But there was storm in the air. Every one was talking of revolution. Sasha began to play the Marseillaise again, and now with a different note from that in which he had played when friendship with France was being honoured. In came the police and stopped him. They forbade the playing of any Anthems whatsoever.
There was a pogrom in the town; hired ruffians appeared in the streets inciting the population to the murder of the Jews. Not once or twice Sasha himself was taken for a Jew and attacked.
Into the tavern came the same ruffians, and tried to stir up the drunkards to pillage and violence. Sasha was playing a tune of his own fancy when suddenly one of them, a converted Jew, jumped up and cried:
“The National Anthem! Brothers, the National Anthem in honour of our adored monarch. The National Anthem!”
“Anthem, Anthem,” cried his mates.
“No Anthems whatsoever,” said Sasha, repeating the words of the police-officer.
“What do you mean, you don’t obey, you filthy Jew?” answered the man.
“And you?” said Sasha.
“I? What do you mean?”
“I’m a filthy Jew. All right, what are you?”