Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: http://books.google.com/books?id=f_kMAQAAIAAJ&dq
2. Alternate spelling of author's name: Józef Ignacy Kraszewski.

THE JEW

TRANSLATED FROM THE POLISH OF
JOSEPH IGNATIUS KRASZEWSKI

BY

LINDA DA KOWALEWSKA

NEW YORK

DODD, MEAD & COMPANY

PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1890

By DODD, MEAD & COMPANY.

All rights reserved

PRESS OF
Rockwell and Churchill
BOSTON

CHAPTER I.

[SESTRI-PONENTE.]

On a warm afternoon in the autumn of 1860 the best, or rather the only, inn of Sestri-Ponente was full of people. Firpo, the host of the Albergo e Trattoria della Grotta, was little accustomed to such a crowd, except on Sundays and fête-days. As this was only a simple Thursday, his sunburnt cheeks reflected a smile of satisfaction.

Sestri-Ponente is situated an hour's distance from Genoa, on the sea-shore "in vincinanza del mare" and on the grand route from Savona to Nice. Sestri, beside dock-yards for the construction of small merchant-vessels, which is its chief source of wealth, possesses also a fine beach where it is possible to bathe in safety. It has this one superiority over Genoa "la superba" which lacks sea-bathing. Genoa has all else; even her trees seem dwarfed near her stately edifices; she has a magnificent harbour, and if one is determined to bathe in the sea he can hire a boat to take him some distance from the quay, where the water is not full of all sorts of débris. Once in clear water a rope is tied around his waist, and he can seat himself on the steps fixed to the back of the boat. If he slip, the honest boatman draws him out of the sea, by the rope, at the end of which he looks like a new species of fish suspended on a hook. Those who dislike this method are at liberty to bathe in the saltwater of the port or in the marble bath-houses of the Piazza Sarzana; but to bathe where the beach is more or less rocky one must abandon Genoa for the fashionable Livourne, the charming Spezia, or the modest Sestri. The wealthier classes congregate at the former resorts. Sestri is patronized more by quiet people who wish to economize, who prefer a peaceful life to the distractions of the gay world, and the fresh sea-breeze to the feverish gayety and gossip of a crowded watering-place. The scenery is somewhat sombre, but not altogether deprived of the picturesque; in grave and classic lines, like that of Poussin, are delineated vineyards, groves, gardens, and luxurious villas, to-day used chiefly as country-seats for the Italians. Here and there the spires of little churches and of convents rise to heaven and complete the panorama. The steep banks extend on one side as far as Genoa, on the other to Savona, and are then lost in the immensity of the sea, a mighty space of blue and green.

From a distance the Albergo della Grotta makes a good appearance. This pretty little palace was formerly the villa of a rich noble, and was never intended to be an inn. Its approaches are lined with laurels, pomegranates, and orange-trees, and it is reached by a steep path with steps cut in the solid rock. Everywhere traces appear of the fastidious taste of some former owner, and in the midst of all this beauty, without regard for the neighbouring nobility, is a prosaic inn. This shows that the conditions of life are changing everywhere. It is not only in Italy that one meets edifices which do not respond to the exactions and the needs of actual society. How many palaces are changed into breweries, how many villas transformed into inns, how many beautiful private gardens have become plantations! The opulent parvenus, only, have preserved some remains of the noble dwellings of the extinct or ruined nobility. The great lords have built for the bankers. The shell still remains, but the mollusk has departed.

The principal ornament of our villa was that which its name indicates, a grotto constructed with great skill, recalling the time when the Roman Cæsars established oyster-parks on their roofs and forced nature into every extravagance. This grotto formed a vast salon occupying an entire wing of the house, and, thanks to the bizarre ornamentation of stalactites, had every appearance of a natural cavern. The walls were of gypsum of all colours. A labyrinth lighted from above led to a fish-pond and a fountain, from which the water flowed slowly, its musical plashing being a genuine refreshment on a hot summer's day.

On entering this subterranean place for the first time one experienced a sense of melancholy, but gradually the eye became accustomed to the twilight and the illusion disappeared, and was followed by a delicious feeling of refreshment and enthusiasm.

To-day this grotto serves for the dining-room of the inn. Tables are set in the middle and in the dark corners, and on the rocks surrounding the fish-pond is placed a table where at times the workmen employed in the neighbouring forges eat, drink, and sleep. When they cede this place, it is only to tourists or to English families.

Here all classes fraternize over their wine and macaroni. The host serves with the same zeal the lords or the drivers. Who knows that he does not prefer the latter, for the lords seldom return, while the post-drivers, like an intermittent fever, come back every other day. The cuisine of this inn was no better nor worse than any other Italian cookery. The wine was agreeable enough to a palate that was not too blasé, and a grateful freshness made the grotto a delightful retreat during the day, for no brawling crowd or discordant music ever disturbed the place. Over the skylight the pomegranate and orange trees intermingle their branches, and when all was still could be heard the murmuring of the sea, a fine view of which might be had from the flat roof of the grotto.

Sestri is a village which is animated only at times by travellers, and to which the railway gives but a fugitive vitality. Few people stop here, for before them near at hand appears the vision of Genoa, and each one hastens to reach "la Superba." Only the visitors of the Villa Palaviccini, which is near, meet at Sestri with the occasional tourists who do not dislike the brodi of Signor Firpo.

The inn, as we have said, was, for a sultry afternoon, unusually full of people. Two diligences painted blue, as well as other vehicles, had arrived from Genoa and Nice. The host naturally conducted his guests to the grotto, which he loved to show off as a wonder. The tables were soon taken by the travellers, who, once comfortably seated, began to examine each other with a certain distrust.

Near one of the tables was seated a young man of medium size. At the first glance one would judge from his expressive face and regular features that he was an Italian; but examining him more closely certain characteristics of the Oriental type would be discovered. Sorrow or labour had prematurely furrowed his high forehead, and the energy of his glance denoted a strong character. He appeared like one who had conquered himself after long internal combats.

His was a sympathetic face and drew men to him. His costume, not extremely elegant, yet comfortable and in good taste, attested, if not a great fortune, at least a fair competency. Before him were spread the remains of a frugal repast of fruit, wine, and cheese.

A short distance from him was a group of three persons, one of whom was a woman. She was a clear brunette with red lips, and had passed her first youth, but was still very attractive, almost beautiful, and the natural gayety of her manner was augmented by a charming air of good-will toward all. She appeared to be the idol of the two men seated near her. One of fine physique, dark complexion, and quiet manners was evidently her husband, or else a very intimate friend. The other cavalier was blonde, slender, and timid as a young girl, blushing on every occasion. The trio ate slowly, and seemed to try to shake off the melancholy impression produced by the singular dining-room.

On the other side a man sat smoking, with a bottle of wine before him. Under his long black disordered hair he knitted his brows. Although still young he bore the traces of a dissipated life. His bronzed complexion, his thick lips, his low, square forehead which made him resemble the sphinx, indicated that he was the descendant of a non-European race. He looked like a carving in basalt, but in basalt worn by the storms of passion, to-day extinct but formerly tumultuous. One was reminded on regarding him of those lakes which, agitated in the morning, are calm under the soft breeze of evening.

Farther off lounged two Italians, easily recognized by the carelessness of their attitude in spite of the presence of a lady. Their nationality was furthermore betrayed by their olive complexions and long black hair falling over their shoulders. The younger wore a mustache à la Victor Emmanuel, which gave him a military air. The second and stouter man was an artist. They both had that air of content worn by men who are at home and breathe their native air.

Separated from them by an empty table a pale, blonde young man seemed to seek solitude. This was a son of Germany. Despite his phlegmatic manner and apparent indifference one could divine nevertheless that he had experienced some misfortune.

Clad poorly and with a certain negligence, forgetting his bread and cheese he looked dreamily at the grotto and his neighbours, absorbed entirely in awaiting the morrow, yet as though he dreaded it.

All the company was silent and a little sleepy. From time to time could be heard voices at the table where the only woman of the party was seated; at times the clinking of glasses and of bottles; then the silence became more profound.

Suddenly a stranger entered by a little back-door. All eyes were turned toward him. There was something in the sudden appearance of this man that was startling. He was very pale and thin. His garments, gray with dust, proved that he had travelled long on foot. Fatigue had marked his visage, and imprinted on his features that melancholy beauty which interests at first sight all men truly worthy of that name. His eyes were sunken, but their expression was soft as the glance of a woman, and attested almost superhuman, sufferings. His haversack, his staff, and his miserable appearance showed that he travelled on foot rather from necessity than from preference.

He sought timidly with his eyes an obscure corner; then, seeing that almost all the tables were occupied, he moved slowly to a seat near the German; but scarcely had he taken off his straw hat and wiped the sweat from his brow, than his figure contracted under frightful suffering. He seized the table convulsively to steady himself, but his strength gave way and he fell unconscious to the ground. In the fall he overturned his chair, and it was a miracle that he did not cut his head on the stalactites of the grotto. He remained stretched at full length, pale as a corpse, and retaining on his features that expression of calm which death gives. All the travellers, led by the lady,--we must do them that justice,--rushed to his assistance. It was the lady who showed most presence of mind, and she proved a veritable sister of charity. In every woman there is a mother and a sister. She seized a carafe, and wetting a napkin applied it to the temples of the unknown, who sighing deeply opened his eyes, and soon came to himself. At first he seemed ashamed of his accident. He leaned on his elbow, his eyes timidly lowered, and stammered some unintelligible words of thanks.

Short as was the time of this little scene the landlord had already heard of it. He hastened, speechless from fear of the formalities which would follow a sudden death in his inn, and he had already decided to beg the invalid to go and die elsewhere, when he was reassured by seeing the stranger again conscious.

This first thought of Signer Firpo was characteristic of our age, which, in place of giving the hand to the unfortunate, repulses him, and does not recognize in the poor the right to be ill. The first sentiment experienced to-day when men meet is that of suspicion or distrust. Indifference has replaced the ideal. Society has turned its back on the unfortunate, and its motto is egotism.

The innkeeper felt a little ashamed when he saw the solicitude of all his patrons for the unfortunate man. Nevertheless, he had no idea of harbouring during the night a traveller who fainted so easily and who had no baggage. Genoa is not far off. There are hospitals there, thought he. I must see that he leaves as soon as possible.

What would have been the exasperation of the honest Firpo if he had known that hunger was the cause of the fainting?

For the present he did not announce his charitable intention on account of his guests who gathered around the new-comer. A common feeling of compassion and charity drew these strangers to each other. They fraternized like old friends, conversing now in French, now in Italian, in order to understand each other.

The woman sought with her delicate hands the wound on the young man's head, whence flowed the blood which stained his temples. The men talked in low voices about the accident, and with a forced smile the stranger muttered feebly:--

"It is nothing! Pardon and thanks! But the heat--fatigue--" "Or rather hunger," added the spectators, looking at the poor fellow whose sunken cheeks showed that they were right.

Gradually calm was again established. Some one advised the invalid to take a little wine, and the woman brought him her own glass after having filled it. He raised it to his lips, thanking her timidly.

"Will you come and sit with us, monsieur?" said she drawing near him; "after a little rest this weakness will pass away." Then she added:--

"These accidents are sometimes succeeded by another, and it will be prudent to be near us. We can watch over you. And if the question is not indiscreet, will you tell us whence you came and where you are going?"

"I go to Genoa, madame," replied the unknown.

"And you come from a distance?"

"Quite a distance, from France. I have travelled on foot, and am very weary."

There was a short silence. But the woman was curious and continued the rôle of interrogator.

"Then you are not a Frenchman?"

"No, madame."

"I knew it by your accent."

The other travellers approached the table where the stranger was seated, and the conversation became general. They talked of their travels, and during this time the invalid became stronger. His extreme paleness diminished as the blood circulated more rapidly in his veins. The woman fixed on him a maternal gaze.

"You are truly unpardonable," continued she. "Being subject to fainting, you ought not to have undertaken such a long journey alone and in such heat. Although Italy is safe in the vicinity of Naples, and has lost her legendary brigands, who no longer exist except in romances, you might have been assassinated or at least robbed in some lonely place on the route that you have taken."

The young man smiled sadly, hung his head, and replied in a low voice, "It would have been impossible, madame, to have followed your excellent advice. I had not the means to do so."

"Poor boy," murmured his fair questioner, "this is frightful!"

"I am an exile," continued he raising his head. "I am a Pole. I left my country on account of some college pranks for which I would have been sent to Siberia, with my future ruined. I hoped to find a warm welcome from compassionate nations. I sought it in Germany, in England, and in France. Everywhere beautiful words concealed a cold indifference. At last I thought of Italy. It has a people whose destiny not long ago somewhat resembled ours. Outlaws, they also sought from the world a little aid and sympathy. Alas!" He interrupted this involuntary confession, which had produced different impressions on his hearers.

He had at first somewhat chilled the company, who, however, soon submitted to a more generous sentiment, and felt themselves captivated by his frankness.

"We are, then, in a measure compatriots," said in Polish the blonde young man seated near the beautiful lady. "I am a little Polish, but Galician." The "but" sounded coldly on the ears of the outlaw, who nevertheless saluted him, and took in silence his outstretched hand.

The dark man with majestic features arose in his turn.

"I, also," declared he in a slightly ironical tone, "have the honour to present myself as in a measure your compatriot. I am Polish, but a Jew."

The Galician turned quickly toward the last speaker, who was warmly shaking the hand of the exile.

"In this general recognition," added the lady's second cavalier, "permit me also to consider myself as somewhat your countryman. We are brother Slavs, for I am a Russian, but outlawed. Give me, then, your hand."

"Outlaw or vagabond, it is all the same," said the man with the bronzed skin. "Permit me, then, as a brother in exile and vagabondage, as a pariah, to fraternize with you. I am a Tsigane, but a rich Tsigane, and that is a rare thing. It is the only reason why I am not rubbing down horses, and why I do not rob hen-roosts. Yes, messieurs, I belong to that condemned race who in the Middle Ages were driven out at the bayonet's point, and who are to-day under the supervision of the police. The only exception made is for our sisters under twenty years who have white teeth, a sweet voice, and la beauté du diable. To reassure you, I repeat, messieurs, that I am very rich; that, surely, is a corrective for the worst reputation. I am not, however, a Tsigane king. I am only an idler by profession." He laughed sardonically, watching the effect of his words, then continued: "I bear on my face the indelible witness of my origin. No magic water can whiten my skin. No cosmetic can conceal my race."

"Listen, messieurs," interposed the lady with vivacity, "if banishment and a nomadic life are the standard of your good-will, you can admit me to your society. My father was Italian, of that Italy which was not yet a country, but a 'simple geographical expression,' to quote Metternich. He emigrated voluntarily to England. My mother was of an old Irish family. My husband, Russian; and if that be not enough, my grandmother was Greek."

A little man suddenly advanced from the midst of the circle brandishing an enormous parasol. He was dressed with great care, and wore a pair of spectacles, with shoulder-straps crossed on his breast from which hung on one side a lorgnette and on the other a game-bag.

"Bravo! bravissimo!" cried he, taking a part in the conversation. "Pardon me for interrupting you, madame, but I desire to participate in this general introduction, and I flatter myself that I have rights which give me the priority. I am a Dane by birth. My mother was Scotch or English, my grandmother an Italian. I have long lived in France, and I believe that I am even naturalized. I hope, then, to have the right to dine in a company from all the world. What think you, my friends?"

There was a general laugh, and he was admitted with frank and joyous cordiality.

"I solicit the same honour," said the German with a heavy air; "I, also, am an exile." With these words he bowed and seated himself.

"The question of country," said the Dane, "is today a simple question of money. With a full purse one is everywhere received, everywhere naturalized; with gold one has everywhere the right of citizenship. No money; no country! No money; move on! The only real outlaw, the true pariah, is he who has nothing. With money one can buy as many countries as he desires. That is why I do not feel the want of one."

With these words he shrugged his shoulders and was silent, and one of the Italians arose.

"My friend and I," said he, "do not wish to be excluded from this charming circle, and we have both a title to be received among you. In the first place, we are artists, who are always nomads in body and spirit. And though we are Italians, one is a Roman, the other Venetian. And we can tender the hand to the Pole, for we are brothers in poverty."

"No! no!" cried the Pole. "You are not like us, despoiled of all. You know whither to fly from persecution. All Italy is open to you. You have a country, a king, and a government. We have only police, spies, executioners, and persecutors. We are always menaced with Siberia or death. Europe does not recognize even our right to exist."

These words, vibrating with despair, threw into the conversation the dramatic note. All the men in this motley society--Italians, Poles, Jew, Dane, and Tsigane--gathered around the little tables, and even those who were least inclined to make new acquaintances could not resist the general impulse. The ice had been broken by the fainting and the confession of the Pole.

We very often hesitate to make new acquaintances when travelling. The motive is usually a selfish one. Each encounter costs us some words of politeness, some courteous concessions, if our ideas are not in accord with those of our new friend. And all these concessions are a total loss, because before long we part at the next station. It is an expense that one can easily avoid. It is much pleasanter to be silent and to stretch one's legs without caring for a neighbour who will be gone in a few moments.

For once the guests of Sestri-Ponente forgot all considerations of personal comfort. The woman had communicated to all the sentiment of charity which had seized her.

Everything is contagious in this world, even virtue. A half-century ago, when there was less travelling, men were much more accessible to each other. To-day there passes before our eyes such a procession of specimens of human kind, from the prince without a crown to the prolétaire without a shirt, that one reflects that caution is necessary.

Man has become cosmopolitan, and he avoids sympathetic persons for fear he may become attached to them.

The landlord, concealed behind the door, felt reassured on seeing him whom he thought dying, under the protection of the whole company. This protection relieved him from obligations, the very thought of which was terrifying.

As a good action reacts on those who are the cause of it, the lady was radiant. She chatted with the Venetian and the Roman, interrogated the Pole, argued with the Dane, said some words to the Tsigane, even smiled at the phlegmatic German, and so charmed the whole company that each one commenced to dread the hour of departure. The conversation continued gayly as it had begun.

"I am not altogether a cosmopolite," said the lady; "man needs a country, and he who has none has one joy the less in his heart, one love the less in his life, and in his thoughts a hope and a consolation the less. Rather than want a country one ought to choose and create one to love, for it is necessary for a young man to have an ideal love if he has not a real one. However, love of one's country does not imply hatred of others. It is a beautiful thing this human brotherhood."

"Very well said," agreed the Dane, who, in order to put in his word, had left his macaroni. "But unfortunately, madame, this fraternity belongs only to fabulous and Utopian days, like the English republics and the patriarchal monarchies. It is a dream, like the imaginary cottages of lovers with idyllic roots and herbs for food, and the clear water of the rushing brook for drink; it is an idle dream, like any other nonsense that men have invented in this age of beefsteaks, of business, of bank-notes, and comfort. It is thousands of years since men coined the word 'fraternity.' Eh! madame, ask the Muscovite to love the Pole, and the English to love the French; demand, then, of the German to renounce his disposition to assimilate all the neighbouring provinces and to demand their ground for the cultivation of his potatoes; ask him then to cease singing the praises of his mother-country wherever he may be."

"Oh! oh!" said the peaceable German shaking his head. "Behold already a satire on the most inoffensive of men." Then he resumed between his teeth, "Oh! Schiller!"

"I have had the pleasure of reading all his works," replied the Dane, returning to his macaroni, "in a translation. He has written many beautiful things. But beautiful verses do not characterize a people, my dear German. I call you very dear, because I love exceedingly men in general, although I hate a few in particular. Well, very dear son of blonde Germany, I tell you, without remembrance of your monopoly of Schleswig and of Holstein, two principalities to which I do not belong,--I tell you frankly, Schiller, Goethe, Kant, Herder, and Lessing are not Germans."

"How is that?"

"Listen, peaceable son of industrious Germany; do not fly in a passion. I know you, that is why I maintain that neither Schiller nor the others belong to you."

"To whom do they belong, then?" demanded the German, striking his knife on the table.

"They are geniuses like Shakespeare. They belong to the whole world, and not to His Majesty the King of Prussia. They are not as well known in the country that has produced them as in other lands."

"That is perfectly true," added the young Pole. "I feel that I understand Schiller better than most Germans, who go into ecstasies over his genius, and raise statues on all the street corners, and throw a flat contradiction over the poet's ideal by shutting themselves up in a narrow and egotistical nationality."

"Enough, young enthusiast!" interrupted the Dane. "You are twenty-one or"--

"Twenty-two," said the Pole.

"I will not permit you to discuss the subject of egotism yet. Wait a few years, until you become an egotist yourself. 'Nemo sapiens nisi patiens.' I admit, however, that you have comprehended my meaning very well, and that you have argued fairly."

A general laugh seized the whole company.

"With your permission," added the Dane, taking up his lorgnette, which he had placed on the table, "this threatens to become a rather long international conference. It is necessary that I should reinforce the inner man to sustain the discussion. Macaroni is very 'filling,' but does not nourish overmuch. I shall send for something more substantial. Decidedly, these Italians for many generations of stomachs have cultivated an exaggerated taste for macaroni."

"Do not trouble yourself about us!" replied the lady smiling.

"Monsieur Pole," continued the loquacious Dane, "do not be offended if I invite you brusquely to dine with me. It is simple egotism. When I eat alone I am not hungry. To see any one eat gives me an appetite, and I divine in you a Polish stomach."

The young man blushed deeply and murmured, "But--but"--

"No buts. It is a service which you can render me. Eat like a wolf; I will enjoy looking at you in coveting your appetite."

With these words he sighed with regret and knocked on the table. A waiter in his shirt-sleeves came running in. Each one ordered his dinner. The conversation flagged, and the German, gloomy and indignant, went and seated himself in a corner.

"Monsieur is provoked," said the Dane to him; "but monsieur is wrong. I esteem your nation very highly, and I render justice to all its general qualities. The Germans abound everywhere, like the trichina; and like it, the hardier they are the more surely they provoke the death of those who have received them. It is a credit to the people, though it be an offence in the trichina. If you dislike my opinion read Heine, who justifies me in all points."

The German made a gesture of contempt.

"Heine, a Jew!" said he in a low voice.

The Dane alone heard him, and leaning towards his companion added, in an undertone, "I fear you will soon be obliged to seek your future where Heine saw it." Then lower still he pronounced this word, a title in one of Heine's works,--"Hammonia!"

After a short colloquy the two men evidently came to an amicable understanding, for they shook hands.

The menu for the principal meal at the Albergo della Grotto was as follows: First a thick brodo, a soup that alone with Italians supersedes their beloved macaroni. Then a dish of fried fish and one of stewed meat; that, to say the least, was a little suspicious, for it had come from Genoa in the heat of the day, and was certainly somewhat fatigued by the journey. Afterward a roast, then cheese and fruit.

The Dane grumbled, and said that the cooking was unworthy of the least of scullions; but the travellers were hungry, and they excused many shortcomings.

The Pole had overcome his embarrassment and ate with evident enjoyment, although he feared that his new friends would divine his long fast. His companion was not hungry, for he had eaten at Cogoletto. The unfortunate young man considered this meal a Godsend, for he was saving his last sou to return home. Having lost confidence in "human fraternity," he relied only on his own strength and economy.

"Am I permitted to ask where you are going?" said the lady, looking around the tables.

"As for me," said the one whom she had succoured, "I go, or rather return, to Poland. It is two years since I left it, and I return impelled by suffering and hope. Aged by my trials, I have left on the way all my illusions."

"I also return to Poland," added the Jew. "I consider it my country. Permit me to call it thus, for I love it, and that gives me the right."

The two men pressed each other's hands like brothers, whilst the Galician seemed to be looking for something under the table, and feigned not to hear them.

"I," said the Tsigane, "believe that I will go to Hungary. I say believe, for it is not yet decided; it is only probable. I have relations established there. They have left the tents of their tribe for more substantial dwellings. I wish to see them once more and to salute them in our ancient language. But for me every place is the same. I am never in haste; I have money, and wander where I will. My country is any spot that suits me, for there does not exist for us a country in the sense in which you use it. We have forgotten our land since we left it, and if we should return, she would not recognize her children. We should be like Epimenides when he returned and found that no one knew him."

"Well," said the Dane to the Pole brusquely, "you have made a wonderful journey, and in the most agreeable way. Necessity is often a blessing in disguise. How often have I wished to be obliged to go on foot, but, unfortunately, there has never been any urgent reason for doing so, and I have always listened to the voice of sloth."

"You wish for everything," said the Jew; "but at the same time you lack the will to obtain the object of your desires."

"That is true. But that which I long for most is youth!" replied the Dane.

"The route is truly charming enough to make one forget hunger and heat," said the Pole. "Walking along the shores of the blue sea, it seemed to me that the world was finished in emeralds and opals and sapphires. It was like Paradise,--an ideal land. What a poem is the ocean!"

"The ocean is not at all poetical," said the Dane; "it only seems so in your youthful enthusiasm. To me the sea speaks only of oysters and fish."

The lady smiled at this prosaic remark, and softly quoted,--

"O primavera! gioventù de l'anno!
O gioventù! primavera della vita!"

"I intend to visit Italy, and I am going to Genoa," remarked the German laconically.

"I, also," added the Dane.

"We go anywhere," replied the Roman and the Venetian.

"As for me," declared the Muscovite, "I am obliged to wander, because I cannot return to 'la sainte Russie' until"--

"Until the tempest explodes there," finished the Dane. "Was not that what you intended to say?" added he.

The Moscovite made an affirmative gesture.

"As for me, I shall prolong my voyage," murmured the Galician. "I wish to see Italy thoroughly."

"Then we are all bound for Genoa," resumed the lady; "this Genoa 'la superba,' that we can already catch a glimpse of here, and which I am anxious to reach."

"Madame, do not complain of the length of the route," observed the Jew. "The true happiness of life is in knowing where one aims to be, and then going slowly toward it. Genoa the beautiful is more beautiful at a distance than when near. The journey from here is ravishing."

"I know something of it, for I have come on foot from Marseilles," said the Pole.

One of the Italians launched out into enthusiastic praise of Italy "la bella."

"I am not surprised to find love of country even among the Esquimaux, but I cannot comprehend an Italian that does not love Italy. Where else can be found so beautiful a country? At your feet eloquent ruins of past ages, overhead a sky of unequalled beauty, and everywhere wonders, with a climate which restores life to the dying. Italy reigns queen of the world; they have plucked the diadem from her brow, but she still continues calm and majestic. Barbarians have chained her beautiful hands, but she will soon rise again and shake off her fetters. Tell me, do you know a more beautiful land?"

"I know one," replied the Pole mournfully. "A gray sky envelops it; its soil is stained with blood. The cemeteries alone speak of the past, and through these burial-grounds pass often despairing groups of chained men. It has no sapphire sea,--nothing but the cold, icy wind. But it is the altar of innumerable sacrifices,--it is my country."

The Italians nodded their heads, and the Tsigane smiled ironically.

"What matters it to a man," cried he, "whether he be here or there! Life is short, and death will soon oblige him to return to the darkness whence he came. Let us not become attached to anything or anybody. It is not worth the trouble."

"What an error!" interrupted the lady; "it is by the heart that one lives. All else is the bitter peel of the fruit."

"In that case one must become accustomed to the peel," said the Tsigane shrugging his shoulders.

A servant came to announce to the lady's cavaliers that their carriage was ready, and he believed it his duty to add that the diligence was also waiting at the door to take the other travellers to Genoa. This interruption had the effect of a cold douche on the company, and a cloud passed over their countenances.

"Thus," said the lady sighing, "we must separate. Destiny pushes us on again like the galley slaves who wish to stop on the way, and are relentlessly forced onward by their keepers. God alone knows if we shall ever meet again!"

"No, we cannot tell," rejoined the Dane, adjusting his lorgnette; "but we shall certainly meet again the types which we resemble. As for myself, I am convinced that I have seen you all already somewhere, and that I shall meet you again, but perhaps under a form less attractive."

This odd idea did not please the lady, who was no doubt offended at the thought of being considered an ordinary woman.

"As for me, monsieur," said she haughtily, "this is the first time in my life that ever I saw you, and I tell you that"--

"That you do not desire to see me again?"

"That is not exactly what I was going to say. However, your belief in types and not in individuals shocks me, I acknowledge. For what man has then a perfect ideal?"

"Men are but men, be certain of that, madame. I affirm more: to believe in a variety of men is dangerous; there are only certain types many times repeated. We often think to find a new man, an unknown; but we soon recognize an old acquaintance who, between you and me, does not amount to much."

"In the abstract you are right, monsieur," said she, glancing at the Russian, who smiled, and at the Galician, who appeared not to listen. "But," added she quickly, "we will not grieve about it. En route and Au revoir!"

"Au revoir! but where?"

"At Genoa."

"At what place?"

"At Aqua Sola," said one of the Italians; "there is good music there, and there we may easily find each other."

Every one arose and saluted the lady, who held out her hand to the young Pole and wished him better health.

The rest of the company prepared to leave, wishing each other a pleasant journey. The Dane took the diligence and the Tsigane an omnibus. The Italians went on foot. The German found it economical to glide into the vehicle of the propriétaire, in the midst of tomatoes and fruits.

"We will go together," said the Jew to the Pole. "I do not wish to part with you. I have a carriage, and if you will not come willingly I shall employ force."

"But I have no right to trouble you."

"On the contrary, you will do me a service. Solitude fatigues me, and your company will distract my thoughts. It is a genuine favour that you will grant me. Come, no more doubts. Give me your hand, brother, and think no more about it."

From the threshold of the inn the landlord saw the departure of the invalid with great satisfaction. And his joy was augmented by the fact that all had paid well, and that his first care now was to prepare a second dinner.

"What good luck," said he to himself, "that that young stranger should have fallen into the hands of those people. If it had not been so he might perhaps have committed suicide here, and I should have been obliged to bury him at my own expense, for he did not appear to have a heavy haversack, and I do not believe he had a sou. May God deliver me from any more such tourists! Yes, I have had a lucky escape."

CHAPTER II.

[JUDAISM AND POLAND.]

The two men traversed in almost uninterrupted silence the short distance which separated Sestri from Genoa. The route is simply a continuous line of straggling hamlets. On one mass of rock arose the ruins of an old tower; above the door was the image of the Virgin, patroness of the city. The light-house appeared in the distance, then the harbour, like an amphitheatre around which Genoa la Superba is built. This beautiful city is seen to best advantage from the sea. It is a city of palaces, with its colonnades, its porticos and staircases, its streets climbing toward the sky or sinking in sudden precipices. It has been likened to an enormous shell thrown up by the waves of the sea. The marine monster who lived in this shell has been replaced by a miserable spider; a life full of littleness has succeeded the life of grandeur of past ages.

In this marble city the inhabitants to-day are somewhat embarrassed. The shell is too large for them,--this shell, in the bottom of which the turbulent Genoese Republic vied with Venice in its traffic and its aristocracy. New peoples are there, new ways. The Balbi and Palaviccini palaces now have the appearance of tombs, while at the port the modern Italian struggles for precedence in a new form of existence, perhaps as full of pride as in the vanished past.

The carriage rolled softly through the streets which led to the interior of the city.

"Permit me to alight," said the young Pole suddenly.

"Why?"

"To go in search of lodgings."

"I thought it was agreed that we travel together?"

"Yes; but I wish to live alone. I tell you frankly that I have scarcely enough to finish my journey. It is necessary for me to seek cheap lodgings."

"Have you not accepted my fraternal offer to stay with me?"

"Yes, perhaps; but poverty has its pride, as wealth sometimes has its humility. Do not be angry because I wish to retain my independence. It is so good to be free, when liberty costs only a bad dinner and a wretched bed."

"I understand your scruples," replied the Jew. "If they were of any value I would heed them. I do not dream of chaining you to myself. My offer amounts to little, but it is made with a good heart, and if you find life with me insupportable you can leave me. In asking you to share my lodgings, if only for a night, I do not make any sacrifice, and you owe me no gratitude. Do not refuse. I can share with you without inconvenience, and it is you who will do me a favour. I am sad-hearted; solitude oppresses me, I do not wish to be alone. Come with me to my hotel. I do not ask you to amuse me, but only to be near me. My heart longs to overflow into the heart of a fellow-man. If I weary you, you are at liberty to leave me to my sufferings."

"It would be foolish for me," said the Pole, "to refuse such a courteous invitation. Pardon my too susceptible pride. It was owing to my poverty."

"I honour the sentiment," replied the Jew smiling. Then he cried to the driver, "To the Hotel Féder!"

The Hotel Féder, like most of the hostelries of Genoa, of Venice, and of other Italian cities, is an ancient palace appropriated to this new service. The structure, half antique and half modern, has a strange appearance. At the foot of the court, obscure and abandoned, trickles an old fountain; a narrow path passes under the windows of the chambers, and on every side can be discovered traces of former grandeur, relics of a romantic age now superseded everywhere by the plain practical life of to-day, whose chief end is money-getting.

The companions obtained a large room on the third floor with two beds, the windows of which commanded a fine view of the port, bristling with masts, like a garden of shrubs despoiled of their leaves by winter. In the distance the Mediterranean could be seen stretching away to the horizon.

They had hardly entered the room when the young man fell exhausted into a chair, and seemed about to swoon for the second time. Some cologne revived him, and a slight repast soon dispelled his weakness, the result of long fasting and excessive fatigue. His strength returned with rest and nourishment.

"And now," advised the Jew, "lie down on this couch, or perhaps it would be better to go to bed."

"If you will permit me?" asked the young man timidly.

"Nay, I beg you to do so."

"And you?"

"Oh, I will see Genoa this evening. Never mind me. I will amuse myself; all I ask of you at present is to sleep; and, mind, you must not even dream."

He took his hat and cane and left the room. The young man fell like one dead on the bed, and was asleep before his head touched the pillow. Fatigue is not the same in old age as in youth, for then sleep soon restores the exhausted energies.

The young traveller was awakened from his profound slumber by the discordant braying of the asses grouped under the windows of the hotel. He had forgotten the events of the past evening, and threw an astonished glance around the luxurious apartment. He who had for so long a time been accustomed to sleep in miserable lodgings now awoke in a pleasant room, and saw a simple but abundant breakfast spread out on the table beside him.

The Jew returned from a sea-bath, prepared to do it honour.

"Is it then very late?" murmured the Pole, rising from the bed.

"No, not very late. I arose early to enjoy the freshness of the morning. Have you slept well?"

"I know not."

"How is that?"

"I fell like a piece of lead. I rise as I fell without having stirred, without having moved even. I have slept the sleep of the dead."

"And how do you feel at present?"

"Strong as Hercules, thanks to you."

"Ah, bah! thanks to youth. Does your head ache still?"

"Not at all."

"Then let us attend to breakfast."

"You treat me too well, dear Amphitryon. This is a breakfast worthy of Lucullus and of the Sybarites. I have contented myself for a long while on awakening with a glass of sour wine and a piece of bread with cheese. A similar repast in the evening, and that was all. I cannot permit myself luxuries. I, a poor orphan, without future or friend, have never been pampered."

"It is not necessary that this should hinder your eating," interrupted the Jew gayly. "I am hungry, and will set you an example. Let us begin. We will become better acquainted."

"That is true; we do not even know each other's names."

"Very well. I have the honour to present you Jacob Hamon."

"And I," said the Pole in his turn, "my friends have christened me familiarly with the name of Ivas. In reality I am called Jean Huba. Huba, and not Hube, which is a German name. You will learn it if you know Poland a little, for I am from a Russian province, in the language of which Huba signifies champignon. It is like the Polish Gzybowski or Gzybowicz. This name became later an addition to the family name of the Pstrocki who came from Masovia to gain their living in a more fertile land. In full, I am Jean Huba Pstrocki ex Masovia olim oriundus, in Russia possessionatus et natus."

"Have you any kindred there?" asked Jacob.

"Neither kindred nor an inch of ground. I am an orphan in every sense of the word. My father, after losing his last cent, and seeing his little farm in Volhynie devastated by hail and other plagues, died, leaving me to the charity of men. From pity they sent me to school, where I passed the examination and entered the university."

"Why did you leave the country?"

"Because with us college pranks are considered as a crime; because we are not permitted to love our country, neither in its past nor future; because those who stifle seek the air. For writing some simple patriotic verses I was threatened with banishment to Siberia."

"Always the malady of the oppressed," remarked the Jew. "Where veterans are seen tearing up all their rights, the young try to reconquer, and, in their unreflecting enthusiasm, often find exile, misery, and death."

They both sighed, and Jacob asked:--

"Why do you dream of returning to a country from which you were obliged to flee?"

"I know not myself" replied Ivas sadly; "I only know that I return to my native land. Suffering has pushed me to it. I have not learned to live in any other country, and exile is to me intolerable, morally and physically. I left home believing that ideas of liberty, concord, light, and justice vibrated in the hearts of other men as in mine. Alas! society is not what I thought it. It has no place for the oppressed, no hand to hold out to the dying, no consolation to offer to the afflicted, no shelter to the proscribed. I return, then, to the country I have left. There, at least, beat some generous hearts, while in Europe"--

"Europe has grown old," interrupted Jacob. "She is afraid of quarrelling. The world is in the hands of charlatans who profit by the sufferings of martyrs. Truth is no more comprehended. They mock at her. Men who are crafty and unscrupulous profit by everything in these days. Self-interest is the only spring of human interest. The heart has given out its last spark of generosity, and the world is drifting towards scepticism and intolerance. Men pride themselves on unbelief, for liberty has degenerated into an unbridled license. Revolution has set up a pedestal for the ambition of impostors, and the apostles of progress make money out of their dupes. Fortunately humanity will grow better."

While he was speaking, the sun rose high in the heavens, and the heat, which was great, made it uncomfortable to walk abroad. The Jew closed the shutters, and the two companions continued their conversation in a subdued light and comparative coolness.

"I ought to make myself known to you," said the Jew, after a short silence. "We understand each other already, but my exceptional position requires explanation. Our acquaintance, which commenced near Genoa, will not end here, I hope. You can tell me more of yourself later on, but it is right that I should be the first to make a frank confidence. It is a courtesy that I wish to show to our new-born friendship.

"The word 'Jew' contains all my history. It tells my destiny, it divines my character. This known, the consequences are certain. The Jew, even while he has ceased to be a pariah in society, still remains no less an enigma. For several thousand years he has borne engraved on his forehead his holy mission,--a mission of, suffering, humility, and abasement. But from this deep abasement he comes out greater, to go forward toward the universal power he lends to the entire world. He builds and tears down thrones, dominates over governments, makes laws, and reigns in an invisible manner. It is with pride that I say it, the word 'Jew' has immense significance.

"Pardon me if I forget myself in speaking of the Jews. I feel myself a child of that great family on the foreheads of which the finger of Moses has inscribed the mysterious name--Jehovah.

"Before being a man I am a Jew. This word recalls much suffering, the first legislation worthy of humanity, the most ancient morals emanating from divine wisdom in the Ten Commandments.

"As God is eternal, so are his laws. When nations were wandering and lost in the by-ways of polytheism and of anomalism (if I can by this word express the absence of laws), the one God is manifested to us; and to us is communicated the sacred fire, which we have preserved during all ages.

"We are spread over the whole world, holding fast the word of God. During two thousand years we have not made proselytes: we have guarded the treasure for ourselves. The world is busy, toils and labours; and we live on, absorbed entirely in guarding this treasure. We are preserved in all our suffering, a distinct people, bearing everywhere our country in our hearts, in our holy books and our religious services, and in all the minute circumstances of life. But to-day, I fear, alas! that we have thrown from our shoulders this dear burden. The Jewish idea seems to have diminished with the cessation of persecution. But to return to my personal history.

"I was born of one of those Jewish families scattered in the Polish villages. You probably know something of the Jews in Poland, a country that I love as well as you do, and on which I can cast only one reproach. The Poles, though deeply imbued with the idea of human dignity, refused the name of man to all those who were not noble. Poland, like the Republic of Venice, has not known how to reform herself. Caste prevailed to so great a degree that she has preferred to perish sooner than adopt a new mode of existence, and risk all in the defence of liberty. Nevertheless, in the lives of these people I recognize a great and brilliant spirit like our own. In speaking of Poland, I do not call myself a Pole, for I am a Jew, and we are a distinct people, it matters not what land we dwell in. In judging Poland's past impartially, one can perhaps criticise, but must acknowledge that it is full of poetry; it is a Homeric epoch."

"Stop!" cried the young Pole, "you are a son of the present; do not excuse the past."

"Why do you speak thus?"

"Why? Because I was born in the midst of new ideas. I condemn the most brilliant epochs of our history, for they were the veritable cause of our ruin. We who are descended from those guardians of our rights are now their judges, and we justly consider as the greatest kings those who tried to crush the nobility to establish their own power."

"You are partly right. Nevertheless, when I meditate on Poland, she seems to me strange, frightful, at times almost savage, but always grand and magnificent, chivalrous and noble. No one has a better right than the Jew to condemn the Polish nobility, yet it is necessary to judge a nation without personal prejudice."

"We will discuss this subject at another time," interrupted the young man; "but there is really something strange in the fact that I, a noble Pole, should condemn the past more than you, a Jew. You are truly magnanimous!"

Jacob smiled, and said, "I am older than you, dear brother, if not in years, at least in experience. Suffering, labour, and meditation, and perhaps, also, the sorrows of bygone generations, have prematurely aged me."

"That is true; but tell me more about yourself."

"Do not be impatient. I cannot do otherwise. We will travel over a rocky road, like the mineralogists. Every time that we encounter a curious stone we will strike it with our hammer to find out what it contains. So we will pause to discuss different subjects. But do you not remember that it will soon be time to go to Aqua Sola?"

"Ah, yes! It is true that we shall meet my beautiful benefactress, who, like the Samaritan, gave me aid in my distress."

"This Italienne who bathed your temples with water, and at the same time, perhaps, lighted a fire in your heart. But between yesterday and to-day there is an abyss. Who knows how many will keep the rendezvous at Aqua Sola?"

"Do you think many will fail to put in an appearance?"

"Experience has taught me to count very little on engagements twenty-four hours old, and not at all on those dating back several weeks."

"The evening is still far off," said the Pole.

"Very far. The sun is yet high in the heavens."

"Then pray continue your autobiography."

CHAPTER III.

[EDUCATION OF JACOB.]

"Who does not love to recall the occurrences of youth, however sad? I cannot boast of happiness in my childhood, yet the memory of those days brings tears to my eyes, and I repeat that which is written in one of our books: 'Youth is a garland of flowers; old age, a crown of thorns.' Even in comparison with maturity, full of power and intelligence, those years seem to me strewn with flowers, although they were unhappy.

"My parents were descended from an important and once wealthy family, whose fortunes had declined for several generations. They found themselves for a time in the lowest degree of society, working in the village inns or occupying themselves in some little business or petty speculations in wheat or cattle. To speak frankly, my father was an innkeeper in a little village. He was a quiet, studious man, loving his books, and little calculated for business. My mother took care of everything. She was the second wife of my father, Joël, who had lost his first after the birth of a son, Joël, who was already well grown when I came into the world.

"Joël, the elder, was of a gloomy character, silent, concentrated, a dreamer. He was absorbed in abstruse speculations, and was happy only when he was left in undisturbed possession of his books. He was generally esteemed on account of his learning, but his family suffered from his inaptitude for business, which was for us a question of life.

"It has been, and is still, with the Jews, a traditional duty to amass wealth. This does not proceed from the character of the race, but from the conditions under which they live. The only rights accorded, or, rather, dearly sold, to the Jews can at any moment be revoked, suspended, or torn in shreds by the tribunal of the clergy. Where can justice be found? To whom can they complain? The Jew has been forced to seek in gold, which is worshipped by all nations, the means of obtaining justice, rights, and consideration. The poor Jew has no defence, no protection, but the head of the community to which he belongs. The Christians have, in a measure, made a religious duty of avenging the death of Christ on us; this Christ who was a Jew also. We are therefore obliged to cling to our money as the only safeguard, though the law of Moses condemns severely this love of gold. (Exodus xxii. 25.)

"My father could not be accused of enriching himself at the expense of others. In the end, plunged as he was in metaphysical studies, which made him forget the affairs of this world, he lost even the little hoard that had been saved with so much difficulty. All the care and labour fell on my poor mother, who was much younger, and therefore interested in the future. I had two sisters younger than myself, and my half-brother was much older.

"Our rural establishment consisted of a rented farm, and a tavern situated near a highway. The locality was much frequented. We were brought up in a continual bustle, which, however, did not disturb my father, who was too absorbed to notice it. My mother and two servants worked hard to satisfy their guests. It would have been a most profitable business, in spite of a neighbouring rival, if fortune had only smiled on us. But that which was made by the sale of brandy, hay, and oats was lost in other ways. In his transactions with the dealers in hides and cattle, my father always came out worsted. He attributed this ill-luck to the will of God; but my mother grieved bitterly over his lack of business tact. We grew poorer every day. The family jewels, my father's furs and clothes, all that we possessed of any value, were gradually parted with.

"The owner of the tavern was a noble. Fat, hearty, always gay and good-humoured, he was a viveur; a heart good enough, but terribly dissipated. He cared not for the morrow, provided that to-day was passed agreeably. At all times he required money. He was our plague, although he was not wicked. Every time that he sent for Joël my mother wept, for she knew that he would have to take money with him.

"At the manor-house, which was about half a mile from the tavern, there was always a gay company. When he was alone a single day, Micuta almost died of ennui. If no one came to amuse him, he ordered his horses, and went to visit his neighbours. His wife wept then, like my mother. She could not prevent his dissipation nor correct his faults, but, womanlike, she loved him in spite of all. To procure money with which to amuse himself was the sole object of this nobleman, and when he was told that he would ruin himself, he replied carelessly, 'Ah, bah! Providence will provide. I will die as I have lived.'"

"Such types," said Ivas, "are common with us. Every district possesses several Micutas."

"At the same time that he sent for Joël to bring him money," resumed the Jew, "his wife, Madame Micuta, sent to my mother, and begged her not to give him any. But how could she resist when he was determined to have his way at any cost? Joël always yielded to his demands. For his continual banquets it was necessary to have fish, meat, sugar and vegetables, spices and wine. And that was not all; the accounts increased, and my father was obliged to give his note and pay usurious interest.

"Naturally I, too young to understand the state of affairs, looked on the world around me, and found it wonderful. The tavern was always full of travellers. Behind our garden was a forest of oaks, where I loved to wander, listening to the warbling of birds and the rustling of the branches overhead. Now, I cannot interest myself thus in nature; human beings interest me more. It is not given to every child to grow up in such a turmoil, and in the midst of a crowd of strangers continually going and coming. From it I learned that there were many people in the world, and at the same time that many of them were strangers. I realized that all these people were preoccupied, and cared nothing for us. My mother, in these early days, could pay little attention to me, occupied as she was, while my father prayed and read. We knew that she loved us, but she had no time to caress or to amuse us. I became accustomed at an early age to live alone. My thoughts were my companions, and a secret mistrust separated me from men. I loved, however, to observe them and to penetrate their characters.

"I was still quite young when my father died, after a short illness. That day of mourning and lamentation is engraved on my memory. It was then that I pronounced for the first time the words, as is the duty of all Israelites whom the hand of God has stricken, 'Glory to Thee, equitable Judge, may Thy will be done.'

"After the old man's death, which left me an orphan, our landlord turned us out of the tavern in spite of my mother's entreaties. She rented a little inn situated near a mill, on the border of a forest. This place seemed pleasant to us, but here began hardships which children only do not feel. Instead of the incessant noise of our inn, full day and night, we now seldom saw any one, save that occasionally an individual came to the mill, and this ran only six months in the year, on account of lack of water.

"During this dull season we scarcely sold a barrel of brandy."

"Around the little cabin murmured the pine-trees, and the narrow path which led to the mill was overgrown with trailing vines and herbs. We lived in this solitude on black bread and vegetables furnished by our little garden. My mother grew more despairing every day, and appealed to her relatives and to those of my father, but in vain. We were in rags, but yet we children were not unhappy. Presently I reached the age for study. My mother grieved over her inability to have me taught, and I remember that one day she left us under the protection of a poor Jew of the neighbourhood, and was gone for some weeks. She returned a little more tranquil, kissed my forehead and said, 'Rejoice, my son, thou shalt soon have some one to instruct thee!'

"I realized so little the importance of this promise, that I was much more pleased with the sweet cakes which she brought me. You know what care the Israelites take in the education of their children, for it is in that way that we learn the laws and traditions of our people; it is, in a word, the shaping of our souls. From the rabbi, at five years, every boy ought to learn the Bible; at ten, the Michna; at thirteen, the Divine Ordinances; and at fifteen, the Gemara."

Seeing an expression of incredulity spread over the lips of Ivas, Jacob paused. "I am aware," said he, "that these books have been ridiculed to you by men who are antagonistic to us. They know only the outlines of their teachings, and that very superficially or by hearsay. It is, however, to these customs which appear ridiculous to you that we owe the fact that we have not disappeared from the face of the earth, nor become absorbed by other nations. Obscure as the text is, it merits our gratitude.

"I remember, as if it was yesterday, the arrival of my tutor. I was at the door of our cabin, when from a miserable vehicle alighted a being so deformed and of such a frightful appearance that he scarcely seemed human. The body of this creature was so bent by long study that he could not stand erect. He was hump-backed, and from his curved chest arose an enormous head, with a high forehead, from which shone a pair of piercing black eyes. His glance terrifies me even now in my dreams. It seemed as if he could penetrate one's inmost thoughts. The outer world was nothing to the owner of these eyes; he lived for books alone. Lame in one foot, he walked with difficulty, leaning on a cane. It was more of a hop than a walk.

"Such was my mentor. He came from the village, was called Moché, and was celebrated in the vicinity for his great learning. His knowledge of sacred literature was most extensive. He recited by heart long passages of the Talmud and of the Kabala, without omitting a word, without forgetting an accent. His life was devoted to the instruction of children and to self-culture. The world did not interest him; he lived entirely in the past. No doubt he would never have consented to come to us, had he not been attracted by two boxes full of rare books, the heritage of my father.

"Moché was a strict teacher, and insisted on the observance of all religious rules and traditions. He was a travelling encyclopedia which moved mechanically. I doubt if there ever was a more severe teacher. He fulfilled his functions without pity, almost with cruelty.

"Deprived so suddenly of my liberty, I was forced to embrace so many studies that I thought I should lose my reason and become a fool. But, at any cost, I must learn to be a Jew, or perish. Mechanically my head was filled with words, with long tirades which I had to repeat without stopping, each intonation of which, required by the sense of the phrase, had to be learned with care. In spite of the brutality of this method, it was a spur to my intelligence, which gradually opened and put itself in motion.

"I commenced to study with some understanding. It is difficult to determine what influence on the mind of a child the study of past generations has. It is certain that, on commencing the study of the Bible and the history of my people, I believed myself awakened from a dream after a long slumber. Once the first difficulties vanished, I applied myself so ardently to study that Moché was astonished. It was not his custom to encourage children by pleasant words, but he showed himself less severe toward me, without, at any time, becoming affectionate. The only thing that annoyed him was when I asked explanations of the passages which we studied. Then he was cross, and rapped my fingers with a little rod which served him for pointing out the letters. He wished to chase from my brain that which he considered premature pride. Moché often repeated to me, to pique me into emulation, that, following the rabbins, the world rests on the breath of children who learn the law of God, and not on the intelligence of savants.

"Laugh, if you will, but these remembrances have a great charm for me."

"That does not prevent me from laughing at your club-footed Moché," said Ivas.

"I do not dream of poetizing him. I even say that his severity rendered him almost a savage. Although he was always polite to my mother, he did not hesitate to reproach her for not keeping up our customs more rigidly. Then he would threaten to go away.

"For us Moché was a sort of bugbear. Yet when he was roused he became almost grand. Then the brightness of his soul became so apparent that you did not think of his body. When he recited to us the sufferings of Israel the tears rolled down his cheeks, he was excited almost to frenzy. His voice was broken with sobs, and he often sang the verses in an inspired voice. In these moments his hair was pushed back from his forehead, and his body shook with a nervous tremor, produced by extreme susceptibility and appreciation of the subject; his memory was prodigious.

"Such is a brief sketch of my master, not flattering, but very like him.

"It was he who made me read the first books of the Bible, or rather who made me weep over them. He was so conscientious that, having recognized in me a certain ability, he advised my mother to send me to a neighbouring town to finish my education.

"Thanks to him, at thirteen, following our custom, I read publicly in the Synagogue passages from the Holy Scriptures, and I was made one of the ten officiants of the temple, the number necessary for the assembly to be considered complete.

"It was exceedingly difficult for my poor mother to remove. But she resolved to use every effort in my behalf. Miserable as our existence was near the mill, it had some advantages, for our rent was very low, and we had fuel, thanks to the woods which surrounded our cabin, and vegetables from our little garden. In the town we should have had to pay for everything, even water. How could we live? How could she do it? How transport her children thither? And after getting there, on what resources could we subsist?

"While my mother racked her brain to find an answer to these questions, my half-brother, having already amassed a little fortune by selling hides, came to pay us a visit.

"This unlooked-for event was of great importance to us. We had not seen him for a long time. He was nearly thirty years old, and was married. His wife's marriage portion and a little heritage from my father formed a small capital, which he had known how to increase. The first year of his married life he had lived at the expense of his wife's parents, who were willing to do anything in their power. Afterward he established himself separately, and little by little increased his business. Fortune, which had frowned on our father, smiled on the son. This gave him courage; economical, cold, prudent, he devoted all his intelligence to the success of his projects. To be rich was his aim, and he was convinced that he should succeed. He was not yet well enough off to draw money from his business to aid us, but he brought us news of relations of my mother's, who, touched at last by her sad situation, sent her a small sum of money to invest in some business, the profits of which might educate my sisters and me. My mother wept with joy. We children were sad when we heard that we were to leave the mill and the forest, but we soon became accustomed to the life of a town.

"The elder brother was received with great affection. My mother asked him if he knew of any way for her to invest the money. Joël, who wished to increase his business, proposed that she invest the sum with him and share his house. She agreed to the proposition, and the next day, impatient for the change, sent for a vehicle to remove from the cabin.

"Here commenced the second period of my life. You have seen that my childhood was not cradled on a bed of roses, that I have suffered, and that suffering was the sun which hastened my development. As the sun's rays make the flowers blossom, so hardship forced my character to unfold. Those years have left me memories, for the most part disagreeable. Memories of ruin, of labour, of fighting against hunger, cold, and the contempt of men which paralyzed the intelligence, and prevented one from rising above bodily occupations. It is permitted to poets, or rather to those who give themselves out as such, to exalt in nature an impossible idealism and to rebel against materialism. But, alas! on regarding actual life, how many needs we have, and how much is required for mere existence!

"Man in full strength can battle with nature and poverty and come out conqueror. It is, nevertheless, very difficult to rid one's self of the cares of each day, the rock of Sisyphus which rolls back on us continually. The Jews were very numerous in our town; indeed, they formed the larger part of the population. We had a synagogue with which I was very much impressed, for until then I had seen only the miserable cabins which we used for places of worship. I could for the first time form a just idea of our religious ceremonies, and of the sabbath which draws us away from the world, restores us to God, and brings us nearer, in a measure, to our lost country. The baking of bread, a part of which is given to the poor, the setting of the table, the prayers in common, the blessing of the wine, all the customs recall the patriarchal epoch when God was with us, and took, in a way, part in human existence.

"To-day you Christians and we Jews have driven God from our presence, and we have forgotten him. Man made by the hands of the Creator believes himself a god, and anthropology is the contemporary religion.

"In my brother's house we dwelt in unity as one family, of which he was the head. The women prepared in common the evening meal, and what was needed for the morrow. When the hour for prayer in the synagogue arrived, an old priest rapped on the shutters three times with his mallet of wood, and we set out toward the temple bearing our books under our arms. The synagogue was an old building, dating from the sixth century. It had cost the community much money, for when they were building it the proprietor of the place, who was a Catholic, the Prince K----, had little toleration. The Jews, who had for worship only a little wooden house with a worm-eaten roof, solicited permission to build a new temple; which was granted to them only because money was needed by the proprietor, and it was not plenty just then, there having been a war. The Jews profited by his necessity to buy from the prince a plot of ground and the right to erect thereon a brick synagogue. The traditions of the neighbourhood speak of a colossal sum paid for the privilege. During the construction the workmen were ordered to undo their work, and to pull down the carved balls which ornamented the roof and made the synagogue more imposing than any of the surrounding buildings. However, such as it was, with its style much less Gothic than was planned, it seemed to my childish eyes fully equal to Solomon's Temple.

"I continued my studies with ardour. My teachers found in me much aptitude, and I had an insatiable desire to learn.

"Our little town, except on market-days, was not one of the most frequented, although it ranked among the most important. It was traversed by a thoroughfare on which a continual procession passed to and fro. Our co-religionists had founded a school here. As the Catholics had an important church, and the principal population was composed of the government employés, it was necessary, in order to remain unmolested, to pay without ceasing.

"I soon learned to conduct myself differently toward each person, according to his position on the social ladder.

"In general the Jew owes tribute to every one, commencing with the door-keepers of the Lords, and the wives of their door-keepers.

"One day returning from my class I found the house in a commotion. I feared at first that there had been an accident. The smiling faces reassured me. They awaited the arrival of an important person. My mother pulled me into the house, and ordered me to array myself in my best. My brother was already dressed. On the table there was brandy, with sweets, honey cake, white bread, spiced bread, and even a bottle of wine. I learned that he whom we were to receive with so much ceremony was my mother's cousin, a rich merchant from Warsaw. He was coming to decide about my future.

"I imagined in my childish brain a man of imposing figure with a long beard and a biblical costume recalling patriarchal times. I was still in this dream when a man appeared that I should have taken for a Christian. He was dressed differently from us, wore spectacles and a round hat. He had passed his first youth, had heavy eyebrows, large features, black eyes, and a smooth face. His complexion was rosy, his figure corpulent, and he evidently considered himself a man of importance.

"My mother told me to kiss the hand held out to me so majestically. Afterward he examined me attentively, caressed my chin, joked about the cap that I wore, and finished by blowing a cloud of smoke in my face from the cigar he was smoking. After the preliminaries, he said in German, in a patronizing voice, 'I think we can make a man out of this boy.' We all listened to him as to an oracle, because he was enormously rich, and my future depended on him.

"'What think you?' added he addressing my mother. 'I will take care of him, but not in your way.' Then turning to my brother he continued: 'There are already enough Jews employed in little ways, keeping taverns in the villages. The cause of it is our ignorance.'

"'Nevertheless,' replied Joël, 'this boy is not ignorant; he has been well taught, and he is now learning to read in the Gemara.'--'Ah! What does he want of the Gemara? Do you think of making him a rabbi? It is necessary for us in these days to go everywhere, and not remain in a corner! Why these ear-rings in the ears? Why that iarmulka? These are all remnants of the Middle Ages. The time of our persecution is almost past. The world opens to us. We must be ready to play an important rôle. The Jew has good sense and judgment, which he has preserved through hundreds of years of suffering. Why can he not enjoy the same advantages as Christians? Why is not our education as well developed as theirs? With that we can remain Israelites in the bottom of our hearts.'

"In spite of their respect for this wealthy kinsman my mother and my brother could not agree with him, for his remarks shocked their traditional ideas. Without noticing this impression he continued:--

"'I ought not to forget that I am a Jew, and to keep my faith in the citadel of my soul, but outwardly appear in the world on an equal footing with other men, as all sensible Jews do, in strange countries, and even in the kingdom of Poland. I have examined this lad attentively. He is worthy of Israel. I will occupy myself with his education, but we must send him to the Christian schools. He must commence to go to them here. Afterward send him to me, and I will take care of him.'

"'You are our benefactor!' cried my mother. 'But you know that many of our people have abandoned their belief, and are equally despised by the Jews and the Christians. How, then, will he preserve his paternal traditions?'

"'And why should he not preserve them? You must banish your puerile fears, otherwise he will vegetate like a good-for-nothing in rags and misery, where you are, instead of being like me. I still remain a Jew. I go to the synagogue, and I observe the law, but no doubt less strictly than you.'

"All this conversation is engraven in my memory, and it fixed my destiny.

"Having learned that our kinsman had arrived from Warsaw, Abraham Machnowiecki, the oracle of the Jews in our town, came to pay us a visit. His was a common type in our community; he was a Polish Jew of the old school, a Polish Israelite, though he could not give so complete an account of his descent as Mickiewicz has so well set forth in his Jankiel. Abraham was an important man in his part of the country. He had continual relations with all the proprietors. He knew their families, their situation, their business, in a word, all that concerned them. He was much interested in electoral meetings. He was consulted on all subjects, and in the most delicate affairs he was often chosen arbiter. He was esteemed because he was worthy of esteem; he was received everywhere with courtesy, and offered a place of honour, while his co-religionists were left standing at the door. Without Abraham nothing of importance was done. His bearing was full of dignity; he was very tall, and wore a white beard, which fell almost to his girdle. His ordinary costume was a black redingote, a czapka of sable, and in summer a wide-brimmed felt hat. A silver-headed cane completed the dress, by which he was recognized from a distance.

"In his dwelling, which was one of the best of the neighbourhood, there were always visitors on business. He was the banker of half the proprietors, and he lent or procured money.

"The science of Abraham went no further than that of most Jews, but he had a quick intelligence and a great knowledge of men. His predominant quality was an imperturbable calmness. He was never annoyed, never gave any signs of impatience, and showed in all things an undisturbed moderation. He was not communicative, words came slowly from his lips, and he was thoroughly trustworthy. Very much attached to his faith and its customs, he was yet not a fanatic.

"This oracle so generally respected was absolutely devoid of pride. He did not demand the consideration which was naturally given him.

"The appearance of Abraham at our house was rare, and you may infer that this extraordinary circumstance was owing to an invitation from my mother, who felt the need of his advice. Our elegant kinsman seemed less sympathetic before the grave Abraham. His somewhat frivolous manner became more offensive compared with the conduct of the other Israelite, who was, at the same time, dignified and amiable. The meeting of these men--one of whom, a free thinker, had lost almost all traces of Judaism; the other, a biblical character--was very interesting and aroused my curiosity.

"Our relative, in all the pride of a man full of his own importance, was hardly polite to the old man. My mother's cousin did not abandon his cigar, and began to laugh on regarding the Jew's long curly hair, iamulka, the old-fashioned costume, and gigantic cane.

"It did not take Abraham long to recognize in our kinsman a type of modern Jew that he had often met before.

"'It is very kind of you,' said he, 'to take an interest in this unfortunate family. Would to God every one would do the same! The book Nedarin says: "Honour the sons of the poor who are the brightness of our religion."'

"'I wish to do so truly,' replied the Varsovien carelessly. 'I wish to make of this young relative a sound and healthy branch of our community. That is why I have proposed to send him to school with the other children.'

"'You will cast him in the fire to see if he is gold? If he be gold, he will remain gold; if he be of base metal, he will melt.'

"'They tell me he has good faculties. It is necessary to develop them.'

"'Provided that he does not lose his faith. That is why I think that it will not do to remove him from our schools until he is well grounded in his religion. When the potter wishes to make an impression on a vase of clay, he sees that the vase goes to the studio soft and plastic.'

"'How old is he?' asked our cousin.

"'Thirteen years.'

"'You have probably,' continued he, 'a good common school here; he must go to it.'

"'Why not?' replied Abraham; 'but the poor child will suffer much.'

"'Who, then, has not had trials? You see me. I am worth to-day two millions, perhaps more, and I commenced by selling blacking and matches in the streets.'

"The old Abraham murmured in a low voice a text from the Book of Judges which said: 'One must endure the sun's bursting rays because it is indispensable to the world.'

"Then he put his hand on my head and blessed me, praying in a low voice, reassured my mother, and the conversation became general. Child as I was, I remember this scene very well. It was shared by many listeners, for the Jews had come from all sides to see this great personage who honoured us with a visit. Our cousin entered into the development of his ideas, which were that the time had come for the Jews to go out and mingle with the world, and to leave the narrow circle where they had remained so long from an exaggerated fear of losing their faith and nationality.

"'We have suffered long enough,' said he. 'We ought to enjoy ourselves to-day, and occupy the place which belongs to one of the most ancient peoples of the earth. We possess rapidity of conception, facility to acquire all the sciences and arts; we have money, which levels everything, and at the same time we are united, and this cohesion can accomplish great things. Why then stagnate scattered in these little country towns? Why not strike out? See the Jews of other lands. You find them in the ministry, the parliament, and in high positions. They march to the conquest of civil and political rights, wherever these rights are still refused them.'

"Abraham listened without contradiction, and appeared sad and thoughtful; as to our other co-religionists they heartily agreed with our kinsman. He finished by citing as example a celebrated Jew.

"This was an epoch which was not soon forgotten in our little town. It provoked a movement which swayed the whole community, with the exception of a few old conservatives. I remained at home the rest of that year, then I entered the common school. It was the first time that a Jew had seated himself on a bench beside Christian children. I knew beforehand what awaited me, but that which I endured surpassed my worst fears.

"The larger part of the scholars were the children of petty nobles or of the bureaucracy, students well grown. Their instincts were more than cruel. It was a veritable torment,--torment unceasing. I grew accustomed to continual attacks, and passed in silence the insults which were showered on me. Jokes about pork were met with, even in the mouths of the masters; what could I do but keep silence? My humility and silence were a sort of defence, The first days were intolerable; but, little by little, I became accustomed to my comrades, and they to me. After a while they left me in peace on my solitary bench. The new method of teaching was strange to me, but awakened in my mind a desire to excel. The knowledge that I had accumulated increased. I resolved to continue my studies, and to wait until the strength of science and of the truth enlightened my mind."

CHAPTER IV.

[AQUA SOLA.]

As he finished his sentence, Jacob perceived that it was growing late. He remembered the rendezvous at Aqua Sola.

"I feel," said he, "that you are bored. Excuse me, kind listener. It is the only mode of recital that I understand. I cannot be brief, but must digress. To render my story intelligible, it is necessary to infuse life and colour."

"No excuse is necessary," replied Ivas. "I am in no hurry to know the end; let us go slowly."

"Yes, we will finish it later on; but now it is time to go to Aqua Sola."

The evening had brought with it a little freshness. Many had already left old Genoa for the new part of the city. The streets called Nuova, Nuovissima, Balbi, and Aqua Sola were full of people. The men were dressed more or less in costume, and the women were enveloped in floating white veils which only partly concealed their graceful figures.

The companions walked through the dark, narrow streets until they arrived at the hill, which is the only point of verdure in that city of marble.

"I am very curious," said Ivas, "to know if we shall find many of our late companions at the rendezvous."

"Well, we shall see presently," said Jacob. "A day is long, and human nature changeable." They soon came to the steps which led to the promenade, in whose centre murmured a fountain, near which a fine band sent forth its inspiring strains. The crowd was compact: a Genoese crowd composed of soldiers, workmen, and priests, of sunburnt women, and tourists, among whom were many English. Aqua Sola is not much frequented by the aristocracy, who shut themselves up in their palaces or villas, nor by the bourgeoisie, who have their gardens at Nervi. One, therefore, meets at Aqua Sola two classes only,--the tourists or the regular habitués.

Jacob and Ivas strolled slowly along the principal walk, talking of the country and of the future of humanity. They had not yet noticed the arrival of the phlegmatic German, who had been distinguished for his silence at the Albergo della Grotto; but he soon approached them, and smilingly said: "I am very happy to meet you again, messieurs, and to be able to inquire for our invalid of yesterday. At the same time, I will excuse myself for not remaining long in your society. I have a chance to hire a veturino at half-price to Pisa. I shall have for a companion the privy councillor, Zuckerbeer. We leave to-day."

"What a pity!" cried Jacob in German, not wishing to inflict the French language on his interlocutor, and desiring also to escape torture himself from the execrable pronunciation of the compatriot of Goethe.

"What a pity! We should have had such a pleasant time together this evening."

On hearing his native language, the German beamed on him and smiled; but, in spite of the temptation to remain, he sacrificed pleasure to duty. Order and economy were his two predominant virtues, and the society of the privy councillor would be a consolation.

"The Councillor von Zuckerbeer," said he, "counts on me. I have given him my word; I am, therefore, absolutely obliged to go."

Jacob no longer urged him. He saluted, and said farewell, in the valley of Jehoshaphat. The German said adieu to his acquaintance of the day before without much regret. At the bottom of his heart he feared that the Pole was a dangerous revolutionist, a republican conspirator, an admirer of Garibaldi and Mazzini. If so, he was wise to renounce in time such a compromising acquaintance.

He had hardly disappeared when the Tsigane presented himself; smiling as ever, he fanned himself with his handkerchief; his waistcoat was unbuttoned, but the heated temperature seemed, nevertheless, very agreeable to him. He was in good spirits, and his expression was as joyful as was possible to one with such features.

"Well," cried he, "how do you like Genoa? For my part I find too much noise, too many asses bearing casks, and too few men by comparison, and the air is full of bad smells. It has the colour of the Orient, but the Orient is lacking. I will concede to you that Genoa possesses the perfumes of Constantinople. Oh! my poor olfactory nerves! What torture! Were we presented to each other yesterday? I have a bad memory, but you already know that I am a Tsigane, and, perhaps, my race will inspire you with aversion."

"You are wrong there," said Jacob, "for I have no aversion to any race."

"My name is Stamlo Gako," said the Tsigane. "My father was at the head of his tribe. But I have abandoned the collective wandering life for solitary vagabondage. I am thus, as you see, alone in the world. I would have been still using the same old pans and kettles had it not been for my beautiful bass voice, which gained me a place at the theatre. I saved some money, and invested it for the first time in the lottery. I won a large sum of money. Some of this I scattered in extravagance, but I kept enough to place me above want for the rest of my life. It is agreeable to me to live in idleness. I go or I stay, as I choose, but my forehead is marked indelibly. No one sympathizes with me, and I am indifferent to the world. A stupid life, if you will; but I would not change it for any other, for I am attached to it. I have no duties; that is to say, I am freed from everything,--from all belief, all hope, and all occupation. I weary myself comfortably, and my idleness is well ordered. In winter I go north; one suffers less there from the colds, on account of the houses being well warmed. I live in hotels, I eat well, I make passing acquaintances, I frequent the theatres, and in summer I go to Italy and sometimes return to my people in Hungary. There are yet there some individuals of my race and of my blood, but fortunately I have not a single near relative to persecute me. Hungary is for me a sort of home. I have learned to read, and a book with well-turned phrases serves me admirably to kill time, but in general I consider literature as useless. The best books contain more folly than reasonable thoughts. All human wisdom can be written on the palm of the hand."

"I am without country, like you," said Jacob, who had perceived that the Tsigane had drunk a little too much, "but I look on life differently. I have an aim, for I have brothers among men. You, who are better-informed than other Tsiganes, you can do much for your people if you will. It would be a grand thing for you to become a reformer and benefactor to your people."

"What would you do with the Tsiganes?" replied Gako showing his white teeth. "We are only a handful of living beings that God or the devil has thrown on the earth. What would you do with a cursed race without ambition or place? At least, do not ask me to conduct them to the Ganges, whence it is said they originally came. 'You shall perish!' such is the sentence against us. And we are perishing slowly. We shall disappear in time. Look at our women! At Moscow, singers and dancers, fortune-tellers and jades, always among the ragamuffins and beggars. In what language shall I speak to them of the future? Do the brutes understand anything? Like fruit that falls from the tree, we are a decayed people without root."

"Then change your nationality."

"Petrify myself! never! We will be Tsiganes as long as it pleases God. In the night of the ages," added Gako in a mysterious voice, "there was a terrible crime which we expiate, some fratricide of which we cannot wash our hands. I possess all that can make man happy on this earth, yet I shall never be happy. I have counted the number of days that I have to live. I will submit to my destiny."

Just then the two Italians arrived--Alberto Primate and Luca Barbaro.

They had a contented and satisfied look. They breathed their native air voluptuously, trod the soil of Italy, and viewed with joy the tri-colored flag floating in the breeze.

Luca Barbaro carried a sketch-book in his hand, Primate, a roll of music.

"Greeting, brothers," said the first. "How is your health? This delicious temperature ought to completely cure you. What do you think of good old Genoa?"

"She reminds us somewhat of the Middle Ages," replied Jacob.

"Does she not speak to you of the future?" asked one of the Italians. "Do you not then feel that delicious breath of springtime which promises to all nations a garland of flowers?"

"Utopist!" interrupted the Israelite sadly. "The springtime comes not at the same time for all lands. Men are brothers in words, but not in deeds. Each one is ready to become a fratricide in self-defence. Little by little humanity will perhaps come out of the shadows of servitude, of charlatanism and egotism, which stifle all generous tendencies in order to satisfy the thirst for gold and grandeur."

"Do not blaspheme!" cried Luca. "I believe in humanity. It is possible that there is a handful of vile reactionists and a band of miserable charlatans, but in general men are the sons of God. By music, painting, literature, and devotion, souls will open, all hearts will be purified, intelligence will develop, virtue will spread abroad, and soon a luminous springtime will brighten the world."

"Amen!" cried Primate; "amen! But I have a question to ask you. We have come here to rest, have we not?"

"Yes! Yes! Certainly!"

"Very well; for once let us leave the subjects of philosophy and politics. Leave all that to the reactionists. Let us amuse ourselves with art and with life."

Luca kissed his compatriot's forehead. "Poverino! he is wearied by me, for I have given him no rest. He bears in his heart three things only: woman, love, and music."

Just then the group was augmented by the Dane.

"Plague take it!" said he; "if I had known that la belle dame would not be here, I would not have tired myself out to join you. I had a great desire to go to the theatre; primitive and barbarous as it is, I might have passed an agreeable evening there. I have been drawn to Aqua Sola by the remembrance of two lovely eyes, a little faded, perhaps, but full of expression. If she had been coming she would be here by this time. I have been deceived."

"You have yet time to go to the theatre," said the Tsigane indifferently, as he lit his cigar.

"Very true! But if, by chance, she should come. She, the unknown. She? Who is she?"

"A retired artiste singing only occasionally, as she has told us herself," replied the Tsigane; "a priestess of Thalia. I doubt if she is a Vestal. Hum!"

"Widow," added Luca.

"A widow! The title is appropriate. But she is escorted by two admirers," said the Dane: "a Russian and a Pole. Who are they? Are they rich or poor? How long has she known them? Chi lo sa?"

"Chi lo sa?" repeated Primate.

And Barbara added: "We know that the Russian is a refugee. If, in leaving his country, he has brought his purse with him he is a dangerous rival, for the Russians are said to be fabulously rich. It is said that each noble receives from the Czar his share of the gold mines of the Ural Mountains. But if in saving his head he has not saved his purse, and if he has no private resources, he becomes much less vulnerable. As for the young Galician, he has his youth, which is a capital. But you, messieurs, as Poles, can better judge of the worth of your compatriot."

"The Galician nobles," said Ivas, "ordinarily bear the title, more or less authentic, of Count. Many of them have been rich, but since 1848 they frequently give themselves an appearance of riches. I do not believe that the young man is a dangerous rival."

"Behold her! Behold her!" cried the Dane suddenly, perceiving the brunette at the end of the street, looking more attractive to-day than yesterday. "What do I see? She is alone with the Russian! A bad sign! The Galician was evidently in the way. The plot thickens! Yesterday when there were two gallants there was room for a third; but when there is only one it is difficult for another to get a foothold."

"He is very wise in the art of loving," remarked the Tsigane.

The charming Lucie Coloni approached. She was, in reality, in the full height of her beauty, and she had had time to augment her many attractions by the toilet. Her eyes were humid without having wept, and a sweet smile played on her lips. The Russian accompanied her, appearing melancholy in contrast with her gayety. She went up to Ivas, and held out a little hand, elegantly gloved, asking with much solicitude, "Va bene?"

"Thanks, madame. No trace of yesterday's illness. The scar which remains on my temple will be for me an indelible souvenir of your goodness."

"Flatterer!" replied she, shrugging her shoulders.

The Russian affected an exaggerated politeness to show his ease of manner.

"We are not complete," said he.

"One is lacking," replied Jacob. "We shall see him no more. It is the German. He has found a cheap way of going to Pisa with a privy councillor, and he has profited by it. One does not travel every day with dignitaries, lately granted a von who knows for what secret service? This von, fresh and new, comes out of the bandbox with the perfume of a half-blown rose. But you also, madame, you have lost one of your companions."

"Yes, the count. He was obliged to leave this afternoon for Spezia."

"Yesterday he did not speak of this project," said the Dane.

The Russian seemed to be looking at the sea, a little of which was visible from where they stood. The lady bit her lips to avoid laughing, fanned herself negligently, and said:--

"I really do not know what has taken him. He was perhaps frightened by his compatriots. It is for you, messieurs, to clear this mystery."

"What country is this Galicia? The youth assured me that he was neither Polish nor Austrian, but a Galician."

Ivas and Jacob exchanged a smile, without replying.

"We will not wear mourning for him!" cried Ivas.

"I regret him, however," replied Lucie. "He would have become a very agreeable man, but as yet he resembles those Italian nuts shut up in a bitter shell."

They all laughed.

"Aqua Sola! How sweet the words sound!" continued she, walking at the head of the procession. "But how little it is, shabby, and even tiresome. What trees, what drops of water, a disagreeable crowd, plenty of dust, and only in the distance a glimpse of the sea! Povera Geneva!"

"And yet," observed the Muscovite, "what marvels were promised us."

The cosmopolite Dane profited by an opportunity to place himself beside the lady. This was too significant, and she gave him a haughty look which he did not perceive. This look seemed to say: "No use. No hope for you!"

Lucie occupied herself more with Ivas than the rest of the company. In a sweet voice she asked: "You go to Poland?"

"Yes, madame," replied he smiling.

"I am very superstitious," said she; "and as I also go to Poland, I consider it a good omen to have made the acquaintance of a Pole on my way."

"Poland, madame, is to-day an abstraction. There is no Poland, and yet there are several: Russian Poland, the Kingdom of Poland raised up by the Congress of Vienna, Prussian Poland, and Austrian Poland."

"I really do not know to which Poland I am going. Tell me, where is Warsaw?"

"It is, in a way, my native city. One of the ancient capitals of Poland, and the last; to-day the capital of that ideal Poland which is yet to be established."

"I lose myself in all this geography! Do you also go to Warsaw?"

"Yes, madame. But I do not know whether I shall arrive there, and whether, on arriving, I shall not be sent much farther toward the Asiatic steppes."

"You are very unfortunate, you Poles."

"Our misfortunes pass all conception. But do not let us speak of it. How is it, madame, that you go to Warsaw?"

"From curiosity only," replied she, lowering her eyes. "It is possible also that I may sing in some theatre."

"Oh! You are sure to be admirably received. Colonel Nauke is very fond of Italian music, and as soon as he knows"--

"You will introduce me to him?"

"I, madame, it is impossible! I shall be obliged to conceal myself. To be seen would be for me death or exile."

"If I could at least meet you there!"

Ivas sadly shook his head. The Dane, very attentive to the conversation, concluded that she intended to leave the Russian, who, of course, as he was a refugee, could not return to the land of the Czars.

This idea did honour to his acquaintance with political geography, of which nearly all European journalists are absolutely ignorant.

"And you go alone?" asked he.

"No, not alone. But, monsieur, you annoy me with your questions. Really I do not know yet what I shall do, and I do not like to speak of the future. That will be accomplished in one way or another. Chi lo sa?"

"I am ready to follow you to the end of the world!" cried her cosmopolite adorer enthusiastically.

"You are jesting, monsieur, and I do not like jests of this kind. In any case, I do not count on you as a companion."

"What a pity that she is so savage!" said her admirer to himself.

The Russian listened passively, without mingling in the conversation.

"I am very curious to visit Poland and Russia," said Lucie Coloni. "They say that the Poles and Russians understand and love music, that they are enthusiastic dilettanti."

"There have been such instances in Poland," said Jacob. "In regard to Russia I know nothing. But monsieur can tell us that in his country they love art less than the artistes. In Poland there is now room only for a single sentiment. The future has but one aim. Do the witches of Shakespeare watch at the dark cross-roads, or will the angels lend their aid? God alone knows. From Warta to the frozen sea the earth is in travail, hearts beat with violence, the battle is preparing, there will be something frightful which will shake the very foundations of the earth. What song, sweet though it be, can be heard by ears which await a signal which will sound like a thunderclap?"

"Perhaps," said Lucie, "I shall have the happiness of singing your song of triumph."

"Or a death hymn," added Jacob sadly.

"Or rather a song intermezzo which makes one forget the tragedy of life," replied la Coloni. "I grant to you that this Europe, cold, dull, dead, worn out, blasé, has for me the effect of a withered bouquet picked up out of the dust. It has no longer a spark of vitality."

"Behold a sally that astonishes me, coming from you," cried the Dane. "Europe when she was young was frolicsome; maturity has arrived, but has not taken away all her charms. To-day children are born reasonable. The young man of nineteen has a drunkard's pride to drain the enormous cup to the bottom. More barriers on life's grand highway! More toll-money! Go where you will, paths open before you. More proscriptions, more laws, more prejudices, binding us. Fresh surprises! Everything is possible."

"And nothing is worth much; nothing is good," added Lucie.

"Madame," cried the Italian musician, "before continuing your invective, deign to hear me."

"Very willingly, monsieur."

"Will you then be seated? My companion and I are children of two parts of Italy which have not yet united with their common mother. We seek a little relaxation after a long servitude. Very well. We cannot take a step without being persecuted by politics, political economy, or philosophy. Have pity on us, and speak of other things."

"Spoiled child of Italy," said the Dane, "your prayer cannot be granted. Our age takes her nourishment where it is found. It is useless to try to hinder me."

"Cannot we discuss music?"

"Music! She has followed the general route, and the music of the future, with her prophet, Wagner, is political music."

"Granted. And the other arts?"

"They cannot be separated from philosophy and history."

"Then let us speak of frivolities, of the times, of the weather, of the city we are visiting; remember I am young, and an artist."

"There are no more young hearts," said Jacob.

"What remains then for those who thirst for life?"

"Nothing," replied the Dane quickly, in a serious tone; "only to drink."

"And afterward?"

"Afterward? That depends on the temperament; to sleep or"--

During this conversation, the evening breeze brought from a neighbouring house the sound of sweet music, now gay, now sad. They all listened. It was not Italian music. A young and sympathetic voice sang, accompanied by the piano. The song was of profound sadness, rendered with good expression and method.

The Italian instantly recognized an inspiration of Mendelssohn. He took off his hat, and listened with an expression of pleasure. He took a few steps, and, with a sign, demanded silence.

In contrast to the light songs of Italy, full of harmony, this song was full of grave majesty. For the Italian who had not heard much German music it was a revelation.

The mysterious chords, coming from an unknown window, from an invisible mouth, had a fascinating charm and a melodious sadness, which made a lively impression. The woman's voice came from a house near the Academy of Medicine, and was carried to our hearers by the indiscreet breeze.

"It is fine," said the Dane, "but it is somewhat like the music of the future."

"Be silent, then, monsieur," said Lucie severely. "It is wonderful."

At that moment the song gradually grew fainter, and finally died away. The accompaniment ceased also with a few majestic chords.

They all drew near the house whence came the melody, and in the general preoccupation no one observed that Jacob grew pale, and seemed to recognize the voice. He pressed his hand against his side as if in pain. His emotion was almost terrifying, and his features had changed so as to be hardly recognizable.

Ivas perceived his friend's emotion.

"What is the matter?" asked he anxiously. "Has the music impressed you thus?"

The Jew, distrait and silent, thanked him for his solicitude, and motioned for him to be silent.

"Listen; perhaps she will sing again," said Lucie.

They were silent, but in vain.

After long waiting the door opened, and there came out of the house a young and elegant woman accompanied by a distinguished-looking man, whose features were of the Oriental type.

They attracted at once the attention of the promenaders. The woman was about twenty years old; her features were delicate. She was a pale brunette, with black eyes full of languor, and she bore on her face an expression so noble and so sad that one thought she was an angel of death. Her calmness apparently covered some bitter chagrin and a profound melancholy. Her dress was sombre and bore out the grave character of her features, maintaining without heightening her beauty.

Her companion, in spite of his elegant appearance and gentlemanlike bearing, had, on close inspection, something pretentious about him. He played with too much affectation the rôle of fine gentleman to be real. In every line of his face could be seen pride and vanity, without human sentiment. His mobile eyes, his sensual lips, his strong physique, betokened exuberant passions.

Everything about him disclosed instincts, but not heart. In spite of his politeness, this man, cold, distingué at first, inspired a certain terror. One easily divined that in his heart there was no pity, and that he had made of his egotism a systematic rule of conduct from which nothing could make him deviate. A beggar meeting him alone would never dare to ask alms. He would hazard it only before witnesses. In spite of his courteous manner toward the lady, who was evidently his wife, there appeared to be a sort of weariness and constraint between them. He seemed to drag her along with him like a victim. Without looking around her, she walked (if I may say so) automatically, while her husband did not even try to conceal his indifference.

Our group knew immediately that this was the mysterious singer. Jacob, absorbed in himself, did not perceive that he was in their path; his haggard eyes were fixed on the woman, who had not yet noticed him. The husband did not see Jacob either, until he was near him. Then he frowned and bit his lips; but this expression was followed by a forced smile and a polite bow. The woman mechanically raised her head, recoiled, and gave a cry of surprise. Her voice recalled Jacob to himself. He took off his hat and bowed, standing aside to let them pass.

"What an astonishing meeting!" said the stranger, giving his hand without cordiality.

The woman had become calm, and added, with a sad smile, in a trembling voice: "It is true; the meeting is unexpected!"

"Very unexpected, and very happy for me," replied Jacob with emotion. "After a long absence, I am about to return to Poland. I desired to visit a part of Italy which has been so extolled. Chance has kept me in Genoa with other travellers. Your divine voice fixed us under your windows, for there is not another like it in the world."

The husband listened with indifference to this compliment. The wife blushed, and did not reply.

"But what are you doing at Genoa?" said Jacob.

"We go here and there," replied the husband. "Dr. Lebrun has prescribed a warm climate for Mathilde, for she has an obstinate little cough. That is why we are here in this bracing atmosphere."

"And how do you like Italy?"

"She impresses me," said the woman, "as a mirage of that Orient which I have never seen, and for which I long and dream as for one's native land. Italy is very beautiful!"

During this conversation the Jew noticed that he was the object of his companions' curiosity. He hesitated to make his adieux, and separate himself from them. The husband, always polite, relieved him from this embarrassment.

"Will you not come with us?" asked he, politely.

"Willingly, but permit me to take leave of my companions."

He called Ivas and charged him to make his excuses to the company, at the same time begging him to wait for him; then went away with his acquaintances.

"Ah!" cried the Italian on learning from Ivas that he had been requested to wait for his friend, "I also am willing to wait a long time to find out who this lady is. I am anxious to hear this marvellous singer again. Where are you staying?" said she to the Pole.

"At the Hotel Féder."

"That is fortunate. You are very near me. I am at the Hotel de France. Wait for your companion, and bring him to me, willingly or by force, to drink tea. I will not fix the hour, for so active is my curiosity about this woman that I cannot sleep until I have seen you."

She turned to the rest of the company. "Messieurs," said she, "will you also accept my invitation?"

They all bowed their acceptance, and Lucie took the Russian's arm, with whom she departed, chatting vivaciously.

Ivas remained with the Italians. The Dane and the Tsigane went away together.

"I perceive," said Lucie to her cavalier, "that this unexpected meeting betokens a mysterious romance. Did you see how he looked at her? Did you hear the cry she gave? The husband and the lover, that is certain. How I wish I knew their history! Will he consent to tell us? Provided he comes, I know well how to lead him on."

"Why should their story interest us?"

"Because it will be more curious than the books you read. I love reality better than fiction."

CHAPTER V.

[A SIMPLE HISTORY OF LOVE.]

Ivas, abandoned, seated himself alone on a bench, his head bowed. The sight of the men and women around him who had leisure to occupy themselves with sentiments of love, and their conversation, made a sad impression.

Hunger, misery, political passions, consumed him. He thought of his country and its future. He sought a remedy for his unhappiness and the sorrows of his countrymen. What mattered to him the sweet words of women, their tender glances, their whispered promises; women for him did not exist before the vision of his misery and his despair. An inexpressible sadness tortured him. Was he not going to risk his life in order to breathe his native air?

His melancholy thoughts were rocked by the sea breeze when some one clapped him on the shoulder. It was Jacob.

"Let us return," said he with vivacity.

"I am at your service, but first let me tell you that we are invited to take tea with the Italian lady at her hotel."

"No! I will not go! I need solitude. Have you accepted?"

"Certainly, for I do not enjoy being alone with my thoughts. And I believe, dear friend of forty-eight hours, that it will do you good to go also. We have not known each other long, but permit me to suggest that there are things that one had better bury in the bottom of the heart. Come, Coloni is very curious. If we do not go she is capable of coming after us. That would be worse still."

"It is true that we are recommended to cure old wounds by distraction. Come, then, we will forget ourselves in a foolish and gay society."

"You speak of old wounds. Then this lady"--

"Do not speak of her. Are there not other persons, other faces and names, which awaken old memories? You had better speak of man rather than of woman. This one is an unfortunate who slowly works out her destiny."

"Let us go, then!"

"Let us go! I will be gay in spite of"--

"Of what?"

"In spite of mournful remembrances."

They turned and walked rapidly along the dark streets which conducted them to the shore. Here were built two hotels. In the morning this part of the city was very busy on account of the bourse, but all was silent and deserted at this hour of the evening.

They entered the Hotel de France.

On the first floor Lucie reigned in a little salon, fresh and elegant. Here they found all the rest of the company. Seated in the balcony, the Russian smoked in silence. It was easy to be seen that this impromptu tea was not pleasing to him, for he shut himself up in complete reserve without joining in the conversation.

The Tsigane, installed comfortably on the sofa, looked around him with supreme indifference. The Dane paid special attention to his hostess, and the Italians were in gay spirits. When the door opened and Jacob appeared, Madame Coloni went hastily to meet him.

"Grazie tante! Grazie tante!" cried she. "You are so kind to have come. It is a sacrifice for which I thank you."

"How can it be called a sacrifice to pass the evening in your charming society, and to have the pleasure of looking at you," said Jacob.

"Unworthy flatterer!" replied she, striking him softly on his hand. "No more compliments. You mock me! Seat yourself, sir, and tell me quickly who is our singer. Who is this beautiful lady with accents so sad that on hearing her we have tears in our eyes? Why was she so agitated on seeing you? Why did you grow so pale?"

Jacob had great control over himself. He laughed so naturally that he deceived his fair questioner, who began to lose the hope of hearing a romantic history.

"You have truly a vivid imagination!" said he. "You have already composed a sad song. You have invested me with the sufferings of the hero of your romance; but I am no hero, I assure you. The lady is a countrywoman of mine and a co-religionist. She and her husband are Jews and live in Warsaw. Our acquaintance is then very natural. Behold the truth in simple prose."

The Italian tapped her foot impatiently. "This truth seems a little false," said she. "I observed you closely when you first met her."

Jacob made an effort to smile.

"The real truth is that I might well have been grieved and astonished, for I know the sad history of this woman."

"Ah! there is, then, as I thought, a sad story?"

"Yes, but I did not figure in it."

Lucie looked at him fixedly, but he returned her glance without emotion.

"Oh! pray, monsieur," demanded she in a caressing voice, "relate to me this story. I am dying to hear it."

"I warn you, madame, that it is not remarkable, and as it is the story of a Jewess it will be less interesting to you than to me. I am afraid I shall weary you. I am a bad story-teller, long and tiresome."

"You take a long time to tell a story! So much the better, we have plenty of time to listen. But do not torment me. Begin."

"Permit me, madame, to collect my thoughts for a moment."

"If," said the Dane, "the story is as long as monsieur promises us, and there is in the story a sentimental woman encumbered with a beast of a husband and a noble lover, I will excuse myself from listening. I can guess it all in advance."

"I also," said the Tsigane. "It is always the same thing."

"Where can true love be found to-day?" cried the Dane.

Lucie protested against this atrocious blasphemy, but the Tsigane replied imperturbably:--

"You will grant that the times of chivalrous love have vanished. Only the turtle-doves are innocent enough to sigh still. Formerly, as we are told, humanity passed through a long epoch of exalted love. Today men have almost abandoned these ways. A hundred years from now they will laugh at such love-stories and wonder how it could have been. I speak of such loves as those of Leander and Hero, not that of Calypso for young and handsome warriors, nor of the love of Nero for Poppea. That kind of love lasts because it is natural. But love which is torture, which suffers for some ideal beauty, it is an old, stereotyped plate, out of fashion. Show me to-day some one who loves in this way or who would be disposed to make serious sacrifices for love. The young girls marry because the husband suits the father and mother. The men marry for settlements, or for charms more or less fascinating. They do not marry at all for love,--that fantasy has gone out of fashion."

"Why," said Lucie indignantly, "you cannot maintain such ridiculous assertions."

"I can prove them by facts. Look around you. Everywhere caprice, passion, love of excitement, etc., but true love nowhere."

Lucie sighed.

"Is this progress or decadence?" asked she.

"I know not. It is sad for you beautiful women to descend from the pedestal on which you were elevated, but how can you refuse the evidence of things?"

"Is it so evident?"

"Alas! I do not wish to impose my opinion on you, but reflect seriously. Where can you find as formerly two souls created for each other?"

"What you say," interrupted Jacob, "is true up to a certain point. But I hope the world has only temporarily renounced this poetry. If all ideality should disappear it would be a sad thing. I will add a commentary to your remarks, Monsieur Gako. Men do not love themselves as much as they used. That is why existence is in some sort lessened, and the number of suicides from weariness of life is daily augmented."

Madame Coloni clapped her hands and reminded Jacob of his promise to relate a history.

The Tsigane yawned. The Russian lighted a fresh cigarette, the Dane went out, and when it was silent the Jew commenced in a low voice:--

"In all the legislation of the world the most badly understood and the most badly judged is perhaps that of Moses. It belongs to me to defend it in my character of Jew. Our law is the fundamental base of yours. Do not forget that Jesus said that he came not to destroy the law, but to complete it.

"It is generally supposed that the Hebrew women were debased to the level of slaves. Nothing of the kind. Customs were sometimes swerved from the law, influenced as they were by the barbarity of the times, but it is not the law which abases woman.

"In the Jewish language she is called Ischa, the feminine of Isch, which means 'man.' This name alone indicates the perfect equality of the sexes. Deuteronomy xxi. 10-15 commends us to respect even the captives. Polygamy, exceptionally practised by the kings, is forbidden in a formal manner. The Bible reveals to us in more than one page the disastrous effects of this immoral custom. On a level with man, Isch, woman, Ischa, it is true, was not priest, but she was permitted to bear the offerings to the altar. No legislation of antiquity or even of later epochs can show us woman better treated or more respected than with the Jews. The mothers of the Maccabees and of Judith prove the importance of that rôle.

"A young girl of twelve years, Ketannah, could be promised in marriage by her father, but, above that age, become Nairah, she could marry to please herself.

"Pagan and barbarous usages, nevertheless, penetrated even among us at the epoch of the Kings. The sexes were more strictly separated. Sometimes, for example, the Jews cloistered the women in a harem, or, if they were poor, compelled them to do manual labour. There rests this stain against us, contrary to the true spirit of the Mosaic law.

"Pardon this digression, too grave, perhaps, for a love idyl between a man and woman. But you will see later on that it was necessary."

"I believe that your story will contain at least two men," said Lucie lightly.

"It suffices me to put only one in strong relief, although two or three men will find a place in this history, this idyl, or, if you prefer, this drama. Without them there could be no drama."

"Or simply a monodrama depending on one man."

"You have all seen this woman whose voice has so charmed us. She is the most unfortunate of women, because she is obliged to submit to a situation that is revolting to her.

"Her father, a rich Jew, belongs, or rather belonged, to those of his race who, owing to a European education, have sunk into a destructive scepticism, and regard as an imposture all religions, including his own. Entering early into active life, he attributed the success of his career partly to luck, but above all to his own intelligence and energy. Outside of these three forces, there was for him nothing else here below but a poetical Utopia for the amusement of simpletons.

"The mother of Mathilde was a devout Israelite, but she died young, and her child was left to the care of so-called Christians, who taught her their own unbelief in the ideal, and left her to form her mind for good or evil by reading without discernment. They taught her that there was neither virtue nor vice, but skill or stupidity, calculation or improvidence, decency or unseemliness. So that when the maiden entered society she looked on men as mere ciphers or figures, as they appear in one of the tables of Pythagoras. Such a society seemed unattractive to a youthful imagination which had an instinctive longing for the perfumes of life, and found only dead and withered flowers.

"At an early age she was deprived of these illusions. She was told that men were wicked, heartless, and deceivers. It would not do to believe in their protestations; she must view them with contempt and aversion. It was a good thing to be honest, to spare one's self the trouble of embarrassment, and honesty is often the best policy. On this theory crime was only an awkwardness, and virtue without intrinsic worth unless it brought assured profits.

"As Mathilde might marry an Israelite, a Mussulman, or a Christian, she had access to the literature of all religious beliefs. She read the Bible, but her father ridiculed the most sacred passages. This critical raillery and the numerous books perused by her left her mind nothing but unbelief.

"Add to this the practical education which endeavoured prematurely to tear from her all heart, as one pulls an aching tooth to prevent further suffering, and you can form some idea of what they had done to this poor child.

"Mathilde entered this existence like an insensible statue, without taste for life. She foresaw that she would not be happy, for she well knew that there could be no happiness for noble souls. Her sentiments did not accord with the line of conduct that had been drawn for her. Her aspirations were pure, but she was taught that self-interest should be the only motive of all her aspirations, and that any other course was a morbid weakness, and would lead to ruin. Although she was ignorant of many things that had been concealed from her, she divined them, and each day she rebelled against this desperate reality. Her widowed father lived on, following his own whims without regard to moral law, and without belief in virtue. Coveting all that was accessible to him, he led a selfish life, and, although he was careful to observe the proprieties in his house, his practices were visible to the eyes of his young daughter, who was convinced that true affection had no place in the hearts of men. Her generous nature revolted sadly against this paternal materialism. Any other woman under the influence of such an example, in such an immoral atmosphere, would have been corrupted. Mathilde felt only a profound melancholy. Nature and study became her consolers. Art spoke to her of the great sentiments toward which she had wished to raise herself, but had been prevented.

"There is perhaps no torture more intense than a struggle like this between noble instincts and the animalism of the world. Mathilde in her fourteenth year was already as sad, as wearied, as she is to-day of this existence without future and without hope. Before her appeared the certainty of an advantageous marriage which would render her life a success in a worldly sense. Nothing more! Her father, with his wealth, was sure to find a young husband of good position, possessed of riches equal to his own. It was not to be supposed that he would seek for other qualities, and it was certain that he would not suffer from his daughter, whom he loved after his own fashion, the least remonstrance in regard to his choice.

"While the girl was growing up in this poisonous moral atmosphere, in the midst of every luxury, a young man came to the house."

"I have waited for him a long time with impatience," cried Lucie Coloni. "Behold, at last he is here!"

"Do not ask me to describe his character," said Jacob. "The heroes of true romances like this all resemble each other in general. They have external fascinations, all the virtues, all the grand and noble qualities, an affectionate heart and an exalted head, and so forth. But my hero, nevertheless, differs a little from the ordinary. He had some distinctive traits; he had been poor, and was little accustomed to salons. He had drawn all the forces of his success and energy from the school of humility; he was modest, peaceable, and little expansive, like all those to whom a premature sadness has proved that to ask sympathy provokes only raillery in this world. The father of Mathilde was a distant relative of this young man, and had taken him to his house to finish his education, having recognized in him a certain capacity. He intended to push his fortunes owing to a noble sentiment of relationship which remained in his heart, and was almost the only trace of old Judaism. He also felt some pride in protecting a young man who promised to do himself honour in the world. This promise was only partly fulfilled, for too precocious talents do not always produce the fruits that are expected of them.

"The young man, who had finished his studies and was preparing himself for business, lived in the house of his protector, who intended to send him to foreign parts to oversee his business. You may give to my hero any name you wish."

"Call him Jacob," said Ivas.

"No, no! let us call him Janus, the Polish equivalent for Jonas. I do not know, madame, if it is hardly worth while to relate the rest to you, for it is easy to divine. Two orphaned souls, aspiring to the poetry of life, could not meet without loving. Mathilde found in him a nobleness which responded to her ideal of a man's character, and he recognized in her his ideal of melancholy beauty.

"In his protector's house it was necessary to be on guard, lest he should suspect an inclination which would cause them to be separated, and should chase Janus from his Paradise. The young people well understood that they must feign indifference for fear of such a catastrophe. A few words exchanged in a room full of people, on the street, or near the piano, some furtive glances,--behold the relations of the young man with Mathilde!

"The father had not the least idea that this unfortunate youth could dare to throw his eyes on an inheritance worthy of a Rothschild. If such a thought had by chance entered his head, he would have put it away as a thing impossible.

"The English governess, mature but romantic still, was very fond of these Platonic friendships, and had herself even such a weakness for the young man that she hoped to fascinate him by the multiplicity of her talents. She put no restraint upon her pupil, and she even took it upon herself to assist them. His host, seeing the manœuvres of Miss Burnet, for he had for these things much perspicuity, laughed in his sleeve, thinking it quite natural for Janus thus to commence his virile career, and never dreaming that it was his daughter to whom the youth aspired."

Jacob paused, as if short of breath, and Lucie gave him some sherbet. There was a moment of silence, then he resumed his narrative in a weaker voice:--

"Recall, each one of you, kind listeners, your youth and the earliest flower of the springtime of your first love. Consider that angel of candour, chained unhappily to the earth, this most prosaic earth, while her wings unfold and open to carry her to heaven. The youth adored her as a divinity, and she saw in him a celestial messenger sent to her from the ethereal world. That is the romance which they held in their hearts, and which they would not manifest visibly. Two words sufficed to make them happy for a long time. A look, when they met during the day, gave them new strength to live.

"The word 'love' was never mentioned between them. The same chaste sentiment beat in unison in their hearts without inflaming their brains or their senses. For them silence even was a poem of happiness; the smile, a joy divine; and a flower was an avowal.

"These felicities, which appeared afterward like child's play, and which reason turned to raillery, passed unperceived.

"Neither Mathilde's father nor her governess had the least suspicion of anything serious. The father even thought that, at times, his daughter was too timid and too cold toward Janus, and Miss Burnet reproached her for the same thing. The want of theory or of practice, I know not which, deceived her, and she supposed that it was to herself that Janus aspired.

"Alas! this dream of the heart, this love without hope, vanished like a dream at the gate of Paradise. One morning, or rather one afternoon, the father ordered his daughter, with a very indifferent air, to dress herself with much care, as he expected a visitor. A short time before dinner there entered a young man, distinguished, well-bred, a perfect man of the world, and whom the father presented under the name of Henri Segel.

"There are presentiments! This black-eyed Antinoüs, with a perpetual smile on his lips, with an amiability so spiritual and so courteous, frightened the girl. She felt for him a violent repulsion, a strange sentiment which is explained by psychology only; she detested him, although she had nothing with which to reproach him.

"He loved music, and was himself a good musician, and he was said to be enormously rich.

"Three days after, the father said quietly to his daughter, without asking her opinion, that Henri Segel was her betrothed. In announcing this he said that she was to be congratulated on having pleased Monsieur Segel, and that he had fallen desperately in love with her. All this was in a tone which did not permit the slightest contradiction. The thing was settled; she had nothing to say about it.

"The marriage seemed to him so suitable that all hesitation or opposition would have appeared an unpardonable childishness. She ought to consider herself a very lucky girl.

"Mathilde did not reply, but she grew frightfully pale. She was congratulated on all sides, while she suffered in her heart. Her sad glance seemed to say to Jacob"--

"Pardon me," cried Ivas, "but you called him Janus."

Jacob blushed, drank a glass of water, wiped his brow, and seemed unable to continue his story.

"You are right," said he at last. "I was mistaken."

"Continue, monsieur,--continue, I beg of you," cried Lucie.

"It was," said the Jew, "a pleasant evening in springtime. The perfume of flowers was spread abroad, and on the leaves glistened drops of dew. Mathilde and Miss Burnet walked in the garden. Seated on a bench, Janus held a book which he did not read. The Englishwoman saw him and directed their steps toward him. Happily, or perhaps unfortunately, just then there came a friend of Miss Burnet. Chance willed that the lovers were left alone together. They were both glad and frightened at this unexpected circumstance. They walked together for some time in silence, trembling and hardly breathing. The two Englishwomen had a thousand secrets to relate, and left them alone a long time. The governess had even whispered to her pupil on leaving, 'Go as far as you please.'

"They strolled along in silence. She gathered flowers, among the leaves of which her tears mingled with the dew-drops. He, pensive, looked at her and man-like held back the tears that rose to his eyes. Suddenly Mathilde stopped. She raised her head proudly, as if she had gained a victory over herself. She put her hand to her side, and threw on her kinsman a strange look in which she gave herself to him for eternity.

"'Very soon,' murmured she, 'we must separate. You know what awaits me. It will be sweet for me to recall this evening's walk. And you, will you remember?'

"She spoke to him for the first time in a sad and solemn voice. Her expressive words went to Janus' heart, and he thought he should go mad. His heart beat violently, his hands were clenched on his breast.

"'Forget you, Mathilde!' cried he. 'Forget the happiness I have tasted with you! Oh, no, never! Never! I swear to you that I will never marry another woman, for I have loved you, and I love you still, as one loves but once in life. Why need I tell you all my love when you know it already!'

"'I have believed it, and I still believe it, but life is long and memory unfaithful. For you men, it is said that love is a pastime, for us it is existence. I have loved you, and I will never cease to love you!'

"Stifled sobs interrupted her words.

"'Love could never be a plaything to me,' said Janus. 'In my eyes it is the most sacred thing in life. It is the marriage of two souls for eternity.'

"'I believe it,' cried Mathilde, 'and that is why I love you. I feel that you are honest and sincere; you know what awaits me. They have sold me to a man for whom I have an invincible aversion. But I will not suffer long, for I shall soon die. May your soul be the tomb where my memory will not perish! My father will raise for me a monument, my husband will give me a fine funeral, but my grave before long will be covered with weeds; may a memory of me remain, at least, in your heart!'

"The Englishwomen were so absorbed in their conversation that they prolonged their farewells for some time.

"'To-day,' continued Mathilde, 'I have seen you so sad that I have wished, under pretence of saying adieu, to give you some words of consolation. Who knows if we shall ever meet alone again; let me then repeat that I love you; that I love and will love you until death.'

"'Mathilde,' cried he, rebelling against their destiny, 'if you have confidence in me, leave this house. Behold two arms which can procure you bread. Your father will forgive us, and you will be mine forever.'

"'No!' she answered firmly, after an instant of reflection; 'I love you like a child, but I can reason like a mature woman. I do not believe in a future; for me the future is a lure. I should bring you, perhaps, some moments of happiness, but afterward I should be a cause of weariness and remorse. You have no right to show yourself so ungrateful to your protector, who has done much for you. Who knows whether you would not be disappointed in me. I am already fading, having been poisoned from my cradle. My unbelief awakens. I hear a mocking laugh vibrate in my ears, even when tears are in my eyes. No, no! a hundred times no! It will be better for you to love the dead, for who knows if living, you would love me long.'

"She dismissed him with a sigh, and withdrew from him as if she feared that she might be persuaded.

"After a little, she returned to Janus, who was lost in bitter thoughts. He had remained where she had left him, with bowed head and clasped hands.

"'What do you think of my future husband?' asked she.

"'I detest him.'

"'Is it because he is to be my husband?'

"'No. He produced this impression at first sight.'

"'And why?'

"'I know not. He is odious to me, although I know nothing against him. He is rich, fashionable, very amiable. And with all that I cannot like him.'

"'I even fear,' added Mathilde, 'that he has nothing human in him. He is a being which appears to me to be utterly without heart, a sort of automaton fabricated by the nineteenth century. With all his knowledge, I am sure that he does not know how to weep, nor suffer, nor to have pity or compassion on the sorrows of others. If he gives alms, it is for ostentation or calculation; but he will not grieve for an unfortunate; he will never sympathize with him nor mingle his tears with his. Our epoch of iron has fashioned men worthy of herself. She has made them of iron, and the blood that courses in their veins is no longer pure, but has grown rusty.'

"'Perhaps you are a little too severe,' said Janus. 'However, it is the same impression that I have formed of him. But love and a wife often transform a man.'

"'A man, yes, but not an automaton. His very look freezes me. This sweet smile, this perpetual gayety which cannot be natural, irritates me. He is always the same,--a being of marble. My God! have pity on me!'

"In saying these words she drew from her hand a ring and put it on one of his fingers.

"'I bought this expressly for you. Preserve it in memory of her whom you have loved. It is black; it is a mourning ring, the only kind appropriate to our unhappy love. After to-day any conversation between us will be impossible, so farewell, and forget me not.'

"She left him and joined her governess.

"These were the first and last words of love that passed between them. They saw each other every day, but as strangers. They bowed to each other, but neither of them ever sought another interview. Hereafter only shadows and silence would surround their passion.

"Mathilde accepted, without a word, the husband that her father had chosen for her. The marriage was celebrated with great ostentation. The victim walked to the altar robed in satin and lace and covered with diamonds.

"Her father was radiant with the joy of having so well established his daughter. Every one knew that he had given her a million for a wedding dowry, and that still another was promised, and that the husband possessed several himself, with expectations besides. All the mothers, all the fathers, and all the marriageable young girls envied Mathilde's luck. Behold, in all its simplicity, the end of my story!

"Two years have passed, and you have met this husband and wife. He is always calm and happy, she, sad. The only thing that ever troubles him is when he fails to receive in good time the reports of the bourse of Paris or London. To amuse him she sings, as you have heard, the music of Mendelssohn. Truly, it was hardly worth while to listen to my story. It is a romance which happens every day, and which has been related a thousand times before."

"And Janus?" asked the lady.

"Janus wears always the ring of his only beloved. He bears his sorrow, for in one hour he drained the dregs of despair. To-day he is only a body without soul."

"The story is heart-rending above all expression," said Lucie, "and I admit that I expected something more dramatic. The victim has all my sympathy. As for the lover, I am not anxious about him. This 'body without soul' will soon be consoled."

"I doubt it," replied Jacob. "Consolation comes only to those who wish to console themselves. Janus is resigned to a perpetual mourning of the heart."

"No one would believe," remarked Madame Coloni, "that this story was of our day; its character is so simple and so elegiac."

Jacob rose; the hour was late, and all the company prepared to retire. The Russian, who had remained silent all the evening, was the only one who did not hasten to depart.

"Then, if not in Genoa, we shall meet again in Warsaw," said Lucie to Ivas and Jacob.

"You are surely going there, madame?"

"It appears that it is decided," replied she, looking at her companion. "The hour of departure only is not yet fixed. You will, perhaps, be kind enough to come to see me."

Ivas and Jacob returned to the Hotel Féder.

"I believe," said Ivas, "that I will not hear the rest of your biography this evening. You are already too fatigued with your remembrances. Good-night!"

CHAPTER VI.

[FROM GENOA TO PISA.]

When Jacob awoke the next morning, he was astonished to find himself alone. He was told that Ivas had gone out before daybreak. He was at first alarmed about this matinal sortie, although he tried to explain it by a desire to bathe in the sea, or curiosity to see the city. The thought came to his mind that the poor boy wished to leave him, through excess of susceptibility, and had departed, counting on his restored strength. However, the sight of his little travelling-bag calmed his fears, and he was waiting calmly for breakfast when Ivas returned.

"I went out," said he, shaking Jacob's hand, "to take a little walk. I need air, solitude, and movement. I came on foot from Marseilles, and I am accustomed to walking. I have no right to soften myself with inaction. I must fatigue myself to feel that I live."

"You are a child," said Jacob smiling; "you distrust yourself, while so many others have too much confidence in themselves. You possess that which can vanquish all,--will. Strong as you feel in yourself you will overcome all obstacles. I know men remarkable in all respects who have never accomplished anything for lack of will, and I know other men who by their energy have attained, by sheer determination, a position far above that which their talents merited."

"You understand me," said Ivas, "and I fear to lose this will. I wished a short battle to convince me that I was not benumbed. I wrestled somewhat as Jacob, your namesake, did during his sleep, and I have conquered."

"Where have you been?"

"Almost everywhere. In the dusty highway, in the tumult of the port, in the deserted walks of Aqua Sola, and even under the windows of the beautiful Mathilde."

"And what took you there?"

"I know not. I found myself there by chance. I have seen Madame Coloni, the two Italians, and the Tsigane. We all met there to watch the departure from Genoa of the marvellous singer."

"What, the departure! Perhaps they only went out for a walk."

"No; if they intended to remain longer in Genoa they have changed their minds. The veturino told me that he was going to Spezia and Pisa. I do not think the husband would go alone, and from the baggage that I have seen I cannot tell how many travellers there are. The servant would not answer one of my questions."

"Why did you question him?"

"From curiosity."

"Then they are gone?"

"Probably, but I did not wait to see them go. I did not wish to be seen among the rabble which surrounded the carriage."

"Well," said Jacob suddenly, "what shall we do now? What do you desire,--to remain here longer, or to proceed on our journey?"

"As you will; but your journey has nothing in common with mine. I must go as soon as I have rested a little. You can do as you wish."

"Let me hear no more of this. Away with ceremony! It was agreed that we travel together. Refuse, and you will offend me. Give me your hand. We will go together. You can reserve your strength for something«better."

"But"--

"Where do you wish to go?"

"I should like to see Spezia and Pisa, if it is agreeable."

"Why?"

"Frankly, because Jacob wishes to go to Spezia, because Mathilde has gone that way, because Janus and Jacob are one and the same person. On his uncovered breast during his sleep I have seen a mourning ring suspended from a black ribbon."

"Even without that it was easy for you to pierce this mystery. Yes, that history is mine. Neither she nor I have any reason to blush. The relative who sent me to school was Mathilde's father."

"Then we will go to Pisa?"

"Yes, and I think we had better go on foot, if it is agreeable to you. The route is so beautiful that it deserves to be taken in detail. We will consign our baggage to the diligence, and we will take to the road like two wandering artists."

"An excellent idea. But let us depart before evening. I am anxious to get to my country. My homesickness becomes each day more violent. I foresee great events; impatience consumes me."

"Confess! You are a conspirator?"

"How could I be anything else? All Poland has conspired for two hundred years. Oppression drives us to it; generations of martyrs have excited us. Where life cannot expand in liberty, conspiracy is inevitable. It is the natural result of despotism."

"I understand you. Unhappily, however, for a country which is in such a situation, its inhabitants have lost confidence in themselves, and recognize their own weakness. I can only comprehend a conspiracy like ours, which has lasted two thousand years and which has led us to a regeneration. It has agglomerated our forces in a solid and vigorous union. Your conspiracies have something feverish about them that can end only in morbid decadence."

"Do not say so, I beg of you! You have not the same love for Poland as we, and you have not passed through such martyrdom."

"Excuse me for contradicting you. The country that has sheltered us, where in spite of continual persecutions we have increased by labour, has become for us a second country that we have chosen. You will think as I do some day before long. I feel myself at the same time Israelite and Pole."

"Men like you are rare," said Ivas. "I say it without flattery. In general, your race is credited with little affection for the country which has been a safeguard against other persecutors, and has recognized you as her children."

"Softly! Review history without partiality. Religious fanaticism and the arrogance of the nobility have long been an obstacle to the admission of Jews as citizens. The fault is also with the Jews, who have not tried to adopt the language and the customs of the country. They have isolated themselves, made a state within a state, a nation within a nation, and have not laboured sincerely to obtain that naturalization which is obtained only by common bloodshed and devotion. The fault is on both sides; both sides also ought to ask pardon and forget the past. Our age is different from others. Civilization spreads everywhere. Humane ideas are general; everything to-day tends to bring us together and unite us. We tender you the hand, do not repulse us!"

"What! can our younger generation be capable of repulsing you? There will be for a long while yet prejudices and repugnances, and evil predictions, but the majority of the people accept frankly your hand. Be then our brothers, but he is in spirit as well as in words, in action as in appearance. Be our brothers, not in the time of prosperity only, but in times of trouble and conflict."

Jacob pressed his companion's hand.

"Enough for to-day," said he. "We shall agree very well together, we young men. The youth of Israel think as I do. However, with us, as with you, there will be prejudices, old hatreds, secular distinctions; we must not let ourselves be influenced by these remembrances of the past. Love only can appease and unite us as one. Let us endeavour to love each other. We shall have occasion to resume this subject; let us now prepare to go. Shall it be on foot or in a carriage?"

"On foot, by all means."

That afternoon, dressed as pedestrians, they went to say farewell to Lucie Coloni. They found her in the midst of preparations for departure, in the midst of bags and trunks. The Russian was arranging the books and papers. The lady was finishing paying bills.

Jacob and Ivas were going to leave, fearing to incommode them, when Lucie looked up and saw Ivas.

"Ah, you are there! We are just going. Be sure to come to Warsaw, and do not forget what I asked you. Let me hear from you; I shall be anxious to see you. To-day I cannot talk longer. Do not forget Lucie Coloni. At the theatre you will find my address."

The young Pole looked at her with astonishment.

"You go with Gromof?" asked he.

"Yes. He is an old friend. I do not know that he will accompany me all the way. That depends. There is nothing certain. I will remind you that you can be very useful to me. May that be a reason for our meeting again."

"But how can I be useful to you?"

"Do not ask me now, I pray you. That is my business. Au revoir! Addio! Addio!"

When they came down the steps which led to the narrow place that separated the two hotels, they almost ran against the Tsigane who stood gaping in the air, smoking his cigar, and gravely watching the asses transporting their enormous loads to the wharf.

"Where are you two bound?" asked he.

"We leave to-day, on foot."

"On foot?"

"Yes."

"How ridiculous, when you can travel so much more comfortably! It is good, however, to have whims. As for me I am no longer capable of them. Still, if I could have for a companion the charming Italian I might decide to go on foot with her. The Russian monopolizes her."

"I fear so!" cried the Dane, suddenly appearing. "She has made an execrable choice. They have gone together; I have seen them off. Where are they going?"

"We know not. Perhaps toward the south."

"It is the cheapest way," replied the Dane, "and perhaps that is why the Russian will take it. One hardly needs food when they have swallowed the dust on the way. That is why I have decided to go by water. I love to travel that way much better than by land. I came to say good-by to la belle Coloni. I hoped to cut out the Russian, and I still have hopes that when I meet her again she may be tired of him. In order to gain a victory one must try."

"He calls that a victory; droll idea!" said the Tsigane. "He ignores the fact that in Italy one can obtain as many Lucie Colonis as he wishes for travelling companions."

"I do not believe," said Ivas, "that there are many persons as good and as spirituelle as this Lucie."

"I forgot that she came to your assistance at the Grotto. That is nothing. It only proves that she has a good heart. Any other woman would have screamed, and profited by the occasion to swoon gracefully. But I do not see the necessity of spirit in women. What use is it to them? To bite? They have their teeth for that."

Then addressing Jacob, the Tsigane continued: "Will you accept me as a companion? I ask it as a favour."

The two men questioned each other with their eyes. Gako perceived it, and said haughtily: "I withdraw my request. Stamlo is too old and too tiresome. Then the heat, the dust, render the diligence preferable. Adieu!"

He took leave of them and quickly disappeared.

"That is much better," said the Jew. "We should have had a tiresome companion."

The sun was sinking into the sea when the two comrades left their hotel and set out for Spezia. The suburbs of Genoa were marvellously beautiful. There were cypress and orange groves, and vineyards; flowers bloomed on every side, and birds sang in the branches overhead. Soon their pathway led along the border of the sea; at each moment the scene changed like a panorama. In springtime or in autumn this route is overrun by swarms of tourists who pass by with such rapidity that they retain only a vague impression of its beauty. Less numerous are the travellers who know how to travel slowly, and make frequent halts to drink in the beauty of the country.

Our friends were of the number who hasten slowly. They were in no way troubled about their arrival at Spezia; they were sure to find a lodging somewhere, for it was not difficult. A rustic chamber, some fish salad and cheese, some wine of the district, more or less palatable, that was to be found everywhere; and for lights they could have primitive little lamps, the rays from which are agreeable enough, but too feeble to permit one to read and write easily. Civilization in Italy has introduced wax candles only in the large cities.

Before they were fatigued, Jacob and Ivas procured asses, whose easy gait permits one to sleep if one wishes. These useful animals are accustomed to carry men as well as the most fragile objects.

The day had given place to twilight when they came to the orange groves of Nervi, with the flowers of which is made a water for spasms, celebrated the world over.

Until then the friends had spoken on many subjects. "You promised me to finish your biography," at last said Ivas. "You have disarranged a little the chronological order by your love episode, but it will not be difficult to reëstablish and complete your recital."

"With pleasure. I have concealed nothing, and yesterday I was obliged to reveal the most secret part of my life. I believe we left off where I entered school. Persecuted by my comrades, I learned there to know life as well as grammar. There were no notable events during that period. It opened to me, however, the doors of science, which I embraced to a surprising extent. Until then I had read only the Bible, which comprised for me the entire world. Since then I have been interested not only in the development of a single people, but of humanity. My exclusive faith in the chosen people was shaken by these studies. They appeared to me under a different light. My faith was troubled and my mind made more independent. Finally, I returned to the Bible more a Jew than ever, but of a different kind. Perhaps it is difficult for you to comprehend my Judaism. I will try, then, to explain to you how our society, strongly united by the remembrance of former persecutions, is to-day divided into several divergent factions.

"The Jew is no longer what he was when his absolute separation forced him to be himself,--to live, to reflect, and to instruct, within the narrow circle which hostile Christianity had traced for him. From time to time this circle sent out a Maimonides or a Spinosa, but it was largely composed of a compact body of strict and faithful believers. We grouped ourselves around the Ark of the Covenant. To-day the Jews are more liberal, less restrained, and walk in different paths. Many reject the ancient law, and accept in appearance another religion, while, in reality, they have none. My protector, the father of Mathilde, was one of this type. Educated by strangers, in the midst of indifferent men, he lost, at an early age, all respect for our traditions. Liberated from all ceremonious restraint, he was not a Christian, but had arrived at a stand-point, as you already know, where he reduced morality to calculation, and had taken reason for his guide.

"Man is only the most perfect animal. Above him exist other worlds, other beings, other conceptions; besides the body, there is a soul, which unites itself to the divinity, and can soar higher than the earth or stars. Materialism and atheism satisfy neither society nor individual. Their adepts are like flowers torn from their stalks: they wither rapidly. Take away God and the soul, and what would be the result with our refined civilization? An age such as ours, which subjugates the elements, pierces the mysteries of nature, but knows not how to distinguish good from evil. It is an age which worships only force, and where are heard in prolonged echoes the væ victis. There is nothing more sad than to see men who have overthrown tradition, and who have no other hope or aim but material prosperity.

"They are only too numerous in your communion as well as ours. The Christian who has ceased to be a Christian, the Jew who rejects Moses, have for a horizon only an earthly life consecrated to the satisfaction of their passions. Even when they appear to be happy, they are at heart miserable. They end in apathy or insanity. Man finds in Mosaism an intellectual nourishment sufficient for his reason.

"In order to decry the faith of Moses, which is the basis of Christianity, it is unjust to take advantage of certain singularities in the Talmud which are almost always falsely ridiculed. Even in the Talmud one finds a poetry of which any literature might be proud."

"I know nothing of this poetry," said Ivas.

"You have, however, read quotations from the Talmud chosen in such a way as to cast ridicule upon it."

"No; I know almost nothing of it."

"Are you curious to have some idea of it? Would you like to know the Paradise or the Hell after the rabbinical conceptions?"

"From preference the Hell, for human imagination is more apt to represent the tortures of the damned than the delights of the elect. Dante's Heaven is very inferior to his Hell. Probably it is the same thing with the Talmud."

"I do not know. The description of the abode of the blessed in the Book Jalkut (7. A.) is full of splendour."

"As for Hell in the book, Nischmas Khaïm, it is separated from Paradise by a very thin wall, symbol of the narrow bounds which often separate vice and virtue. The river which rushes through the Hell is boiling, whilst that which flows through Paradise is of an agreeable freshness. Three routes lead to it: by the sea, by the desert, and by a city of the world. Five kinds of fire burn continually in Hell, of which the extent is sixty times greater than that of the earth. It is governed by three chiefs. The most important of this triumvirate is called Dumah. This Dumah has three prime ministers,--Ghinghums, Taschurinia, and Sazsaris. The palace of this demon is situated in that part of Hell called Bor.

"Hell is full of scorpions and serpents, and is divided into several departments. The deepest and the most frightful serves as a sewer for the filth of the other hells, and for the poison of the old serpent that seduced Eve.

"The Talmud is varied. It contains dialogues, controversies, dissertations, allegories, and moral tales. It is a collection of the writings of several ages, through which one can follow the variations in the Hebrew language. They have tried to establish in this confusion a certain order. Maimonides, among others, has tried it; but his book on this subject, although very much esteemed, has not been accepted by all.

"In opposition to the unbelieving Jews like Mathilde's father, there are Jews who adhere blindly to the Talmud, and put several rabbis on a level with Moses. Others, like myself, put their faith in the Old Testament, and are content to respect the traditions related in the Talmud. At first by early Jewish education, afterward by my European education, I became an Israelite of a special kind. The Talmud, from which I sought to draw lessons of wisdom, had not made me superstitious. At the bottom of my heart I guard as a most precious treasure my religious belief. I do not repel the light of reason nor the law of progress, a negation which would, in a way, separate me from actual humanity. My faith and my reason agree perfectly.

"When I was called to Warsaw by my kinsman, I had not the least idea of the true situation of my co-religionists. In the provinces I had met many kinds of Jews. Some were so faithful to their belief that they dared not depart from the most useless and inexplicable rules. Others, our brothers by blood, were no more ours in customs and spirit.

"I approached the capital of the kingdom with lively emotions, anxious for the future, and ignorant of the world I was about to enter.

"The provincial Jews live and have lived entirely separated from the Christians. Here I met them for the first time mixed and confounded, if not by law, at least by habit, with the population. At first I could hardly comprehend the thing. I met Jews who sought to conceal their origin, visible as it was on their Semitic brows, among whom some were believers, others complete sceptics. Our race, by wealth, education, and acquired importance, were in position to court and obtain political and civil equality. The old Polish nobles, imbued with bygone prejudices, saw with alarm this imminent fusion, and endeavoured to prevent or to retard it, considering always the children of Israel as strangers and intruders. On both sides hatred has been kindled, and the position is false in both camps. Those whom daily business brought together, whom necessity united, who had mutual interests, remained like armed foes divided by remembrances, prejudices, and fanaticism.

"However, victory for us is certain. Justice and the spirit of the times render it inevitable; but I digress, as usual.

"Mathilde's father, feeling sure of his pupil, introduced me into society. I had other kindred in the capital, and before long I had made many acquaintances.

"I was much chagrined by the sentiment of the greater part of my compatriots, a sentiment incomprehensible to me,--of shame at being Jews. In the houses of the wealthy there was not the slightest vestige of the faith and traditions of our fathers. The ancient customs had disappeared, the religious ceremonies were not observed. They concealed themselves to celebrate the Sabbath.

"I would like to describe some types of the community difficult to characterize in general, but it would take too long.

"We made evident progress; still we were in some sort dispersed and enfeebled, and what is worse, the country was indifferent to us. If we displayed any patriotic sentiments, they were rather affected than sincere. It was rather from pride than from duty. We had almost ceased to be Jews, and we knew not how to become Poles. We started, as it were, on a voyage without compass. Unhappy situation!"

Jacob sighed and ceased speaking. The darkness obliged them to halt at an inn near by. It was a small brick house built on a hill near the sea-shore. The sign bore the name, Albergo di Tre Corone.

Near the door, whence streamed the cheerful light from a crackling wood-fire, they saw a cart with two horses surrounded by men clad like sailors with their jackets thrown over their shoulders. A woman holding an infant to her breast was seated against the wall. Around the house were vineyards, aloe and fig trees, the whole scene being thrown out in strong relief by the glimmering firelight.

Our travellers relieved themselves of their bags, ordered supper, and in the interval of waiting went down near the sea, and, seating themselves on a rock, listened to the ebb and flow of its murmuring waters. Near them under the stunted bushes flew innumerable fireflies, seeming in the obscurity to be little sparkling stars. They rested mute, in the silence of the evening, the prayer of the tired earth.

CHAPTER VII.

[VOYAGE ON FOOT.]

Our companions were awakened early next morning by the coming and going of travellers at the inn, a noise which was only dominated by the braying of asses. Jacob and Ivas resolved to depart immediately, and, profiting by the freshness of the morning, to make up the time they had lost the previous evening. Short stages, such as that of the day before, threatened if continued to render their journey interminable; but their excuse was that their route lay through an enchanting country where the beauties of the landscape made them forget the flight of the days.

They walked for some time without exchanging a single word. Both were absorbed in thought. Finally Ivas broke a silence which weighed equally on his companion.

"Well," said he, "have you finished your history? I have your life in general, but it lacks many details. You ought to have something more to tell me."

"It would be as easy," replied Jacob, "to finish my recital in two words, as to continue it for two years, without even then exhausting the subject. However, if you desire it, we will take it up where we left off.

"My kinsman observed me attentively. My reflections often astonished and displeased him. He found me too much of a Jew, and when on Saturday I announced to him that I wished to go to the synagogue, it was with surprise that he replied:--

"'Why? Do you wish to remain faithful to obsolete prejudices?'

"'Yes. I wish to remain a Jew.'

"'Do as you will,' said he, 'but know beforehand that the point in question is to be a man. After that, complete liberty in religious matters.'

"After this interview he looked on me as an individual on whom he could count only up to a certain point.

"One day he spoke to me of a person who, as he said, shared my convictions. He was an old man named Louis Mann, whom I knew by sight, and who passed for one of the deep thinkers of the city.

"The next day I went to pay my respects to him at an hour when I was almost certain to find him at home. He lived with his wife and three daughters in the first floor of a fine mansion. His apartments were richly furnished, and his son lived in a separate house near by.

"When I rang the bell a servant showed me into a little reception-room. A half-open door permitted me to look into the salon, and see a brilliant company of ladies and elegant cavaliers. I waited a long quarter of an hour. Mann then came in to see me; he did not deign to introduce me to his family or guests. I was received politely, but not as an equal. He made me understand that he did me an honour by receiving a homage which was due to him as a co-religionist, but that he had no desire to have any social relations with me.

"My position was embarrassing enough. On one side ladies dressed in the latest fashion surrounded the mistress of the house, who was clad in a magnificent robe of embroidered satin. I had not even been asked to sit down, as Monsieur Mann evidently disdained my unfashionable clothes. His pride did not hurt me; in spite of my poverty I had a most profound sentiment of self-respect, and it made me feel for this person puffed up with his own importance more pity than resentment.

"He began to give me advice, mentioning the names of many rich Israelites and dignitaries of the highest places, happy to let me see that he had intimate relations with these distinguished men. What did it matter? Wishing to dazzle me, he laid bare his littleness, and I remember perfectly the glitter of three decorations that ornamented his morning coat.

"'Young man,' said he in a solemn voice, 'I am rejoiced that your most worthy kinsman has tendered you a helping hand. By your assiduity and labour try to recompense him and render yourself useful to our race. We are all disposed to assist you, but you must make yourself worthy of us.'

"Still speaking, he looked at the door without even condescending to turn his head toward me. As he finished speaking there entered a lovely young girl who scanned me with half-closed eyes, then approached her father, put her arm around his neck and whispered something in his ear without granting me the least recognition.

"That was enough. There was nothing for me to do but retire as soon as possible. Mann, not thinking of detaining me, dismissed me coldly and entered the salon.

"I learned later on that he had done many benevolent actions, but, right or wrong, I have always attributed them to his extreme vanity. I ought to be grateful that in difficulties he has always put himself forward as the protector of the Jews. Far from being ashamed of his origin, he proclaimed it aloud and gloried in it. It was, perhaps, because he wished to pass as the representative of his people and be celebrated. Many times even he has agitated the subject in a perfectly useless and stupid manner.

"Mann was apparently a chief, but his followers were composed of a phalanx of adroit advisers who knew well how to accustom him to adopt their ideas as his own.

"His house was always open to visitors who considered him, or pretended to consider him, as the influential leader of the Jewish population of the city. Never did an exterior so well correspond to the character of a man. Short and corpulent, with broad shoulders, he had the air of carrying the world on his back, a crushing weight for others, but insignificant for a person of his calibre. In private life he played willingly enough the rôle of querulous benefactor.

"In other respects an honest man, his Jewish orthodoxy, although lacking sincerity, was, at least, a satisfaction to his pompous vanity. Under a mask of religion he equalled my kinsman in scepticism. They both had one real sentiment,--hatred for the nobility; and as I did not look on things as they did, they seemed to me extremely unjust. They concealed this enmity as much as possible; they lived on good terms with many of the nobles, and even made them great demonstrations of friendship. It was a comedy on both sides.

"Would you know the Jews in their worst light, then ask a Polish noble. Would you learn the vices and follies of the nobility, question a Jew.

"The populous city was a large field of study for a curious observer like myself. I sought to learn the inmost character of the people of Israel. My attachment to them dated from infancy, and for a long while I hoped to consecrate my life to the amelioration of my race. Still weak, unknown, without influence and without knowledge, I could hardly believe myself equal to the rôle to which I aspired; but an interior voice encouraged me. I dreamed of regenerating the Polish Israelites. But in this dream I did not believe that the reform would commence in the higher classes. These were they who above all were an obstacle to my mission, through systematic indifference, always a thing more difficult to overcome than the most inveterate prejudice.

"The question being more complex than I had at first supposed, I found it necessary to acquire a more solid instruction in order to combat it. I consecrated anew all my leisure to reading the Bible and its commentaries. At the outset my sojourn at Warsaw was sustained by sweet illusions, and my daily meetings in the city were very profitable to my intelligence. Conversations with this one and that one showed me the urgency of a reform to purify the Talmud and affirm the Bible and its teachings. The enterprise promised to be no less successful with mocking sceptics like my cousin, than with sincere fanatics whose sins were only excess of credulity.

"I really do not know how the idea of such a gigantic project originated in my mind. Humblest of men, I only know that I had a confidence in myself which increased with difficulties. In place of discouraging me, obstacles only enlarged the circle of my activity. I was in no haste to set to work. I wished above all to discover the ground and the weak point of my adversaries. That which frightened me, without making me renounce my project, was the great number of atheists among the Israelites.

"Mann and my cousin were not the only leaders of unbelief. Always and everywhere in the ruling class I met counterparts of these two men. The lower class offered me some consolation. Among them, though belief might be extinguished, religious customs still existed. There was often an abyss between true religion and its practice whose corruption was great, but at times there appeared an instance of virtue, radiant and pure.

"Everything assured me that my idea of reform was a just one, and that the propitious hour was not far off when I should become the instrument of God for the advancement of the people of Israel."

Jacob arose from his seat on the rock as he spoke, and his face shone with a superb and devout inspiration.

"And the streets of Warsaw did not make you lose your illusions?" asked Ivas smiling.

"Not at all. The thought that I carried from my distant province I preserved in the Polish capital. I have published it in my journeys, and I will take it back to Poland. The thought is my life!"

"Alas!" cried Ivas, "you come too late. The days of the prophets and the lawgivers are past. Proselytism is not possible in an epoch where each individual feels himself as capable as his neighbour of reasoning, of reforming, and of advancing by following his own impulses. No one will permit himself in these days to be led by the hand like a child."

"You are mistaken. Prophets are of all times, and, as general education is perfected, a guide is necessary to indicate the end to be obtained, and to conduct the masses by the power of superior virtue."

"Have you, then, the hope of raising yourself to that position?"

"I know not. But the sentiment of this mission would not have taken such root in my soul if it came not from God. If I think to shrink from the task, a superior power orders me to advance."

"Poor dreamer!" thought Ivas.

"The burden is heavy," Jacob continued; "I do not ignore that. My personal worth has nothing to do with the thing. My object is so sublime that it awes me. But," said he suddenly, "you do not appear to comprehend me."

"No matter, I admire you!" replied the young Pole, shaking his companion's hand warmly. "I know very little of the Israelites, but I sympathize with them. Your race resembles ours. An ingenious Muscovite teacher, in one of his manuals for the schools where history is learned by questions and answers, has put the following question: 'Which are the nations without a country?' The official reply is: 'The Jews, the Gypsies, and the Poles.' I have never forgotten that wicked irony of a Russian teacher. Between you and me there is a likeness, and at the same time an unlikeness. Your oppression dates back to ages whose very antiquity is in one way an excuse for barbarism, while ours dates from an age that has taken for its device 'Fraternity, equality, and liberty!' Compared with other people in this nineteenth century, except, perhaps, the Irish, our destiny is a frightful anachronism. But to return to the Jews."

"You know me much better now," continued Jacob slowly. "You see before you a fanatic, an original, an eccentric, a man who believes, who hopes, who has a determined aim in life. I have undertaken my journey only to prepare myself better for the execution of my project. I am more convinced than ever of the necessity of the task which I have assumed. I have seen the Jews in almost every land. Everywhere I have found in them the two maladies which poison my co-religionists in Poland,--indifference or unbelief, which renders us cosmopolites; fanaticism, or ignorance, which puts on us the ban of humanity. These two dangerous elements threaten to extend. Israel will disappear from the surface of the earth, like all nations who repudiate their glorious past, like nations detached from the maternal breast of humanity, which live an exclusive life exhausting and extinguishing themselves. Israel has great need of regeneration."

"And you expect to be the regenerator?"

"I count only on indicating the work. What reason should hinder me from putting my hand to the task for which I have prepared myself with assiduity and perseverance. The will is an immense force.

"After my visit to Mann, my cousin asked me what impression I had formed of this man whom he knew better than I. He sought, no doubt, by this question to better understand my humble self.

"'I found him,' replied I, 'so occupied that it was a trouble to receive me.'

"'Did he not receive you well?'

"'Yes. But'--

"'Bah! You must not attach importance to his reception. He is a boor whose grossness is only partly concealed. At heart he is an honest and excellent man.'

"We arose from the table, the ladies passed into the salon, and my cousin led me to his study, where he drew from me a detailed report of my visit.

"'I am young,' added I in finishing, 'and I have therefore nothing to seek. At all events, I have no desire to see him again.'

"'On the contrary! On the contrary! You must go to see him often. Shake off your timidity. With men in general be bold without impertinence. The less you treat them with respect, the more consideration they will have for you. Abase yourself, and they will put you under their feet.'

"'You are right,' replied I; 'nevertheless I cannot change myself; I cannot be bold by reflection nor calculation, nor humble by interest. It is unfortunate to have so little control over one's self, but it would be in vain for me to attempt to change my nature.'

"'Then you will never amount to anything. In the world, in order to succeed, one must play a continual part; one must know how to be humble when one is really proud, and to show one's self valiant when paralyzed by fear. Otherwise one is exposed to impositions, dominated over and crushed. You must crush or be crushed; which would you rather do?'

"'So wretched a rule of conduct,' said I, 'will never be mine. My principles are absolutely different. I look on life as a grave and serious mission; as for yourself, excuse my frankness, it is not a rôle learned in advance for the theatre.'

"'Oh, I do not mind,' said he; 'but our two systems differ because you have too good an opinion of men. Yours is fine in appearance, detestable in results. Open your heart, unveil your inmost thoughts, it is to deliver them voluntarily as food for men whom reason commands us to despise as our natural enemies.'

"'I would rather,' cried I, 'regard them as brothers!' My cousin laughed ironically and stroked his beard.

"'My dear,' added he, 'it matters not what you prefer, but what really exists. I have never supposed that you were so innocent. All the bucolic pictures of mankind are very well in paintings, tapestries, or screens, but in practical life to believe in Utopia is always to remain a dupe. At times man is good and honest, but he inclines more frequently to evil. Is it not worth while to lean on a normal state rather than on exceptions of short duration?'

"'But humanity will perfect itself.'

"'When? How? All nonsense! Industry will advance, implements will be perfected so that we may be nourished and clad, commerce will develop, but not man. That which makes life easy for the masses is a benefit, and yet the question is not determined whether all this progress corrupts or elevates mankind. The question is not settled. We must use men like tools to elevate ourselves, and not lose time by loving them as a whole. The useless ought to be put out of the way without pity. The capable we must learn to make use of. Behold my theory! Your's leads to nothing. Sensibility is a disease, a malady of the worst kind.'

"This terrible theory did not frighten me; I was prepared to hear it. This was for me a decisive and memorable day. It brought together, and at the same time drew apart, my mentor and myself. He continued, looking me in the face:--

"'As I wish you well, not from a morbid sensibility, but to make of you a man who may be useful to me, I will give you one more word of advice. You have a habit, as if to distinguish yourself, of boasting continually of being a Jew. It is ridiculous, and will injure you seriously.'

"'It would, I think, be still more ridiculous to wish to conceal it, and that I will never do,' replied I, 'for I am strongly attached to my race and to my belief. By simple calculation, even, would it not be a hundred times better to declare my origin than to conceal it, that it may afterward be thrown in my face as an insult?'

"'But why recall your origin everywhere you go?'

"'Because I am proud of it.'

"'Proud, and why? That is inconceivable. Judaism was, perhaps, in former times our shield and buckler, but it is no longer so.'

"'But our religion,' commenced I.

"'Our religion! What is it more than other religions? They are all alike. So much milk for babes. You believe, then, that it is wicked to yoke together an ox and an ass for labour, or to mix blood with milk, or silk with wool, and that whoever does not keep these old rules and reply Amen to them will go to hell?'

"'I respect even these old ordinances of my faith, difficult as they are to explain. I see the reason in the law of Moses of the order not to mix grains in the fields: it is a wise agricultural measure. To forbid two animals working together, one of whom is much weaker than the other, is a protection for the beasts. Not to mix blood and milk is probably a good hygienic law. Not to wear silk and wool at the same time can pass for a sumptuary law, designed as a lesson against superfluous luxury. In general, all these prohibitions against mixing species are symbols of the necessity that there is for Israelites not to mix with other nations. I respect these rules even when I cannot explain them. The 'Amen' in the schools is a duty, for not to assent to the rabbins is to show unbelief.'

"My cousin listened, astonished at the enthusiasm of my answer, then he shrugged his shoulders.

"'You had better get rid of these prejudices,' said he.

"'If they were prejudices, you would be right, but you cannot call respected traditions prejudices. It is to put our faith in danger."

"'What is faith?'

"'The definition is unintelligible to those who do not feel the need of it.'

"'It is easy to recognize, in listening to you, the teachings of your first fanatical masters.'

"'I do not dream of shaking off the teachings of childhood. They have made me a member of God's chosen people. Leave me my convictions.'

"'Keep them, if you will. Your whims will depart of themselves. All I ask is that you keep them to yourself. Actual society is tolerant, but it does not like fanaticism, for that always denotes a narrow mind or an unhealthy state. Truly none of us forgets that he is a Jew, but it is unnecessary and injurious for one to be perpetually clothed in his Judaism.'

"The life of my guardian conformed in all things to his principles. He was guided by cold reason, sometimes also by passion, which he knew well how to bridle, but never by sentiment, of which he was either destitute, or from which he strove to deliver himself. I know not if he was fashioned thus by nature or by education, but each one of his steps was regulated by self-interest. He put calculation above all things. He loved his daughter, but in his own way; he had disposed of her, as he thought, excellently, and had brought her up to conform to his ideas.

"A terrible despot under a benign form, he had a conservative instinct to undertake nothing that was not certain to succeed. Fighting against obstacles, where to draw back would have been an avowal of his weakness, he almost always succeeded where other men failed.

"He now endeavoured to widen the circle of my acquaintances. In spite of my distaste to pushing myself on in this way, he did not cease to preach to me that I must take men by storm. He often took me to visit people who were odious to him; for these he reserved his most gracious smiles, his most cordial protestations. He turned a deaf ear to all offensive allusions, and did not appear to notice the indifference of this one nor the ostensible malevolence of another. He had such control over himself that things which completely upset me did not seem to make the least impression on him. He contented himself with biting his lips and smiling. But afterward the reaction was violent, and the more his irritation had been restrained the more violent was his hatred when he had taken off the mask. Reason, which always predominated with him, was the only thing which kept him from passing the bounds prescribed by prudence.

"From the first year of my sojourn in Warsaw he initiated me into the world of speculators, where one must know how to defend one's self in order not to be crushed. Every day I felt myself less adapted to such a life. What shocked me most was the continual lying; hardly any one thought of speaking the truth. I adopted a different line of conduct,--an audacious frankness.

"Men, who always judge others by themselves, imagined that I played an easy part, and that I acted thus by calculation. I succeeded well enough in business, but in the midst of rogues of all kinds I passed equally for a rogue, an impostor of a new school who played with truth. I acquired the reputation of being a good actor. This troubled me a little, but it gave me the measure of men of our epoch who have for their motto: 'Mundus vult decipi ergo decipiatur.'

"Mathilde, in these early days, was my only consolation. You already know that I loved her; you know that our love resembled a flower concealed in the grass. For her, at least, I was neither a knave nor a comedian. A sentiment clearer than reason gave her confidence in my words. Our conversations were not like those of lovers. By an inexplicable mystery Mathilde's heart had not been chilled by her education. Many things were not alluded to in our discussions, which almost always took place in the presence of her governess. I did not like to let her know my opinion of her father, for whom she bore a lively affection, which it was not my wish to disturb. I also loved him in spite of his perversity. Some allusions from Mathilde made me understand that he also had suffered in his youth.

"My guardian knew how to gratify his desires without infringing the strictest propriety or the most severe decorum. It was known, perhaps, but no one ever saw the least impropriety in his conduct.

"For a year he spoke to me no more of religion. At the end of that period, accidentally, perhaps, rather than by deliberation, he renewed the conversation. No doubt he wished to know if my prolonged sojourn in Warsaw had modified my ideas and calmed my enthusiasm. Finding me absolutely unchanged, he abruptly changed the subject.

"Some days after, he mentioned to me houses where I ought to pay frequent visits, hoping that the influence of those I met at them would act on my sentiments and ideas. He recommended to me a family very important among the Israelites. This family was descended from the tribe of Levi, and numbered several members living together in perfect harmony, although one remained a Jew, another had embraced Protestantism, and a third had become a Catholic. My cousin approved this family as a model of indifference in religious matters. Pleasing to him, the spectacle scandalized me.

"The melancholy which reigned in Mathilde's soul I discovered also more or less developed in most of the women of her race, who can be divided into two categories: frivolous women without principle, and women obliged to conceal their noble instincts, knowing them forbidden."

The entire day was passed in conversation which gave Ivas much to think of, and although the friends rode on their donkeys, and two days had passed since their departure, they were yet not far from Genoa.

Night found them in a little village on the sea-shore, near hills crowned with cypress, palms, and orange trees; the huts were covered with ivy and surrounded by myrtle and laurels.

They sought a lodging, and engaged one in a narrow street whose houses were built over ancient arches sunk in the middle of a hillock. In the distance a travelling-carriage without horses announced a hotel.

"What a meeting!" cried Ivas. "Unless the Italian carriages resemble each other like drops of water, I swear that is the one which carried Monsieur and Madame Segel from Genoa."

Jacob stopped short at the same moment. He recognized Mathilde's husband standing at the door of the inn near a woman who, from her height and figure, bore no resemblance to his wife.

"It is a hallucination! It is not possible!" exclaimed the Jew.

"There is no doubt. It is Segel; it is he!" said Ivas.

Jacob's heart beat violently.

"Yet," added he, as if to explain the reality, "they should be far from here, even supposing some accident had happened to their carriage. It is singular.--Yes, it is Henri--perhaps she is ill, she--Let us seek another inn. It will be awkward for all. Ivas, go and assure yourself of this thing."

The Jew seated himself near a café bearing the motto, Del Gran Colombo. A quarter of an hour later the messenger returned. He seemed surprised.

"Well, how is it?" asked Jacob.

"Very strange. It is he, but--it is not she."

"You dream! Your eyes deceived you, without doubt."

"No, I never forget a face. This one is a young Italian, fresh and gay. Impossible to compare her with Madame Mathilde: she is heaven, this one the earth."

"Then the man cannot be Henri!"

"Certainly it is he."

"Are they alone together?"

"All alone, like turtle-doves. Madame or mademoiselle eats peaches, throws side glances at Segel, laughs and sings."

"I must see it with my own eyes," said Jacob.

The friends approached the inn, and Jacob soon assured himself that it was Henri, accompanied by an unknown woman with all the fascinations of an opera-dancer.

He was about leaving when Henri Segel saw him, saluted him gayly, and drew near.

"Is that you?" cried he. "You have caught me in flagrante delicti. Poor Mathilde is sick. She returned to Genoa after having accompanied me as far as Nervi. She will remain there quietly for a fortnight. As for myself, I needed distraction, and, by chance, I met an old acquaintance, la Signora Gigante, a French opera-dancer, who is the best of company. Bored and wearied as I am by the monotony of life, I seized this occasion to enjoy myself. One must laugh sometimes. Gigante is as simple-hearted and gay as a child. You have no idea how amusing she is. She has drawn me from the monotony of my existence."

He confessed all this naturally and without embarrassment.

Jacob, stupefied, could hardly believe his ears, and knew not what to reply.

"Mathilde," added the husband, "as you know, is the most beautiful and accomplished of women; but such ideal creatures are fatiguing. It is not always agreeable to talk of serious things in a solemn tone. A man occupied as I am needs sometimes to breathe easily. Gigante is an admirable clown in petticoats. Come, come, you will sup with us. You will laugh! You will be amused, I assure you."

Jacob felt a great wrath grow in him. He laughed savagely.

"I accept willingly," said he ironically; "life is made only for amusement."

Gigante, no longer able to repress her curiosity, drew near in order to ascertain who the two strangers were that examined her with so much curiosity. Her attention was bestowed principally on Jacob, as Ivas, poorly clad, promised little. She tripped toward them singing, and the refrain echoed in the street in bursts of gayety.

"Je suis seule depuis longtemps,

Seule, seulette.

Eh, je suis veuve en mon printemps,

Veuve et fillette;

Pas d'espoir d'horizon vermeil

Pour moi seulette,

Il manque à mon ciel ton soleil,

Veuve et fillette."

Segel began to laugh on hearing this couplet, which she accompanied with very expressive gestures. Without finishing the song she began to sing another, the melancholy words of which clashed with the joyous air.

"Elle a perdu son tourtereau,

Pauvre tourterelle!

Elle erre seule au bord de l'eau

En trainant son aile;

Elle fuit les nids aux chansons

Que l'amour épèle;

Elle fuit les fleurs des buissons

Sans attrait pour elle;

Et se baigné dans le ruisseau

Seule mais fidèle.

Quel tourment! plus de tourtereau!

Pauvre tourterelle!"

By a lively pantomime she acted the poor turtledove. The lost turtle-dove was, without doubt, Henri Segel, who almost burst his sides laughing. The signora after this exhibition drew near her cavalier, who presented the two gentlemen.

"Ah! Signori Polachi! I like the Poles exceedingly," cried she, turning toward Jacob. "E Viva la povera Pologna! Ah, ah, ah! Is it true that in your country it is so cold that sometimes the fowls freeze in winter, and do not thaw out until spring? Bologne--Pologne; same thing, isn't it? Have you been at Genoa? Did you go to the theatre? I dance and I sing at Carlo Felici. I am at the head of the chorus. I am promised before long the rôle of mezzo-soprano. Have you seen me play the sorceress? No? That's too bad."

"Dear Gigante," interrupted Henri, "if you tell everything at once there will be no more to say."

"I know more songs than any one else," replied she gayly. "I have a throat full. And if I can find no more to say, I can look at these gentlemen. That will drive you wild with jealousy."

"But I am not jealous."

"How! Not jealous? You ought to be if you love me. That is a part of the rôle."

"We will love each other--until Lucca."

"What matters it? Before we arrive at Lucca you will be dead in love. And you, messieurs, artists who go on foot, where are you going will you permit me to ask?"

"We go to Pisa."

"To Pisa? A dead city, a great cemetery. The Arno is like a dirty old ditch. You had better come with us to Lucca. There I will give you all three a fig and adieu."

Then she commenced to sing again a merry song.

Jacob listened, and a feeling of weakness came over him; his brow was clouded, and, without replying, he left this joyous company, giving a headache as an excuse, and leaving Ivas to listen to Gigante. He was overcome with rage and emotion.

The husband of the poor forsaken Mathilde giving himself up to such distractions! It was easy to guess from this scene what her life was. Jacob suffered for her, and experienced a sensation of chagrin that he had not remained in Genoa where he could have been alone with her.

But soon he blushed at the thought that he would have dared to profit by the absence of Henri. "All is for the best," thought he. "I ought not to trouble her repose by my presence, for that would open old wounds in her heart, as in mine. Destiny has separated us. Great duties are before me. Her sadness increases. We have no right to glide into a paradise the entrance to which is forbidden. Fate urges me with an implacable lash. Let us go!"

Ivas returned to his lodgings late that night, after copious libations and a thousand jokes with the coquette, Gigante, who could not conceive any one indifferent to her, and had tried to interest them both at the same time. Signer Enrico, during his little affair, had given himself the name of Don Fernando, so as to pass for a Spaniard. He was very proud of the conquest, and acted as foolishly as his companion.

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.

"The picture is a history of the Israelites in Europe in the past. To-day our history is the bourse, and it were better to weep over the tombs than over our waning dignity."

The next day Ivas awoke early in order to prepare for their journey, but did not find his friend. The woman of the house told him that he had gone toward the sea at daybreak with a book in his hand. The morning was superb. Over the tranquil sea glided the fishing-boats with drooping sails. The sun gilded the waves, whose brilliant azure transported the imagination to the land of fairies. Seated on a rock not far from the inn, Jacob, forgetting his book, pensively contemplated the beautiful scene.

Ivas felt some hesitation about interrupting a revery which drew him from the world, but the heat was already increasing, and it was necessary to set out before the morning was further advanced. After an instant of thought he wished his friend "Good-morning!" Jacob raised his head.

"What need is there," said he, "of such haste? Why not remain, at least, a day on this beautiful shore? We can rest here, and go on with fresh energy."

"As you will. Our journey will be only one day longer. You ought, like Antæus, to draw new strength from our common mother, Earth and Nature. I will not conceal from you, however, the impatience that grows upon me to return to that land whose sorrows I prefer to the delights of any other. There no one awaits me; there is nothing for me but shadow. Nevertheless, my soul is on fire when I think of my native land."

"The sentiment is not strange to me. I, also, love your fatherland."

"Why, then, do not your brothers think as you?"

"A difficult question. Think how sad was the situation of the Jews there in the last century, and even recently. Like lepers, we were distinguished by our costume, we were banished to the interior of the country, and all the rights of man were denied us. All Christians were at liberty to molest us without punishment; injuries and outrages were showered on us. Such conditions could not develop in the Jews, love of a country or its institutions. It even restrained in our hearts love of humanity in general,--that humanity which would not receive us, but set us aside as if under a ban."

"I am no admirer of the Middle Ages," said Ivas. "But tell me, where have the Jews had an easier existence relatively than in Poland? Nowhere; and the proof of it is that they are more numerous there than elsewhere. They come from distant lands to settle among us. Persecution has sometimes attacked them, but, in general, the law has protected them. Polish fanaticism has been intermittent, and not continual as in other parts of Christendom."

"I admit all that. But whence comes the abatement of persecution? It is because we are to-day much less Jews, and you less Christians. Extreme religious ardour produced horrible results; who knows if the complete absence of belief will not be more pernicious still for humanity. My desire is to preserve the people of Israel from the malady of the age. Yesterday Henri showed us where freedom from all duty leads. This man deserts his sick wife, and runs over the country with a silly woman. A weakness, you will say, perhaps. No; for in that case he would have been ashamed of his conduct, and he did not even blush when, by chance, we met him with his Gigante. As he sees things, it is all simple and perfectly natural. A being capable of acting thus and affecting such cynicism is deprived of all moral sense."

After a moment he continued:--

"I have travelled over the Old World. I have visited Palestine and the Orient; I have slept in the tents of the Bedouins. I have visited the Musselmans in the cities. Irreligion is creeping in even among the pilgrims to Mecca. Many make the pilgrimage more from ostentation than from piety. Among Christians there are fewer believers than traders in beliefs. In France, Catholicism is the tenet of a lame political party, but is not carried out in their actions. Its defenders are the condottieri; they combat for a faith which they do not carry in the depths of the heart. They confess, perhaps, for the sake of example, but surely they do not pray. In revenge, they fling the worst insults at their adversaries, the advocates of free thought, all in the name of religion. Social order is in ruins. It will be replaced by something better, I hope; but while waiting, the old structures will waver, the columns will be overthrown, the altars will fall. Once the past is destroyed, we will need a Messiah, a Saviour!"

"You are pitiless," cried Ivas. "Ruins everywhere, it is true; I, also, believe there will be a new order of things. But it will come by progress and not after a cataclysm by a Saviour that you already see, and that you announce."

"Let us change the subject," said Jacob. "The future is God's secret. Our destiny, unfortunate mortals, is to live in an era of transition."

"To return to our journey. Shall we rest here or push on farther?"

"Remain here. I am fatigued to-day. I need to draw new strength from reading, talking, and thinking. I will listen to the dashing of the surf upon these rocks; the ocean, perhaps, will tell me something."

"You are ill. I am sorry; far from gaining, your malady increases; it is easy to guess the cause. You regret not having remained in Genoa, where languishes your beloved."

"That is to judge me very base. I could not have offered her my society. My sadness comes from the conviction that her husband is unworthy of her. I know how she must suffer, and what her existence is, chained to such an animal."

"Alas, there is no remedy!"

"Then it is better not to speak of it."

Jacob closed his book, and returned to the inn with his companion.

The day was passed in various discussions. They saw no more of Henri and his danseuse. The couple had left for Spezia, a new reason for Jacob to rest on his route so as not to encounter them.

In the evening they went again to sit by the sea.

"I am not yet," said Ivas, "completely satisfied with your history; have you no more to tell me? You have given me only the detached leaflets."

"Why? Because the book is not worth the trouble of being read entire. That would take too much time. There are many details that would fatigue you. Be content, then, with the principal facts and the reflections which they suggest; but I will go on, as you desire it.

"I worked in the counting-house during the greater part of the day. I found it necessary afterward to cultivate my relations with society, to extend my study of the world and of character. I went out almost every evening, and often Mathilde and her father accompanied me. A part of every night was consecrated to the study of the Bible and the Talmud. From the first days of my existence in Warsaw, one man attracted my regard and inspired my sympathy. This was my guardian's brother, Simon Borah.

"The brothers had no love for each other. Simon was not a practical man; he had lost a part of his fortune, and his business did not prosper. For the reason that he was obliged to aid his brother occasionally, my guardian disliked him still more. In a word, these two men had not one single point of resemblance.

"Simon, though incredulous like his brother, was sentimental, whimsical, full of heart. He formed attachments easily. Frivolous, and even at times childish, he redeemed himself in the eyes of the world by a sarcastic wit and caustic argument; his satire attacked every one, even his brother.

"Simon had been married twice. Both of his wives were dead. He was still gallant toward the fair sex, and he was in great demand in the salons, for it was difficult to find a more charming man. He was feared a little also on account of his caustic tongue. Without religion himself, he sought those who were believers. He spared no one, but at heart acquitted all men, a tear in his eye and a smile on his lips. He let himself be ridiculed by men who were far from being his equals, and thereby carried his point; he resembled in these moments some monstrous animal which could not contain itself. Full of contradictions, he was logical with himself. Christian with the Jews, and Jew with the Christians, it pleased him to appear paradoxical. Impressionable in a high degree, he interested himself deeply to-day in things to which he was completely indifferent to-morrow. He had one great quality, that of never lying. When he could not answer frankly he covered his words with adroit sarcasm, or often was silent.

"My guardian, who observed all the proprieties minutely, wrangled continually with this original who revolted against all restraint.

"Small of stature, with mean features and yellow skin, with a quick step, he was very ugly, but of an expressive and intelligent ugliness; such is the physical portrait of Simon Borah.

"He took a great fancy to me in spite of my religious sentiments, which I did not try to conceal. I knew he watched me closely, and I wished to deserve his good opinion. Each day his friendship increased. His penetrating glances soon divined my love for Mathilde without my ever having spoken.

"One day when we were alone he suddenly turned to me and said he wished to ask me a question.

"'What is it, Father Simon?' said I.

"'You are sorrowful?' asked he.

"'No, I assure you.'

"'I can read love in your eyes. Who is the object? Is it the English governess, Miss Burnet? The thing is not improbable; they say that withered flowers exhale the sweetest perfumes. Still there is another charming person in the house.'

"He saw that the blood rushed to my face, and continued:--

"'Between ourselves, I know your secret. Let me recall to you an official phrase of our very august sovereign, Alexander II., in his interview with the Poles: "No brooding over the past!" Your guardian is a practical man and has high aims.'

"'It is you who dream, Father Simon.'

"'Don't try to deceive me! You are in love, my boy.'

"'Well, if I am, that will be--but that is not so'--

"'Very fine. I know what you wish to say. Believe me, the best thing for you is to get over it as soon as possible. Do not play with fire, for

"This fruit so sweet
Is not for you."'

"'Never has such an idea come into my head.'

"'I should say the same if I were you. You will be wise to renounce all hopes.'

"Our conversation ceased there. He left some days after for the baths, and when he returned he found Mathilde betrothed. When he saw me he looked at me out of the corners of his eyes, and read probably on my face the resignation and the suffering so well concealed, for he shook my hand without saying a word.

"Two days after he met me on the street, and whispered in my ear: 'The law of nature is that the most beautiful fruits shall be eaten by the worms.' Then he went away before I could reply. He loved Mathilde very much, and foresaw her fate, but he well knew that it was useless to speak to a brother who did not allow sentiment to interfere with calculation.

"I devoted myself to business assiduously, hoping to forget my sorrow thereby. In the mean while, an unexpected change came to me. I could at last obtain the independence so long desired.

"As I owed all to my guardian's bounty, I had been obliged to conform my life to his ideas, and to obey his orders. Study was full of attraction to me, but I had no time to devote to it except in the evenings. My cousin intended to send me soon to some foreign post, where I would be employed as a correspondent in the office for one of his partners. To travel, to observe, would instruct me, and I was not averse to going; but I would have preferred to travel at liberty. Therefore you can well imagine that it seemed like a special grace from heaven to be delivered like a miracle from my chains, and to become master of myself and of my actions. It was near the time of Mathilde's marriage, when word came from my guardian to come immediately to his office.

"I feared some misfortune, when I saw him walking up and down the room with a cloudy face.

"'Do you know what has happened?' said he.

"'I have heard nothing new.'

"'Then I will be the first one to congratulate you. Your distant relation, Moses Hermann, of Berlin, who has no children, as you know, has died and left you all his fortune. Ought I to rejoice? No, I regret it, for I lose in you a man that I wished to form on my own ideas.'

"I remained stupefied.

"'What do you think of it?' asked he.

"'I can hardly reply. For a long time I have desired to travel, and I hope to set out soon.'

"'You are at liberty to do so. I am happy to have given you an education which renders you worthy of this unexpected fortune. It is wonderful! Moses saw you only once or twice.'

"He shrugged his shoulders, and I hastened to my room to think over my good fortune and to collect my thoughts. The news had already travelled abroad, and persons in the city who had never noticed me before received me now with cordiality, and proffered me the warmest friendship.

"Mann kissed me publicly on both cheeks and predicted a splendid future for me. He even invited me to breakfast, a thing he had never done before. Others tried to persuade me that they had loved me from the depths of their hearts from time immemorial. From a nobody I became a marked man and a welcome guest.

"The will of Moses had made a great change in my life. This Moses Hermann had been in Warsaw some months before. A near relative of my mother's, he was unknown to me, and I then saw him for the first time. My guardian, knowing that he was a widower and without direct heirs, had some thoughts of a marriage between him and Mathilde, but this union was distasteful to an old man of seventy years. During his stay in Warsaw I saw him every day. Under his reserve, I thought I had discovered in him an Israelite of the old school. Born and brought up in Germany, he was a type almost unknown among us, of an educated and polished man who was not at all ashamed of his Hebrew origin. In many respects he was a German. It is well known what an important rôle the Jews play in Germany, in literature, music, the sciences, and politics. He belonged to this group, grave, serious, a thinker, where thought is not stifled by practical life. He loved poetry; he even devoted some leisure moments to the muse himself, but did not write in the style of Henri Heine, whose genius he nevertheless admired. He informed me of the actual situation of our co-religionists, and of their waning faith. My guardian had recommended me to him ironically as an ardent Talmudist, which was an exaggeration. The visitor was curious to examine me on this subject. I answered him with entire frankness, and unfolded to him my convictions and my programme for the future. Irritated by the sneers of my guardian, I explained to him all my thoughts on Judaism, perhaps with some exaltation. Moses listened to me attentively, though he said nothing, and we did not resume the subject, for he left suddenly the next day.

"Great was my astonishment at this bequest. In the will there was not a single obligatory clause. The wording was short and concise. The motive which was inexplicable to others was clear to me. It was a sacrifice made to the ideas which he approved and shared.

"My guardian, who had expected this fortune himself, spoke of the deceased with bitterness and accused him of ingratitude.

"On this memorable day I met Father Simon.

"'It is too bad,' cried he, 'that the honest Moses did not die some months sooner. To-day it is the mustard after dinner, is it not? Nothing comes in time. However, perhaps it is for the best. I congratulate you, and I hope you will not be intoxicated by your sudden fortune.'

"Really the surprise did intoxicate me somewhat, in spite of myself. Men appeared to me from a new point of view; their baseness disgusted me, since now that I was rich they treated me so differently from when in poverty. It was impossible for me to accept all their invitations or to escape their attentions; I repelled them, however, with great interior contempt.

"As my guardian had told me that I was free to dispose of myself, I resolved to go abroad. Since then I have travelled, and I return home with the firm determination of serving my brothers and my countrymen."

Ivas sighed.

"You are happy," said he; "free, rich, and at liberty to do as you please. Your education, your character, your force of mind, will enable you to accomplish great things."

"Listen," cried Jacob, taking his arm, "we will labor together to serve our countrymen. I am prepared for it."

A light shone in Ivas' eyes, but he repressed the transports of his soul.

"I thank you," replied he at last, with a sad smile on his lips, "but it will first be necessary to return to Poland. Our country is on the eve of important events. Impatience devours me."

"Me, also," said Jacob. "Yet I do not share your presentiments. There are some events that I would rather avoid than hasten. We will speak of this later."

The next day they continued their journey. Restlessness incited them. At Spezia they took the diligence and gained a railway station. They travelled quickly through Italy and Austria, and soon arrived at the frontier of what is called the Russian Empire.

It is to-day the only European State, if one can call it thus, where there exists no security for any one. If one goes on foot, one is exposed at the caprice of an administration, on the least suspicion, or from a false accusation, if not to death, to imprisonment of long duration, spoliation, or torture. It is better to fall into the hands of Calabria than into those of the functionaries of the Russian government. A country where, with the exception of the rights of the strongest, there are no rights; where reigns a band of beings, a little polished but not civilized; where the insatiable tools of brute force do not make any account of man, of his dignity, of his age, of his merits, of his sufferings; is it not rather an immense and frightful dungeon? The unfortunates who have escaped from its prison doors become the sport of the towns and villages. Before entering, a man was a man. He is now no more than the subject, the slave, not of a single autocrat, but of some hundreds of ferocious despots, each individual a greedy representation of the unlimited power of the Czar. On its Russian barriers one can read the inscription of Dante: "Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch'entrate." "Who enters here leaves hope behind."

CHAPTER VIII.

[THE SABBATH.]

A small hamlet near Warsaw. A spacious, empty market-place, on one side of which is a modest church and long cemetery wall; on the other a row of old and new houses of wood and brick, inhabited chiefly by Israelites. One of these, more conspicuous, rises above the others with a certain arrogance. On the ground floor, a grocery. On the front two lions, recalling by their sculpture Assyrian art. In their paws a vase of flowers and the figures 1860, no doubt the date of the restoration of the house. An eating-house with an open door is at the side.

Almost all the business of the village centred about this dwelling, a sufficient proof that the proprietor was an important person. It was a Friday evening; on the upper floors preparations were being made to celebrate the day consecrated to God in the Old Testament.

Provisions of all kinds covered the kitchen table. Women kept watch over a roast goose, a baked fish, while pastry and other dishes were cooking in the blazing oven. The chambers were being set in order, brooms flourished everywhere, and the candlesticks were filled with candles.

Already the venerable Jankiel Meves had returned from the bath. He hastened to put on his best garments, although the sun was far from setting; he had eaten little during the day, so as to do more honour to the blessed supper. While waiting, he reviewed in his memory all the events of the past week, seeking any violation of the sacred laws so as to efface them by sincere repentance.

Jankiel was an Israelite of the old school. It would have been very easy for him to have gained a more elevated position, owing to his wealth, his intelligence, and his connections; but he refused to put off his costume and to abandon his religious observances. The noise of women's jests came to his ears from the kitchen below. His wife, Rachel, fat, mature, and rosy, kneaded three little white loaves, some of which she was careful to reserve apart for the Khallah. The good woman, after having washed her hands, had carefully taken a portion of the dough, whispering the prayer used on such occasions: "Praised be Jehovah our God, King of the world! It is from thee that we have received our sacred laws, and it is thou who hast ordered us to keep the Khallah!"

As there was only one family and one baking, Rachel threw only one Khallah into the fire. In another part of the kitchen was in preparation a stuffed pike, a favourite dish of the Israelites, recommended by tradition for the Sabbath day. At the same time roasts and other dishes were cooking. On this day of rejoicing economy is not thought of.

The master of the house inspected himself the freshly washed dishes, the shining knife, and the clean stewpans.

The hour arrived for the preparatory prayers of the celebration, with the Ten Commandments in Hebrew and in Chaldaic, a chapter of the Prophets applicable to the day of the year, and the 93d Psalm.

What a profound impression can be produced on an oppressed people by this last song of the Psalmist, which commands patience, and promises God's vengeance against oppressors.

Jankiel recited the prescribed prayers, and, as he had yet time, he opened the Talmud and fell on a passage of the Book Berakhat. The reading plunged him in meditation. His thoughts went back to the days of intense persecution; he wept, and thanked God that, in spite of captivity, dispersions, tortures, and oppression, He had miraculously preserved His people until the present day. Whence came this miracle, from the observance of the law.

The time of prayers over, custom wills that the master of the house shall throw a last glance on the festive preparations; and, although he had entire confidence in Rachel, the Jew visited the kitchen, touched the dishes, and blessed in thought the nourishment about to be served. Then he returned to his chamber and read the Song of Solomon.

The sun disappeared, and the candles were lighted. The solemn hour of the coming of the Sabbath approached.

The table was carefully set, and Rachel appeared in a toilette of velvet ornamented with pearls. Her daughters were dressed less elegantly, but with much taste, and the servants even were in their best.

The time came to go to the synagogue, and Jankiel descended the stairs, Rachel following him with an enormous volume under her arm. Her daughters accompanied her, and behind came the servants. That no one from this house must miss service was the rule of this Israelite.

The crowd filled the court in front of the temple; rich and poor, devout followers of Mosaism, were mixed together, and the chorister intoned the prayer Achre.

The service was long. Jankiel's face wore an expression of sad preoccupation, and when he returned home he had, in spite of this day of rejoicing, a clouded brow and a discontented air. At times he looked at Lia, his younger daughter, who awaited with fear and trembling her mother's commands.

She was a charming girl, whose features expressed innocence and sensibility of heart. Her eyes sparkled with the fires of youth, though they were now clouded by recent tears, and she looked at her father as if frightened.

Rachel recited with her elder daughter the prescribed prayers while lighting the candles. Other prayers followed, some whispered, some uttered in a loud voice. The sacred songs echoed through the brilliantly lighted house, and the women read Hebrew books.

Jankiel absented himself to return to the synagogue, and Rachel assisted her daughters to finish the preparations for the feast. She placed on the table, covered with a white cloth, two white loaves made by herself wrapped in a snowy napkin, in remembrance of the manna of the desert, the napkin representing the dew.

Returned home, Jankiel pronounced several invocations, and his two daughters besought his blessing. He extended his hands to the elder, but when the time came for Lia he hesitated a moment, and his voice trembled faintly in pronouncing the benediction for the second time.

"May God make Rachel and Lia like Sara and like Rebecca!"

The mother in her turn blessed her children, embraced them, and shed some tears, which she tried to wipe off, unobserved, on a corner of her embroidered apron.

Before going to table a new prayer was addressed to the angels by Jankiel, then a second repetition of the Song of Solomon, and reading from the Talmud a verse chosen at random. Then followed the consecration of the wine and the blessing of broken bread, the pieces of which were distributed to the guests. It was thus they commenced the repast; but, in spite of the command of Moses to be merry during the Sabbath, the father seemed to be deeply afflicted. His glance sought Lia, and the young girl was so confused that she would have liked to conceal herself under the table.

Carried out according to tradition, the feast had a solemn character. The supper was half prayer, half offering, and bore no resemblance to the fashionable feasts from which God is banished and to which one does not dream of inviting the angels. Jankiel, a scrupulous observer of the law, pronounced a last prayer at the end of the repast. After that they separated. Rachel went to her bedroom, where Jankiel soon joined her.

"I am alarmed," said she to her husband; "you appear ill. You are not in your usual spirits. You have not the tranquillity of the Sabbath. What is the matter with you?"

"Oh, it will pass away! Do not speak of it now. It would sadden this blessed and holy day."

His wife said no more.

It is thus that the Sabbath is kept in houses where the old customs are strictly observed. In most Jewish families the ritual is abridged, and this tends to destroy the ancient and patriarchal character of this consecrated day.

Opposite Jankiel's dwelling was a wooden house; it was comfortable and convenient, and belonged to David Seeback. It was toward the windows of this house that Lia, alone in her chamber, turned her beautiful eyes. She sighed deeply, and seemed lost in thought.

David Seeback, father and son, had for many years followed the profession of money-lenders, a business which was called usury until the moment when political economy decided that to profit by the need of another is legitimate; and that interest, mutually agreed, no matter how high, is a permissible thing. These financiers were neither Jews nor Christians. They kept in appearance the Jewish laws and customs, but they attached to them no real importance. David, the father, gave himself out as a believing Jew to his co-religionists, but ridiculed all their observances when he found himself with the Khutars and the Goïmes.

He ate anywhere that he happened to be, and travelled on the days set aside for prayer and repose. In a word, he had shaken off tradition and found nothing to take its place.

David the younger had received his education in Warsaw and abroad; he bore no trace whatever of his origin. Well educated, but very corrupt at heart, he found in his insatiable cupidity many ways of gaining money. The father was proud of his only scion, and predicted for him a high destiny; and this time the proverb "like father like son" was right.

While the solemn ceremony of the Sabbath was being kept in the house of Jankiel, the two Davids lighted their candles and ate their supper, but forgot the prayers and the offerings of bread and wine. They were alone.

Long time a widower, Seeback had no other child but David. A weak character, he jested under all circumstances, and loved to make a trial of wit with his son. David the younger sometimes lent himself to this paternal whim, but, in general, he assumed a certain gravity, so as to impose upon people by an affected wisdom. Hypocrisy was developed in the family from one generation to another.

With all his indifference to religion, David the elder felt, on the days consecrated by custom, a certain remorse for having abandoned the pious customs; he was uneasy and unhappy. Sometimes he glided into an obscure corner, and murmured a portion of a prayer that he considered ridiculous to repeat aloud. He believed that by these clandestine practices he might repel some imminent danger. He had lost all respect for Jehovah, but he feared him still. Several times on this evening he arose from the table, and, at the risk of incurring his son's sneers, muttered in his sleeve some prayer. He had even simulated the blessing of the wine when he presented it to his heir, who, with a certain tact, feigned not to notice all his grimaces. The younger David had a distinguished manner, but his features expressed pride and foppery.

The father increased these faults by praises, and his admiration almost reached idolatry. He asked nothing in return but filial gratitude. The young man made very little account of his father, and reproached him continually for infractions of the laws of good society and for his ignorance. The old man at first essayed to justify himself, but always finished by bowing to the superior wisdom of David, junior. This insolent coxcomb was seated at table in a dressing-gown, with a cigar in his mouth. He wore gold spectacles, though they really hindered him from seeing. Fish was served, the only vestige of traditional customs, then a roast and tea. The old man cut the bread, muttering some unintelligible words; but he perceived a look of disdain from his son, and did not finish the prayer. There was a long silence, which the father broke by asking the young man, who had stretched himself out in a chair:

"What do you dream of? Of the Sabbath?"

"All that I know of the Sabbath is," replied David the younger, "that formerly they celebrated it. Today it is foolish, a foolish custom, and it is old Jankiel alone who observes the ridiculous ceremonies. Unfortunately, ridicule makes no impression on him."

"Would you, then, mock him?"

"Why not? This wretched, vulgar Jew feels for us only malevolence and repulsion."

"What matters it? He cannot injure us. His ill-will cannot make us lose one thing or another."

"That is true. And I would not have even noticed his aversion had he not such a pretty daughter."

"How now! What are you thinking of? Do not forget that you are already married, although you do not live with your wife. Do not plunge yourself in a love affair. There are plenty of girls who will suit you better than that lass. Even if you wish to be divorced, you must not dream of her. We can easily find for you the daughter of some Polish proprietor. If you take a second wife, you must look as high as possible, and for one not a Jewess. Am I not sufficiently rich to buy a property grand enough to make all the neighbouring aristocracy jealous?"

"I do not want land. Why invest in property that does not return four per cent., when we can now get twenty or thirty?"

"You are right, and you are wrong. Our capital brings in, it is true, the interest you name, but at the same time we run the risk of losing it. When one has acquired so immense a fortune as ours, it does not do to expose all of it in the same speculations. Land cannot run away. The banks give four and a half per cent.; but even the banks can fail. One cannot sleep easy with much money in the banks. The public funds? They are depressed. I continually fear a declaration of war. Land is really the safest investment."

"Not as safe as you think. The land can be taken from us."

"By whom?"

"We are not in France, or England, where property is sacred. Our government offers no security. No one is secure here."

"A very profound political thought, and one worthy of being remembered. I render homage to your perspicacity; but suppose even that half of the land was confiscated, the other half would increase in value. That is indisputable, while paper may be worth nothing to-morrow. Let us return to your future marriage. The first was unworthy of you; it must be dissolved. But why the devil do you dream of Lia? She did well for herself to fall in your way. She is a Jewess, and, though she is not bad looking, beauty is not everything. What a figure she would make in your salon, this country maiden who knows not how either to stand or to sit. Your second wife must be a woman who has received a refined education. She must be of noble birth, that she may shine at court. And could Lia do that? A simple country girl!"

"Nevertheless," objected David, "it is not for my salon that I wish to marry. I myself prefer a simple and innocent girl to all the fashionable ladies of Warsaw, who, having had eleven adorers, marry the twelfth."

"You talk foolishly. To think thus is the part of a common Jew, who only dreams of multiplying and filling the earth according to the command of the Bible. Your wife ought to push your fortunes. Through your education and your fortune you cannot fail to become a celebrated man. And what would you do then with Lia? Take her to a ball, or to the theatre? Truly, she would do you honour! If some great person noticed her, she would be confused and embarrassed, sucking her apron to hide her face. There are hundreds of Jewesses like that. You must take an educated wife, German or French. With your brains, and my money, you can aspire to anything. It would not be astounding for you to become minister, and then"--

He threw out his arm, and extinguished a candle. He arose to light it, but, suddenly remembering that this was the Sabbath day, a superstitious fear came over his spirit. He remained standing, not knowing what to do.

Seeing his father's hesitation, his son left his chair, and was bold enough to relight the candle. After this act of courage he reseated himself, and puffed his cigar with a malicious air.

His father loved to smoke, but, as he dared not infringe the law, he always deprived himself of that pleasure on the Sabbath, under pretext of some trifling indisposition. When the candle was relighted, an infraction of the Jewish law, he at first regarded it with fear, but soon regained his normal state, and continued to explain his theories on marriage.

"Lia cannot hope for a great fortune," said he. "Estimating Jankiel's wealth at its highest,--house, manufactory, and shop,--he scarcely possesses a hundred, or a hundred and twenty thousand roubles. What is that? A mere trifle to us!"

"And we," asked the young man, to tease his father, "have we not enough money?"

"How can such a word come out of your mouth? Has one ever enough? With money one does as he wills; without it, with all the intelligence in the world, one is only a fool. I will try to find you a rich wife. Think no more of Lia."

"What if I love her?"

"Love her? Your love will only be like a fire of straw; the faster it burns, the sooner it will die out. A sensible man does not marry for love and for the bright eyes of a young girl."

David, junior, burst out laughing, and his father was exceedingly proud of this mark of approbation from one who was usually so disdainful.

Satisfied with themselves, they were about to retire to their rooms, when they heard loud knocks on the outer door.

The thing was so extraordinary at this hour of the night, that the old man experienced a sensation of anxiety and foreboding, which changed to one of surprise when he saw at the door a man of fine appearance and of commanding stature, whom he did not recognize at first sight.

"Messieurs," said the stranger, "I hope you will pardon this intrusion on a holy day, and at so late an hour."

"Why, this is Monsieur Jacob!" cried the old man.

"Our holy law," replied the new-comer, "forbids all business transactions on the day consecrated to God, but the law permits us, on such occasions, to succour even a beast in danger of death; how much more, then, a man."

"Dear Monsieur Jacob, we do not belong to that superstitious class who dare not touch the fire or sew on a button during the Sabbath. Be seated. What can we do for you? But pardon me; my son David, Monsieur Jacob, who is a distant relation, and of whom you have often heard me speak," added he, presenting his son to the visitor.

David, junior, only knew that Jacob had been the sole legatee of a rich banker of Berlin, but that was sufficient to cause him to receive him with distinction. They invited him a second time to be seated. Jacob excused himself with a certain impatience.

"Perhaps you have not yet supped?" asked the master of the house.

"I reached your town somewhat late, and hastened to fulfil my religious duties. I have been to the synagogue, then I ate a little at the inn."

"Ah, you go to the temple!" and turning toward his son, the old man said:--

"What a good example! Monsieur Jacob, well brought up and intelligent, observes the law!"

"Yes," said Jacob, "a Jew I shall always remain. No doubt in captivity and exile we have added many ceremonies to the Mosaic law. These are both sweet and bitter souvenirs. It is good not to let them be extinguished."

The elder David visibly rejoiced at these words; his son smiled and bit his lips.

"Every one ought to follow the dictates of his own conscience," said he.

"But tell us to what good fortune do we owe your visit?" asked the father.

"I come to you on account of our relationship, to demand a service. I met in Italy a young Polish exile who suffers so much with homesickness that I brought him here with me. He was poor and ill. My conscience urged me to aid him. He fled from Poland several years ago, fearing to be implicated in a political plot."

"Political affairs; bad business," grumbled the old man shaking his head, while his son said nothing.

"He has succeeded in obtaining a passport under an assumed name," continued Jacob, "and he was determined to brave the danger, and accompanied me to Poland. At the frontier he would not accept my offer to go on with him. For fear of compromising me if he was arrested, he preceded me so as to enter his native land alone. Honest youth! Happily he passed the frontier, as I learned on arriving two days later. Scarcely had I passed the custom-house when I heard that the police had discovered that he was travelling under an assumed name. I hastened to rejoin him at the station where he was detained, and secured his release. I come to ask you to shelter him in your house, which is not suspected by the police, until I can obtain amnesty for him or find some other means to rid him of his pursuers. Otherwise the unfortunate boy will be sent to Siberia, and perish like many others of his oppressed countrymen."

The silence with which the two Davids answered his request showed that they were not inclined to harbour the young Pole. The appeal to their sentiment of humanity fell on deaf ears. It was the elder who, with a frown, finally spoke.

"This is a most delicate business," said he, "and very dangerous. Why not be frank with a kinsman? This is not a Jewish affair. What have we to do with the Poles, or Polish complications? They have nothing in common with us. The government does not persecute us, or, at least, it could persecute us much more. We are believed to be loyal and devoted. Why, then, should we expose ourselves and alienate this favourable disposition, by aiding, our former oppressors, the Poles? Why should the Jews meddle with politics? It is not our business."

"You and I differ in regard to that," replied Jacob. "If we wish to enjoy the same rights as other inhabitants of this country, we ought to commence to take an interest in politics and in the welfare of the land. It is only thus that we can expect to live on a footing of perfect equality. The government has decided to crush out the intelligent and educated Poles. It certainly belongs to us who eat their bread to make common cause with them against their oppressors, who are only conquering intruders. Let us remember our own captivity."

"Did you not say that the Jews ought to observe the law above all things? You contradict yourself, for the law commands us to protect ourselves, and it is contrary to our interests to take part with the Poles."

"How do you know that? Can you read the future? The iniquities committed against this nation cannot always remain without vengeance. God has permitted the chastisement, but the measure is full. The sins are washed away by tears and by blood! The day of justice draws near! In the day of terrible retribution it will be better to be with those who have been purified by divine punishment, and not with those who have incurred the wrath of God."