Ivas carolled, as he entered, a verse of a song he had learned from Gigante. He was troubled and ashamed when he saw Jacob reading the Bible. It was his custom when he was sad to read the Prophets, the Psalms, and the Book of Job.
Ivas went to bed, but Jacob continued reading until at last the feeble light of the lamp forced him to cease. He arose and walked up and down the room, lost in deep and painful thoughts.
Ivas could not sleep. Sympathy with his sorrowing friend and a little shame on his own part kept him awake.
"Have you been in Dresden?" asked Jacob.
"Yes," replied he, without understanding the reason of this question.
"You have then seen a poem of Israel's past, a sorrowful poem of which the foolish debauchery of to-day awakened in me a remembrance. I speak of the 'Jewish Cemetery,' by Ruysdaël."
"I have seen that picture," replied Ivas. "It terrified me, but I could not comprehend it. It is an enigma that fills one with sadness."
"One can remain hours before the canvas," said the Jew, "contemplating it with an impression of wonder. It is so sad, and, like the story of Atrides, stamped with the seal of an inexorable fate. But I love better the tears that one sheds at the sight of this work of a great artist, than the laughter which came out of the mouth of the debauched Henri, representative, as he is, of a generation stupefied by riches, petrified by gold. Marvellous creation, this piece of canvas where nothing appears at first but sombre clouds and black trees torn by the tempest! Examine it more closely: a lowering sky, some rocks, a group of mysterious trees, a brook which forces its way over the uneven ground. The picture reproduces only common things, but with an inconceivable force of expression. This wonderful artist, Ruysdaël, this painter of rocks, ruins of convents and chateaux, of forests and lakes, has never better proved his genius than in his 'Cemetery,' where he rises to the height of an epic poem. No other painter has such eloquence, such beauty, such majesty; not even the brilliant Claude Lorraine, who plays so skilfully with light and shade; nor Salvator Rosa, with his striking caverns and brigands. The 'Jewish Cemetery' is like a page out of the history of a people who do not find repose even in the tomb. Two figures only are faintly delineated; nothing else but the oaks, and the torrent which carries away on its bosom the bones torn from the earth.
"Fate pursues the Jew even in his last repose. Wishing to give an idea of the misfortunes of these people, the artist could not have done better than by showing us this graveyard, where, praying in a dark corner, two men wait until the fury of the tempest shall cease and the sun reappear. A single white flower springing from the soil gives hope of the return of springtime.
"At the end of the seventeenth century, when this masterpiece was produced, the sun for us had long rested behind the clouds, and the poor flower, emblem of brighter days, had scarcely budded.