“But suppose a Jew should love a woman of another race—a Christian, for example; what would you have him do? Leave her? Never see her again? Give her up? If he loved her, no pain that the Lord could inflict would be worse than the pain of that.”
“Hold your tongue, Elias!” the rabbi cried sharply. “What you say is blasphemous, is a denial of the Lord's omnipotence. May the Lord forgive you. No, no. His power to inflict pain, as well as to confer blessings, is measureless. What would I have the Jew do? Why, of course, I would have him give her up, no matter how much the sacrifice might cost him. But the case you put is not likely to arise. Love for a Christian woman never could enter a Jewish heart. Such a sentiment as a Jew might perhaps feel for her would be an unholy passion. She might fascinate his senses, but of true love, she could inspire none at all.”
“And yet, suppose, for the sake of argument, suppose that she could—that she had—that the Jew really did love her with true love, what then?”
“Why, then, as I say, I would have him renounce her, and abstain afterward from any sort of communication with her. I would have him pray, also, that his heart might be cleansed and restored to health; for such love would be a spiritual disease.”
Elias made no answer. The rabbi turned his attention to his lamp, the flame of which was spluttering and palpitating, preparatory to going out.
“Pshaw,” he said, extinguishing it, “I must have forgotten to fill it.”
Then he struck a match, and lighted the gas.
“You have made me hungry and thirsty with so much talking,” he continued. “Now I'm going down stairs to forage for something to eat. Will you come along?”
“No, I guess I'll go to bed,” said Elias. “Good-night.”
But he did not go to bed, nor even to his bed-room.