Chapter IX

The day had scarcely begun to dawn when, in Kamionker's house, everybody, with the exception of the little children, was awake and stirring. It was an important day for the landlord of the inn, as it was that of the principal fair, which brought crowds of people of all sorts to the town. Both Jankiel's daughters, two strong, plain, and slatternly girls, with the help of the boy Mendel, whose stupid, malicious face bore the traces of Reb Moshe's training, were busy preparing the two guest rooms for the arrival of distinguished customers. Next to the guest rooms was the large bar-room, where, during the fair, crowds of country people were wont to drink and to dance. The servant pretended to clean the benches around the wall, and made a scanty fire in the great black stove, as the morning was cool and the air damp and musty. In Jankiel's room, the first from the entrance, the window of which looked upon the still empty market-square, were two people, Jankiel and his wife Jenta, both at their morning prayers.

Jankiel, dressed his everyday gabardine with black kerchief twisted round his neck, rocked his body violently and prayed in a loud voice:

"Blessed be the Lord of the world that he hath not made me a heathen! Blessed be the Lord that he hath not made me a slave! Blessed be the Lord that he hath not made me a woman!"

At the same time Jenta, dressed in a blue sleeveless jacket and short skirt, bent her body in short, jerky motions, and in a voice much lower than her husband's, began:

"Blessed be the Lord of the world that he has made me according to his will!"

Rocking to and fro, she sighed heavily:

"Blessed be the Lord who gives strength to the tired and drives away from their eyes sleep and weariness!"

Then Jankiel took up the white tallith with the black border, and, wrapping himself in its soft folds, exclaimed:

"Blessed be the Lord who enlightened us with his law and bade us to cover ourselves with the tallith!"

He put the philacteries, or holy scroll, upon his forehead and wrists, saying:

"I betroth myself for ever, betroth myself unto truth, unto the everlasting grace."

Both husband and wife were so absorbed in their prayers that they did not hear the quick step of a man.

Meir Ezofowich crossed the room where Jankiel and his wife were praying, and the next, which was full of beds and trunks, where the two smaller children were still asleep, and opened the door of his friend's room.

There was as yet only a dim light in the little apartment where Eliezer stood at the window and prayed. He recognised his friend's step, but did not interrupt his prayers, only raised his hands as if inviting him to join:

"O Lord of Hosts, how long wilt thou be angry against the prayer of thy people?"

Meir stood a few steps apart and responded, as the people respond to the singer:

"Thou feedest them with the bread of stones, and givest them tears to drink in great measure."

"Thou makest us a strife unto our neighbours, and our enemies laugh among themselves," intonated Eliezer.

In this way the two friends sang one of the most beautiful complaints that ever rose from earth to heaven. Every word is a tear, every word a melody expressing the tragic history of a great people.

There were as different expressions in the faces of the two young men as their characters were unlike each other. Eliezer's blue eyes were full of tears, his delicate features full of dreaminess and rapture; Meir stood erect, his burning eyes fixed on the sky, and his brow contracted as if in anger. They both prayed from the depths of their hearts until the end, and then their formally united souls parted. Eliezer intoned a prayer for the Wise Men of Israel:

"O Lord of heaven! guard and watch over the Wise Men of Israel, their wives, children and disciples, always and everywhere! Say unto me Amen!"

Meir did not say Amen. He was silent.

The singer seemed to wait for a response, when Meir, slightly raising his voice, said, with quivering lips:

"Guard, O Lord, and watch over our brethren in Israel that live in sin and darkness, always and everywhere; bring them from darkness into light, from bondage to freedom! Say unto me Amen!"

"Amen!" exclaimed Eliezer, turning towards his friend; and their hands met in a hearty grasp.

"Eliezer," said Meir, "you look changed since I saw you last."

"And you, Meir, look different."

Only a week had passed over their heads. Sometimes one week means as much as ten years.

"I have suffered much during the week," whispered the singer.

Meir did not complain.

"Eliezer," he said, "give me 'More Nebuchim.' I came to you so early to ask for that book. I want it very much."

Eliezer stood with his head hanging down dejectedly.

"I no longer have the book," he said, in a low voice.

"Where is it?" asked Meir.

"The book which brought us light and comfort is no more. The fire has devoured it, and its ashes are scattered to the winds."

"Eliezer!" burst out Meir, "have you got frightened and burned it?"

"My hands could never have committed the deed; even had my mouth commanded it, they would not have obeyed. A week ago my father came to me in great fury and ordered me to give up the accursed book we had been reading on the meadow. He shouted at me, 'Have you that book?' I said, 'I have.' He then asked me, 'Where is it?' I remained silent. He looked as if he would have liked to beat me, but did not dare, on account of my position in the synagogue, and the love people bear me. He then ransacked the whole room, and at last found it under the pillow. He wanted to carry it to the Rabbi, but I knelt before him and begged him not to do so, as he would not allow me to sing any more, and would deprive me of people's love, and of my singing. Father seemed struck by my remark, for he is proud that a son of his, and one so young in years, holds such a position, and he thinks, also, that, when his son sings and prays before the Lord, the Lord will prosper him in his business, and forgive all his sins. So he did not take the book to the Rabbi, but thrust it into the fire, and, when it burned and crackled, he leaped and danced for joy."

"And you, Eliezer, you looked on and did nothing?"

"What could I do?" whispered the singer.

"I should have put the book on my breast, protected it with my arms, and said to my father, 'If you wish to burn it, burn me with it.'"

Meir said this with indignation, almost anger, against his friend.

Eliezer stood before him with downcast eyes, sad, and humbled.

"I could not," he whispered. "I was afraid they would deprive me of my office, and denounce me as an infidel. But look at me, Meir, and judge from it how I loved our Master; since he was taken away from me my face has shrunk, and my eyes are red with tears."

"Oh, tears! tears! tears!" exclaimed Meir, throwing himself upon a chair, and pressing his throbbing temples with both hands; "always those tears and tears!" he repeated, with a half-sarcastic, half-sorrowful voice. "You may weep for ever, and do no good either to yourself or to others. Eliezer! I love you even as a brother; but I do not like your tears, and do not care to look at your reddened eyes. Eliezer, do not show me tears again; show me eyes full of fire. The people love you, and would follow you like a child its mother."

Scolding and upbraiding his friend, Meir's eyes betrayed a moisture which, not wishing to betray, he buried his face in both hands.

"Oh, Eliezer, what have you done to give up that book? Where shall we go now for advice and comfort? Where shall we find another teacher? The flames have consumed the soul of our souls, and the ashes have been thrown to the winds. If the spirit of the Master sees it he will say, 'My people have cursed me again,'" and tears dropped through his fingers upon the rough deal table.

Suddenly he stopped his laments, and, changing his position, fell into a deep reverie.

Eliezer opened the window.

The sandy ground of the market-square seemed divided in long slanting paths of red and gold by the rays of the rising sun. Along one of these shining paths, towards Kamionker's house, came a powerful bare-footed man. His heavy step sounded near the window where the two young men were sitting. Meir raised his head; the man had already passed, but a short glimpse of the matted red hair and swollen face was enough for Meir to identify him as the carrier, Johel.

A few minutes later two men dressed in black passed near the window. One of them was tall, stately, and smiling; the other, slightly stooping, had iron-gray hair and a wrinkled brow. They were Morejne Calman and Abraham Ezofowich. Evidently they had not crossed the square, but passed along the back streets almost stealthily, as if to avoid being seen. Both disappeared in the entrance of Kamionker's house, where Johel had preceded them.

Eliezer looked up from the book which he had been reading.

"Meir," he said, "why do you look so stern? I have never seen you look so stern before."

Meir did not seem to have heard his friend's remark. His eyes were fixed upon the floor, and he murmured:

"My uncle Abraham! My uncle Abraham! Woe to our house. Shame to the house of Ezofowich!"

In the next room, divided from Eliezer's by a thin wall, loud voices and bustle were audible. Jankiel shouted at his wife to go away and take the children with her. Jenta's low shoes clattered upon the floor, and the suddenly-roused children began to squall. By degrees the noise sounded fainter and farther off. Then the floor resounded with the steps of men, chairs were drawn together, and a lively discussion in low but audible voices began.

Meir suddenly rose.

"Eliezer," he whispered, "let us go away."

"Why should we go away?" said the young man, raising his head from the book.

"Because the walls are thin," began Meir.

He did not finish, for from the other side of the wall came the violent exclamation from his uncle Abraham:

"I do not know anything about that; you did not tell me, Jankiel."

The mirthless, bilious cackle of Jankiel interrupted. "I know a thing or two," he exclaimed; "I knew that you, Abraham, would not easily agree to it. I shall manage that without your help."

"Hush!" hissed Calman. The voices dropped again to a whisper.

"Eliezer, go away!" insisted Meir.

The singer did not seem to understand. "Eliezer! do you want to honour your father, as it is commanded from Sinai?"

Kamionker's son sighed.

"I pray to Jehovah that I may honour him." Meir grasped him by the hand.

"Then go at once—go! if you stop here any longer you will never be able to honour your father again!" He spoke so impressively that Eliezer grew pale and began to tremble.

"How can I go now, if they are discussing secrets there?"

The voice of Jankiel became again distinctly audible:

"The tailor Shmul is desperately poor; the driver Johel is a thief. Both will be well paid."

"And the peasants who carted the spirit?" asked Abram.

Jankiel laughed.

"They are safe; their souls and bodies and everything that belongs to them is pledged to my innkeepers."

"Hush!" whispered again the phlegmatic, therefore cautious, Kalman.

Eliezer trembled more and more. A ray of light had pierced his dreamy brain.

"Meir! Meir!" he whispered, "how can I get away? I am afraid to cross the room; they might think I had overheard their secrets."

With one hand Meir pushed the table from the window, and with the other helped his friend to push through. In a second Eliezer had disappeared from the room. Meir drew himself up and murmured:

"I will show myself now, and let them know that somebody has overheard their conversation."

Then he opened the low door and entered into the next room. There, near the wall, on three chairs closely drawn together, sat three men. A small table stood between them. Kalman, in his satin garment, looked calm and self-possessed. Jankiel and Abraham rested their elbows on the table. The first was red with excitement and his eyes glittered with malicious, greedy light; the latter looked pale and troubled, and kept his eyes fixed on the floor; but nothing was capable of disturbing the smiling equanimity of Kalman. When Meir entered the room, he heard distinctly his uncle's words:

"And if the whole place burns down with the spirit vaults?"

"Ah! ah!" sneered Jankiel, "what does it matter? One more Edomite will become a beggar!"

Here the speaker stopped and began to quiver as if with rage or terror; he saw Meir coming into the room. His two companions also saw him. Kalman's mouth opened wide. Abraham looked threatening, but his eyes fell before the bold, yet sorrowful glance of his nephew, and his hands began to tremble.

Meir slowly crossed the room and entered into the next, where Johel stood near the stove staring absently at his bare toes.

Jankiel sent a malediction after the retreating figure; the two others were silent.

"Why did you bring us in such an unsafe place?" asked Kalman at last, in his even voice.

"Why did you not warn us that somebody might hear from the other side of the wall?" asked Abraham impetuously. Jankiel explained that it was his son's room, who did not know anything about business and never paid the slightest attention to what was going on around him.

"How should I know that cursed lad was there? He must have entered like a thief, through the window. Well!" he said, after a while, "what does it matter if he heard? He is an Israelite, one of us, and dare not betray his own people."

"He may dare," repeated Kalman; "but we will keep an eye on him, and if he as much as breathes a syllable of what he heard we will crush him."

Abraham rose.

"You may do what you like," he said impulsively. "I wash my hands of the whole business."

Jankiel eyed him with a malicious expression.

"Very well," he said, "in that case there will be all the more for us two. Those who risk will get the money."

Abraham sat down again. His nervous face betrayed the inward struggle. Jankiel, who had a piece of chalk in his hand, began writing on a black tablet:

"Eight thousand gallons of spirit at four roubles the gallon make thirty-two thousand roubles. These divided into three make ten thousand six hundred and sixty-six roubles sixty-six and one third kopecks. Six hundred roubles to each of the two, Johel and Shmul, and there remains for each of us ten thousand and sixty-six roubles, sixty-six and one third kopecks."

Abraham rose again. He did not speak, but twisted his handkerchief convulsively with both hands, Then he raised his eyes and asked:

"And when will it come off?"

"It will come off very soon," said Jankiel.

Abraham said nothing further, and without saying good-bye, swiftly left the room.

The large market-square showed signs of life. Long strings of carts and people began to arrive from all directions. Inside the houses and shops everybody was busy preparing for the day's business.

In Ezofowich's house the inmates had risen earlier than usual to-day. The part of the home occupied by Raphael and Ber with their families resounded with gay and lively conversation. Various objects of trade, with their corresponding money value, were mentioned. Sometimes the calculations were interrupted by remarks in feminine voices, which occasioned laughter or gay exclamations. Everything showed the peace and contentment of people who strove after the well-being of their families and lived in mutual confidence and harmony.

The large sitting-room smelt of pine branches, which were scattered upon the even more than usually clean floor. On the old-fashioned, high-backed sofa, before a table spread with fine linen, sat old Saul and sipped his fragrant tea. The huge samovar had been taken down from the cupboard and gleamed with red coals and hissed and steamed in the next room, where a large kitchen fire illuminated the long table and white, scrubbed benches. The steaming of the samovar, the great kitchen fire and fresh curtains everywhere, together with the unusual stir of all the inmates, showed distinctly that many visitors were expected and preparations made accordingly.

But it was yet early in the day, and Saul sat alone, evidently relishing the atmosphere of well-being and orderliness and the sounds of the busy life filling the house from top to basement. It was one of those moments, not by any means rare in Saul's life, when he realised the many blessings which the Lord had bestowed upon his house with which to gladden his old age.

Suddenly the door opened and Meir entered. The happy expression vanished from Saul's wrinkled face. The sight of his grandson reminded him of the thorn which lurked amidst the flowers. The very look of the young man acted as a false or stormy discord in a gay and peaceful melody. Trouble was depicted on his pale face, and his eyes looked indignant and angry. He entered boldly and quickly, but meeting the eyes of his grandfather, he bent his head and his step became slower. Formerly he was wont to approach his father and benefactor with the confidence and tenderness of a favourite child. Now he felt that between him and the old man there arose a barrier, which became higher and stronger every day, and his heart yearned for the lost love and for a kind look from the old man, who now met his eyes with a stern and angry face. He approached him timidly, therefore, and said in a sad, entreating voice:

"Zeide! I should like to speak with you about important business."

The humble attitude of the once favourite child mollified the old man; he looked less stern, and said shortly but gently: "Speak out."

"Zeide, permit me to shut the door and windows so that nobody hears what I have to say."

"Shut them," replied Saul, and he waited with troubled face for the grandson to begin.

After closing the door and windows Meir came close to his grandfather and began:

"Zeide! I know that my words will bring you trouble and sorrow, but I have nobody to go to; you were to me father and mother, and when in trouble I come to you." His voice shook perceptibly.

The grandfather softened.

"Tell me everything. Though I have reason to be angry with you, because you are not what I should like to see you, I cannot forget that you are the son of my son who left me so early. If you have troubles I will take them from you; if anybody has wronged you I will stand up for you and punish him."

These words soothed and comforted the young man.

"Zeide!", he said, in a bolder tone, "thanks to you I have no troubles of my own, and nobody has wronged me; but I have come across a terrible secret, and do not know what to do with it, as I cannot keep it concealed. I thought I would tell you, so that you, Zeide, with the authority of your gray hair, might prevent a great crime and a great shame."

Saul looked at his grandson half-anxiously, half-curiously.

"It is better people should not know any secrets or trouble about any; but I know that if you do not speak to me, you will speak to someone else, and troubles might come from it. Say, then, what is this terrible secret?"

Meir answered

"This is the secret: Jankiel Kamionker, as you know, zeide, rents the distillery from the lord of Kamionka. He distilled during the season six thousand gallons of spirits, but did not sell any as prices were low. Now prices have risen and he wants to sell; but he does not want to pay the high government taxes."

"Speak lower," interrupted Saul, whose face betrayed great uneasiness.

Meir lowered his voice almost to a whisper.

"In order not to pay the taxes Kamionker last night carted away all the spirits to the Karaite's hill, where his innkeepers from all parts came to bargain for it and buy it up. But he thought what would become of him if the government officials came down to visit the vaults and did not find the spirits—he would be held answerable and punished. Then he hired two people. Zeide! he tempted two miserable outcasts to—"

"Hush!" exclaimed Saul, in a low voice. "Be quiet; do not say a word more. I can guess the rest."

The old man's hands trembled, and his shaggy eyebrows bristled in a heavy frown.

Meir was silent, and looked with expectant eyes at his grandfather.

"Your mouth has spoken what is not true. It cannot be true."

"Zeide!" whispered Meir, "it is as true as the sun in heaven. Have you not heard, zeide, of the incidents that happened last year and last year but one? These incidents are getting more and more numerous, and every true Israelite deplores it and reddens with shame."

"How can you know all this? How can you understand these things? I do not believe you."

"How do I know and understand it? Zeide, I have been brought up in your house, where many people come to see you: Jews and Christians, merchants and lords, rich and poor. They talked with you and I listened. Why should I not understand?"

Saul was silent, and his troubled countenance betrayed many conflicting thoughts. A sudden anger toward the grandson stirred his blood.

"You understand too much. You are too inquisitive. Your spirit is full of restlessness, and you carry trouble with you wherever you go. I felt so happy to-day until my eye fell upon you, and black care entered with you into the room."

Meir hung his head.

"Zeide," he said sadly, "why do you reproach me? It is not about my own affairs I came to you."

"And what right have you to meddle with affairs that are not your own?" said Saul, with hesitation in his voice.

"They are our own, zeide. Kamionker is an Israelite, and as such ought not to cast a slur on our race; besides, they are our own, still more because your son, zeide, Abraham belongs to it."

Saul rose suddenly from the sofa and fell back again. Then he fixed his penetrating eyes upon Meir.

"Are you speaking the truth?" he asked sternly.

"I have seen and heard it all myself," whispered Meir.

Saul remained thinking a long time.

"Well," he said slowly, "you have the right to accuse your uncle. He is your father's brother, and from his deed shame and ignominy might come upon our house. The family of Ezofowich never did dishonourable things. I shall forbid Abraham to have anything to do with it."

"Zeide, tell also Kamionker and Kalman not to do it."

"You are foolish," said Saul. "Are Kamionker and Kalman my sons or my daughters' husbands? They would not listen to me."

"If they do not listen, zeide," exclaimed Meir "denounce them before the owner of Kamionka or before the law."

Saul looked at his grandson with flaming eyes.

"Your advice is that of a foolish boy. Would you have your old grandfather turn informer, and bring calamity upon his own brethren?"

He wanted to say something more, but the door opened to admit several visitors; they were Israelites from the country, respectable merchants or farmers from the neighbouring estates, arrived for the great fair. Saul half-rose to welcome his guests, who quickly stepping up to him, pressed his hand in hearty greeting, and explained that it was not so much business as the desire to see the wise and honoured Saul which had brought them to town. Saul answered with an equally polite speech, and asked them to be seated round the table, and without leaving his own seat on the sofa clapped his bony hands. At the signal a buxom servant girl came in with glasses of steaming tea, which filled the whole room with its subtle aroma. The guests thanked him smilingly, and then began a lively conversation about familiar subjects.

Meir saw that he would have no further opportunity of seeing his grandfather alone, and quickly left the room and went into the kitchen. This also was full of visitors, but of a different class from those in the pitting-room. Upon the benches by the wall sat some fifteen men in old worn-out garments; and Sarah, Saul's daughter, and Raphael's wife, Saul's daughter-in-law, conversed with them and offered tea or mead and other refreshments.

The men responded gaily, if somewhat timidly, and accepted the refreshments with humble thanks. Most of them were inn-keepers, dairy farmers, or small tradesmen from the country. Their dark, lean faces and rough hands betrayed poverty and hard work. The smallest expense for food during their stay in town would have made a difference to them. They went, therefore, straight to Ezofowich's house, the doors of which were always hospitably open on such days, as had been the custom of the family for hundreds of years.

The two women in their silk gowns and bright caps flitted to and fro between the huge fireplace and the grateful guests. Outside the house there was another class of visitors. Those were the very poorest, who had not come to buy or to sell at the fair, but to obtain some wine and food out of the charity of their wealthier brethren. To these the servant carried bread and clotted milk and small copper coins. The murmur of their thanks and blessings penetrated to the kitchen, where the two busy women smiled yet more contentedly, and produced more small coins from their capacious pockets.

In another part of the roomy kitchen stood the children of the house, pleased with their pretty dresses and coral necklaces, eating sweets. The elder boys listened to the conversation of the men, and a few of the younger children played on the floor. Close to this group sat the great-grandmother, Freida. Days like this conveyed to her clouded memory pictures of the past, when she herself, a happy wife and mother, looked after the comforts of her numerous guests. Her great-granddaughter had roused her earlier than usual to-day, and dressed her in the costliest garments, and now, before she would be led into the sitting-room to her chair near the window, they were completing her toilette. The black-eyed Lija fastened the diamond star into her turban; her younger sister arranged the pendants; another put the costly pearls around her neck and twisted the golden chain cunningly among the soft folds of her white apron. Having done this they smiled and drew back a little to admire the effect of their handiwork, or peeped roguishly into the great-grandmother's eyes and kissed her on the forehead.

The men sitting round the wall nodded their heads sympathetically, looked reverentially at the old lady, and now and then exclamations of wonder and pleasure at seeing her surrounded by such tender care escaped from their lips.

The other part of the house, which had been so lively early in the morning, was now silent and deserted. Meir crossed the narrow passage that divided the house, and opened the door of his Uncle Raphael's room, meeting his friend and cousin Haim upon the threshold. The youthful, almost childish face, surrounded by golden hair, looked beaming and excited.

"Where is Uncle Raphael?" asked Meir.

"Where should he be? He is at the fair, together with Ber, buying bullocks."

"And you, Haim, where are you going?"

But the lad did not even hear the question. Trilling a gay song, he had rushed off where the stir and lively spectacle of the fair attracted him.

Meir went out into the porch and looked around. The fair had scarcely begun, but in the midst of some forty carts he saw Ber discussing the prices of the cattle with the peasants. A little further on he saw Raphael standing in the porch of a house, surrounded by merchants, evidently talking and arranging business, as all their fingers were in motion. To approach these two men, who, after his grandfather, had the greatest, authority in the family, and engage them in private talk was impossible. Meir saw that, and did not even try.

The sight of the motley crowd, where everybody was engaged upon some business of his own, looked strange and unreal. His thoughts were so different from any of the thoughts that moved that bustling multitude.

"Why should it trouble me?" he murmured. "What can I do?" And yet it seemed to him impossible to wait in passive inactivity until a red glare in the sky should announce that the nefarious design had been accomplished.

"What wrong has the man ever done us?" he said to himself. He was thinking of the owner of Kamionka.

His dull, listless eyes rested on the porch of Witebski's house, and he saw the merchant himself standing and leisurely smoking a cigar. He was looking at the lively scene with the eyes of a man who had nothing whatever to do with it. The fact is, he dealt in timber, which he bought in large quantities, from the estates; therefore the fair had no special attraction for him. Besides, he considered himself too refined and thought too highly of his own business to mix with a crowd occupied with selling and buying corn or cattle.

Meir descended the steps and went towards Witebski, who, seeing him, smiled and stretched out a friendly hand.

"A rare visitor! A rare visitor!" he exclaimed. "But I know you could not come sooner to see the parents of your betrothed. We have heard how your severe grandfather ordered you to sit in Bet-ha-Midrash to read the Talmud. Well, it does not matter much; does it? The zeide is a dear old man, and did not mean it unkindly, just as you did not mean to do any wrong. Young people will now and then kick over the traces. Come into the drawing-room; I will call my wife, and she will make you welcome as a dear son-in-law."

The worldly-wise merchant spoke smilingly, and holding Meir by the hand, led him into the drawing-room. There, before the green sofa, he stood still, and looked into Meir's face and said:

"It is very praiseworthy, Meir, that you are bashful and shy of your future wife. I was the same at your age, and all young men ought to feel like it; but my daughter has been brought up in the world, where customs are somewhat different. She is wondering that she does not even know the fiance who is to be her husband within a month. I will go and bring her here. Nobody need know you are together. I will shut the door and window, and you can have a quiet talk together and make each other's acquaintance."

He was moving towards the door, but Meir grasped him by the sleeve.

"Reb!" he said. "I am not thinking of betrothals or weddings; I came to you on a different errand altogether."

Witebski looked sharply at the grave and pale face of the young man, and his brow became slightly clouded.

"It is not about my own affairs I have come to you, Reb—"

The merchant quickly interrupted:

"If it be neither your affair nor mine, why enter it?"

"There are affairs," said the young man, "which belong to everybody, and it is everybody's business to think and speak about them."

He was thinking of public affairs, but though he did not express himself in these words, he felt all their importance.

"I have come across an awful secret to-day."

Witebski jumped up from the easy-chair where he was sitting.

"I do not want to hear about any awful secrets! Why should you come to me about it, when I am not curious to know anything?"

"I want you, Reb, to prevent a terrible deed."

"And why should I prevent anything; why do you come to me about it?"

"Because you are rich and respected, and know how to speak. You live in peace and friendship with everybody; even the great Rabbi smiles when he sees you. Your words could do much if you only would—"

"But I will not," interrupted Witebski in a determined voice and with clouded brow. "I am rich and live in peace with everybody;" and lowering his voice, he added: "If I began to peer into people's secrets and thwarted them, I should be neither rich nor live in peace with anybody, and things would, not go so well with me as they are going now."

"Reb!" said Meir, "I am glad that everything is prospering with you: but I should not care for prosperity if it were the result of wrong-doing."

"Who speaks about wrong-doing?" said Eli, brightening up again. "I wrong no man. I deal honestly with everybody I do business with, and they are satisfied and feel friendly towards me. Thanks to the Lord, I can look everybody in the face, and upon the fortune I leave my children there are no human tears or human wrongs."

Meir bent his head respectfully.

"I know it, Reb. You are fair and honest, and carry on your business with the wise intelligence the Lord gave you, and bring honour upon Israel. But I think if a man be honest himself, he ought not to look indifferently upon other people's villainy; and if he do not prevent it when he can, it is as bad as if he had done it himself. I have heard that a great wrong is going to be done by an Israelite to an innocent man. I can do nothing to prevent it, and I am looking for somebody who might be able to save this innocent man from a great calamity."

Here a loud and jovial laugh quite unexpectedly interrupted Meir's speech, and Witebski patted him playfully on the shoulder.

"Well, well," he said, "I see what you are driving at. You are a hot-headed youth, and want to take some trouble out of your own head and put it into mine. Thank you for the gift, but I will have none of it. Let things be. Why should we spoil our lives when they can be made so pleasant? There, sit ye down, and I will go and bring your bride. You have never heard her play on the piano. Ah, but she can play well. It is not the Sabbath, and she will play and you can listen a little."

He said this in his most lively manner, and moved towards the door; but again Meir arrested his steps.

"Reb!" he said, "listen at least to what I have to say."

There was a gleam of impatience in Witebski's eyes. "Ah, Meir! what an obstinate fellow you are, wanting to force your elders to do or hear things they do not want to! Well, I forgive you, and now let me go and bring the young woman."

Meir barred the way

"Reb," he said, "I will not let you go before you have heard me. I have no one else to go to; everybody is occupied with business or visitors. You alone, Reb, have time."

He stopped, because the merchant laid his hand upon the young man's shoulder; he was no longer smiling, but looked grave and displeased.

"Listen, Meir," he said. "I will tell you one thing. You have taken a wrong turning altogether. People shake their heads and speak badly of you; but I am indulgent with you. I make allowance because you are young, and because I am not of the same way of thinking as the people here, and know that many things in Israel are not as they ought to be. I think it; but do not speak about it or show it. Why should I expose myself to their ill-feeling? What can I do? If it be the Lord who ordered it so, why should I offend Him and make Him turn against me? If it be people's doing, other people will come in time to set it right. My business is to look after my family and their well-being. I am not a judge or a Rabbi either; therefore I keep quiet, try to please God and the people, and be in nobody's way. These re my principles, and I wish they were yours also Meir. I should let you go your own way, and not give advice to you either; but since you are to be my son-in-law, I must keep my eye upon you."

"Rob!" interrupted Meir, whose eyelids quivered with suppressed irritation, "do not be angry with me or think me rude, but I cannot marry your daughter. I shall never be her husband."

Witebski turned rigid with amazement.

"Do we hear aright?" he said, after a while. "Did not your grandfather pledge you to her and send the betrothal gifts?"

"My grandfather agreed with you about it," said Meir, in a trembling voice; "but he did it against my wish."

"Well," said Witebski, with the greatest amazement, "and what have you to say against my daughter?"

"I have no feelings against her, Rob; but my heart is not drawn to her. She also does not care for me. The other day, when passing your house, I heard her crying and lamenting that they wanted her to marry a common, ignorant Jew. It may be I am a common, ignorant Jew, but her education likewise is not to my taste. Why should you wish to bind us? We are not children, and know what our heart desires and what it does not desire."

Witebski still looked at the young man in utter bewilderment, and raising both hands to his head, exclaimed indignantly:

"Did my ears not deceive me? You do not want my daughter—my beautiful, educated Mera?"

A hot flush had mounted to his forehead. The gentle diplomatist and man of the world had disappeared, only the outraged father remained.

At the same time the door was violently thrown open, and upon the threshold, with a very red face and blazing eyes, stood Mistress Hannah.

Evidently she had been at her toilette, which was only partly completed. Instead of her silk gown she wore a short red petticoat and gray jacket. The front of her wig was carefully dressed, but a loose braid fastened by a string dangled gracefully at her back. She stood upon the threshold and gasped out:

"I have heard everything!"

She could not say any more from excitement. Her breast heaved and her face was fiery red. At last she rushed with waving arms at Meir, and shouted:

"What is that? You refuse my daughter! You, a common, stupid Jew from Szybow, do not wish to marry a beautiful, educated girl like my Mera! Fie upon you—an idiot, a profligate!"

Witebski tried in vain to mitigate the fury of his better half.

"Hush, Hannah, hush!" he said, holding her by the elbow.

But all the breeding and distinguished manners upon which Mistress Hannah prided herself had vanished. She shook her clenched fist close in Meir's face:

"You do not want Mera, my beautiful daughter! Ai! Ai! the great misfortune!" she sneered. "It will certainly kill us with grief. She will cry her eyes out after the ignorant Jew from Szybow! I shall take her to Wilno and marry her to a count, a general, or a prince. You think that because your grandfather is rich and you have money of your own you can do what you like. I will show your grandfather and all your family that I care for them as much as for an old slipper!"

Eli carefully closed the door and windows. Mistress Hannah rushed toward a chest of drawers, opened it and took out, one after the other, the velvet-lined boxes, and throwing them at Meir's feet, exclaimed:

"There, take your presents and carry them to the beggar girl you are consorting with; she will be just the wife for you."

"Hush!" hissed out the husband, almost despairingly, as he stooped down to pick up the boxes but Mistress Hannah tore them out of his hands.

"I will carry them myself to his grandfather, and break off the engagement."

"Hannah," persuaded the husband, "you will only make matters worse. I will take them myself and speak with Saul."

Hannah did not even hear what he said.

"For shame!" she cried out; "the madman, the profligate, to prefer the Karaite's girl to my daughter! Well, the Lord be thanked we have got rid of him. Now I shall take my daughter to Wilno and marry her to a great nobleman."

It was about noon when Meir left Witebski's house, pursued by the curses and scoldings of its mistress and the gentle remonstrances and conciliatory words of Eli. The fair was now in full swing. The large market square was full of vehicles of all kinds, animals and people, that it seemed as if nobody could pass or find room any longer. In one part of the square where the crowd was less dense, close by the wall of a large building, sat an old man surrounded by baskets of all shapes and sizes. It was Abel Karaim.

Though the day was warm and sunny, his head was covered with a fur cap, from under which streamed his white hair, and his beard spread like a fan over his breast. The sun fell upon the small and thin face, scarcely visible from under his hair, and the fur which fell over the shaggy eyebrows gave but little protection to the dim eyes blinking in the sunlight.

Close to him, slim and erect, stood Golda, with her corals encircling the slender neck, setting off the clear olive of her complexion, and her heavy tresses falling down her back. A few steps in front of these two stood long rows of carts full of grain, wood, and various country produce; between the carts bullocks and cows lowed, calves bleated, horses neighed and stamped, small brokers and horse-dealers flitted to and fro bargaining with the peasants. In this hubbub of voices, in midst of bargaining and quarrels, mixed with the shrill voices of women and squalling children, sounded the quavering voice of old Abel unweariedly at his task of reciting. The surging elements around did not distract him; on the contrary, they seemed to stimulate him, as his voice sounded louder and more distinct.

"When Moses descended from Mount Sinai, a great light shone from his face, and the people fell down on their faces and called out as in one voice: Moses, repeat to us the words of the Eternal. And a great calm came upon the earth and the heavens. They grew silent, the lightning ceased, and the wind fell. And Moses called the seventy elders of Israel, and when they surrounded him, as the stars surround the moon, he repeated to them the words of the Eternal."

At this moment two grave men, poorly dressed, came from the crowd and passed close by him.

"He is reciting again," said one.

"He is always doing so," said the other.

They smiled, but did not go further. An old woman and some younger people joined them. The woman stood listening and asked:

"What is it he is telling?"

"The history and the covenant of the Israelites," replied Golda.

The young people opened their mouths, the woman drew nearer, the men smiled, but all stood still and listened.

"When the people heard the commandments of the Lord, they called out as in one voice: We will do all that the Lord commands. And Moses erected twelve stones against the Mountain of Sinai, and said unto the people: Keep therefore the words of this covenant; your captains of your tribes, your elders, and your officers, with all the men of Israel."

"Your little ones, your wives, and the stranger that is in thy camp, from the hewer of thy wood unto the drawer of thy water."

"He says beautiful things, and speaks well," said one.

"And the hewer of thy wood and the drawer of thy water," repeated the two poorly dressed men as they raised their shining eyes to heaven. The woman, who had listened attentively, drew from her shabby gown a dirty handkerchief, and undoing one of the knots, deposited a big copper coin on Abel's knees.

A few more had joined the little group which surrounded Abel, Jews, Christians, and young people. These few had torn themselves from the noisy, haggling crowd, and listened to other words than those of roubles and kopecks—the sounds of the far past. It seemed almost as if Abel felt the attention of the people, and as if all these eyes upon him warmed his heart and stirred his memory. His eyes shone brighter from under the half-closed eyelids; the fur cap pushed at the back of his head, and the long white hair falling upon breast and shoulder, gave him the air of a half-blind bard who, with national songs, rouses and gladdens the spirit of the people. In a louder and steadier voice he went on:

"When the Israelites crossed the Jordan, Joshua erected two great stones, and wrote upon them the ten commandments. One half of the people rested under Mount Gerisim, the other half under Mount Ebal, and the voice spoke unto all men: He breaks the covenant of the Lord who worships false gods, he who does not honour his father and mother. He breaks the covenant who covets his neighbour's property and leads astray the blind. He breaks it who wrongs the stranger, the orphan, and the widow; he who putteth a lie into his brother's ear, and sayeth of the innocent, Let him die. And when the people of Israel heard it they called out, as if in one voice: All that thou commandest, we will do."

"Amen," murmured around Abel the voices which a short time before had haggled desperately over their small bargains. A peasant woman pushed through the little group, picked up one of the baskets and asked the price. Golda told her, after which the woman began to bargain; but Golda did not answer again, not because she did not want to, as rather that she did not hear the shrill voice any longer. Her eyes were fixed upon one point in the crowd, a hot blush suffused her features, and a half-childish, half-passionate smile played upon her lips. She saw Meir making his way through the crowd and coming near where she stood; but he did not see her. His face looked troubled and restless, and presently he disappeared within the precincts of the synagogue. This was almost as crowded as the market square, but not so noisy.

Meir went towards the dwelling of the Rabbi Todros; all the people were moving in the same direction. Close to the Rabbi's little hut the crowd was still denser; but there was no noise, no pushing, or eyes shining with the greediness of gain; a grave silence prevailed everywhere, interrupted only by timid whispers. Meir knew what brought the people here and where they came from. There were scarcely any inhabitants of Szybow amongst them, as these could always see the Rabbi and come to him for advice. They came mostly from the country around; some from far distant places. There was a slight sprinkling of merchants and well-to-do people, but the great bulk bore the stamp of poverty and hard work in their lean, patient faces, and upon their garments.

"Why should I go there?" said Meir to himself; "he will not listen to me now; but where else can I go?" he added after a while, and he again mixed with the crowd, which bore him onwards until he found himself before the wide-open door of the Rabbi's dwelling.

Beyond the door, in the entrance hall, people stood closely pressed together like a living and breathing wall; no other sound than their long-drawn breaths were audible. Meir tried to push his way through, which did not present much difficulty, for many of the poor people had been humble guests at Ezofowich's, and recognised Saul's grandson and made way for him. They did this in a quick, absent-minded way, their eyes being riveted on the room beyond; they stood on tip-toe, and whenever they caught a broken sentence, their faces glowed with happiness as if the honoured sage's words were balm for all the sorrows of their lives.

The interior of the room, which Meir beheld from the open door, presented a singular appearance. In the depth of it, between the wall and a table, sat Rabbi Todros in his usual worn-out garments with his cap pushed to the back of his head. The upper part of his body bent forward; he sat perfectly motionless except for his eyes, which roamed along the people, who looked at him humbly and beseechingly. There was a small space between the sage and those who stood before him, which none dared to cross without his permission. The whole scene was lighted up by the rays of the sun streaming in through the window, on one side; on the other by the lurid and fitful flames in the fire-place. Near the latter crouched the melamed, feeding the fire with fresh fuel and putting various herbs into steaming vessels.

Besides the function of apothecary he had also the office of crier. He called out the names of the people who, according to his opinion, were entitled to appear before the master.

He now raised his thick forefinger towards the entrance, and called out:

"Shimshel, the innkeeper."

The summoned man whose name, Samson, time and custom had transformed into Shimshel, did not in the least resemble his namesake, the Samson of history. He was slender and red-haired, and bent almost to the ground before the Rabbi.

"Who greets the Wise Man bows before the greatness of the Creator," he said in a timid, shaking voice. It was not only his voice which trembled, but all his limbs, and his blue eyes roamed wildly about the room.

Isaak Todros sat like a statue. His eyes looked piercingly at the little red-haired man before him, who, in his terror, had lost his tongue altogether.

"Well?" said the sage, after a lengthy pause.

Shimshel raised his shoulders almost to his ears and began:

"Nassi! let a ray of your wisdom enlighten my darkness. I have committed a great sin, and my soul trembles while I am confessing it before you. Nassi! I am a most unfortunate man; my wife Ryfka has lost my soul for ever, unless you, oh Rabbi, tell me how to make it clean again."

Here the poor penitent choked again, but gathering courage, proceeded:

"Nassi! I and my wife Ryfka and the children sat down, last Friday, to the Sabbath feast. On one table there was a dish of meat, on the other a bowl of milk which my wife had boiled for the younger children. My wife ladled out the milk for the children, when her hand shook and a drop of milk fell upon the meat."

"Ai! Ai! stupid woman, what had she done! She had made the meat unclean."

"Well, and what did you do with the meat?" The questioned man's head sank upon his breast, and he stammered:

"Rabbi, I ate from it, and so did my wife and children."

The Rabbi's eyes flashed with anger.

"Why did you not throw the unclean food on the refuse heap? Why did you make your mouth and the mouths of your family unclean?" shouted the Rabbi.

Shimshel choked again, and stopped. The sage, still motionless, asked:

"Nassi! I am very poor, and keep a small inn that brings but little profit. I have six children, an old father who lives with me, and two orphaned grandchildren, whose parents died. Rabbi it is difficult to find food for so many mouths, and we have meat only once a week. Kosher meat is very dear, so I buy three pounds every week, and eleven people have to keep up their strength, on it. Rabbi! I knew we should have nothing during the week, except bread and onions and cucumber. I was loth to throw that meat away and so ate from it, and allowed my family to eat from it."

Thus complained and confessed the poor Samson, and the master listened with clouded brows.

Then he spoke, transfixing the sinner with angry eyes. He explained in a long and learned speech the origin of the law of clean and unclean food. How great and wise men had written many commentaries about it, and how great the sin of a man was who dared to eat a piece of meat upon which a drop of milk had fallen.

"Your sin is abominable in the sight of the Lord," he thundered at the humble penitent. "For the sake of greediness you have broken the covenant which Jehovah made with his people, and transgressed one of the six hundred and thirteen commandments which every true Israelite is bound to keep. You deserve to be cursed even as Elisha cursed the mocking children, and Joshua the town of Jerico. But since it was only your body which sinned, whilst the spirit remained faithful, and you came to me and humbled and confessed yourself, I will forgive you, under the condition that you and your family abstain from meat and milk during four weeks, and the money saved thereby be distributed among the poor. And after four weeks, when your souls will be clean again from the abomination, you may dwell in peace and piety among your brethren Israelites."

"Say everybody Amen."

"Amen," called the people within the room and without, and those who pressed their eager faces against the window.

The little red-haired Samson, relieved of the burden that had oppressed his conscience, though otherwise burdened with a four-weeks' fast, murmured his thanks and retreated towards the entrance.

Reb Moshe again raised his finger and called out:

"Reb Gerson, melamed."

At his summons a round-backed, middle-sized man, with shaggy hair and clouded mien, appeared. He was a colleague of Reb Moshe, a teacher from a small town, where he enlightened the Israelitish youths. He stood in the middle of the room, holding a heavy book with both hands, After greeting the master, he began in these words:

"Rabbi! my soul has been in trouble, Two days ago my children read that evening prayers ought to be said until the end of the first watch. The children asked me: 'What is the first watch?' I remained mute, for I did not know how to answer, and I come to you, Rabbi, for a ray of wisdom to enlighten my mind. Tell me, oh Rabbi, what are the watches according to which every Israelite has to regulate his prayers. Where are they, so that I may give an answer to the children?"

The round-backed man stopped, and all eyes rested with excited curiosity upon the sage, who, without changing his position, answered:

"What should it be but the angels' watch? And where do they watch? They watch before the throne of the Eternal, when the day declines and night approaches. The angels are divided into three choirs. The first choir stands before the throne and keeps watch till midnight. Then is the time to say evening prayers. The second comes at midnight and keeps watch until dawn; when you see the sky turn rosy-red and pale-blue, the third choir arrives, and then it is time to say morning prayers."

The master stopped, and a low murmur of admiration and rapture was heard among the crowd. But the melamed did not retire yet; his eyes fixed upon his book he began anew:

"Rabbi, give me another ray of wisdom to carry back to my scholars. Near our little town lies the estate of a great lord. Sometimes the children go there and hear all sorts of things. Once, coming thence, they told in town that the origin of thunder had been explained to them. They were told that thunder comes from heaven when two clouds meet and give out a force they called electricity. I never heard of it before: is it true that such a force exists and that it originates thunder?"

During Reb Gerson's speech the Rabbi's face twitched with suppressed impatience, and he smiled scornfully.

"It is not true!" he exclaimed. "There is no such force, and not from there comes thunder. When the Roman emperor destroyed the Temple, and dispersed the people of Israel, there was thunder. Where did it come from? It came from Jehovah's breast, who wept aloud over the destruction of his people. And now the Lord weeps over his people, and his moans are heard upon earth as thunder; his tears fall into the seas and make them heave and rise, and shake the earth to its foundations, and send forth fire and smoke. I have told you now whence come thunder and earthquakes. Go in peace and repeat to your children what I have told you."

With a humble bow and thanks the melamed retired into the crowd. At the same time from beyond the door the loud wail of a child became audible.

Reb Moshe called out:

"Haim, dairy farmer from Kamionka, and his wife Malka."

From the crowd came a man and a woman. Both looked pale and troubled The woman carried a sick child in her arms. They knelt before him, and holding up to him the child, wasted with disease, asked for his help and advice. Todros bent tenderly over the fragile little body and looked long and attentively at it. Reb Moshe, squatting on the floor, looked at the master for orders, mixing and stirring the decoctions. In this way, one by one, came the people to their teacher, sage, physician, prophet almost, plied him with questions and asked for advice. A troubled husband brought his comely, buxom wife, and asked for judgment by help of a certain water, called the water of jealousy. If the wife be guilty of infidelity, the efficacy of the water is believed to cause death; if innocent, it will enhance her beauty and give her health. Another man asked what he was to do if the time for prayers came during a journey and he could not turn his face to the east, because the storm and dust would blind his eyes. A great many came crying and bewailing their miserable lives, and asked the sage to look into the future and tell them how long it would be till the Messiah arrived. The greater part of the people did not want anything, asked neither questions nor came for advice; they simply wanted to see the revered master, breathe the same air with him, and fill their souls with the words that dropped from his lips, and see the light of his countenance.

It was evident that Isaak Todros felt and appreciated his high position. He attended to all their wants with the greatest gravity, zeal, and patience. He explained, and put the people right in points of law, inflicted penances upon sinners, gave physic to the sick, advice to the ignorant—without changing his position—only fixing his either stern or thoughtful eyes upon those who came to him. Several times when the people wailed and complained, entreating him to foretell the coming of the Messiah, his dark eyes grew misty. He loved those who came to him with their troubles and felt for them. Big beads of perspiration stood upon his forehead, and his breath came hard and fast; still he went on with his ministrations, in the deep conviction that he was doing his duty, with a fervent faith and belief in all that he was achieving and teaching, and the disinterestedness of a man who wants nothing for himself, except the little black hut, a scanty meal, and the tattered garments he had worn for many years.

In the meanwhile a man passed rapidly through the court of the synagogue, looking around him as if in search of something or somebody. It was Ber, Saul's son-in-law. He looked at the people crowding round the Rabbi's dwelling; at last his eyes lighted on Meir, and he grasped him by the sleeve of his coat.

The young man awoke, as from a trance, and looked round absently at his uncle.

"Come with me," whispered Ber.

"I cannot go away," said Meir, in an equally low voice. "I have important business with the Rabbi, and shall wait till all the people have left so that I may speak with him."

"Come away," repeated Ber, and he took the youth by the shoulder.

Meir shook him off impatiently, but Ber repeated:

"Come with me now; you can return later when the people have gone—that is, if you wish it, but I do not think you will."

Both left the crowded hut. Ber walked swiftly and silently, leading his companion to a quiet part of the precincts where, under the shadow of the walls of Bet-ha-Midrash, nobody could overhear, their conversation.

Meir leaned against the wall. Ber stood silently before him, looking intently at his young kinsman.

Ber's outward appearance did not present any striking features; many would pass him without taking particular notice, yet the student of human nature would find in him a character worth knowing. He was forty years old, always carefully dressed, yet according to old customs. His delicately moulded features and blue eyes had a dreamy and apathetic expression, which only lighted up under the excitement of business speculations. A deep yearning after something, and carefully suppressed dreams and stifled aspirations gave to his mouth an expression of calm resignation. Sometimes, when the ghost of the past appeared before him, two deep furrows appeared across his forehead. It was evident that some fierce conflicts had raged under that quiet exterior, and left wounds and scars which now and then would remind him painfully of the past.

He now stood opposite the young man whom he had dragged away from the crowd almost by force.

"Meir," he said at last, "an hour ago your grandfather had a long talk with his son, Abraham. He left his visitors on purpose to speak with him, and bade me to be present at their conversation. Rest in peace, Meir; your uncle will have no hand in the vile deed which will be perpetrated."

"Will be perpetrated?" interrupted Meir passionately. "Not if I can prevent it."

Ber smiled bitterly

"How can you prevent it? I guessed you wanted to speak about it to the Rabbi, and I went after you to warn you and save you from the consequences of such a step. You thought that if you put the case before him, he would rise in anger and forbid any one to do such an infamous deed If he did that they would obey him; but he will not."

"Why should he not?" exclaimed Meir.

"Because he does not understand anything about it. If you questioned him about clean or unclean food, whether it was allowed to snuff a candle on the Sabbath, or gird the loins with pocket-handkerchiefs, he would answer readily enough. He would tell you whether to bless first the wine or first the bread, or how the spirits transmigrate from one body to another, how many Sefirots emanate from Jehovah and how to transpose the sacred letters in order to discover fresh mysteries, or about the arrival of the Messiah. But if you began to speak to him about distilleries, taxes, estates, and things in connection with them, he would open his eyes widely and would listen to you like a man struck with deafness, because these things are to him like a sealed letter. For him, beyond his sacred books, the world is like a great wilderness."

Meir bent his head.

"I feel the truth of what you say; yet if I asked him whether it be right for the sake of gain to wrong an innocent man?"

Ber answered:

"He would ask you whether the innocent man were an Edomite or an Israelite."

Meir looked intently at the sky, thinking deeply, and evidently puzzled.

"Ber," he said at last, "do you hate the Edomites?"

The questioned man shook his head.

"Hatred is like poison to the human mind. Once, when I was young, I even thought of going to them and entreating them to help us. I am glad now that I did not do it and remained with my own people, but I have no ill-feeling towards them."

"And I have none," said Meir. "Do you think Kamionker hates them?"

"No," said her decidedly. "He makes use of them. They are his milch cows. He may despise them, because they do not look after their business but allow themselves to be cheated."

"And Todros; does he hate them?" questioned Meir.

"Yes," said Ber, very emphatically; "Todros hates them. And why does he hate them? Because he does not live in the Present; he still lives in the Past, when the Roman emperor besieged Jerusalem and drove the Israelites out of Palestine. He breathes, thinks, and feels as if he were living two thousand years ago. He does not know that from the time of his ancestor, Halevi Todros, other wise people have lived, and that times are changed, and that those who hated and persecuted us once have since then stretched out their hands in peace and goodwill. How can he know anything? He never left Szybow since he was born; never read anything but the books left by his forefathers; has never seen or spoken to any one out of Israel."

Meir listened, and nodded his head in sign that he agreed with his companion.

"I see that it is of no use at all going to him," he said, thoughtfully.

"It is not," said Ber; "therefore I came in search of you. He will not prevent Kamionker from wronging the lord of Kamionka, who represents to him the people of Ai, with whom Joshua went to war, or the Roman nation who destroyed the Temple, or the Spaniards who, five hundred years ago, burned and despoiled the Jews. He would not even listen to you, and would denounce you as an infidel. If he has not brought his hand down upon you, it is owing to the love and respect the people bear towards your grandfather, Saul. If you accused Kamionker before him, Kamionker would set him, against you, as already does Reb Moshe. Meir! be careful! there are rocks ahead. Save yourself before it is too late."

Meir did not reply to the warning.

"Ber," he said, "I am sure that man, blind and revengeful as he is, possesses a great soul. Look how patiently he sits night and day over his books, how full of pity and compassion are his eyes when he listens to the poor people and comforts them, and does not want anything for himself. Ber! his faith is so sincere!"

Ber smiled at his words, and turned his dreamy eyes to heaven.

"You speak thus about the Rabbi, Meir; what do you say about the people who, in the midst of misery, hunger, and humiliation still thirst for wisdom and knowledge. Never mind whether it is the true wisdom or true knowledge, but look how they raise themselves above their narrow lives by their faith and reverence for their Wise Men. Do you think that this narrow, bigoted, greedy people have a great soul?"

"Israel has a great soul, and I love it more than my life, my happiness, and my peace." He stopped for a minute, then grasped Ber by the shoulder. "I know what is wanting in Todros to make him a great man, and what is wanting in the Israelitish people to show their greatness to the world. They ought to come out of the Past, in which they persist to dwell, into the Present. They want Sar-Ha-Olam, the angel of knowledge, to touch them with his wings."

Whilst the young man spoke thus, his face glowing with excitement, Ber looked at him thoughtfully.

"When I look at you, Meir, and listen to you, I see myself as I was at your age. I felt the same anger, the same grief, and I wanted—"

He stopped, and passed his hand over his brow, marked with two deep lines, and his eyes looked far away as if into the future.

Anybody seeing their animated faces and lively gesticulation as they stood near the wall of the Bet-ha-Midrash, would have concluded that they were discussing bargains. What else did people like them live or care for? Yet they think and suffer, but nobody guesses it or wishes to penetrate the mystery of their thoughts. It is like the depth of an unfathomable sea—its depths unknown even to those who are perishing in it.

"Come home with me," said Ber. "Your grandfather will soon be sitting down to dinner with his guests and be displeased at not seeing you at table. There is already a storm brewing for you, because Mistress Hannah has returned the betrothal gifts, broken off the engagement, and given Saul a piece of her mind in presence of all the visitors."

Meir carelessly waved his bands.

"I wished for it," he said. "I shall ask my grandfather's pardon. I can only think about one thing now: where to go next."

Ber looked wonderingly at the speaker. "How obstinate you are," he remarked. They were near the entrance gate when Ber suddenly stopped.

"Meir, whatever you do, don't go to the government authorities."

Meir passed his hand over his forehead.

"I thought of that," he said, "but I am afraid. If I reveal the whole truth, they will not only punish Kamionker, but also those poor wretches he tempted with his money. Poor people, ignorant people, I am sorry for them—"

He suddenly paused, and looked fixedly in one direction. An elegant carriage, drawn by four horses, crossed the market-square. Meir pointed at the carriage, which stopped before Jankiel Kamionker's inn, and his eyes opened wider, for a sudden idea took hold of his mind.

"Ber!" he exclaimed, "do you see him? That is the lord of Kamionka."

The sun was declining towards the west when, in the porch of Saul's house, stood a group of men gaily conversing among themselves. They were Saul's visitors who, after having feasted at his hospitable board, were now saying good-bye, and pressing the old man's hand, thanking him for his kind reception; then, by twos and threes, they mounted the waiting carts, their faces still turned towards their venerable host, who stood in the porch.

In the sitting-room the women, with the help of the servants, were busy clearing the table, and putting away the dinner service.

The fair was also drawing to an end; the carts grew fewer by degrees, so did the people upon the square. All the noise and liveliness concentrated itself now in the several inns where the people were drinking and dancing. Jankiel Kamionker's inn was by far the most frequented and noisiest, No wonder.

The crafty dealer rented several distilleries and some seventy inns about the country, and ruled over a small army of subtenants and inn-keepers, of the Samson kind, who bought meat once a week, and starved on other days. They depended entirely on Kamionker, who, if he did not treat them generously they, on their side, were not generous towards the peasants, whom they plied with drink. Through his subordinates, Kamionker held thousands of peasants' families under his thumb. Therefore they all came to his inn. He did not himself look after his humble customers, but left them to his wife and his two strong and ugly daughters, who carried bottles and glasses round the tables, together with salted herrings, and different kinds of bread. Nobody could have guessed, seeing the faded woman, shabbily dressed, moving in that stifling atmosphere of alcohol and human breath, that she was the wife of one of the wealthiest men in the country.

Neither did the man in his musty garments who stood humbly at the door of the guest's room, look like a great capitalist and financier.

He stood near the threshold, and his guest, the lord of Kamionka, reclined in an easy-chair smoking a cigar. The young gentleman was tall and handsome; his dark hair fell upon a white forehead, though the other part of his face was slightly browned by the sun. He had a good-natured and thoughtful face.

The gay playfulness with which his eyes twinkled was evidently caused by the sight of the nimble Jew, whose body seemed to be made of india rubber, and the two corkscrew curls behind his ears of a fiery red, seemed to dance to and fro with his every motion.

Then he became thoughtful again, because the red-haired Jew spoke about important business. The young nobleman did not know anything about the man himself with whom he dealt.

He was to him a Jew, and the tenant of his distillery. Thus he might be also a prominent member of a powerfully organised body, a greatly respected and pious person, a mystic deeply versed in sacred knowledge, and finally a man who, in those dirty, freckled hands, held the entangled threads of many Jewish and Christian families; of all this the lord of Kamionka knew nothing. Therefore it never occurred to him to invite the Jew to draw nearer or sit down. Reb Jankiel likewise did not think of such a thing. He had been accustomed to stand humbly, as his fathers had done before him; nevertheless, his pale blue eyes were full of malice whenever the young gentleman turned his look elsewhere and could not see him. It may be Reb Jankiel did not realise his own feelings, yet he could not help seeing the contrast between his present humble attitude and the proud position he occupied in his own community. Such feelings, though ill-defined, if united to a bad heart, could produce no other results than hatred and even crime.

"You bore me, Jankiel, with your everlasting bargains and agreements," said the nobleman carelessly, twisting his cigar between his fingers. "I stopped at your inn for a few minutes to rest my horses, and you get me into business discussions at once."

Reb Jankiel bowed nimbly.

"I beg the gracious lord's pardon," he said smilingly, "but the distillery will be starting work next month, and I should like to renew the agreement."

"Of course you will be my tenant, as you have been these last three years; but there is plenty of time."

"It is better to arrange everything beforehand. I shall have to buy a hundred head of cattle for fattening purposes, and I cannot afford the outlay unless I am sure of the tenancy. If the gracious lord permits, I shall come to-morrow to write the agreement."

The young nobleman rose.

"Very well, come to-morrow, but not in the morning, as I shall not be at home."

"The gracious lord thinks of spending the night in the neighbourhood?" asked Jankiel, his face twitching nervously.

"Yes, in the near neighbourhood," answered the nobleman, and was going to say something more when the door behind Jankiel's back opened gently, and a young Jew, with a pale face and burning eyes, entered boldly.

At the sight of the newcomer Jankiel drew back instinctively, and an expression of terror came into his face.

"What do you want here?" he asked in a choking voice.

The nobleman glanced carelessly at the young Jew.

"Do you want to speak to me, my friend?" he asked.

"Yes, with the gracious lord," said the newcomer, and he advanced a few steps nearer. But Jankiel barred him the way.

"Do not permit him to come nearer, gracious lord, and do not speak with him. He is a bad man, and interferes with everybody."

The lord of Kamionka waved the frantic Jankiel aside.

"Let him speak if he has any business with me. Why should I not speak with him?"

Saying this, he looked with evident curiosity at the youthful face of the intruder.

"The gracious lord does not know me," began the young man.

"And why should the gracious lord know such a good-for-nothing fellow?" interrupted Jankiel. But the lord of Kamiorika bade him be silent.

"I have seen you, gracious lord, at my grandfather's, Saul, whose son, Raphael, buys your corn."

"So you are Saul's grandson?"

"Yes, gracious lord, I am his grandson."

"And the son of Raphael Ezofowich?"

"No; I am the son of Benjamin, the youngest of Saul's sons, who died long ago."

Meir did not speak Polish very fluently, yet he made himself understood. He had heard it spoken by those who came to deal with members of his family, and had learned it of the Edomite, who had also taught him to read and write.

"Did Raphael send you to me?"

"No; I came on my own account."

He seemed to collect his thoughts, then boldly raised his head.

"I came to warn you, gracious lord. Bad people are preparing a great misfortune for you—"

Jankiel rushed forward, and, with outstretched arms, placed himself between the two.

"Will you hold your tongue," he shouted. "Why do you come here to disturb the gracious lord with your foolish talk?" and, turning towards the nobleman, he said:

"He is a madman and a villain."

It was not the lord now who waved Jankiel but Meir himself. With heightened colour, breathing quickly, he pushed him away, said:

"He will not allow me to speak, but I will say quickly what I have to say. Do not trust him, gracious lord; he is a bad man, and your enemy. He wants to do you a grievous harm—guard yourself and guard your house like the apple of your eye. I am not an informer; therefore I came to say it in his presence, and warn the gracious lord. He will revenge himself upon me, but that does not matter. I am doing my duty, as every true Israelite ought to do, for it is written: 'The stranger that dwelleth with you shall be unto you as one born among you,' and it is further said: 'If thou remainest silent, upon thy head be the woes of Israel.'"

The young nobleman looked at the speaker with some interest, but his eyes twinkled. The quotation from Scripture, beautiful in itself, but easily marred by faulty pronunciation, appeared more ridiculous than interesting.

"I perceive that old Saul has a grandson who is well grounded in the Scriptures, and has a prophetic gift; but tell me clearly, and distinctly, my young prophet, what misfortune is threatening me, and why this honest Jankiel, who has been dealing with me for years, has suddenly become my enemy?"

Jankiel stood close to the easy-chair, and, bending closer to the lord, whispered smilingly:

"He is mad. He always foretells all sorts of terrible things, and he hates me because I laugh at him."

"Oh! then I shall not laugh at him and make him hate me," said the nobleman gaily; and turning towards Meir, he asked: "Tell me what is the misfortune that threatens me. If you tell me the truth, you will be doing a good deed, and I shall be grateful for it."

"You ask me a difficult thing, gracious lord; I thought you would understand from a few words. It is hard for me to speak more clearly," and he passed his hand over his brow which was wet with perspiration. "Promise me, gracious lord, that if I speak out, my words will fall like a stone into water. Promise me to make use of my information, but not to go to law."

The nobleman looked amused, yet curious.

"I give you my word of honour that your secret will be safe with me."

Meir's burning eyes turned towards Jankiel, his whole frame shook, he opened his mouth—but the words refused to come. Jankiel, seeing his emotion which momentarily deprived him of his tongue, suddenly grasped him by the waist and dragging him towards the door, shouted:

"Why do you enter my house and disturb my honoured guest by your foolish talk? The gracious lord is my guest, has known me for years; there! off with you at once."

Meir tried to get out of Jankiel's hands, and though he was the taller and stronger, Jankiel was nimbler, and despair redoubled his energy. Struggling and panting, both rolled towards the door, and the young gentleman looked at the struggle with an amused expression. Meir's pale face towering above Jankiel's red head suddenly flushed.

"Do you laugh at me, gracious lord?" he said brokenly.

"You do not know how difficult it is for me to speak, but guard your house from fire!"

At these last words he disappeared through the door, which the panting Jankiel slammed after him.

The lord of Kamionka still smiled. The struggle between the nimble, red-haired Jankiel and the tall young Jew looked very funny. During the battle the long coat tails had flapped about like wings, and Jankiel, in his desperate efforts to get rid of the intruder, had performed the most extraordinary acrobatic feats. It was a ridiculous scene altogether—the more ridiculous as the combatants belonged to a race at which it was an old, time-honoured custom to laugh. How could the young nobleman understand the deeper meaning of the play enacted before him? He saw before him a young Jew who spoke in broken Polish, the grandson of a merchant, and who would be, in his turn, a merchant. That he was a noble spirit in rebellion against everything mean and dishonest, a despairing spirit longing for freedom and wider knowledge, that coming to him as he did he had done an heroic action that would destroy his whole future—of all this the nobleman had not the slightest suspicion.

After a short pause he looked at Jankiel, and asked:

"Explain to me now; what did it all mean? What kind of a man is he really?"

"What kind of man?" said Jankiel, who seemingly had regained his composure. "It was a stupid affair, and I beg the gracious lord's pardon that it should have happened to him under my roof. He is a madman and very spiteful. He went mad from mere spitefulness."

"Hm!" said the young gentleman. "He did not look like a madman. He has a handsome face and an intelligent one."

"He is not altogether mad—" began Jankiel, but the lord interrupted him.

"He is the grandson of Saul Ezofowich?" he asked, thoughtfully.

"He is Saul's grandson; but his grandfather does not like him."

"Whether he likes him or not, I could scarcely ask his grandfather about him."

"On the contrary, ask him, gracious lord, what he thinks of his grandson," exclaimed Jankiel triumphantly. "Ask his uncles; I will go and bring his uncle Abraham."

"No need," said the nobleman shortly.

He rose, and looked thoughtful, then fixed his eyes upon Jankiel's face.

Jankiel boldly met his searching glance. "Listen, Jankiel," said the lord of Kamionka, "you are a man of years, a respectable merchant, and father of a large family. I ought to trust you more than a young man whom I have seen to-day for the first time, and who may be wrong in the head for anything I know; but there must be something at the bottom of what he tells me. I must get some information about him."

"The gracious lord can get that information very easily," said Jankiel, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously.

The owner of Kamionka thought a little, and then asked:

"Is that celebrated Rabbi of yours in town?"

"Where should he be?" said Jankiel. "He has never been out of the town during his life."

"A steady man, your Rabbi," said the nobleman, reaching for his hat. "Now, Jankiel, show me the way, and, if I do not hear anything new, I shall at least have seen and spoken with that celebrated man."

Jankiel opened the door for his distinguished guest, and followed him into the square, which was now almost deserted. Half-way across they met Eli Witebski, whom the lord of Kamionka greeted affably. By his manner and appearance the wealthy merchant came a little nearer to the civilised sphere in which the landowner moved himself.

"Has the gracious lord come to town on business?" asked Eli.

"No; I am only passing."

"And where might the gracious lord be going now?"

"To see your Rabbi, Witebski."

Witebski looked astonished.

"To see the Rabbi! And what business can the noble lord have with the Rabbi?"

"It is a ridiculous story, Witebski. There, tell me, do you know Saul Ezofowich's grandson?"

"Which of them?" asked Eli. "Saul has many grandsons."

"What is his name?" asked the nobleman, half-turning his head toward Jankiel.

"Meir, Meir, that worthless fellow!"

Witebski nodded his head as a sign that he understood.

"Well," he said, with an indulgent smile, "I would not quite call him a worthless fellow. He is young, and will mend; he is hot-headed though."

"What! a little wrong here?" laughed the gentleman, pointing to his forehead.

"Well," said Eli, "he is not mad, but rash and impulsive, and just now had done a very foolish thing, and put me into a most awkward position. Ai! Ai! what trouble and vexation I had through him, and shall have still—"

"Oh, that's it!" said the lord. "He is a kind, of half-witted mischief-maker, who does not know what he wants, and gets in everybody's way?"

"The noble lord has guessed it," said Eli, but he added at once. "He is very young, and will yet be a decent man."

"Which means that he is not a decent man at present? I see."

"This way, please," said Jankiel, showing the gates of the synagogue court.

"And where does your Rabbi live?"

Kamionker pointed to the little black hut close to the synagogue.

"What, in that little cottage?"

And he went towards it with Jankiel alone, as Witebski, guessing that some unpleasant business had brought them hither, directly took his leave, and, bowing politely, left them.

The door of the hut was already closed, but a little group of worshippers still lingered at the open window. It was very silent within; but the Rabbi did not rest, he never rested, as the few hours spent in broken sleep could scarcely be called by that name. He was bending over his books, which he knew by heart, but still pondered over, and of which he strove with his whole mind and soul to penetrate the mystery.

Reb Moshe rested, but not altogether. He sat in the corner of the fireplace, his knees drawn up to his chin, and his hands buried in his beard. He looked fixedly at the Master, not unlike a fanatic savage worshipping his fetish, or as a scientist watches the universe. The eyes of Reb Moshe expressed deep veneration, wonder, and utter devotion.

Suddenly the door opened, and upon the threshold stood the lord of Kamionka who, turning to Jankiel, said:

"Remain outside; I will speak alone with the Rabbi."

Saying this, he stooped in order to enter the low doorway, and then looked around.

Opposite him, near the wall, sat a man with a mass of coal-black hair, slightly tinged with gray, about him a worn-out garment, and with a yellow, wrinkled face, who, looked at the intruder with amazed and piercing eyes. In a far corner squatted another man, only dimly visible; upon him the young gentleman bestowed only a passing glance. It did not even enter his mind that the man in the tattered clothes and with the piercing eyes could be the celebrated Rabbi, whose fame, spreading over the Jewish communities, had sent a faint echo into the Christian world.

He approached the man very politely. "Could I see the Rabbi of Szybow for a few minutes?"

There was no answer.

The man sitting near the wall craned his long yellow neck, and opened his eyes and mouth wider.

The sudden amazement, or perhaps other feelings, gave him the appearance of stupidity, almost idiotism.

No wonder that Isaak Todros looked like one turned to stone at the sight of the nobleman standing before him. He was the first Edomite who had ever crossed his threshold—the first he had ever seen closely, and the first time he had heard the sonorous language, which sounded strange and unintelligible to his ears. If the angel Matatron, the heavenly patron and defender of Israel, or even the foremost of the evil spirits had stood before him, he would have been less appalled: with supernatural beings he was in constant though not direct communication. He studied them—their nature and their functions. But this tall, stately man, in his abominable garment which reached barely to his knees, with the white, effeminate forehead and unintelligible language, who was he? Was he a Philistine? a cruel Roman, or perhaps a Spaniard—one of those that murdered the famous Abrabanel family, and drove his ancestor Todros out of Spain?

The lord waited a few minutes, and not getting an answer, repeated the question:

"Could I speak with the Rabbi of Szybow?"

At the sound of the somewhat raised voice the squatting figure in the corner moved and rose slowly. Reb Moshe, with open mouth and stupid, glaring eyes, came into the light, and in his hoarse voice uttered the monosyllable "Hah!"

At the sight of the man dressed in such primitive and now-a-days unseen simplicity, the lord's face twitched all over with suppressed merriment.

"My good sir," he said, turning to the melamed, "is that man deaf and dumb? I asked him twice whether I could see the Rabbi of Szybow, and got no answer."

Saying this, he pointed at Todros, who, craning his neck in the melamed's direction, asked:

"Was sagd er? Was will er?" (What does he say? What does he want?)

Reb Moshe, instead of answering, opened his mouth still wider. At the same time murmurs and whispers became audible from the open window, and the young gentleman, looking in that direction, saw a cluster of faces peeping into the room: the faces looked inquisitive, and a little frightened. He turned towards them and asked:

"Does the Rabbi of Szybow live here?"

"He does," said some voices.

"Where is he, then?"

A great many fingers pointed at the bench near the wall.

"What! That man is your wise and celebrated Rabbi?"

The faces framed in the open window radiated with a peculiar blissfulness, and nodded.

The young man made an heroic effort to control his risible muscles, and with twinkling eyes he pointed at the melamed.

"And who is this?"

"He is the melamed," said several voices; "a very wise and pious man."

The nobleman turned again to Todros.

"Reverend sir," he said, "could I speak alone with you for a few minutes?"

Todros remained silent as the grave, but his breath went faster and his eyes grew fiercer.

"Mr. Melamed," said the nobleman to the barefooted man in the long coarse shirt, "perhaps this is a day when your Rabbi is not allowed to speak?"

"Hah?" asked Reb Moshe drawlingly. The nobleman, half-amused, half-angry, turned towards the people.

"Why do they not answer?"

There was a momentary silence. The faces looked perplexedly at each other. One of them at last said:

"They only understand the Jewish language." The owner of Kamionka looked at them in open-eyed amazement; he could scarcely believe that he heard aright.

"What! You don't mean to say they do not understand the language of the country they live in?"

"Well, they do not understand it."

There was some indefined resentment in the voice that said that.

At this moment Isaak Todros drew himself up, and raising both arms above his head, began to speak quickly:

"And a day will arrive when the Messiah, who sleeps in Paradise, will wake up and descend to the earth. Then a great war will spread over the world. Israel will stand up against Edom and Ishmael, until Edom and Ishmael will fall at his feet like shattered cedars."

His gestures were at once solemn and threatening, his eyes blazing, and catching his breath, he repeated again:

"Edom and Ishmael will lie at the feet of Israel like broken cedars, and the thunderbolt of the Lord will fall upon them and crush them to powder."

It was now the Edomite's turn to look astonished, for he did not understand a word. He looked not unlike a tall, stately cedar as he stood there, but not like one that could be easily crushed to powder. His face was rippling over with laughter, which he carefully tried to suppress.

"What does he say?" he asked the people at the window.

There was no answer. All eyes were riveted upon the sage, and on the melamed's face there was an expression of ecstatic rapture.

"My good people, tell me what he said," repeated the nobleman.

A deep voice, as if in sarcastic retribution, answered with another question.

"Did the gracious lord not understand?"

This ingenuous question put an end to the young man's self-control, and he burst out into a peal of laughter and turned towards the door.

"Savages!" he murmured to himself, and he still laughed as he crossed the precincts, and the people who crowded round the Rabbi's window looked after him with astonished and deeply-offended eyes. The young man laughed, tickled by the ludicrous aspect of the whole scene; yet under his apparent merriment there was an under-current of resentment and anger, that the Wise Men of Israel should have shown themselves to him like savages, who did not even speak the language of the country whose air they breathed, and that had nourished them for many centuries. The people around the Rabbi's hut followed him with looks of displeasure almost amounting to hatred, because he had blasphemed what they loved and revered beyond anything. Poor sages of Israel with their worshippers! Poor Edomite laughing at the sage and his worshippers! But poorest of all, the country, the sons of which after journeying together for so many centuries do not understand each other's heart and language.

At the gate of the precincts Jankiel Kamionker met the young nobleman.

"Well, Jankiel," he said, "you have indeed a wise and learned Rabbi."

Jankiel did not reply to this, but began at once to speak about the agreement and the Kamionka distillery. He spoke glibly and easily, and did not appear to remember what had occurred or refer to it. Neither did the lord of Kamionka, upon whom the whole scene had left an impression of astonishment and amusement. The young prophet, and Jankiel with his red curls trying to evict him; the Rabbi, who only spoke the Jewish language, and his companion in the wonderful costume: it was as good as a play. How his friends would enjoy his description; how the good-natured Sir Andrew would laugh, and his daughter, the beautiful Hedwiga, of whom he thought night and day as the believer in his paradise, would smile!