"Zi! Zi! a shejne puryc! a shejne panienkies!" shouted the children, running, jumping, pointing with their fingers, and raising clouds of dust with their feet.
"Who are they? Are they Jews?" asked the older people, pointing atLeopold's short coat and Cigarette.
"Misnagdim!" suddenly shouted some voice in the crowd, and a small stone, thrown by an unknown hand, passed close to Leopold's head. The young man grew pale and threw away the cigarette—the cause of the general scandal. Eli frowned. But Pani Hannah raised her head still higher and said quite loudly to her sister:
"Nu, we must forgive them. They are so ignorant!"
Leopold, however, did not forgive the stone thrown at him. This could be seen by his frightened eyes and tightened lips when he entered the Ezofowichs' parlour.
There on the sofa—the place of honour—sat old Saul surrounded by his sons, sons-in-law, and several older grandchildren. At one of the windows, as usual, sat the always slumbering great-grandmother. At the other window stood Meir.
When Witebski's family entered the parlour, Meir merely glanced at Mera, as though she was perfectly indifferent to him, but he looked sharply, inquisitively, at Leopold. He evidently desired to approach as soon as possible the man who came from the broad world, and penetrate him through and through.
For a while only preliminary conversation and loud greetings were heard Saul did not leave his place on the sofa. His daughter Sarah, Ber's wife, received the guests, serving them with dainties, loudly admiring the beauty of the hats and dresses of the ladies.
Mera sat graciously on the edge of a chair, amused by the bashful, embarrassed, and at the same time joyful Lija, and glancing askance at the young man standing at the window, guessing that he must be her intended husband. But she did not once meet his glance. Meir seemingly ignored her existence. He looked constantly at Leopold. Pani Hannah was telling with great animation, and still greater pride to the women surrounding her, of the fountain which she had once seen in a large city, and about the music which was played every Sunday in the public garden in Wilno. In the meantime she was examining the Ezofowichs' parlour. In fact, the large, clean room with its simple furniture, possessed an air of thrift and riches, which was a great deal more attractive than Pani Hannah's speckled salon. There was also a library filled with large volumes, which, according to the traditions of the Ezofowich family, were formerly the property of Michael the Senior. There was a cupboard filled with silver and china, and on the top of it stood a large samovar, shining like gold. When Pani Hannah saw this a blush of shame appeared on her face. A samovar in the parlour of the family of her future son-in-law! It was contrary to all rules of civilisation of which she knew anything. Soon, however, from this highly indecent object her glance passed on to the great-grandmother slumbering in her arm-chair. At that moment a ray of the setting sun fell on the motionless figure, lighting up the jewels with which she was covered. Like fiery stars over her forehead shone the rich gems ornamenting her turban, while her earrings threw out thousands of sparks, and the pearls on her bosom took on a faint pink glow.
Pani Hannah elbowed her sister slightly.
"Zi," whispered she, indicating the old women by a motion of her head, "what splendid diamonds!"
The wife of the merchant of Wilno half closed her eyes in admiration.
"Aj! Aj!" exclaimed she, "a true treasure. But why does such an old woman wear so many precious stones?"
Saul heard the exclamation, and with dignified civility he said, bending toward his guests:
"She deserves our respect, and to be covered by us with all the precious stones in the possession of our family. She was her husband's crown, and all of us as branches from a tree, take our life from her."
He closed his eyes a little and continued:
"Now she is very old, but she once was young and very beautiful, And where has her beauty disappeared to? It was erased by the years—by months and days passing over her like birds flying one after the other, pick one berry after another, until they have picked them all. It is true, she has now many wrinkles on her face. But whence come these wrinkles? I know; for looking at her I see some picture in each one. When I look at the wrinkles in her eyelids, and around her eyes, I remember that when I was small, and was ill she sat by my cradle and sang to lull me to sleep, and the tears poured from her eyes. And when I look at the wrinkles so numerous on her cheeks, I remember all the sorrows and griefs she has passed through, when she became a widow, refused to marry again, conducting business affairs personally and increasing the wealth of her children. And when I look at the wrinkle which appears in the middle of her forehead, it seems that I live again the moment that my father's soul left its body, and my mother fell to the floor like one dead. She did not cry nor moan, but only sobbed sweetly, 'Hersh! Hersh! My Hersh!' It was the greatest sorrow of her life, and left on her forehead that deep line."
Thus spoke old Saul, with his index finger raised solemnly and a thoughtful smile on his yellow lips. The women listening to him shook their heads, half sadly, half affirmatively, and looking at each other they repeated softly:
"Hohr! Hohr!" (Listen! Listen!)
Pani Hannah was moved to tears. She dried them with a lace handkerchief which she held in her hand, and stretching this hand toward Saul she said:
"Danke! Danke!" with a smile of gratitude on her lips.
"Danke!" (Thanks!) the majority of those present repeated after her. Then Pani Hannah's sister, Witebski, and two or three other people not belonging to the family, said in a hushed voice:
"Ein kluger mensch! Ein ehrlicher mensch!" (A clever man! An honest man!)
The filial love and respect manifested by Saul, and his picturesque narrative, made a pleasant impression on all hearts and minds.
Only young Leopold, who until now sat silent and gloomy, or spoke in French with Mera, rose from his chair and went toward the window where Meir stood. Around the sofa a lively conversation had been recommenced by Pani Hannah, who expressed a regret that it was Sabbath, and that there was no piano, for her daughter was thus prevented from playing such music as melted all hearts, and brought before the mind's eye the botanical garden of Wilno, where the band of music played, and different other things which belonged to her lost paradise of civilisation.
The two young men remained completely isolated. No one could hear their conversation. It seemed that Leopold had no intention of starting a conversation with Meir. He went toward the window with quite a different motive, which was betrayed by his taking from his pocket a silver cigarette case. But Meir, when he saw the young man approach him, advanced a few steps. His face beamed with joy.
"I am Meir, Saul's grandson," said he, extending his hand to the guest. "I wish very much to make your acquaintance, to tell you many things, and ask you many things."
Leopold bowed to him elegantly but ceremoniously, and barely touched Meir's warm hand. Meir's eyes, which had been bright with joy, now saddened.
"You don't care to know me," said he, "and I don't wonder at it. You are an educated man, and I—am a simple Jew, who knows the Bible and Talmud well, but nothing more. But listen to me, at any rate! I have thoughts of many things, but they are not yet in order. Perhaps you can tell me how to become wise?"
Leopold listened to these words, vibrating first with youthful enthusiasm, with anxiety in which there was a shade of irony.
"Willingly," said he, "if you wish to learn something from me I will be glad to tell you. Why not? I can tell you many things, sir!"
"Leopold, don't call me 'sir.' It hurts me, for I love you very much."
Leopold was surprised at this simplicity of sentiment.
"I am glad of it!" said he; "but it's the first time we have met."
"It doesn't matter!" exclaimed Meir; "for a long time I have wished to meet such an Israelite as you are, and say to him, as Rabbi Eliezer said to the sage in Jerusalem, 'Let me be your pupil, and be you my teacher.'"
This time surprise was clearly expressed in the face of the young fashionable, and his irony increased. It was evident that he did not at all understand Meir's speech, and that he considered him as being half a savage. Meir, absorbed in his enthusiasm, did not notice the impression he had made.
"Leopold," he began, "how many years did you study in that foreign school?"
"What foreign school?" asked Leopold.
"Nu, in that school where they do not teach Jewish studies."
Leopold understood now. He half closed his eyes, pursed his mouth, and answered:
"Well, I went to the gymnasium for five years."
"Five years!" exclaimed Meir, "then you must be a very learned man, if you have gone to school for such a long time."
"Well," answered the guest, with an indulgent smile, "there are people in the world who are more learned than I."
Meir approached his companion still nearer, and his eyes shone more brightly.
"What do they teach in the school?" he asked.
"Different things."
"What are those different things?"
Leopold, with an ironical smile, began to enumerate all the subjects taught in public schools.
Meir interrupted him, saying with animation:
"And you know all these subjects?"
"Yes, I do," answered the guest.
"And what are you doing now?"
This question was asked with great anxiety, and astounded the good-looking chap.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Nu, I wish to know, I wish to know the thoughts with which these studies have filled your head, and what you are doing in the world."
"What I am doing? I am an official in the office of the governor himself, and I copy important papers."
Meir thought for a while.
"That is not what I wished to know about. You copy those papers for money. Every man must earn. But I wish to know what you think about when you are sometimes alone, and what those thoughts impel you to accomplish in the world."
Leopold opened widely his eyes.
"Well," he exclaimed impatiently, "what should I think about? When I leave my office I return home, smoke a cigarette, and think of the time when I shall marry and get a dowry, and my father will give me my share, and I shall purchase a house. On the ground floor I shall fix pretty stores, the second floor I shall let to some rich people, and I shall live on the third floor."
This time it was Meir's turn to be amazed. "And you, Leopold, don't you think of anything else?"
"Well, of what else should I think? Thank God I have no sorrows. I live and board with my parents and my salary is sufficient to buy my clothes."
Meir looked at the floor, and a deep wrinkle appeared on his forehead, as was customary with him when he was hurt.
"Leopold, listen," he said, after a few moments of deep thought, "are there not many poor and ignorant Jews in your great city?"
Leopold laughed.
"There are plenty of them everywhere."
"And what are your thoughts when you see them?" asked Meir violently.
"What should they be? I think they are very stupid and very dirty!"
"And looking at them, do you think of nothing else?" asked Meir, almost in a whisper.
Leopold opened his cigarette case, and selected a cigarette. Meir, plunged in thought, did not notice this.
"Leopold," he began again, with awakened energy, "you had better not buy that house in the large city."
"Why should I not buy it?"
"I will tell you why. They have promised you, as wife, my first cousin. She is a good and intelligent girl. She has no education whatever, but she always wished to have it, and she was very glad when she was told that she would have an educated husband. You are going to marry her, and when you have married her, ask permission of the high officials to open in Szybow a school for the Jews, in which they will be made to study other things than the Bible and Talmud. I will help you to conduct such a school."
Leopold laughed, but Meir, all aglow with the joy of his idea, did not notice it. He leaned towards the young man and whispered:
"I will tell you, Leopold. There is great ignorance here in Szybow, and there are many poor people living in misery. But there are some people—all of them young—who regret that they do not know another world, and that they have not other knowledge. They wish to become familiar with it, but there is no one to help them out of the darkness. And then the great Rabbi who lives here, Isaak Todros, is very severe, and he is dreaded by everyone; and the members of the kahal also oppress the poor people. You must come here and bring with you other educated people, and help us out of our misery and our ignorance."
All this was spoken enthusiastically, his head triumphally raised and his voice filled with warm prayer. But nothing could equal the astonishment, and in the meantime the irony, with which Leopold listened to him. As Meir finished he selected a match from a silver box, bending his head in order to hide the fact that he was laughing.
"Nu," said Meir, "what do you think of what I have said? Is it a good idea?"
Leopold lighted the match and answered:
"I am thinking that if I were to speak of your plans to my family or my comrades they would be much amused."
The light which shone in Meir's eyes was quenched at once.
"Why would they laugh?" he whispered.
At that moment Leopold lighted his cigarette and the fragrant smoke floated through the room to where the company were gathered around the yellow sofa. Raphael raised his head in astonishment and looked back at him. Saul also looked toward the window, and rising from the sofa he said politely but with determination:
"I beg your pardon, but I cannot permit anything in my house which is contrary to the holy law."
Having said this he sat down again looking at Leopold from beneath his bushy eyebrows. Leopold grew very red, threw the cigarette on the floor, and crushed it angrily with his foot.
"Such is your civility!" said he to Meir.
"And why do you smoke on the Sabbath?"
"Don't you smoke?" asked the guest satirically looking Meir in the face.
"No," answered Meir
"And you wish to lead human souls out of darkness! And you believe that it is a holy law not to smoke on the Sabbath!"
"No, I don't believe it," answered Meir, with as much determination as before.
"You wish to cause the people to rebel against the great Rabbi and the kahal, and you yourself give way before the enemy."
Meir's eyes shone again, but this time angrily.
"If it was a question of saving a human soul from obscurity, or a human body from ignorance, I would not give way, because such things are important; but when it is a question of denying myself a pleasure, I give way because it is a trifle. And although I do not believe that such a law is holy and comes from God, I know that the old people believe in it, and I think that it would be rude to contradict them in a trifle like this."
After this speech Leopold turned away from Meir and walked over to where Mera sat. For a while Meir followed him with a glance in which there was a mixture of disappointment and anger. Then he left the window and went out.
This sudden disappearance of the young man made a great impression on the women. The men hardly noticed it, for they thought it very natural and praiseworthy that the bridegroom, through modesty, avoided the fiancee chosen for him by the older people. But Pani Hannah and her sister became gloomy, and Mera whispered to her mother:
"Maman, let us go home!"
In the meantime Meir was on the way to the house of his friend Eliezer, but he only looked in at the window, and went further, for the cantor's room was empty; but he evidently knew where to find his comrades, and he went directly toward the meadow situated beyond the town. As a few weeks ago this meadow—a true oasis of quiet and freshness—was all bathed in the pink light of the sunset. It is true that the grass was no longer so green, for it was a little burned by the beat of the summer sun, but the bushes were in full bloom, and the scent of the wild flowers filled the air.
Near the grove, under the thickly growing birches, sat a group of young people. Some of them spoke together in low tones, while others mechanically plucked the wild plants growing around them, and others still with their faces turned to the blue sky, in which floated golden clouds, hummed softly.
The pond, a short way off, was now surrounded with thick bunches of forget-me-nots and large flowers of the water-plants. On its bank was seated the motionless figure of a tall slender girl, and beside her, amid the bushes of sweet-briar, grazed the white goat, plucking the herbs and leaves.
Meir approached the group of young people who were evidently awaiting his arrival with some impatience for those who lay in the grass rose at once on seeing him and sat looking intently into his face. He did not greet his comrades and did not even look at them, but threw himself down upon the trunk of a birch tree which had been overthrown by a storm. He was sad, but perhaps even more angry. The young people were silent, and looked at him in surprise. Eliezer, who lay in the grass with his elbow resting against the trunk on which Meir sat, was the first to speak.
"Well, have you seen him?"
"Have you seen him?" several voices chimed in, "and is he highly educated and very wise?"
Meir raised his head and said emphatically:
"He is educated, but very stupid."
This exclamation caused great surprise among the young men. After quite a long silence, Aryel, the son of the magnificent Morejne Calman, said:
"How can it be that a man is educated, and at the same time stupid?"
"I don't know how it can be," answered Meir, his eyes dilating as though he saw before him a bottomless precipice.
Then a conversation started, made up of quick questions and answers:
"What did he tell you?"
"What was very stupid?"
"Why did not you ask him about wise things?"
"I did ask him, but he didn't even know what I meant."
"Did he not tell you what he thought of?"
"He told me he thought of how he could best buy a beautiful house which would bring him an income of two thousand roubles."
"He can think about the house, but about what else does he think?"
"He told me he did not think about anything else."
"And what is he accomplishing in the world?"
"He is in an office, where he copies some papers and when he returns home he smokes a cigarette and thinks about the house."
"And what does he think about Jews who have no education and live in misery?"
"He thinks they are stupid and dirty."
"And what did he say when you told him that we wished to free our souls from darkness, but could not."
"He told me that if he were to tell his family and comrades of it, they would laugh."
"Why should they laugh?"
Then there was a long silence, and finally someone said angrily:
"A bad man!"
After a while Meir's cousin, Haim—Abraham's son—said:
"Meir, that knowledge and education for which we wish so eagerly must be evil, if it makes people stupid and bad."
Another young man said:
"Meir, will you explain it to us?"
Meir looked sadly at his comrades, and dropping his face in both bands, he said:
"I don't know anything."
The answer came with stifled sobs. But at that moment the cantor raised his white band and pulled from his friend's sorrowful face the hands which covered it.
"Your hearts must not be sunk in sorrow," said Eliezer, "I will ask our master to answer that question for us."
He took from the ground a large book and with a smile on his lips be pointed out to his comrades the first leaf of it. On this leaf was printed the name of Moses Majmonides.
The young people drew near to him, and their faces wore an expression of solemn attention. The great Hebrew savant was about to speak to them through the mouth of their beloved cantor. He was an old master, forgotten by some, excommunicated by others, but dear and saintly to them. Since the spirit of that master in the form of several big volumes brought back by Eliezer on his return home from the outer world, had breathed upon their minds, they experienced the force of hitherto unknown streams of thought and rebellion—they were filled with sorrowful longings and desires. But they were grateful to him for this grief and longing, and rushed to him in all times of doubt. But alas! they could not find answers for all their questions-consolations for all their complaints! Centuries had vanished, the times had changed and there had passed through the world a long chain of geniuses bringing new truths. But of this they knew nothing, and when the large book was opened they prepared themselves with joy and solemnity to receive the breath of the old truths.
Eliezer did not begin at once to read. He turned the leaves, looking for a paragraph appropriate to the circumstances. In the meanwhile, the girl who had until now remained seated on the bank of the pond, rose from among the forget-me-nots and white briar and advanced slowly toward the group of young people. Even from afar her great eyes could be seen looking into Meir's face. The white goat followed her. Both disappeared in the grove and then Golda emerged and stood behind Meir. She came so quietly that no one noticed her. She threw her arms about the trunk of a birch tree and leaning her head against the softly swaying branch, she caressed the bent head of Meir with her looks. She seemed not to see the other people.
At that moment Eliezer exclaimed in his pure, crystalline voice:
"Israel, listen!"
With these words many psalms and sacred writings of the Hebrews commence. For the young people surrounding Meir this reading of the old master was a psalm of respect and deep spiritual prayer.
Eliezer began to read in a chanting voice:
"My disciples I You ask me what force attracts the celestial beings of the Heavens, which we call stars, and why some of them rise so high they are lost in mist, and others float more heavily toward the sky, and remain far behind their sisters?"
"I will disclose to you the mystery which you seek to solve."
"The force attracting the celestial bodies is the Perfection dwelling on the heights, and called God in the human tongue. The stars, seized with love and longing for this Perfection, rise continually in order to approach nearer and take something of wisdom and perfection from the Wise and Perfect."
"My disciples, from those celestial beings, which long for the Perfection, come all changes of the moon. They cause different forms and images. . . ."
Eliezer stopped reading, and raised his turquoise-like eyes from the book, and they shone with joy.
But the others thought a long while, trying to find an answer to their doubts in that passage of the master.
Meir answered thoughtfully:
"There are men who, like the celestial beings of which the sage talks, raise their souls toward the Perfection. They know that there is perfection, and they try to take from it Wisdom and Goodness for themselves. But there are also people who, like those stars which float more heavily upward, do not long for the perfection, and do not rise through such longing. Such people keep their souls very low. . . ."
Now they understood. Joy beamed from all faces. What a small crumb of knowledge it took to make joyful these poor, and at the same time rich, souls!
Meir seized the book from his friend's hands, and read from another leaf:
"The angels themselves are not all equal. They are classed one above the other, like the steps of a ladder, and the highest among them is the Spirit producing thought and knowledge. This Spirit animates Reason, and Hagada calls it Prince of the World—Sar-ha-Olam!"
"The highest angel is the Spirit producing thought and knowledge, and Hagada calls it the Prince of the world," repeated the choir of young voices.
Their doubts were scattered. Learning had reawakened respect in their minds, and longing in their hearts, and passed before them in the form of the Angel of Angels, flying over the world arrayed in princely purple, with a shining veil wrought by his thought. Reverie sat on their foreheads and in their eyes. The reverie of a quiet evening covered the meadow blooming around them. Before them purple clouds hung above the forest, hiding behind them the shield of the sun. Behind them the green grove, sunk in dusky shadows, was slumbering motionlessly.
Over the meadow and fields floated Eliezer's silvery voice:
"I saw the spirit of my people when I slumbered," Jehovah's pale cantor began to sing.
And it was not known whence came that song. Who composed it? No one could tell. One verse was given by Eliezer to his friend after a state of ecstatic unconsciousness which visited him often; the second was composed by Aryel, Calman's son, while playing on his violin in the grove. Some of them had their birth in Meir's breast, and others were whispered by the childish lips of Haim, Abraham's son. Thus are composed all folk songs. Their origin is in longing hearts, oppressed thoughts, and instinctive flights toward a better life. Thus was born in Szybow the song which the cantor now began:
"Once, while I slumbered, I fancied I saw My people's spirit before me; And I felt a strange spell stealing o'er me, As I gazed on the world in awe."
Here the other voices joined that of the cantor, and a powerful chorus resounded through the fields and meadow:
"Did he come toward me in royal array, In purple and gold like the dawn of day. Ah, no I on his brow there was no golden crown; His naked knees trembled, hi gray head bowed down."
Here the choir of singing voices was mingled with a whisper coming from the birch grove:
"Hush! Some people are listening!"
In fact, on the road passing through the grove, several human figures appeared in the distance. They were walking very slowly. But the singer heard neither Golda's warning nor the sound of the approaching steps. The second verse of the song resounded over the meadow:
"O, my people's spirit, say, where is thy throne? Are the roses ofZion all faded and gone? Are the cedars of Lebanon all broken down?O, my people's spirit, say, where is thy crown?"
The last line of the song was still vibrating when, from the road passing through the grove, three men entered the meadow. They were dressed in long, black holiday clothes, and were girded with red handkerchiefs, because it was not permitted to carry them on Sabbath, but being used to gird the clothes were considered as part of the attire, and thus it was not a sin to wear them in that way.
In the centre was the cantor's father, Jankiel Kamionker, and on either side were Abraham Ezofowich, Haim's father, and Morejne Calman, the father of Aryel. Notwithstanding the darkness, the fathers recognised their sons in the last rays of the daylight. The voices of the young men trembled, became quiet, and then were silent—only one voice sang further:
"Wilt thou never emerge from the darkness, despair? Will thy sweet songs of thanks ne'er resound in the air?"
It was Meir's voice.
The dignified men, passing through the meadow, stopped and turned toward the group of young men, and at that moment the manly voice was joined by the pure, sonorous voice of Golda, who, seeing the angry faces of the men, began to sing with Meir as though she wished to join him in common courage, and perhaps in common peril.
And paying no attention to either his comrades' silence or the threatening figures standing in the meadow the joined voices sang:
"Let the wisdom of Heaven knock at thy door, And quiet the grief that has made thy heart sore; And bid the Angel of Knowledge come down, Restoring to thee thy lost glorious crown. We beseech thee to chase the dark shadows away, And the light of God's truth will turn night into day."
The song had only three verses, so with the last verse the two voices became silent. The dignitaries of the community turned toward the town, and talking loudly and angrily they went in the direction of the Ezofowich house.
Abraham, Saul's son, was quite different from his brother Raphael. Tall, dark-haired, and good-looking still, notwithstanding his more than fifty years, Raphael was dignified and careful, speaking very little. Abraham was small and bent. He was gray-headed, and had a passionate temper and sensitive disposition. He spoke very rapidly and with violent gestures. His eyes were very bright and generally looked gloomily on the ground.
Both brothers were learned, and for their learning the high title of 'Morejne' had been bestowed upon them by the community. But Raphael studied especially the Talmud, and was considered one of its best scholars. Abraham, however, preferred the study of the precipice-like mysteries of the Zohar. He was a close friend of the two high dignitaries of the kahal, Morejne Calman and pious Jankiel Kamionker. They transacted business together outside the town, and while in town they read sacred books together, and together they walked every Sabbath beyond the boundaries of the place, as far as an Israelite is permitted to go from his house. Therefore no one saw them go over two thousand steps, and only very seldom, when they were attracted by the shadow of the grove, they bent, and on the spot where their feet reached the two thousandth step they buried in the ground a crumb of bread. That spot then represented their house, and they were allowed to go two thousand steps further. Usually they were silent while walking, for they counted their steps, but the simple spiritually and bodily poor people, seeing them walking slowly and with thoughtful faces, admired the wisdom and orthodoxy of these scholarly and rich men. On seeing them they rose respectfully and stood until they passed, for it is written: "When you see a sage pass by, rise, and do not sit until he is out of your sight."
Moreover on their return they spoke, because it was not necessary to count their steps.
But the poor people had never seen the three dignified men walk as fast as that evening, when on the meadow they had heard the song of the young men. Even the magnificent Calman himself had not smiled as usual, and as for Jankiel Kamionker, his movements were so violent that his long black dress floated behind him like two black wings. Abraham Ezofowich had ungirded his handkerchief and carried it in his hand. Calman noticed this sign of senseless excitement and warned his friend that he was sinning. Abraham was dreadfully frightened, and in great haste he again girded his loins. When this happened they were already on the piazza of the Ezofowich house. Then the three men entered the room in which old Saul was sitting on the yellow sofa, reading in a large book by the light of two candles, which burned in two antique silver candlesticks.
Saul, seeing the entering guests was a little astonished, because it was already quite late and the time was not suitable for a visit. He greeted them, however, with a friendly nod, and pointed to the chairs standing near the sofa. The men did not sit in the places indicated to them, but stood opposite Saul. Although their faces were animated by anger, their mein was solemn. Evidently they had come to an understanding as to how the conversation was to be commenced, for Kamionker spoke first:
"Reb Saul," said he, "we come here to complain against your grandsonMeir."
A painful shiver passed over Saul's face.
"What has he done?" he asked in a low voice.
Kamionker began to speak, at first solemnly, and then very violently:
"Your grandson Meir spoils our sons! He causes their souls to rebel against the Holy Law; he reads to them excommunicated books, and sings worldly songs on the Sabbath! Besides this he is bound by an impure friendship to the Karaimian girl, and we saw in the meadow our sons lying at his feet as though at the feet of their master, and over his head the Karaimian girl stood and sang abominable songs with him."
He stopped, out of breath from the angry speech, and Morejne Calman, looking at Saul with his honey like eyes, said slowly:
"My son Aryel was there, and I shall punish him for it."
Abraham, looking gloomily on the ground, then said:
"And my son, your grandson Haim, was also there, and I shall punish him for it."
Then all said:
"You must punish Meir!"
Saul bent his sorrowful face.
"Lord of the world," he whispered with trembling lips, "have I deserved that the light of my eyes should be changed into darkness?"
Then he raised his head and said with determination:
"I will punish him."
Abraham's eyes, fixed on his father's face, were shining.
"Father," said he, "you must think the most of that Karaimian girl. That unclean friendship between them is a great shame to our whole family. You know, father, our custom—no Israelite shall know another woman save the one his parents have destined for his wife."
It seemed that Saul's wrinkled forehead was covered with a pinkish flush.
"I will soon marry him," he answered.
Abraham continued:
"As long as he sees the Karaimian girl he will not care to marry."
"And what can I do to prevent him from seeing her?"
The three men looked at each other.
"Something must be done with her!" said one.
After a long while of deep thought, the two guests bowed to Saul and left the house. Abraham remained in the room.
"Father," said he, "how do you propose to punish him?"
"I will command him to sit for a whole day in the Bet-ha-Midrash and read the Talmud."
"It would not do any good," said Abraham, with an impatient gesture; "you had better order him to be flogged."
Saul remained bent over.
"I shall not do it," he answered. Then he added softly: "Michael's soul passed into the body of my father Hersh, and my father's soul is now dwelling in Meir's body."
"And how can you know this?" asked Abraham, evidently shocked by his father's words.
"Hersh's wife, the great-grandmother first recognised this soul, and then Rabbi Isaak recognised it."
Saul sighed deeply, and repeated:
"I will command him to sit in the Bet-ha-Midrash and read the Talmud.He shall neither eat nor sleep in my house for a whole week, and theShamos (care-taker and messenger of the synagogue) shall announce hisshame and punishment through the town!"
The Bet-ha-Midrash was a large, well-lighted building standing on the courtyard close to the synagogue. It served for various purposes: people congregated there for the less solemn prayers or lectures; the learned used it for their discussions upon knotty points of the Talmud, here also were kept the books of the different brotherhoods or societies, of which there are many in every Jewish community; and lastly, it served as a place of penance in exceptional cases, when any of the young men had transgressed the religious or moral laws. The punishment was not so much a physical discomfort as a moral one, and left an indelible stain upon the delinquent's character.
Opposite the Ha-Midrash rose a smaller but equally well-kept building. It was the Bet-ha-Kahol or Kahol room, where the functionaries of the town council and the elders held sittings. A little further was a more modest building, the Hek-Dosh or poor house, where all those who were unable to work and were hungry had the right to apply for food and shelter.
Opposite the house of prayer was the heder or school, where the learned and much-respected Reb Moshe ruled. The court with all its buildings, from the synagogue and hospital to the tiny dwelling of the Rabbi was like the capital of a small realm: everything was there which could promote the well-being of the public.
All these buildings had been raised at one time, to embody a great idea, either to serve God or mankind. In what manner these lofty ideas had been perverted and served other purposes than those first conceived is another thing altogether—for this we must go to history.
Eight days bad elapsed since the memorable evening when the young men bad conversed and sung together on the meadow. On the ninth day, after sunset, Meir left the Ha-Midrash and stood in its high portico.
Obedient to the order of the head of the family, he had spent the week in utter solitude, reading the Talmud which he knew so well already, and for which, in spite of all the doubts which troubled his mind, he never lost the reverence implanted into him from his childhood. The penance had not brought him any physical discomforts; his meals were carried to him from home, where the charitable women had tried to make them even more palatable than usual. Nevertheless, he was much changed. He looked paler, thinner, yet withal more manly. Neither in his expression nor bearing was there any trace of his former almost childish timidity. Perhaps his intelligence had rebelled against the injustice of the punishment; it may be the solitude and the study of the many volumes in the Ha-Midrash had called forth new ideas and confirmed him in the old ones. The nervous contraction of his brow and his feverish burning eyes betrayed hard mental work, all the harder because without help or guide. The penance inflicted upon him bad missed its aim. Instead of quieting and soothing the restless spirit, it made him bolder and more rebellious.
When Meir descended the steps into the court another feeling took hold of him—that of shame. At the sight of several people crossing the courtyard he dropped his eyes and blushed. They were elders of the Kahol, who seeing Meir, pointed at him and laughed. One of them, Jankiel Kamionker, did not laugh, and seemingly had not noticed the young man. He was walking apart from his companions, and his face looked troubled and preoccupied. Instead of entering into the Kahol building with the other men, he almost stealthily approached the almshouse; he only passed it, but it was sufficient to exchange a few whispered words with a man whose shaggy hair and swollen face appeared at the open window. Meir knew the man, and silently wondered what business the rich and pious Jankiel could have with a thief and vagrant like the carrier Johel. But he did not think much about it, and directed his steps, not towards home, but to a small passage near the school, which would bring him out into the fields; he was longing for space and air. He stood still for a few minutes. An odd murmuring noise, rising and falling, mixed with an occasional wailing reached his ear; it was dominated by a thick, hoarse voice alternately reading, talking, and scolding.
A peculiar smile crossed Meir's face; it expressed anger and compassion. He was standing near the school where the melamed Reb Moshe infused knowledge into the juvenile minds. Something seemed to attract him there; he leaned his elbows on the window-sill and looked in.
It was a narrow, low and evil-smelling room. Between the blackened ceiling, the wall and the floor full of dirt and litter, which filled the air with a damp and heavy vapour, there seethed and rocked a compact, gray mass which produced the murmuring noise. By and by, as if out of a dense fog, childish faces seemed to detach themselves. The faces were various, some dark and coarse, as if swollen with disease; others pale, delicate and finely cut. As various as the faces were their expressions; there were those who, with mouth wide open and idiotic eyes stared into vacancy; others twitched and fretted with ill concealed impatience but most of them, though suffering, looked patient and submissive. Their outward appearance showed an equal variety, from the decent coat of the rich man's child, in gentle graduations to the sleeveless jackets and tatters of the very poorest classes.
Some fifty children were crowded into that room which barely accommodated half that number. They sat almost one upon the other, on hard dirty benches, closely packed together. This was not the only school in Szybow but none of the others was so eagerly sought after by parents as the one conducted by Reb Moshe, known by his piety and cabalistic knowledge, the favourite of the Rabbi. It must not be thought that Reb Moshe initiated his scholars into the first steps of learning; this would have been sheer waste of his capabilities—which aimed at something higher.
The children he received were from ten to twelve years old, who had already been taught in other schools to read Hebrew and the Chumesh or Five Books of Moses, with all their explanations and commentaries; after that they came under the tuition of Reb Moshe and were introduced to the Talmud, with all its chapters, paragraphs, debatable points, and commentaries above commentaries.
All this would have been more than sufficient to enlarge or confuse the minds of those pale, miserable children; but Reb Moshe in his zeal did not content himself with exercising the memory of his scholars; he wanted also to develop their imagination, and sometimes treated them to extracts from the metaphysical Kabala. The reading or expounding of parts of those books was looked upon by him as a kind of rest or recreation, which sometimes it proved to be when the melamed was too deeply absorbed to watch his audience.
The melamed was thus occupied when Meir looked through the window. He was bending over a heavy book with an expression of ecstatic rapture, and rocking his body to and fro with the chair upon which he sat. The scholars with their books before them were also rocking themselves and repeating their lessons in a loud murmur, sometimes smiting the edge of the bench with their fists by way of emphasis, or burying their hands in their already tangled manes.
Suddenly the melamed left off rocking himself, took the heavy book in both hands and struck it with all his might on the table. It was the signal for silence. The scholars left off rocking and raised their eyes in sudden alarm, thinking the time bad come to give out their lessons.
But the melamed was not thinking of the lessons; his spirit had been carried away into other spheres altogether, but he was still dimly conscious of his duties as a teacher, and wanted his scholars to share in his spiritual rapture. He raised his finger and began to read a paragraph from the Scheier Koma.
"The great prince of knowledge thus describes the greatness of Jehovah: The height of Jehovah is one hundred six and thirty times a thousand leagues. From the right band, of Jehovah to His left the distance is seventy-seven times ten thousand leagues. His skull is three times ten thousand leagues in length and breadth. The crown of His head is sixty times ten thousand leagues long. The soles of the feet of the King of Kings are thirty thousand leagues long. From the heel to the knee, nineteen times ten thousand leagues; from the knees to the hip, twelve times ten thousand and four leagues; from the loins to the neck, twenty-four times ten thousand leagues. Such is the greatness of the King of Kings, the Lord of the world."
After this last exclamation, Heb Moshe, his hands raised in the air, remained motionless. Motionless likewise were the children. All, without exception, the timid and the mischievous, the idiotic and the sensible ones, stared open-mouthed at the melamed The description of Jehovah's greatness seemed to have paralysed their minds.
After a short pause the melamed woke up to the every-day business, and called out:
"Go on."
The children again resumed their murmur and rocking. It would have been impossible from their confused voices to get an inkling of what they were learning but Meir, who had passed through the same course and possessed an excellent memory, understood that they were at the eighth chapter of Berachot (about the blessing).
The children, with great efforts that brought the perspiration to their faces, read in a singing murmur:
"Mischna, 1. The disputed questions between the schools of Shamai and Hillel. The school of Shamai says: 'First, bless the day and then the wine.' The school of Hillel says: 'First bless the wine and then the day' (the Sabbath)."
"Mischna 2. The school of Shamai says: 'To wash the hands, then fill the cup.' Hillel says: 'Fill the cup, then wash the hands.'"
"Mischna 3. The school of Shamai says: 'After washing, put the napkin on the table.' The school of Hillel says: 'Put it on a cushion.'"
"Mischna 4. The school of Shamai says 'Sweep the room, then wash your hands.' The school of Hillel says: 'Wash your hands, then sweep the room.'"
A double knock with the heavy book upon the rickety table reduced the scholars to silence once more.
The melamed's round and gleaming eyes wandered around the room as if in search of a victim. He pointed to one of the hindmost benches, and called out:
"Lejbele!"
A pale and slender child rose at the summons and fixed a pair of large, frightened eyes upon the teacher.
"Come here."
There was a great rustle among the boys, for it was no easy matter to pass across that dense mass of children. Lejbele at last managed to squeeze himself through, and holding his book with both hands, stood within the small space between the teacher's table and the front bench. He did not look at the melamed, but kept his eyes fixed upon the book.
"Why do you look down like a brigand? Look at me!" and the melamed struck him under the chin.
The child looked at him, his eyes slowly filling with tears.
"Well! what does the school of Shamai say, and what the school ofHillel?" began the melamed.
There was a long silence. The children of the first bench nudged his elbow, and whispered:
"Speak out!"
"The school of Shamai," began Lejbele, in a trembling voice, says, "bless the wine. . . ."
"The day—the day, and then the wine," whispered a few compassionate voices from the first bench. But, at the same time, the melamed's hand came into contact with the ear of one of the offenders, and his yell reduced the others to silence.
Reb Moshe turned again to the child.
"Mischna the first. What says the school of Shamai?"
The answer came in a still more trembling, almost inaudible, voice:
"The school of Shamai says: 'Bless the wine'. The melamed's fist came down upon the young Talmudist's shoulder, out of whose hands the heavy book slipped and fell upon the floor.
"You bad, abominable boy," yelled the melamed, "you do not learn your lessons, and you throw your book upon the floor. Did you not read that the school of Shamai says, 'To bless first the day and then the wine?'"
Here a loud and sarcastic voice from the window called out;
"Reb Moshe, that poor child has never seen wine in his life, and suffers hunger and flogging every day; it is not easy for him to remember whether to bless first the day and then the wine."
But Reb Moshe did not hear that speech, because both his hands were busy belabouring the head and shoulders of his pupil, who, without crying out, tried to avoid the blows by ducking on the floor. Suddenly a pair of strong hands pushed the melamed aside, and he, losing his footing, fell down, carrying with him the rickety table.
"Reb Moshe!" called out the same sarcastic and angry voice.
"Is this not an Israelitish child that you wreak your spite upon it?Is it not a poor man's child and our brother?"
His face burning with indignation, he bent down, and raising the child in his arms, turned towards the door.
"Reb Moshe, you drive all intelligence out of the children's heads, kill all the feeling in their hearts; I heard them laughing when you beat Lejbele."
Saying this, he disappeared with the child in his arms.
Only then did Reb Moshe awaken from the stupefaction into which the sudden assault had plunged him, and disengaging his burly frame from under the table, he shouted:
"Assassin! murderer!" and turning towards his scholars, yelled: "Get hold of him! stone him!"
But he addressed empty benches; the books lay scattered about and the seats turned upside down. The scholars, seeing their master prostrate under the table, and one of their companions rescued by main force, had all rushed, partly from fright and partly from a wish for liberty, through the door and dispersed about the town like a flight of birds released from a cage.
The school was empty and the court deserted, except for a few grave looking men who stood in the portico of the Bet-ha-Kahol, and towards them rushed the frantic melamed, panting and tearing his hair. Meir in the meanwhile went swiftly on, with the child in his arms, whose tears fell thick and fast; but the eyes which looked through the tears at Meir were no longer the tears of an idiot.
"Morejne!" whispered Lejbele.
"Morejne!" he repeated, in a still lower voice, "how good you are!"
At the corner of the little street where the tailor lived, Meir put the child down.
"There," he said, pointing at Shmul's house, "go home now."
The child stiffened, put his hands into his sleeves, and remained motionless. Meir smiled and looked into his face:
"Are you afraid?"
"I am afraid," said the motionless boy.
Instead of returning as he had intended, the young man went towards Shmul's hut, followed at a distance by Lejbele. The day was almost over, and so was work in the little street. The pale and ragged inhabitants crowded before their thresholds.
Scarcely had Meir penetrated into the street, where he became aware of a great change in the attitude of the people towards him. Formerly, the grandson of Saul had been greeted effusively on all sides; they had come to him with their complaints, sometimes asked for advice; others had greeted him from their windows with loud voices.
Now scarcely anybody seemed to notice him. The men looked away; the women glanced at him with curiosity, whispered to each other, and pointed their fingers at him. One of the woodcutters with whom he had worked at his grandfather's looked at him sadly and withdrew into his hut. Meir shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
"What is it all about?" he thought. "What wrong have I done to them?" Strange it seemed to him also that the tailor did not rush out to meet him with his usual effusive flatteries and complainings; nevertheless he entered the dwelling. Lejbele remained outside, crouching near the wall.
The young man had to bend his head in order to enter the low doorway leading into the dark entrance where two goats were dimly visible, thence to the room where the air, in spite of the open window, felt heavy and oppressive. A thin woman with a wrinkled face passed him on the threshold. It was Shmul's wife, who carried a piece of brown bread to the child outside, Lejbele's supper when he came home from school.
The whole family were eating a similar supper, with the exception of the elder and grown-up people, who seasoned their bread with pinches of chopped raw onion, of which a small quantity was lying on a battered plate. Besides Lejbele, there were two younger boys sitting on the floor, a two-year-old child crawled about on all fours, and a baby a few months old was suspended in a cradle near the ceiling, and rocked by one of the elder girls. Another girl was busy with the goats, and a third was feeding a blind old woman, Shmul's mother. She broke the bread in pieces, sprinkled onion upon it, and put it into the grandmother's hand, sometimes into her mouth. The blind mother was the only one in the family who possessed a bed; the others slept on the floor or upon the hard benches. She looked well cared for, the crossover on her shoulders was clean and whole, and on her head she had a quilted cap of black satin, profusely trimmed.
The grand-daughter seemed quite absorbed in task of feeding the old woman. She patted wrinkled hand encouragingly when she perceived difficulty in masticating the hard food.
As in the prosperous household of Saul, so in the dirty hut of the tailor, Shmul, the mother occupied the first place, and was the object of general care and reverence. Such a thing as a son, be he rich or poor, neglecting those who gave him life, is never seen in Israel. "Like the branches of a tree, we all sprang from her," said the head of the house of Ezofowich.
The tailor, Shmul, could not express his feelings like Saul, but when his mother lost her sight, he tore his long, curly hair in despair, fasted with his whole family for three days, and with the money thus saved bought an old bedstead, which he put together with his own hands against the wall; and when Sarah Ezofowich, Ber's wife, gave him an order to sew a black satin dress for her, he cut a goodish piece from the material to make a quilted cap for his mother.
When Shmul saw Meir coming into the room, he jumped up, bending his flexible body in two; but he did not kiss his hand as usual, or call out joyfully:
"Ai! what a visitor, what a welcome visitor! Morejne!", he exclaimed, "I have heard of what you have done. The children from school came running past, and said you had knocked the melamed under the table and rescued my Lejbele from his powerful hands. You did it out of kindness, but it was a rash deed, Morejne, and a sinful one, and will bring me into great trouble. Reb Moshe will not take Lejbele back, nor receive any of my other boys, and they will remain stupid and ignorant. Ai! Ai! Morejne, you have brought trouble upon me and upon yourself with your kindly heart."
"Do not trouble about me, Shmul; never mind about what I have brought upon myself, but take pity upon your child, and at least do not whip him at home; he suffers enough at school."
"And what if he suffers?" exclaimed Shmul. "His fathers went to school, and I went there and suffered the same; it cannot be helped; it is necessary."
"And have you never thought, Shmul, that things might be different?" questioned Meir gently.
Shmul's eyes flashed.
"Morejne!" he exclaimed, "do not utter sinful words under my roof. My hut is a poor one, but, thanks to the Lord, we keep the law and obey the elders. The tailor Shmul is very poor, and by the work of his hands supports his wife, eight children, and his blind mother. But he is poor before the Lord, and before the people, because faithfully he keeps the covenant and the Sabbath, eats nothing that is unclean, says all his prayers, crying aloud before the Lord. He does not keep friendship with the Goims (aliens) as the Lord protects and loves only the Israelites, and they only possess a soul. Thus lives the tailor Shmul, even as his fathers lived before him."
When the flexible and fiery Shmul had finished, Meir asked very gently:
"And were your fathers happy? and you, Shmul, are you happy?"
This question brought before the tailor's eyes a vision of all his sufferings.
"Ai! Ai! Let not my worst enemy be as happy as I am. The skin sticks to my bones, and my heart is full of pain."
A deep sigh, from the corner of the room, seemed to re-echo the tailor's sorrowful outburst.
Meir turned round, and seeing a big shadowy figure in the corner, asked, "Who is that?"
Shmul nodded his head plaintively and waved his hands.
"It is the carrier, Johel, come to see me. We have known each other a long time."
At the same time a tall, heavy man came into the light, and approached the two. Johel was powerfully built, but he looked broken down and troubled. His jacket, without sleeves, was dirty and ragged, his bare feet cut and bruised, the fiery red hair matted, and the mouth swollen. There was something defiant in his looks, and yet he seemed as if he could not look anybody straight in the face. He went near the table to take a pinch of onion to season the bread he was holding in his hand.
"Meir," he said, "you are an old acquaintance. I drove your uncle Raphael when he went to fetch you, a poor little orphan, and I drove you and him to Szybow."
"I have seen you since," said Meir. "You were a decent carrier then, and had four horses."
The inmate of the poorhouse smiled.
"It is true," he said; "bad luck pursued me. I wanted to make a great geschaft (business), but it did not turn out as I thought it would, and then another misfortune befell me."
"The second misfortune, Johel, was a crime. Why did you take the horses out of the gentleman's stables?"
The questioned man laughed cynically.
"Why did I take them out? I wanted to sell them, and make a lot of money."
Shmul shook his head pityingly.
"Ah! ah!" he sighed. "Johel is a poor man—a very poor man. He has been in prison three years, and now cannot find work, but is obliged to seek shelter in the poorhouse."
Johel sighed deeply, but soon raised his head almost defiantly.
"That cannot be helped," he said. "Perhaps I shall soon see my way to make a big profit."
The words of the vagrant recalled to Meir's mind the short interview he had witnessed at the window of the poorhouse between Johel and Jankiel Kamionker. At the same time, he was struck by the expression of the tailor's face, which twitched all over as if under the influence of great excitement. His eyes sparkled and his hands trembled.
"Who knows," he exclaimed, "what may happen in the future? Those that are poor one day may become rich the next. Who knows? The poor tailor Shmul may yet build a house on the Market Square, and set up in business for himself."
Meir smiled sadly. The groundless hopes of these poor outcasts stirred his compassion. He looked absently around, and through the windows at the fields beyond.
"You, Shmul," he said, "will certainly not build big houses; nor you, Johel, make heavy profits. Is it to be thought of? You are too many, and there is not enough for you all. I sometimes think that if you left these narrow, dirty streets, and looked about in the world, you might find a better way of living; even if you worked like peasants on the soil your life would be easier."
He said this in an absent way, not so much addressing the two men before him as the noisy crowd without. But when Shmul heard these words, he twice jumped into the air, and twisted his cap upon his head.
"Morejne!" he cried out, "what ugly words come from your lips.Morejne, do you wish to turn Israel upside down?"
"Shmul," said Meir angrily, "it is true. When I look at your misery, and the misery of your families, I should like to turn things upside down."
"Ai! ai!" cried the impressible and lively Shmul, holding his head with both hands. "I would not believe what the people said of you, and called them liars; but now I see myself that you are a bad Israelite, and the covenant and customs of your forefathers are no longer dear to you."
Meir started, and drew himself up.
"Who dares to say that I am a bad Israelite?" he exclaimed.
Shmul's excited face took a quieter but more solemn expression, and he came close to Meir. Nobody would hear him, as the inmates of the room had gone into the street, and Johel retired into his corner to finish his meal. All the same, he spoke in an impressive whisper, as if about to disclose a terrible secret.
"Morejne, it is no use asking who said it. People whisper, like the leaves on a tree. Who is to say which special leaf has whispered, or which mouth? Everybody speaks ill of you. They say you break the Sabbath, read accursed books, sing abominable songs, and incite young men to rebellion, that you do not pay due respect to the learned and wealthy members of the community, and,"—here he seemed to hesitate, and added in a still lower voice—"and that you live in friendship with the Karaitish girl."
Meir listened like one turned to stone. He had grown very pale, and his eyes were flashing.
"Who dames to say that?" he repeated in a choking voice.
"Morejne!" replied Shmul, waving both hands, "you were sent for a week into the Bet-ha-Midrash to do penance. When the poor people in this street heard of it, there was a great commotion. Some wanted to go to your grandfather Saul and to the Rabbi to ask them not to put you to shame. The woodcutter Judel wanted to go, the carrier Baruch—well, the tailor Shmul, too. But soon afterwards people began to talk, and we heard why you had been punished; then we remained quiet, and said to each other: He is good and charitable, never proud with poor people, and has helped us often in our misery; but if he keeps not the covenant, his grandfather Saul is right to punish him."
He stopped at last, out of breath with his rapid speech, and Meir fixed his penetrating eyes upon him, and asked:
"Shmul, if the learned and wealthy people ordered me to be stoned, would you also think they were right?"
Shmul retreated a few steps in horror.
"Ugh!" he exclaimed, "why should you think of such terrible things?" and then added, in a thoughtful voice: "Well, Morejne, if you do not keep the holy covenant—"
Meir interrupted, in a louder tone:
"And do you know yourself, Shmul, what is the covenant? How much of it is God's law, and how much people's invention?"
"Hush!" hissed Shmul, in a low voice. "People can hear, and I should not like anything unpleasant to happen to you under my roof."
Meir looked through the window, and saw several people sitting on the bench before Shmul's house. They did not seem to listen, but talked among themselves; at the last words of Meir and Shmul they had raised their heads and looked through the window with a half-astonished, half-indignant expression. Meir shrugged his shoulders impatiently, and without saying good-bye turned towards the door. He had almost crossed the threshold when Shmul rushed after him, stooped down, and kissed his hand.
"Morejne," he whispered, "I am sorry for you. Think better of it; reflect in time, and do not cause scandal in Israel. Your heart is made of gold, but your head is full of fire. Remember what you did to the melamed to-day! If you were not under such a terrible cloud, Morejne," he went on, raising a nervous twitching face up to Meir, "I should have opened my heart before you, for Shmul is in sore trouble to-day. I do not know what to do! He may remain poor all his life, or he may become rich; he may be happy or very wretched. A great fortune is coming to him, and he is afraid to take it because it looks like misfortune."
Meir looked in silent amazement at the poor man, who evidently was trying to convey some secret to him; but at the same time from beyond the blackened stove came Johel's deep voice:
"Shmul, will you be quiet! Come here, I want you!" The tailor, with his face troubled, rushed towards him, and Meir, deeply musing, went out into the street.
It was evident from the clouded mien of the men and their scanty greetings that he was not so welcome to them as he used to be. Nobody rose when he passed, or approached him with a friendly word. Only the child got up as he went by, pushed his hands into the sleeves of his garment, and followed him.