CHAPTER XXIV.
THE SEDUCER.
Jacob was absorbed in the study of the works of Maimonides, when his servant brought him a visiting-card.
This servant had replaced him who had so rudely received his master's mother, and who, on account of her, had left Jacob's service, with tears in his eyes, but too proud to serve a country-woman in Jewish costume.
The visiting-card bore a name engraved indistinctly. Without deciphering the name, Jacob received his visitor. He frowned when he recognized David Seebach the younger, the seducer of Lia. He was dressed richly, but in bad taste, with a cane in his hand, an eye-glass at his eye, and a smile on his lips. Jacob received him coldly, and, with a wave of the hand, indicated a chair. David seated himself, put the end of his cane in his mouth, adjusted his eye-glass, and spoke in a low voice:--
"My presence at your house is perhaps a surprise, for you gained, I fear, a bad impression of us on our last interview. We were very sorry, my father and I, not to have been able to conceal that unfortunate exile for you, but"--
"I do not blame you for that. Every one has a right to act as he pleases."
"Since then I have thought it over, and I admit that I was in the wrong. Your reasoning was just at all points. We must follow the current; we must side with Poland. My father and I, however, do not think alike, on account of his former relations. He remains in the Russian camp, while I take the side of the Poles. Thus we are safe in any case."
"As you please," said Jacob, in an indifferent tone.
"You are on their side, are you not?" asked David.
"I am for Poland, but I am not a revolutionist."
"As for myself, I have made the acquaintance of the principal agitators. I attend all the meetings, and I will aid the revolutionists, for there is money to be made by so doing. As a measure of precaution I have put all my property in a safe place across the frontier, so that in case I am taken the Russians can get nothing, and my father can save me from the hands of the police through the protection of the high functionaries with whom he is in favour. The patriots will need capital to procure arms at the Austrian frontier. I will accommodate them, and the profits will be worth running a little risk."
"Excuse me," interrupted Jacob. "I do not wish to meddle in such business."
"How is that? Have you not said that you sympathize with Poland, and did you not reproach us for being opposed to it?"
"Listen to me, my good David. If I am Polish, it is not from love of lucre, not for fear, but from conviction."
"I am equally patriotic at heart," said David. "I sing the recent hymns which ask God to manifest his power against the secular enemy. I believed that you would aid me to conduct my business to a successful termination; for to speak frankly, as I am a new convert the patriots have not yet entire confidence in me. Your recommendation would have weight, and you can share the profits."
At these words Jacob rang, and the servant appeared immediately.
"You see this gentleman," said the master. "Look at him well so as to recognize him."
"Monsieur, I will remember him."
"Very well. If he ever presents himself here again you will not admit him."
David arose, frightened and furious.
"Be careful how you treat me, my dear Jacob," said he, as he left. "I have your life in my hands, and I will be revenged."
After this scene Jacob's brow was bathed in a cold sweat, and he fell on a couch nearly prostrated. He was aroused by the arrival of Lia's servant, who said that her mistress begged him to come immediately to St. George's street. He called a carriage and hastened to the dwelling of David's victim.
Near the house he perceived a veiled woman, who seemed agitated on seeing him, and leaned against the wall as if faint. Then she rapidly disappeared around the corner. Something about this woman reminded him of Mathilde.
What if it was she!
This thought could be imaginary only, and Jacob did not entertain it for a moment. Lia, all in tears, ran to meet him for whom she had waited impatiently.
"Oh!" cried she, "that wretch has been here; he has dared to look at my child. Save me from him! He has threatened to return. I will not see him. I do not know him."
"Be quiet. You have nothing to fear. Did he tell you why he came? Perhaps he is divorced from his wife, and he wishes to marry you."
"Then I will refuse; but he cannot give his wife the Ghet, for he knows not where she is. And as for me, I have taken an Issar. I have sworn never to marry the man who caused the tears of my father and my mother."
Wrath and contempt gave to Lia's face a wonderful beauty. She continued:--
"May my child be among the Asufim, the Piggum, and the Schetukim, rather than bear the name of his miserable father!"
Jacob made vain efforts to calm her, and said:--
"I do not approve of your Issar. The child needs a father, and the marriage would justify you in your parents' eyes."
All at once they heard David's voice in the antechamber. Lia snatched her child from its cradle and fled to another room, and Jacob was left alone. The door opened violently and the seducer rushed into the room, his face purple with rage. He was stupefied to find in Lia's visitor one whom he had not expected to meet again so soon. After a moment's silence his anger returned, and with drawn sword he rushed on his enemy, but his coolness and the heavy cane which Jacob presented kept him at a distance. He lowered his arm and muttered some unintelligible words.
"Why do you come here?" asked Jacob, with a firm voice.
"And you?"
"I am here at the request of Lia's father, with all the rights of a guardian."
"And I come to see my child."
"Neither the mother nor the child belong to you. Have you given them your name? Have you shielded them from shame, misery, and malediction?"
"I intend to divorce my wife and marry Lia. I must speak with her. Why do you hinder me?"
"I consent that she sees you in my presence, if she wish. Otherwise, no."
"She ought to be willing, for I hold her fate in my hands."
He had hardly ceased speaking when Lia opened the door and entered, her features convulsed with aversion and contempt. She was superb in her scorn, and David trembled as he regarded her. She hesitated an instant, then cried;--
"Between you and me there is no longer anything in common. I declare, before this witness, that I will never be your wife, and I forbid you to call yourself my child's father. May my tears, my sobs, my sufferings, my sleepless nights, and the disgrace that I have brought to my family bring down upon your head divine wrath! May you be tortured by demons, and may Dumah invent for you new torments!"
In the midst of these imprecations her eyes became suddenly fixed in her head. Her arm appeared paralyzed and her legs sank under her; a froth came from her mouth, and with a convulsive laugh and piercing cries she fell senseless.
David fled from the house, his face covered with his hands. The maid ran for a physician, who, on his arrival, said that it was not an ordinary fainting, but a dangerous attack of apoplexy. All remedies used in such cases were employed, but the stricken one did not regain consciousness until toward evening, when she heard her child cry. She extended her arms to him, but her strength failed anew. Jacob watched by her bedside until daybreak.
CHAPTER XXV.
BETWEEN TWO FIRES.
Overcome with lassitude, Jacob, after returning home, threw himself on a couch, and was just going to sleep when the voice of Ivas awakened him. The young man, despite the efforts of the servant to bar the passage at such an early hour, had forced his way into Jacob's room. He wore a heavy hunting-coat, and carried on his shoulders a haversack. Heavy boots completed his costume, and his bearing expressed ardour and energy.
"We are to-day," commenced he without preamble, "in opposite camps. But I have not forgotten that I owe my return to Poland to you, and probably my life also, for your helping hand drew me from the deepest misery. I come to thank you for the last time, and to bid you an eternal adieu."
"Why that?"
"To-day I go directly to the forest. Our insurrection may last some days, and it may last for years. We shall march, armed with batons, against the regular troops. The forests will serve us for camp, fortress, and arsenal. We shall march, scoffed at by some and cursed by others, and accompanied by the tears of the women who love us and whom we love. We will advance with despair in our souls, ever forward!"
"Why are you so hopeless?"
"Because the young men who had confidence in us have been torn from us, and compelled to put on the uniform of the Muscovite soldier. We must save them or die! You see I have no illusions. I know that I risk my life, and that perhaps in the future we may be accused of presumption, of folly, of puerile enthusiasm. No matter. National honour commands it, and I obey. For the last time, Jacob, I who am so near death adjure you not to be a traitor to your country, not to work against us."
"Who has dared to accuse me of treason?" cried Jacob.
"This accusation has been circulated. Perhaps they wish to make a striking example. I will no longer be there to defend you, and you will fall a victim to your own obstinacy."
"Why I, rather than another? Have I ever made you any promises that I have not kept?"
"You have enemies, and very dangerous ones. They accuse you of secret relations with the Russians, here on the first floor, at the rooms of your betrothed."
"My betrothed! I have none. She of whom you speak will never be anything to me."
"But you go there, and you also go to Henri Segel's, who is in very bad odour with us. You openly speak against us; and, lastly, you refused to pay that money to us."
Jacob smiled sadly.
"Singular destiny," said he. "I have enemies, and many of them; I, who am no man's enemy. But you, Ivas, you do not mistrust me?"
"No, I honour your character; I esteem you; I have defended you, and I will continue to do so; but the great majority of my companions think otherwise."
"Let us talk no more of me. I am prepared for the worst. But tell me, is it not possible to delay the insurrection?"
"It is impossible, and in my turn I also ask you to speak of something else."
He was just going, when Kruder, all out of breath, rushed into the apartment.
"Ah! you are here," said he to Ivas; "at last I have found you. I see by your accoutrements that you are off. It is too soon, too soon, do you hear? In Heaven's name do not act prematurely and unreflectingly."
"I suppose you would advise us to wait until the Russians seize us?"
"You will all perish if you commence now."
"So be it. At least our blood will be prolific."
"Listen to the voice of reason."
"We prefer to listen to that of despair. Have you witnessed any of the scenes provoked by the nocturnal recruiting, when our men have been seized and forced into the Russian army? Have you heard the prayers of the young men torn from their mothers' arms? Do you know what it is to be a Russian soldier?"
"I know all; but this is a supreme moment, and your action will involve the salvation or the loss of the country. Your passion is only a heroic egotism. Once more I call you to reason."
"Say no more, Kruder. Folly is our reason, our watchword. And now, farewell, Jacob."
Ivas and Kruder left at the same time, and Mann, who had just arrived, met them in the antechamber. He was struck with the appearance of the two men. The younger man's dress shocked him. It had been for some days the sign of suspected revolutionists.
He sank down in an arm-chair, while Jacob, surprised in the midst of his toilet, dressed himself.
"I come," said he, "as your guardian's friend and your well-wisher, although I know you dislike me, to give you a salutary warning. It is useless for you to try to deceive me, or to resort to falsehoods."
"I never lie, either to you or to any one else. Learn this, monsieur; it is true that I do not see the necessity of boasting to every one, but I never say anything I do not mean."
"If that is so, perhaps we can come to an understanding. I will show you my hand. You are, without flattery, a prominent figure in Jewish society; your education and your fortune assure you an enviable position. That is why you are not absolute master of your acts, of which the responsibility belongs to the class you represent. In compromising yourself, you compromise us. The government watches men of your stamp, and we are judged by your conduct. Every one is talking of your discussion at Madame Wtorkowska's with Count Bavorof and Colonel Sofronof. Pikulinski has spread it in the city. And what did those two men want that just left here? Evidently you are being induced to take part with the revolutionists. What folly! If it only endangered yourself it would not matter so much, but it can injure us who belong to the same society as you."
"Is that all?" asked Jacob impatiently.
"It is enough, I think. What was the tenor of your conversation with Bavorof, the remembrance of which has made Pikulinski's very hair stand on end?"
"Do you know the counsellor of state?"
"Certainly! He is an ass in every sense of the word."
"And you take notice of his judgment?"
"Because Bavorof, also, thinks you a dangerous man. And this young man in revolutionary costume, with his great boots, what was he doing here? A conspirator, probably."
"You are mistaken. He came to warn me to be on my guard, for I am threatened with death from his party. You see how that agrees with your accusation."
"That proves that you lack tact. You are, then, suspected by both parties."
"It is often the fate of a conscientious man to bring upon himself the condemnation of all, because he tells the bitter truth to both without shrinking under their threats or trying to gain favours. I am one of those men who act according to their convictions, and I will not abandon them to please you." Then he added in Hebrew:--
"'Happy he who dies as he was born, pure and without stain.'" (Baba Mezzia, 107. a.)
Mann threw upon him a look of ironical compassion that might be literally translated: A fool you have lived, a fool you will die.
"Really," said he, "there is nothing to be done with a man who quotes the Talmud when one is talking business. You wish, then, to be incarcerated in the citadel? And we shall suffer more or less from having been intimate with you. That is the worst of it."
"What can I do?"
"You say that you are not a revolutionist?"
"Truly, I am not."
"Very well, take sides with those who oppose the revolution."
"But they are not content with fighting them legally. They add to it arbitrary terrorism," said Jacob.
"Of two evils choose the lesser."
"Yes; the evil is in the two extremes, or rather the two extremes meet and form one evil. Despotism above, despotism below. I will serve neither the one nor the other. I am between the two."
"I congratulate you on the excellent means you have taken to ruin yourself. I am really sorry for you. The best thing for you in your frame of mind is to depart for foreign lands."
"You would advise me, then, to desert, when my duty orders me, in this difficult crisis which has overtaken Poland, to remain and do what I can for truth and justice. If I embarrass you," added he laughing, "you can blow out my brains for the public good."
"Unfortunately that is not practicable. We should be implicated in an assassination. Well, if you will not go away, at least shut yourself up, and do not go on the streets."
"Then they will say that I am a conspirator."
"Meet only Russians."
"I will irritate them by my remarks."
"Be silent, then."
"I must speak."
"May Dumah and a million devils catch you at last!" cried Mann, rushing toward the door. "Farewell!"
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE RECONCILIATION.
It was a sad day for Jacob, for many reasons. His friend had left him for almost certain death. A rude person had come to weary him with reproaches and complaints, and then followed a message from Saint George's street to hasten, as the invalid was in the last extremity. When he arrived, she was no longer of this world. Lia had breathed her last.
There remained the orphan: what should he do with him? To whom confide him? Jacob thought of his mother at first; the good woman blushed; she attributed the parentage to Jacob, and in order to satisfy her scruples, he was obliged to relate to her the whole sad history.
"I believe you," said she; "but will others believe it? Seeing the child under your protection, what calumnies, think you, will be circulated?"
"Is it necessary, then, that I leave this poor innocent to hirelings? And ought I to refuse to do my duty for fear of unjust criticism?"
"The child will never again find a mother, but I will place him in good hands. I will not hinder you from doing a good action, but I will save you from the blame which might attach to your good name. You may leave it to me," said his mother.
In his present mood, Jacob felt instinctively drawn toward Mathilde, and late in the evening he directed his steps to her house. The servants, accustomed to see him enter unannounced, opened the doors of the salon. He waited there for some time, looking at the closed piano, the stiffly-arranged furniture, and the withered flowers in the vases. Everything bore that air of desolation found in houses that have been closed for some time.
Clad in a long, trained peignoir, Mathilde appeared, gliding like a shadow, with slow and measured steps. She was very much changed since he last saw her. Her eyes shone with a feverish fire, and her cheeks were sunken. Her former soft lassitude had become a torpor. She offered him a cold, trembling hand. Jacob understood by this reception that here as elsewhere he had been slandered; but, happily, he was one of those characters whose clear conscience fortify them against all contumely.
"Have I come at an inopportune moment?" said he. "In that case, I will go."
"No. You could not arrive more opportunely. I was anxious to see you, monsieur."
"You are ill."
"Not the least in the world."
"Well, Mathilde, so many unfortunate things have happened to me lately, that I come to you to comfort my tortured heart."
"Your heart? It is in the Old Testament."
"I do not understand you. Do you doubt me?"
"Ah! I do not know. This doubt is killing me. I wish to know all the worst; then I can die. You used to be frank and sincere. Why do you deceive me now, like the others?"
"This is too much, Mathilde," said Jacob.
"Oh! I have proofs of your deceit," cried she. "Would it not be better to confide in me as a sister, and say, 'I love another, I am tired of contact with a corpse. I wish a living creature? I would have answered you thus: 'Go, be happy!' In losing you I would at least have kept my respect for you."
"Why do you not respect me now?"
"What! you dare to deny it?"
"Mathilde," replied Jacob gravely, "I assure you I have done nothing to merit these reproaches. I have never been guilty of forgetting you."
"How explain, then, your mysterious adventure; that woman, who is she?"
"You shall hear the truth," said Jacob. "Listen!" He then related the dark drama of which Lia was the heroine, not omitting the scene of the previous evening and the morning's death. The poor girl's fate made Mathilde weep, but at the same time she felt proud and happy. Her beloved was worthy of her deepest respect. When he had finished she could hardly refrain from throwing herself at Jacob's feet and asking pardon for her unjust suspicions.
"Forgive me," she cried, "for my foolish credulity. But the calumny was so well devised that it had all the appearance of truth. It was repeated to me as undoubtedly true."
"One thing astonishes me: it is that you did not come to me about it immediately. You were wrong not to demand an explanation."
"A long and frightful torture has punished me for my hesitation. The days that have passed since then have been the bitterest of my existence. Your supposed infidelity poisoned all remembrances of the past, and I tried to tear your image from my heart."
"I could not have foreseen that a good action would have had such direful consequences," said Jacob sadly.
"How happy would I be could I adopt the orphan! Unfortunately, in this house I am a slave, a prisoner. I am respected, it is true, and the master surrounds me with luxury to gratify his vanity; he strews flowers on my path to dazzle the world; but in the midst of this perfumed atmosphere I am a captive, and very often envy the working women who live by labour, or in their poverty beg upon the streets. For a long time I have been abandoned. Henri Segel divides his days between the Russians and Muse. When I feel very ill the physician comes here. Sometimes a beggar appears, and, you will not believe it, under this exterior wealth I am often without money, without a sou to give for charity."
She sighed, and continued:--
"To-day I live again; my soul is at peace once more. I have been given back the only man in the world who makes me love humanity and believe in virtue."
Their conversation was continued for a long time. Tea was served at the usual hour, and the Englishwoman arrived, but she had a bad cold and her presence was a constraint. Absorbed in each other, they forgot the world. Mathilde went to the piano, which had been closed for several days, and the celebration of their reconciliation ended with the polonaise of Chopin (A-dur).
When Jacob found himself some distance down the street he went back to look at the house he had just left as if he had a presentiment of not returning.
CHAPTER XXVII.
JACOB IN FLIGHT.
Warsaw presented a strange sight. From all its doors the population hurried toward the forests. The combat had been precipitated, and they rushed eagerly to death.
The Russians paid no attention to this exodus. They did not wish to oppose it.
At the Chateau de Brühl they repeated the saying: "When the abscess is ripe it must surely burst!" The cold-blooded authorities did not say that this abscess was the result of a purulent malady, engendered by unbridled oppression. They cared neither for the suffering which it produced in ripening, nor for the blood which was lost in bursting.
In the interior of the capital everything seemed to be in a normal condition. Only the initiated recognized in the streets the gladiators vowed to death, for the fever in their souls was concealed by a deceitful calm. From time to time, rumours were secretly circulated that companies had been formed under the very nose of the Russian troops, that Muscovite detachments had been beaten, that the insurgents had taken such a village, that here and there the national flag had been ostentatiously displayed and the revolutionary government proclaimed.
Gromof alone persisted in declaring the revolutionary movement premature, and sought to check the torrent. Vain efforts; the dikes were broken, and the rallying word was "Liberty or death!"
Thoughtful men, however, foresaw the imminent explosion of Muscovite vengeance. A barbarous and savage repression began, like that of 1794, in the time of Kosciusko. Then some concealed themselves in the thickets, while others fell into the hands of the police. Houses were searched, and in some cases destroyed, during the hunt for insurgents. Roofs were broken in and floors pulled up, and often, in default of finding the guilty, the innocent were made to suffer in their stead. The citadel was crowded with prisoners. Every day files of the unfortunates, including nobles of high degree, left for Siberia, and chains commenced to be lacking, so many were imprisoned.
And during these horrors the groves put forth joyously their green leaves, the turf was carpeted with flowers, and the lark sang in the clear azure heaven; but the doom of the destroyer was over all.
Russia prepared her saturnalias to celebrate a definite victory. By hundreds of thousands the soldiers tracked the insurgents, who were scattered in bands without camps, without money, without arms or powder. Yet victory was delayed for a whole year.
One might attribute the rage of the Russian government to the humiliation of the army, if the slowness of the manœuvres had not, as we have already said, been premeditated. The Russians wished to crush Poland, but they wished it to appear as if the revolution had been entirely a surprise. Since 1863 her vengeance had increased in ferocity, redoubled under a thousand pretexts. Her cruelty had now become systematic. And the civilized world assisted at this frightful execution by looking on with cold indifference at such sufferings.
Jacob saw in his imagination the dark future of Poland,--a future become a perpetual present. He was almost desperate at his impotency to stay the impending disaster. To despair, succeeded apathy. What good was life, thought he, without high aim. And, alas, all the ways towards this end were closed to him! He tried vainly to become absorbed in reading, but his brain seemed congealed. A heavy slumber like a lethargy overtook him. When he opened his eyes the lamp was out, and the morning light filled the room. He opened the windows. The sky was sad and sombre, like his soul. In the silence of the new-born day he heard steps on his staircase; some one knocked at his door. He opened the door, and a man quickly entered. A long cloak covered him completely, and his hat was drawn over his eyes. It was Kruder.
"You know all, do you not? Then you are all ready?" cried he.
"All--what?"
"There's not a minute to lose. It is four o'clock. You have an hour and a half, or two hours at the most, before you."
"What is it, then?" asked Jacob.
"There is no use beating about the bush with a man like you. In two hours they are coming to arrest you."
"Why?"
"One never knows why in these times. I bring you a passport. I procured it yesterday, before the authorities at the chateau had warned the police against passports. Come, do not tarry!"
"Where shall I go?"
"Where you will."
"Would it not be possible for me to wait, and prove myself innocent?"
"You jest! They would answer you by sending you to the extreme borders of the Russian empire. They are doing it every day."
"Be it so! They would send me back."
"And you would submit to Russian brutality when you can avoid it?"
"To leave my country at such a supreme moment would be to compromise my Israelite acquaintances, which Mann has recently reproached me for. I would be accused also of cowardly motives, of excessive prudence, of calculating egotism, and my flight would justify the accusation."
"The moments are precious. Keep yourself for better times. Captivity would ruin you, and unfit you for the future. The insurrection is strengthening. No one can foresee the result. European diplomacy may interfere. It is true that the uprising is premature, but it is possible that this time they may obtain some concessions. You can be useful to us. Keep your intelligence, your relations, and your fortune for Poland."
"Intelligence falsified by mysticism. Every one says 'relations,' but with whom? My ideas are always in contradiction with those around me; there remains to me only a fortune. Alone, whom can I serve?"
"Come on! This is no time for pessimism. You must decide."
"My resolution is taken. I will go and make my farewells to my mother, and leave her in charge of the house. I will go far away, and there reflect as to what is the best course to pursue. I can give myself up to the gendarmes at any time, but not just yet. I will accompany you. Do you know of a safe place for a few hours?"
"Yes. Come with me."
Jacob lost no time in changing his clothes and ran to embrace his mother. He filled his pocket-book with bank-notes, and a quarter of an hour later was in the streets with Kruder. By many devious ways they arrived at the poorer quarter of the town. The fugitive had for a moment entertained the idea of seeking the hospitality of Segel, of Bartold, or of his guardian, but after reflection he feared to compromise them.
"We are going to the 'Kafarnaum,'" said Kruder smiling.
"The Kafarnaum? What is that?"
"A sobriquet of my own invention to designate the place where the revolutionists meet."
"You belong to them, then?"
"I belong to everybody and to nobody," answered he. "I enter, I listen. I give my advice and I engage in arguments, and I wait. With me you will be welcomed at the Kafarnaum."
"Is it a safe asylum?"
"Excellent, no one suspects, and therefore it has nothing to fear from the police. It is in the house of the commissaire of the ward."
"Let us go there, then."
Kruder turned into an alley. It was growing light, but the city was still quiet and deserted, and the only people abroad were the milkmen and the hucksters. They stopped before a house. At the entrance were some gendarmes, police, and individuals in citizens' dress. By a staircase which opened on the court they ascended to the second story. The house was new, and the apartment at the door of which they stopped had a fine external appearance. A servant who was half asleep let them in, and without question indicated a second door. This led them to a spacious salon. Two men were writing at a large table by the light of a lamp. The couches and easy-chairs were occupied by young men, whose fatigued air bore witness that they had passed a sleepless night.
Kruder whispered some words into the ears of the two men at the table. These persons, whose faces were somewhat familiar to Jacob, offered him their hands.
"Here," said they, "no one can come to seek you. As we have no secrets from honest men, we will continue our work before you. We conspire even in the open air, in the public streets, and as yet we have not fallen under suspicion. Be seated, take part in our deliberations, give us your advice,--we ask it. Today it is necessary to combine all our forces to arm, to rouse enthusiasm and practise strategy. Do not be disturbed, monsieur; do as you would in your own house."
Kruder, whose custom was to take no sides, went from one to another, read the order of the day over the secretary's shoulder, listened to short dialogues between different persons, and then hastened to some other meeting.
Jacob, left there by his friend, assisted at a strange, and to him novel, spectacle. Every instant the door opened; it was a continual going and coming of individuals of all ages and of all ranks of society. Among them were women, children, Jews, and ecclesiastics. Some brought good or bad news, messages and money, while others came to receive orders or to bring letters, and in this crowd appeared some in uniforms which bore the insignia of high rank in the army. They showed by their faces and bearing traces of a long and fatiguing military career. The breasts of many were covered with decorations gained in the Caucasus or in the Taschkend. In contrast with these officers were workmen, artisans, idlers, and vagabonds. The movement was incessant, and the crowd was continually changing.
A youth who had been wounded came to relate the particulars of the combat, where he had received a bullet in his leg. He asked for a surgeon to extract it, and seemed impatient to return to the seat of war. His face was lighted up with heroism, and the fever of his patriotism exceeded the fever of his wound.
A workman came in haste to announce that the police had made a raid on a clandestine printing-house where he was employed, and from which he had escaped through the roof. Immediate decision was taken to establish another printing-office in another hiding-place.
The revolution displayed an immense activity which, notwithstanding, was defective. Necessary funds were not forthcoming, in spite of the threats and prayers employed to procure them. Every moment there arrived from the insurgents scattered in the forests complaints of lack of arms, powder, ambulances, medicines, and surgeons. There were rumours that this or that emissary had fallen into the hands of the Russians, or that a knavish contractor, who had been paid in advance, had delivered a cargo of guns which proved to be utterly useless, the refuse of the Austrian arsenals. These difficulties did not daunt the committee, for it was composed of men of unheard-of audacity and bravery, who had already accomplished miracles with their scanty resources. Russian surveillance was relaxed, and this fact, which should have made the revolutionists suspicious, encouraged their efforts. Their confidence increased daily. From all the Polish provinces, and even from the districts incorporated with the Russian empire in 1772, came assurances of warmest sympathy, but each accompanied by an urgent prayer to delay the uprising. It was too late. The duchy of Posen, annexed to Prussia, and Galicia, with the city of Cracow, which was subservient to Austria, viewed the situation with the deepest interest, but did not revolt for fear of drawing down on Poland two more adversaries. These remnants of the old republic sent volunteers and money, and at the same time procured some arms from Austria, not always openly, though the government at Vienna closed its eyes and let them pass.
Gromof had the right of entrance to the Kafarnaum. Here he continued to oppose the insurrection, and excited general ridicule.
"Instead of blaming our enthusiasm," replied they, "do something for us. Work the army. Work the dissenters from the orthodox church."
"Alas!" replied Gromof, "that is what we are doing. But our people do not respond to the first appeal. We have yet to instruct them and teach them their rights."
"And you desire us to remain inactive and wait for these babes to grow up? Oh, no! You cannot expect that any more than for us to return to the Greek calendar."
"But you are going to your own destruction. You are on the brink of an abyss."
"An abyss! To hell! rather than your yoke," cried an impetuous youth.
This argument was interrupted by a woman who came to tell that her son had been sent to the citadel, and that she had succeeded in saving some very compromising papers that he carried on his person. After the woman came a youth almost a child. He told how he had fled from the soldiers who had seized him for the Russian service.
Amid this noisy crowd came and went women chatting tranquilly, carrying important despatches hidden in their stockings or their corsets, and messengers waited while cobblers drew the nails from the heels of their boots where messages had been inserted.
Jacob saw before him an admirable tableau of devotion. To him the spectacle was most pitiful, for he was convinced that all these efforts could only result in a final catastrophe. Kruder returned. He informed his friend that one hour after their departure the police had invaded his dwelling, searched his papers, demolished stoves, had even taken up part of the floor, and carried away as sole trophy a pocket pistol, a prohibited weapon. The house was placed under strict supervision, and the search for Jacob was now going on in the streets.
There remained to him the choice between flight or prison; but whither should he fly? He thought of some obscure streets where the poor Jews lived. He had among them many friends whom he had aided in their distress. He had often penetrated into these houses of misery with the idea of devoting himself some day to their total extinction. With this end in view he had organized a Jewish school, for in his opinion popular instruction was the basis of moral reform and material improvement.
One man in particular in this quarter he knew well. A certain Rébé Schmul, a petty merchant who had been on the verge of bankruptcy when Jacob had set him once more on his feet. His back loaded with old clothes, he walked in the cold or the heat crying in the streets, "Hendel! Hendel!" ("Old clothes! old clothes!") Nothing escaped his glance or his hearing. He heard the calls from the garrets, and introduced himself into the courts at the risk of being harshly treated. It was a laborious business, and often scarcely sufficed to sustain existence. At the most it permitted him to buy a little fish and a morsel of white bread for the Sabbath.
Rébé Schmul and his wife were growing old; they had five daughters, two of whom were married, while three remained at home. In all, five mouths to feed. To do this it was necessary that each day, in all seasons, the pedler should tramp from early morning until nightfall. He must also be careful not to make a bad bargain in buying old clothes, which often appeared so well that a hole would pass unperceived. There lies the danger of the business, and Schmul, although experienced, had been taken in more than once. Tall and thin, he did not look his age, for, as he said, he had no time to think of it. In this business, which he had followed for more than thirty years, he had become a keen observer of men; and from this study was born in his soul not contempt, but compassion, for his fellow-creatures. Although he was very poor, he often found some one more unfortunate, who drew from him the last sou in his pocket in charity. Besides this sensibility, he was distinguished by a jovial humour. His natural gayety served him well in trading. A smile always attracts, and he by his bright ways encouraged men who were obliged to sell their best garments, and softened the bitterness of the sacrifice. Schmul always had a joke to tell, and a smile on his lips, when he left home in the early morning or when he returned weary and footsore at night. He treated his sick wife with pleasantry; by pleasantry he consoled his daughters in their chagrins; and lastly he fortified himself thereby, when he felt that a sigh was likely to escape his breast.
No one celebrated with more enjoyment the feast of the Sabbath than did Schmul, in his narrow and crowded lodging, by the light of a tallow candle. His business did not prosper, although he worked so hard. This was a disappointment to him, for he had dreamed of enlarging his stock by the addition of blacking and matches; but circumstances had not as yet permitted the realization of his hopes. Then he bought tickets in the lottery, and each time hoped to gain the grand prize. In vain did his wife beg him to renounce this delusion, and use the money in buying the necessaries of life for his family. When she had scolded him well, his only reply was that he must not shut his door against the good God.
Schmul lodged with his family on the third floor of a large house inhabited by many other Jewish families, all equally poor. This building, it is needless to say, did not shine with neatness. It was constructed in a rectangle with a narrow front, and opened upon a court. On each story a wooden gallery served for the workroom of the household. Here they washed and dried the linen. Here they split the wood, and cooked the food, and dressed the children. What did they not do here? Old clothes of all kinds were stretched on ropes, and the odours of the cooking, the steam from many wash-boilers, the waters from which ran through the court, produced a perfume which the lodgers endured from force of habit only. The inhabitants were like one family, many of whom had been born and were destined to die in this receptacle of misery.
Schmul occupied three dark rooms, where the air and the light came only from the court. You can imagine what air and what light! Both had to filter through the wet clothes and the rags which hung on the ropes stretched from one gallery to another.
One of these rooms served for a parlour, and possessed a rickety sofa and two old arm-chairs. The other apartment was the bedroom for the old couple; the third, the chamber of the three girls. It was here that the Schmul girls cleaned, patched, and mended the old clothes. A memorable event happened here. The father loved to tell of it as a proof of the protection of Providence.
Ten years before, the pedler's position was desperate. He had been so unfortunate as to buy some clothes that proved to be stolen. He was obliged to give back the goods, beside paying a large fine. To raise the money for this he had appealed to several friends in vain. Seeing no way out of his embarrassment, he had gone out and had succeeded in selling an old cloak for a few florins. He had just returned home when a soldier came and wished to sell him an old velvet waistcoat. He refused to buy it; but the man insisted, and seizing him by the arm, made such a noise that Schmul gave him a small sum for the garment. He soon perceived that he had made a poor purchase, for it was nearly worthless. He gave it to one of his girls to patch, who presently uttered a great cry of joy, for under each button she had found a piece of gold, the total of which was sufficient to pay the fine.
The waistcoat contained also a paper written over closely, but the writing was almost effaced and indecipherable.
It was not possible to return the garment to its owner, for the soldier had evidently stolen it. Nevertheless, Schmul did not believe it right to appropriate a sum which seemed to have been sent from Heaven; he considered himself the depositary, and distributed the whole in small sums to political prisoners. This act describes the man. Unfortunate though he was, he paid his debt to an unknown. He often showed pieces of the waistcoat when he had occasion to relate the story, and returned thanks to Providence, for he was very pious.
He always left home early in the morning and did not return until dark. He carried an old umbrella, formerly blue, but become by long usage an indefinable colour. It was less to shield himself than to shelter his merchandise from the rain, the snow, and the sun. His breakfast was invariably composed of a raw onion or a smoked herring, with a morsel of bread and a small glass of brandy. In the evening he loved to find some hot dish awaiting him, and seated at the table he related the most amusing incidents of the day, to which his family listened attentively. Then came the prayer before going to bed.
The pedler was generally loved on account of his good character and jovial spirit. People were surprised that with his intelligence he had not already made his fortune. He replied by likening himself to a pair of scissors. Be they ever so sharp, they were no use without something to cut. Gold was the something that God, in his wisdom, had not given to every one.
Jacob arrived at the staircase which led to the Schmuls' lodging. He ascended without seeing the pedler, who, returning from his work, followed him, and stopped at the same time before the door of his lodging, on which was graven the name of God. Following the custom, he touched it with his hand and afterwards kissed it. It was then that Schmul recognized him.
"Salem alekem," said he.
"Alekem salem," replied the fugitive.
"Rabbi Jacob, tell me why I am honoured by your presence?" asked Schmul.
"I am in trouble," replied Jacob.
"Can I do anything for you?"
"Yes, and easily, I hope."
"Even if it were not easy you may count on me to do all I can."
They entered; the old man dusted the sofa and the table in Jacob's honour, and begged him to be seated. The prettiest and the boldest of his daughters, Rosélé, came to help him. Notwithstanding their poverty, she was dressed neatly and in good taste, and her beautiful black eyes indicated a certain coquetry.
"Now that you are seated," said Schmul, "I will listen to you."
"In a moment. Rest yourself first, you must be tired."
"Oh, as for that, yes! I cannot say how many stairs I have climbed to-day. I have done well. There are some young Poles who sold their last fine shirts to buy thick warm garments. I did not have to make myself hoarse to-day by crying 'Hendel! Everybody called to me. They sold at any price. I had not enough money, and was obliged to borrow of old Mortchel."
"I am obliged," said Jacob in a low voice, "to leave Warsaw. The police paid a visit to my house this morning."
"To your house? Is it possible? Are you then, Rabbi Jacob, one of those madmen who tempt God?"
"No; but the Russian government often arrests innocent people."
"This is true. They do it every day. No one is secure here, nor ever has been under Russian rule."
"Do you know any one who can conduct me in safety to the first post station?"
"Certainly. Under this very roof dwells Mordko. As every one must live by some means, he is a smuggler. Merchandise, papers, men, he gets them all across the frontier. Thus, by exposing his head every day, he feeds his stomach."
"Can I trust him?"
"Entirely. This Mordko is a queer fellow, and when you see him you will not doubt him. Half mute, almost blind, he can scarcely say four words or take three steps. He has such a stupid and innocent air that he is never suspected. I will go and find him."
Madame Schmul came in to keep Jacob company, and at the half-open door the three girls peeped at him with admiration. Rosélé said to herself: "What happiness for me if I could please this rich man. But, alas! I must not think of it. I am called beautiful, but no doubt I should not satisfy a man such as he."
In a few moments Schmul returned with a very shabby individual. He looked at Jacob from head to foot attentively.
"He already understands the situation," said the pedler. "You need make no farther explanations."
"I wish to leave at once," said Jacob.
"To-night? No!" replied Mordko. "Too dangerous! Morning will be better."
"But I cannot sleep here, there is no room, and the hotels are surrounded by the police."
"I know a place where you can sleep quietly. I will return in a moment, and conduct you to it."
As soon as Mordko had gone, Schmul said to his visitor:--
"Your flight gives me great sorrow. When will you return? No one knows. Your absence is a misfortune for the Israelites. You are the only one who could restore our old purity of religion. No one else, and now you are taken from us."
"If I am really useful to our cause, be sure that the God of Israel will protect me," replied Jacob.
"Then you will return, safe and sound. I have a presentiment. And waiting here we will drink the bitter cup to the dregs."
Mordko returned, and Jacob, under his guidance, went to a small hotel in the suburbs, where he was given an isolated chamber. He soon slept, and for several hours the fugitive was oblivious to the world.