I fell at his feet and begged him to let me have my way, but some obstinate demon seemed to have taken possession of his breast. I opened my desk and showered bank-notes upon him. He spurned them, and one flew out into the night. Neither of us put out a hand to arrest its flight.
I saw that nothing but the truth had any chance to alter his resolve. But I played one more card before resorting to this dangerous weapon.
"Listen, my own dearest Paul," I burst out. "If money will not tempt you, let a father's petition persuade you. Learn, then, that I dread your taking this position because you will perpetually have to attack the Jews—"
"As they deserve," he put in.
"Be it so. But I—I have a kindness for this oppressed race."
He looked at me in silence, as if awaiting further explanation. I gave it, blurting out the shameful lie with ill-concealed confusion.
"Once upon a time I—I loved a Jewess. I could not marry her, of course. But ever since that time I have had a soft place in my heart for her unhappy race."
A look of surprise flashed into Paul's eyes. Then his face grew tender. He took my hand in his.
"Father, we have a common sorrow," he said. "The girl I spoke of was a Jewess."
"How?" I exclaimed, surprised in my turn. It was the same affair, then.