A Fair Jewess

by B. L. Farjeon

So is it also with a pure poem and story; the impression they leave is an incentive to kindly act and tolerant judgment; they soften, they ameliorate, they bring into play the higher attributes of human nature, and in their practical results a benefit is conferred equally upon the sufferer by the wayside and the Samaritan who pours oil upon his wounds.

"Who is the woman?" asked the critics, and no one could answer the question except the painter, and he held his tongue.

The secret was this: The famous painter, passing through the village with the subject of his next great picture in his mind, saw Rachel, and was spellbound by the purity and grace of her face and figure. Traveling under an assumed name, in order that he should not be disturbed by the trumpet blasts of fame--a proof (clear to few men) that there is pleasure in obscurity--he cast aside the subject he had intended to paint, and determined to take Rachel in its stead. He made himself acquainted with her story, was introduced to Aaron, and contrived to make himself welcome in their home--no difficult matter, for Aaron was ever ready to appreciate intellect.

Many an evening did this painter pass with them, sometimes in company with the curé, and many a friendly argument did they have. He did not ask Rachel and Aaron to be his models, but he made innumerable sketches of them, and remained in the village long enough to accumulate all the principal points and accessories for his picture. Then he departed and painted his masterpiece elsewhere.

Some time afterward he revisited the village with the intention of making acknowledgment for the inspiration, but Aaron and his family had departed, and the painter's secret was undivulged.

As it was with Rachel in winter and spring so was it in summer and autumn. The flowers, the butterflies, the fragrant perfumes of garden and hedgerow, all appealed powerfully to her, and all were in kinship with her. The village children would follow her in the gloaming, singing their simple songs; brawlers, ashamed, would cease contending when she came in sight; women would stand at their cottage doors, and gaze reverently upon her as she passed. Not a harsh thought was harbored against her or hers; her gentle spirit was an incentive to gentleness; she was a living tender embodiment of peace on earth and good will to all. The whisper of the corn in the autumn, when the golden stalks bowed their heads to the passing breeze, conveyed a divine message to her soul; and indeed she said seriously to Aaron that she sometimes fancied she heard voices in the air, and that they were a pleasure to her.

The three years having expired, the partnership came to an end. The engineer was invited to Russia to undertake some great work for the government, and Aaron would not accompany him.

"In the first place," he said, "I will not expose my wife and children to the rigors of such a climate. In the second place, I will not go because I am a Jew, and because, being one, I should meet with no justice in that land. In the annals of history no greater infamy can be found than the persecution to which my brethren are subjected in that horrible country. In former ages, when the masses lived and died ignorant and unlettered, like the beasts of the field, one can understand how it was that the iron hand ruled and crushed common human rights out of existence; but in these days, when light is spreading all over the world except in such a den of hideous corruption and monstrous tyranny as Russia, it is almost incredible that these cruelties are allowed to be practiced."

"How would you put a stop to them?" asked the engineer.

"I will suppose a case," Aaron answered. "You are a married man, with wife and children, and you have for your neighbor another married man with wife and children. You bring up your family decently, you treat them kindly, you have an affection for them. All round you other men with wives are doing the same; but there is one exception--your brutal neighbor. Daily and nightly shrieks of agony are heard proceeding from his house, terrible cries of suffering, imploring appeals for help and mercy. He has a numerous family of children, all of whom have been born in the house of which he is a ruler, all of whom recognize him as their king and are ready and anxious to pay him respect, all of whom have a natural claim upon him for protection, all of whom work for him and contribute toward the expenses of his household. Some of these children he loves, some he hates, and it is those he hates whom he oppresses. From them proceed these shrieks of agony, these cries of suffering, these appeals for help. You see them issue from his house torn and bleeding, their faces convulsed with anguish, their hearts racked with woe; you see them return to it--inexorable necessity drives them there; they have no other home, and there is no escape for them--trembling with fear, for the lash awaits them, and torture chambers are there to drive them to the last stage of despair. And their shrieks and supplications eternally pierce the air you breathe, while the oppressed ones stretch forth their hands to the monster who makes their lives a hell upon earth. What do they ask? That they should be allowed to live in peace. But this reasonable and natural request infuriates the tyrant. He flings them to the ground and grinds his iron heel into their bleeding flesh, he spits in their faces, and orders his torturers to draw the cords tighter around them. It is not for a day, it is not for a week, it is not for a year, it is forever. They die, and leave children behind them who are treated in the same fashion, and for them, as it was with their fathers, there is no hope. No attempt is made to hide these infamies, these cruelties, which would disgrace the lowest order of beasts; they are perpetrated in the light of day, and the monster who is responsible for them sneers at you, and says, 'If you were in their place I would treat you the same.' He laughs at your remonstrances, and draws the cords still tighter, and tortures the quivering flesh still more mercilessly, and cries, 'It is my house--they are my children, and I will do as I please with them. Their bodies are mine, they have no souls!' Talk to him of humanity, and he derides and defies you. You burn with indignation--but what action do you take?"