was said better than any professional in New York. The picture lives in my memory of his strange, poetic countenance, alight with ecstasy as he swayed above his instrument, making men dream like children. Playing a violin, however, wouldn’t get him far when it came to fighting. With the New Year, rumors began to circulate that we were to be sent overseas within a week, within two weeks, within a month. Sometimes the false alarms were official, their purpose being either to test the efficiency of our preparedness or else to deceive the enemy spies who we had been warned were among us. At last in April, to our immense excitement, the alarm was not false. We embarked under cover of darkness, landed at Liverpool, entrained for Dover, and were shipped to Calais, whence we were hurried to a reserve position in the rear of the British lines, which the enemy was then pounding with the Channel ports as his objective. Here we gained our first glimpse of warfare, not as a means of wasting time but as a tragic reality: German prisoners, toiling like slaves, attended by armed guards; Red Cross hospitals packed with wounded; nightly raids by bombing planes. It was the German prisoners who brought Jake Cohen again to my attention. The Military Police reported that he had been heard speaking to them

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in their own language. More suspicious still, he had been caught making them presents and even sharing with them his rations. While as yet there was nothing pinned on him, we were advised that he would bear watching. Because of my earlier sympathy for the man and because he had pledged me his honor to play the game, I sent for him. The moment he was in my presence I fell under his spell. All the annoyance with which I had been boiling oozed from me. I suppose my actual sensation was that it would be prejudging him to display anger. With a trustfulness which was reprehensible, I handed to him the adverse report marked Confidential. He glanced up. “I’m sorry, sir. Is it an offence to be kind?” “I’m afraid it is.” I attempted sarcasm, but in effect disparaged the authority of which I was the vehicle. “You see, Cohen, the world’s changed. It’s no longer a virtue to love your enemies. You and I, as soldiers, are expected to hate our enemies—to mistreat them whenever circumstances forbid us to slaughter them.” “I see,” he nodded. “Makes things difficult, doesn’t it, sir, when it’s one’s nature to be pitiful?” “It does that,” I affirmed. “But when everyone’s drunk with blood and there’s a war raging, not to disguise one’s finer feelings leads to complications.” “I’ve caused complications for you, sir,” he divined acutely. “Please believe me when I say it was the last thing I intended.” “I don’t doubt it,” I assured him earnestly. “But here’s how matters stand: I’ve rather shielded you, Cohen. With all this spy-fever abroad, if anyone stacked the cards against you—But I don’t need to continue. It would be serious for

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me as an adjutant after the leniency I’ve shown you.” “Of course it would, sir.” “But why is it, Cohen, when you and I can understand each other so perfectly, that you’ve cultivated this knack of getting up the shirts of the majority?” He smiled luminously, the way I’d seen him smile when he’d stooped above his violin. “The majority are affronted by my purity.” “Couldn’t you modify your purity?” He shook his head slowly. “You know, sir, that’s not possible. Here’s what I can do, if it’ll help you: I can cease to be a tailor and become a combatant.” I stared at him. “But you wouldn’t like—?” “We’re not here to do what we like,” he reproached me gently. “I’m willing, if it’ll spare your honor.” When he had gone and I realized the nature of our conversation, I grew indignant. What had persuaded me to act so preposterously? I was the adjutant of the battalion, a man under discipline and dispensing discipline. In pampering a delinquent, whom it had been my duty to reprimand, I had been guilty of the grossest laxity. There could be only one explanation: the moment the man came near me, he hypnotized me. To repair my error, I lost no time in restoring him to the ranks of active fighters where every hour his conduct would be under close surveillance. After that in the hurry of events I lost sight of him. Any day we were expecting to man the trenches and receive our baptism of fire. Orders came through that our regiment was to lose its identity by being brigaded with the British. We were, in fact, on the point of being broken up

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and employed for the replacement of British casualties, when the orders were countermanded. In their stead we were entrained in our entirety and transported southward to a secret destination. It proved to be a sector in Lorraine, which till now had been regarded as quiet. Only once on the journey did I come across my embarrassing acquaintance. During our fraternizing with the British, our men had adopted certain of their expressions. We had reached our railroad terminus and were routemarching. I was trotting at the head of the column with my major, when I heard an N.C.O., named Corporal Triumph, exclaim brutally “None of your bloody pacifism.” Turning in my saddle, I saw that the rebuked private was Jake Cohen. So he was still at his old game, doing his utmost to be unpopular, provoking persecution! He tossed back my glance, smiling his recognition. But I was through with protecting him. If he refused to learn sense, he must take his medicine. While we officers were familiarizing ourselves with the trench system we were immediately to take over, our regiment was billeted in and about a ruined village; not so ruined, however, as to be entirely depopulated. Those of the original inhabitants who remained were, as in most battle areas, the least reputable. During the early stages of the war the village had been occupied by the enemy, then victorious; events had happened which were unrepeatable in their shame and horror. These memories and the cruel years of hope deferred had bludgeoned the villagers into a dull acceptance of degradation. They had ceased to be self-respecting—ceased even to be thrilled by their proximity to heroism. The motive that urged them to stay on, facing gas attacks and shell fire, was avarice. They

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catered to their defenders’ vices. Every peasant peddled intoxicants; there was no way of stopping the traffic. Feminine chastity, except among the undesired, seemed a forgotten virtue. For us to have posted orders for the restoration of morality would have branded us as invaders and tyrants. Had we tried to suppress the estaminets, the community would have protested that they were kept open for civilians, though why girls of amorous dispositions should be employed as servitors might have proved a difficult question to answer. The most we could do, as a regiment billeted on the neighborhood, was to restrict the hours during which liquor could be publicly served to men whom we commanded. The night previous to the one on which we took over the line these hours were relaxed, with the consequence that the village became the scene of bacchanalia. It was natural enough that men imperilled by extinction, and most of them young, should grow frenzied to slake their thirst for life, while life was still available. One estaminet, called poetically The Silver Moon, had gained a deserved notoriety. It had a dancing floor of sorts, a slot machine which made mechanical music, and, to crown its attraction, whoever purchased champagne could claim Marie as a partner. Marie was a genuine beauty, sweet and sly, possessed of laughing eyes which caressed or mocked in proportion to the customer’s lavishness. She had lips ripe for kisses and a mass of palest hair, which seemed always on the point of tumbling. Somehow she had retained such a disarming air of innocence that it was impossible to credit the tales that were narrated of her. Perhaps her secret was that she had grown to girlhood among conditions so abnormal that her conscience had never had the chance to trouble her. It was to The Silver Moon that those who could afford its charges

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thronged on that final night. Others, whose funds were meagre, peered through its steaming windows or contented themselves with humbler places of entertainment. It was a great occasion for Marie and no less for Marie’s proprietors. Till our coming, their village had experienced nothing but poilus, to whom a few francs represented a month’s savings; whereas a doughboy flung away more money than a French officer. Short as our stay had been, she had acquired innumerable admirers, the most ardent of whom was Corporal Triumph, the N.C.O. whom on the line of march I had heard upbraiding Jake Cohen. According to the story as I gleaned its details later, he grew increasingly possessive of her as the evening advanced. Other slatterns of the village were present; but not enough to supply a tithe of the soldiers with partners. The slot machine, which ground out music, was kept continuously going. Men were compelled to dance together. Corporal Triumph’s anxiety to annex the only beauty was entirely understandable. Moreover, he had reached that pitch of jealousy at which he was persuaded he had a premier right to her. For some inscrutable reason Jake Cohen, who was in Triumph’s platoon, had squeezed his way into the estaminet. It was the last place one might have expected to find him. Having paid his entrance by purchasing food, he neither danced nor drank; he merely stood crushed against the wall, watching but not participating. Wherever Marie strayed, his dark eyes followed her. The evidence is unanimous that at no time did he attempt to speak or interfere with her. As the spectacle increased in riot, she grew restive under his scrutiny. There were times when, with evident defiance, she surrendered herself more whole-heartedly to the

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abandon; there were others when she paused, disturbed and puzzled, glancing back at him. How long this continued I have no way of guessing, but there can be no doubt that gradually his gaze tormented her. Corporal Triumph had won her again and was pressing her close as he danced; suddenly she stopped dead, thrusting him from her. Before she could be recaptured, she had darted across the floor and had flung herself at the feet of Jake Cohen. There she clung to his knees, her hair streaming loose, crushed and shaken with sobbing. Sheer amazement at her grief was sobering; it produced an instant silence. The slot machine droned to the end of its tune; no one volunteered to renew its music. As it ceased to wheeze, Marie’s broken voice could be heard pleading—pleading, of all things, for Jake Cohen’s forgiveness. How she supposed she had offended was not stated. He alone seemed unsurprised by her contrition and bending over her, whispered. Those who were nearest insist his words were, “Neither do I condemn thee”—evidently a quotation from the Bible. As he was raising her, Corporal Triumph approached, hurling insulting epithets against Cohen’s race and former pacifism. When he found himself ignored, as much as if he had not spoken, he endeavored to reach Cohen with his fists and would have succeeded if other N.C.O.’s had not prevented him. Then the Military Police entered. Someone knocked out the lights and there was a scamper for the exits. When the lamps were restored, the participants in the quarrel had vanished. Of this happening we in authority knew nothing till after the court-martial. But I run ahead of my story. Next evening our relief of the French division which had been holding the line was set in progress. Naturally

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every precaution had been taken to prevent the enemy from getting wind of such a movement. With regard to our own location, we had every reason to suppose that the Germans believed our regiment to be still in the north, supporting the British. This illusion was rudely dispelled at the hour when night was darkest and trenches most thronged with American companies moving up and French companies withdrawing. A bombardment of such depth and intensity descended as to leave no doubt that it was the herald of worse to follow. Crossroads, regimental and battalion headquarters were targeted with paralyzing accuracy. Practically every important telephone wire was cut, making communication impossible. Toward dawn the enemy deluged us with gas. Then to witness our confusion he sent bombing planes, which dropped propaganda, together with leaflets warning us that all our movements were an open book, our strength, our strong points, even the names of our officers. Rumors of spies, which had died down on our journey southward, were whipped into a frenzy. How could the enemy have learned so much if some of his agents, disguised in American uniforms, were not among us? My first thought was of Jake Cohen and of the leniency I had shown him. I was so conscience-stricken by my carelessness that, at the first opportunity, I set inquiries afoot to ascertain his whereabouts. I discovered that he was manning the front line with his company. As communications were re-established, news began to arrive. An enemy attack had been launched by Sturm Truppen. They had been beaten off; our men had pursued them into No Man’s Land, coming to such close quarters that there had been bayonet fighting. Now that the situation had grown normal, German machine-gunners were preventing our

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stretcher-bearers from venturing out to the rescue of the wounded. It was planned to wait till nightfall—then to crawl through the wire to their succor. Volunteers were being called for. I was so nervous that I requested information as regards Jake Cohen’s conduct. Word was sent back that he had been one of the first to volunteer to carry water, etc., to his wounded comrades. There was a shuffling next morning on the stairs of the dugout in which battalion headquarters had been established. The O.C. of the battalion and his staff were at breakfast. I looked up to see Jake Cohen, stripped of his accoutrements and escorted between guards with fixed bayonets. He was perfectly calm—as calm as on that first day of his drafting, when he had been led into my orderly room similarly escorted. He had the bearing of one fully in control of the situation—either that or incapable of realizing the seriousness of his predicament. The charge laid against him was that of communicating with the enemy. Creeping out through the front-line wire after dark, he had carried help in the shape of bandages, food, and water, not only to our own wounded, but to the enemy’s. He had been seen and, when he returned for fresh supplies, had been cautioned against such unprofitable humanitarianism. On his second trip into No Man’s Land, Corporal Triumph had undertaken to track him and had surprised him in a shell-hole, handing papers to a German. Corporal Triumph had shot the German and conducted Private Cohen as a prisoner back to our front line. When Cohen had been searched, further incriminating documents had been found in his possession. These documents, on being examined, turned out to be rough maps of the dispositions of our troops and machine-gun emplacements. When

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Cohen was invited to speak in self-defence, he professed that he had nothing that he cared to add. This being the case, his guilt was as good as proven, and he was slated for court-martial. That he might be made an example to other spies who might be among us, his trial was hurried forward. Instead of sending him back of the lines, where the discipline of his punishment would lose in terror by distance, it was determined to try him summarily and on the spot, so that his own regiment might be the witness of his penalty. The court was convened in the village where he had been billeted. The trial took place in the estaminet of The Silver Moon, which must have been a source of satisfaction to Corporal Triumph. Among the character witnesses I was summoned. My evidence was very much as here stated: the manner of Cohen’s enlistment; how his lack of aptitude for soldiering had caused me to appoint him as regimental tailor; how, when suspicion had fallen on him, I had restored him to the fighting ranks, where he would be under more close surveillance. While I was talking, his eyes never travelled from my face. I sought to avoid them—was actually compelled to struggle against their fascination. At last, when I had delivered myself and it was safe to regard him, I found that his expression was utterly unreproachful; that he was smiling at me in friendship, almost as though I had done him a favor—certainly as though he had always loved me and was still fond of me. Save for my uniform and duty, I could easily have copied Marie’s example by flinging myself at his feet and imploring forgiveness. But Marie—I have forgotten her. From the moment she learned of Cohen’s plight, she was as one demented. She went from officer to officer, waylaying even the General,

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begging that mercy be shown. More than once she created a disturbance by forcing her way into the court which, as I have said, was held in the estaminet which had been the scene of her amorous exploits. Shortly after the trial had commenced, a second attack was launched by the enemy, on a more ambitious scale than the first which had welcomed us when we had taken over the sector. News kept pouring in of trenches lost; of how the division on our right had left our flank exposed, so that there was danger of the enemy working round behind us. The village was under bombardment; the noise was deafening. Through it all the crack of rifle-fire was drawing nearer, telling more eloquently than words how our troops were falling back and the situation was becoming more menacing. The court martial was speeded up and the hearing completed by Corporal Triumph’s testimony. It was his testimony that drove the final nail into Cohen’s coffin. The verdict was rendered—that he was to be shot at dawn as a traitor. As a matter of record, he was not. When the court rose, the enemy had already gained the outskirts of the village. Soon there would be street fighting. To make certain of justice being carried out, a firing squad was hastily summoned; Jake Cohen was put against the estaminet wall and executed. When that happened, I had rejoined my battalion. I have been told that where his body dropped, it was left; no one had the leisure to bury it. That day, having evacuated the civilian population, we were swept from the village. It took a week to recover it; after which history wrote itself so fast that, till the Armistice, we had no time to remember. We were guarding the bridgeheads of the Rhine and wondering how many of us, if any, would be sent home for Christmas, when an incident occurred to revive Jake

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Cohen’s memory. Having gone through the war unscathed, Corporal Triumph had contracted pneumonia. He sent an urgent request for me. The moment I entered his presence, I could see that he was dying—a gasping skeleton propped up with pillows. He beckoned me to approach his bedside. In a hoarse whisper he intimated that he had something to confess. What he told me impressed me at first as the hallucination of delirium. That was what I wanted to believe it. If I believed otherwise, I became his partner in having sent an innocent man to execution. According to Corporal Triumph, he had detested Private Cohen from the moment he had clapped eyes on him. His relations with him had never been less than hostile. The climax had been reached on that night at The Silver Moon when Cohen had parted him from Marie. He had decided then and there to get him. Cohen had played into his hands by his humanity to the German wounded. He had discovered him in a shell-hole, binding up an enemy. He had shot the German and, as he was arresting Cohen, had smuggled evidence of treachery into his tunic. When I inquired how it had happened that he was carrying such evidence, the vilest part of his infamy came to light: that he himself had been an enemy agent, but had since gone straight, deterred by the prompt example of Cohen’s courtmartial. In an attempt to whiten his own character he assured me that he had turned religious. Scarcely a day had passed when he had not read his Bible. Probably owing to this belated piety, he had acquired glibness in handling Scripture phrases, for when I asked him why Cohen had not accused him before his judges, he answered, “ ‘As a sheep before her shearers is dumb, so opened he not his mouth.’ ” Before I could get a sworn record of his retrac-

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tion, he expired. For the easing of my own conscience, in what seemed to me an obvious miscarriage of justice, I forwarded an account of the occurrence to Headquarters, hoping that it might clear Cohen’s memory and produce a posthumous reversal of the verdict. Whether the account went astray in labyrinths of red tape or whether it was deemed wisest to regard the matter as closed, I do not know. Possibly the unattested ravings of a dying man were not considered sufficiently trustworthy. At any rate, till the time the regiment sailed back to America to be demobilized, no action had been taken. I was on temporary duty in Washington, detailed to serve on the guard of honor to the Unknown Soldier and awaiting the arrival of the body, when I stumbled on the first clue of his identity. As the guest of a club, I fell into conversation with an officer. It developed that he had been one of the commission which had selected the anonymous hero whose sacrifice we were about to commemorate. I was naturally curious to learn by what process of elimination the commission had made its choice. If I remember clearly, he told me that all the battlefields where great engagements had been fought by our troops had been visited, and possible candidates for the distinction disinterred and conveyed back to a central depot. The final decision as to which was to become the symbol for the rest had been arrived at by lottery. It had been a tedious mission and a gruesome one. He wouldn’t undertake it again, even though he were cashiered for his refusal. He narrated some of the incidents that he had experienced, among which was the following: They were at the last stage of their tour; only one more unknown soldier remained to be reclaimed to make up

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their quota for the final selection. They had reached a village toward the hour of sunset—a village so battered that hardly one stone was left upon another. Their purpose had been to go farther, when suddenly they had espied a white cross above a grave carefully tended with flowers. Its sacred peace in a scene of such utter desolation was what had drawn their attention. Alighting, they had found that the cross bore the legend, Soldat americain, inconnu. Their travels were ended; they at once set about the body’s disinterment. They had completed their task and were on the point of departure when, seemingly from nowhere, since they had supposed the village deserted, a girl had appeared. At sight of what they had done she had begun to weep broken-heartedly. For a reason best known to herself, she had regarded the grave as her personal property. She had been evil, she asserted; the man who had rested there had made her good. With her own hands she had buried him. They were stealing him. Where were they taking him? It had been too late to alter their plans. Everything save the transportation of the body had been accomplished. Hurriedly they had explained who they were and their rights in the matter: that they had not committed a senseless desecration; that very possibly her unknown soldier would be laid to rest in a grander tomb in America, which would become a shrine of pilgrimage, just as the stone slab beneath the Arc de Triomphe was a shrine of pilgrimage for the French nation. She had proved inconsolable and had followed them weeping till, outdistanced by their faster going, she had faded to a speck and finally had been lost to view in the gathering shadows. I inquired the name of the village.

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“And which of the candidates for the honor did they select?” “That’s a secret—or it’s supposed to be a secret.” The officer bent toward me. “All the same, I can make a shrewd guess, for on the last body there were initials worked on the tunic. The tunic of the unknown soldier who was chosen bore the same initials. He must have been a brave man, for all his wounds were in his breast.” “And what were the initials?” The officer hesitated. “That’s information I ought to keep under my hat. The initials were J. C., however.” It seemed scarcely possible, yet the suspicion grew that Jake Cohen, to whom the world had denied justice and had executed as a traitor, was the hero for whose homecoming so much pomp was preparing. Suddenly, as though he were not dead, he sprang to life in my imagination. Again he stood before me, regarding me with those friendly eyes which I had feared to gaze into too long, lest they should hypnotize me. He had been persecuted for pacifism and we were honoring him as an example of militarism. His purity had ostracized him. His kindness to prisoners had made him seem disloyal. The sarcastic speech I had made to him came back: “It’s no longer a virtue to love your enemies. You and I, as soldiers, are expected to hate our enemies—to mistreat them whenever circumstances forbid us to slaughter them.” In the truest sense he had died for showing pity to his wounded enemies, when pity had run contrary to his military duty. The cruel absurdity dawned on me of the way in which we had misused him. Putting a man with his eyes into a uniform hadn’t changed

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his nature. Even pushing a rifle into his hands hadn’t turned him aside from loving. But I might be mistaken. I strove to believe I was. It was too much to attribute to the long arm of circumstance, that to-morrow I would be acting guard of honor to the pacifist tailor whom my testimony had helped to send to his unmerited punishment. All the details of his reception stand clear cut in memory: statesmen to whom, while living, he had meant less than nothing, generals who had concurred in his condemnation, making speeches over him. Everybody attributing to him soldierly virtues which he had not coveted and actually had striven not to acquire. Bands playing martial music. Flags flying for him who had possessed no flag. The Allied Nations piling his coffin high with floral tributes. And when he had died, if he were Jake Cohen, no friend, save Marie, had spared time to bury him. If they only knew; and did I know? These were my thoughts as I heard his praises. If my guess were correct, one other person knew: Marie, the courtesan, whom he had forgiven. Perhaps I was going mad. Perhaps I am mad. I admit this here by way of warning, for I am arriving at the strange termination of my story. Recalling Marie created the illusion that I saw her. I looked again, quite certain I had seen her; but now she had vanished in the swaying of the crowd. At last, to the beat of muffled drums and boom of cannon, we bore the Unknown to his final rest. Having piled his tomb high with wreaths and posted sentries, we left him. Next day, in the mist of early morning, as I was approaching the cemetery on my tour of inspection, I saw

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a woman. This time I recognized her unmistakably as Marie. She was coming toward me, walking gladly, her face ecstatic. As in a trance, she would have passed me. “Marie!” She knew me. My features, as seen in the court-room, swearing away the life of the man she loved, must have branded themselves into her memory. “How did you come here?” I questioned. When they had taken him from her, she had spent her all that she might follow him. “But,” I protested, “you couldn’t be certain; there were so many unknown soldiers collected from all the battlefields. How could you possibly guess that his body would be the one—?” “He is risen,” she clutched my hands. “That was what I asked myself; how could I possibly guess? All night I longed to approach him, but the guards kept me back. Toward dawn, when the crowds had melted, I drew nearer. This time nobody stopped me. The sentries stood on duty, like men of stone. I came to the mountain of flowers they had piled over him to weigh him down. There I knelt weeping, praying that I might have him back in the little grave, small as a cradle, which my own hands had dug for him. In the silence I heard a stirring. I was frightened, Monsieur, for it seemed to me that the sentries, staring with their unseeing eyes, were all dead. The thing that was happening was unbelievable. The mountain of flowers was heaving, as though someone who was underneath was striving to thrust them back. I hid my face; then I heard his voice, ‘Marie.’ There he stood, Monsieur, in his old khaki uniform, his steel helmet on his head, the gaping wounds in his breast where the volley had struck him.

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“ ‘Marie,’ he said again, ‘why weepest thou? I ascend unto my Father and your Father; to my God and your God.’ ” I have lost sight of Marie. I have no way of knowing whether what I have recorded is hallucination or fact. Day and night I rehearse the details. I can think of little else. I am troubled, which is the reason for my anonymous confession. Whom did we bury as our Unknown Soldier? Is he still there? Did they bury the same man in London at Westminster Abbey and again beneath the Arc de Triomphe in Paris? To me it seems all so likely—so natural. Ought not Christ to have suffered these things? While the world was suffering, how could He have remained in His glory? And then that one clue to the Unknown’s identity—J. C. were the initials sewn on his tunic.

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� The text of this book was set in the composing rooms of The Press of the J EWISH P UBLICATION S OCIETY OF A MERICA on the monotype in Caslon Old Style. The original letter on which this type is based was cut by William Caslon about 1720. The paper is Monoplane Antique book paper, made by the P. H. Glatfelter Company, Spring Grove, Penna., especially for this edition. Electrotyped, printed and bound by the Haddon Craftsmen, Incorporated, Camden, New Jersey. �