Chapter IX: Diary of a Meshumad1 (2)

"DEAR DEMETRIUS,--I have strange news for you. It is quite
providential (I use the word without prejudice, as the lawyers
say) that I came here. But all is well now, so you may read what
follows without alarm. Last Thursday morning, during my
purposeful wanderings within Paul's usual circuit, I came face
to face with our young gentleman. His eyes stared straight at me
without seeing me. His face was ghastly white, and the lines
were rigid as if with some stern determination. His lips were
moving, but I could not catch his mutterings. He held a sealed
letter in his hand. I saw the superscription. It was addressed
to you. Instantly the dread came to my mind that he was about to
commit suicide, and that this was his farewell to you. I
followed him. He posted the letter at the post-office, turned
back, threaded his way like a somnambulist across the bridge,
without, however, approaching the parapet, walked mechanically
onward to his own apartments, put the latch-key into the
house-door, and then fell back in a dead faint--into my arms. I
took him upstairs, explained what had happened, put him to bed,
and--I write this from the bedside. For the crisis is over now;
the brain fever has abated, and he has now nothing to do but to
get well, though he will be longer about it than a young fellow
of his age has a right to be. His body is emaciated with fasts
and vigils and penances. I curse religion when I look at him. As
if the struggle for life were not hard enough without humanity
being hampered by these miserable superstitions. But you will be
wanting to know what is the matter. Well, _batiushka_, what
should be the matter but the old, old matter? _La femme_ is,
strange to relate, a fine specimen of our own race of lovely
women, my dear Demetrius. She is a Jewess of the most orthodox
family in Moscow, and therein lies the crux of the situation. (I
am not playing upon words, but the phrase is doubly significant
here.) Of course Paul has not the slightest idea I know all
this; but of course I have had it from his hot lips all the
same. As far as I have been able to piece his broken utterances
together, they have had some stolen love passages, each followed
by swift remorse on both sides, and--another furtive love
passage. Paul has been comparing himself to St. Anthony, and
even to Jesus, when Satan, _ce chef admirable_, spread a
first-class dinner in the wilderness. But the poor lad must have
suffered much behind all his heroics. And what his final
resolution to give her up cost him is pretty evident. I suppose
he must have told you of it in that letter. Isn't it the oddest
thing in the world? Rachel Jacobvina is the girl's name, and her
people keep a clothes' store round the corner, and her father is
the Parnass (you will remember what that means) of his
synagogue. She is a sweet little thing; and Paul evidently has a
taste for other _belles_ than _belles-lettres_. From what you
told me of him I fully expected this sort of thing. The poor
fellow is looking at me now from among his iced bandages with a
piteous air of resignation to the will of Nicholas
Alexandrovitch in bringing him back to this world of trouble
when he already felt his wings sprouting. Poor Paul! He little
dreams what I am writing; but he will get over this, and marry
some fair, blue-eyed Circassian with corresponding tastes in
fasting, and an enthusiastic longing for the Kingdom of God,
when the year shall be a perpetual Lent. In his failure to
realize history, he thinks it a crime to adore a Jewish virgin,
though he spends half his time in adoring the Madonna. How
shocked he would be if I pointed this out! People who look
through ecclesiastical spectacles so rarely realize that the
Holy Family was a Jewish one. But my pen is running away with
me, and our patient looks thirsty. _Proshchai_.

"NICHOLAS."

"P.S.--There is not the slightest danger of a relapse unless the
image of this diabolical girl comes before him again. And I
keep his attention distracted. Besides, he had finally conquered
his passion. This illness was at once the seal and the witness
of his unchangeable resolve. I have heard him repeat the terms
of the letter of farewell he sent her. It was final."

So this was the meaning of your silence; this the tragedy that lay behind your simple sentence, "I have now conquered all the difficulties which beset me at the first." This was the motive that guided your hand to write those bitter lines about our race, so that you might henceforth cut yourself off from the possibility of allying yourself with it even in thought. I understand all now, my poor high-mettled boy. How you must have suffered! How your pride must have rebelled at the idea that you might have to make such a confession to me--little knowing I should have hailed it with delight. That temptation should have assailed you, too, at such a period--when you were publishing your great work on the ideals of Holy Russia! Mysterious, indeed, are the ways of Providence. And yet why may not all be well after all, and Heaven grant me such grace as I would willingly sacrifice my life to deserve? It is impossible that my son's passion can be utterly dead. Such fires are only covered up. I will go to him and tell him all. The news that he is a Jew will revolutionize him. His love will flame up afresh and take on the guise and glamour of duty. Love, posing as logic, will whisper in his ear that no bars of early training can avail to keep him from the race to which he belongs by blood and by his father's faith. In this girl's eyes he will read God's message of command, and I, God's message of Peace and Reconciliation. The tears are in my eyes; I can hardly see to write. The happiness I foresee is too great. Blessings on your sweet face, Rachel Jacobvina, my own darling daughter that is to be. To you is allotted the blessed task of solving a fearful problem, of rescuing and reuniting two human lives. Yes, Heaven is indeed merciful. To-morrow I start for Moscow.

_Thursday._--How can I write it? No, there is no pity in Heaven. The sky smiles in steely blankness. The air cuts like a knife. Paul is well, or as well as a convalescent can be. He must have had a heart of ice. But it is fortunate he had, seeing what the icy fates have wrought. I arrived at Moscow, and hurried in a _droshky_ across the well-known bridge to Paul's lodgings. A ghastly procession stopped me. Some _burlaks_ were bearing the corpse of a young girl who had thrown herself into the ice-laden river. A clammy foreboding gathered at my heart, but ere I had time to say a word, an old, caftan-clad man, with agonized eyes and a white, streaming beard, dashed up, pulled off the face-cloth, revealing a strange, weird loveliness, uttered a scream which yet rings in my ears, threw himself passionately on the body, rose up again, murmured something solemnly and resignedly in Hebrew, rent his garments, readjusted the face-cloth, and followed weeping in the rear. And from lip to lip, that for once forgot to curl in scorn, flew the murmur: "Rachel Jacobvina."

_Saturday Night._--I slouched into the synagogue this morning, the cynosure of suspicious eyes. I nearly uncovered my head in forgetfulness. Somebody offered me a _Talith_, which I wrapped round myself with marked awkwardness. The service moved me beyond measure. I have neither the pen nor the will to describe my sensations. I was a youth again. The intervening decades faded away. Rachel's father said the _Kaddish_. The peace of God has touched my soul. Paul is asleep. I have made Nicholas take his much-needed rest. I am reading the Hebrew Psalms. The language comes back to me bit by bit.

_Monday._--Paul is sitting up reading--proofs. I have been to condole with Rachel's father, as he sat mourning upon the ground. I explained that I was a stranger in the town, and had heard of the accident. I have given five hundred roubles to the synagogue. The whole congregation is buzzing with the generosity of the rich Jewish farmer from the country. Fortunately there is no danger of Paul hearing anything of my doings. He is a prisoner; and Nicholas and myself keep watch over him by turns.

_Tuesday._--I have just come from a meeting of the Palestine Colonization Society. Heavens, what ideals burn in these breasts supposed to throb only with cupidity and cunning! Their souls still turn to the Orient, as the needle turns to the pole. And how the better-off among them pity their weaker brethren! With what enthusiasm they plot and plan to get them beyond the frontier into freer countries, but chiefly into the centre of all Jewish aspiration, the Holy Land! How they wept when I doubled their finances at a stroke. My poor, much-wronged brethren!

* * * * *

_Odessa, Monday._--It is almost a year since I closed this book, and now, after a period of peace, I am driven to it again. Paul has made an irruption into my tranquil household. For eleven months now I have lived in this little two-storied house overlooking the roadstead, with Isaac and the _ekonomka_ for my sole companions. So long as I could pour my troubles into the ear of the venerable old rabbi (who was starving for material sustenance when I took him, as I was for spiritual), so long I had no need of you, my old confidant. But this visit of Paul has reopened all my sores. I have smuggled the rabbi out of the way; but even if he were here, he could not understand the terrible situation. The God of Israel alone knows what I feel at having to deny Him, at having to hide my faith from my own son. He must not stay. The New Year is nigh, with its feasts and fasts. Moreover, surrounded as one is by spies, Paul's presence here may lead to discoveries that I am not what the authorities imagine. Perhaps it would have been better if I had gone back to the village. But no. There was that church-going. A village is so small. In this great and bustling seaport I am lost, or comparatively so. A few roubles in the ecclesiastical palm, and complete oblivion settles on me.

To-night I shall know to what I owe this sudden visit. Paul is radiant. He plays with his untold news like a child with a new toy. He drops all sorts of mysterious hints. He frisks around me like a fond spaniel. But he reserves his tit-bit for to-night, when the tramp of the sailors and the perambulating peasantry shall have died away, and we shall be seated cosily in my study, smoking our cigarettes, and looking out toward the quiet lights of the shipping. Of course it is good news--Heaven help me, I fear Paul's good news. Good news that Paul has come all the way from St. Petersburg to tell me, which only his own lips may tell me, must, if past omens speak truly, be terrible. God grant I may survive the telling.

What a coward I am! Have I not long since made up my mind that Paul must go his way and I mine? What difference, then, can his news make to me? He will never know now that I am a _Zhit_ unless he hears it from my dying lips as I utter the declaration of the Unity. I made up my mind to that when I came here. Paul threatens to make his mark as a writer on theological subjects. To tell him the truth would only sadden him and do him no good; while to reveal my own Judaism to the world would but serve to damage him and injure his prospects. This may seem but a cover for my cowardice, for my fear of State reprisals; but it is true for all that. _Bozhe moi_, is it not punishment enough not to be able to join my brethren in their worship? I must remain here, where I am unknown, practising my religion unostentatiously and in secret. The sense of being in a Jewish city satisfies my soul. We are here more than a fourth of the population. House-rent and fuel are very dear, but we thrive and prosper, thanks to God. I give to our poor, through Isaac, but they hardly want my help. I rejoice in the handsome synagogues, though I dare not enter them. Yes, I am best here. Why be upset by my boy's visit? Paul will tell me his news, I shall congratulate him, he will go back to the capital, and all will be as before.

_Monday Midnight._--No, all can never be as before. One last step remained to divide our lives to all eternity. _Voi_, Paul has taken it.

All came off as arranged. We sat together at my window. It was a glorious night, and a faint, fresh wind blew in from the sea. The lights in the harbour twinkled, the stars glistened in the sky. But as Paul told me his good news, the whole horizon was one great flame before my eyes. He began by recapitulating, though with fuller details than was possible by letter, what I knew pretty well already; the story of the great success of his book, which had been reviewed in all the theological magazines of Europe, and had gone through four editions in the year, and been translated into German and Italian; the story of how he had been encouraged to come to St. Petersburg, and how he had prospered on the press there. And then came the grand news--he was offered the editorship of the _Novoe Vremia_, the great St. Petersburg paper!

In an instant I realized all it meant, and in my horror I almost fainted. Paul would direct this famous Government and anti-Semitic organ, Paul would pen day after day those envenomed leaders, goading on the mob to turn and rend their Jewish fellow-citizens, denying them the rights of human beings. Paul would direct the flood of sarcasm and misrepresentation poured forth day after day upon my inoffensive brethren. The old anguish with which I had read that article a year ago returned to me; but not the old tempest of wrath. By sheer force of will I kept myself calm. A great issue was at stake, and I nerved myself for the contest.

"Paul," said I, "you are a lucky fellow." I kissed him on the brow with icy lips. He saw my great emotion, but felt it was but natural.

"_Da_," said he, "I am a lucky fellow. It is a great thing. Few men have had such an opportunity at twenty-five."

"_Nutchozh?_ And how do you propose to utilize it?" I asked.

"_Och_, I must conduct the paper on the same general lines," he said; "of course, with improvements."

"Amongst the latter the omission of the anti-Semitic bias, I hope."

He stared at me. "Certainly not. The proprietors make its continuance on the same general lines a condition. They are very good. They even guard me against possible prosecutions by paying a handsome salary to a man of straw. _Ish-lui_, it is a fine berth that I've got."

Should I tell him the thing was impossible--that he was a Jew? No; time for that when all other means had failed. "_Och_, you have accepted it?" I said.

"Of course I have, father. Why should I give them time to change their minds?"

"I should have thought you would have consulted me first."

"_Nu, uzh_, I have never consulted you yet about accepting work," he said in a wondering, disappointed tone.

"_Nuka_, but this puts you finally into a career, does it not?"

"Certainly. That is why I accepted it, and I thought you would be glad."

"That is why you should have refused it. But I _am_ glad all the same."

"I do not understand you, father."

"_Nuka_, _golubtchik_, listen," I said in my most endearing tone, drawing my arm round his neck. "Your struggles for existence were but struggles for the sake of the struggle. You are not as other young men. You have succeeded; and the moment you win the prize is the moment for retiring gracefully, leaving it in the hands of him who needs it. Your fight was but a game I allowed you to play. You are rich."

"Rich?"

"Rich! Nearly all my life I have been a wealthy man. I own land in every part of Russia; I hold shares in all the most successful companies. I have kept this knowledge from you so that you might enjoy your riches more when you knew the truth."

"Rich?" He repeated the word again in a dazed tone. "_Ach_, why did I not know this before?"

"You had not succeeded. You had not had your experience, my son, my dearest Paul. But now your work is over, or rather your true work begins. Freed from the detestable routine of a newspaper office, you shall write your books and work out your ideas at leisure, and relieved from all material considerations."

"_Da_, it would have been a beautiful ideal--once," he said; then added fiercely: "Rich? And I did not know it."

"But you were the happier for your ignorance."

"No, father. The struggle is too terrible. Often have I sat and wept. _Ish-lui_, time after time my book--destined as it was to success--came back to me from the publishers. And I could have produced it myself all along!"

Pangs of remorse agitated me. Had my plan been, indeed, a failure? "But you have the pride of unhelped success."

"And the bitter memories. And once--" He paused.

"Once?" I said.

"Once I loved a girl. She is dead now, so it doesn't matter. There were many and complicated obstacles to our union. With money they would have been overcome."

"Poor boy!" I said wonderingly, for I knew nothing of this apparently new love episode. "Forgive me, my son, if I have acted mistakenly. Anyhow, from this moment your happiness is my sole care."

"No," he said, with sudden determination. "It is too late now. You meant it for the best, _papasha_. But I do not want the money now. I have money of my own--and glory. Why should I give up what my own hands have won?"

"Because I ask it of you, Paul; because I ask you to allow me to make reparation for the mischief I have done."

"The truest reparation will be to let things go unrepaired," he said, with a touch of sarcasm. "I shall be happier as editor of this paper. What finer medium for my ideas than a great newspaper? What more potent lever to my hand for raising Holy Russia to a yet higher plane? No, father. Let bygones be bygones. Give my share of your wealth to a society for helping struggling talent. I struggle no longer. Leave me to go on in the path my pen has carved out."

I fell at his feet and begged him to let me have my way, but some obstinate demon seemed to have taken possession of his breast. I opened my desk and showered bank-notes upon him. He spurned them, and one flew out into the night. Neither of us put out a hand to arrest its flight.

I saw that nothing but the truth had any chance to alter his resolve. But I played one more card before resorting to this dangerous weapon.

"Listen, my own dearest Paul," I burst out. "If money will not tempt you, let a father's petition persuade you. Learn, then, that I dread your taking this position because you will perpetually have to attack the Jews--"

"As they deserve," he put in.

"Be it so. But I--I have a kindness for this oppressed race."

He looked at me in silence, as if awaiting further explanation. I gave it, blurting out the shameful lie with ill-concealed confusion.

"Once upon a time I--I loved a Jewess. I could not marry her, of course. But ever since that time I have had a soft place in my heart for her unhappy race."

A look of surprise flashed into Paul's eyes. Then his face grew tender. He took my hand in his.

"Father, we have a common sorrow," he said. "The girl I spoke of was a Jewess."

"How?" I exclaimed, surprised in my turn. It was the same affair, then.

"Yes, she was a Jewess. But I taught her the truth. Christ was revealed to her prisoned soul. She would have fled with me if we had had the means, and if I had been able to support her in some other country. But she did not dare be baptized and stay in Moscow or anywhere near. She said her father would have killed her. The only alternative was for me to embrace Judaism. Impossible as you may think it, father, and I confess it to my eternal shame, at the very period I was correcting the proofs of my book, I was wrestling with a temptation to embrace this Satanic heresy. But I conquered the temptation. It was easy to conquer. To renounce the faith which was my blessed birthright would, as you know, have cost me dear. Selfishness warred for once on the side of salvation. Rachel wished to fly with me. I knew she would have been poor and unhappy. I refused to take advantage of her girlish impetuousness. I heard afterward that she had drowned herself." The tears rained down his cheeks.

"We had arranged to wait till I could save a stock of money. _Voi_, the delay undid us. One day Rachel's father called on me. He had got wind of our secret. He fell at my feet and tore his hair, and wept and conjured me not to darken his home and his life. A Jewess could only wed a Jew, he said. If I had only been born a Jew all would have been well. But his Rachel had, perhaps, talked of becoming a Christian. Did I not know that was impossible? As well expect the sheep to howl like the wolf. Blood was thicker than baptismal water. Her heart would always cleave to her own religion. And was my love so blind as not to see that even if she spoke of Christianity it was only to please me? that she only kissed the crucifix that I might kiss her, and knelt to the Virgin that I might kneel to her? At home, he swore it with fearful oaths, she was always bitterly sarcastic at the expense of the true faith. I believed him. My God, I believed him! For at times I had feared it myself. I would be no party to such carnal blasphemy, and charged him with a note of farewell. When he went I felt as if I had escaped from a terrible temptation. I fell on my knees and thanked the saints."

"But why did you not tell me this at the time?" I cried in intolerable anguish.

"_Nu_; to what end? It would only have worried you. I did not know you were rich."

"And at this time you offered to send _me_ money!" I said, with sudden recollection.

"Since I had not enough, you might as well have some of it. Anyhow, father, you see all this has made no difference to me. I shall never marry now, of course; but it hasn't altered the opinion I have always had of the Jews--rather corroborated it. Rachel told me enough of the superstitious slavery amid which she was forced to live. I have no doubt now that her father lied. But for his pigheaded tribalism, Rachel would have been alive to-day. So why your love for a Jewish girl should make you tender to the race I do not see, dearest father. There are always exceptions to everything--Rachel was one; the woman you loved was another. And now it is very late; I think I will go to bed."

He kissed me and went out at the door. Then he came back and put his head inside again. A sweet, sad, winning smile lit up his pale, thoughtful face.

"I will put you on the free list of the _Novoe Vremia_, father," he said. "Good-night, _papasha_."

What could I say? What could I do? I called up a smile to my trembling lips.

"Good-night, Paul," I said.

I shall never tell him now.

_Tuesday, 3 a.m._--I reopen these pages to note an ironic climax to this bitter day. Through the excitement of Paul's coming I had not read my letters. After sitting here in a numb trance for hours, I suddenly bethought me of them. One is from my business man, informing me that he has just sold the South American stock, respecting which I gave him _carte blanche_. I go to bed richer by five thousand roubles.

* * * * *

_Odessa, Wednesday Night._--Six months have passed. I am on the free list of the _Novoe Vremia_. Almost every day brings me a fresh stab as I read. But I am a "constant reader." It is my penance, and I bear it as such. After a long silence, I have just had a letter from Nicholas Alexandrovitch, and I reopen my diary to note it. He is about to marry a prosperous widow, and is going over to Catholicism. He writes he is very happy. Lucky, soulless being. He does not know he will be a richer man when I die. Happily, I am ready, though it were to-day. My peace is made, I hope, with God and man, though Paul knows nothing even now. He could not fail to learn it, though, if he came to Odessa again. I have bribed the spies and the clergy heavily. Thanks to their silence, I am one of the most prominent Jews of the town, and nobody dreams of connecting me with the trenchant editor of the _Novoe Vremia_. I see now that I could have acted so all along, if I had not been such a coward. But I keep Paul away. It is my last cowardice. In a postscript Nicholas writes that Paul's articles are causing a great sensation in the remotest parts of Russia. Alas, I know it. Are there not anti-Jewish riots in all parts, encouraged by cruel Government measures? Do not the local newspapers everywhere reproduce Paul's printed firebrands? Have I not the pleasure of coming across them again in our own Odessa papers, in the _Wiertnik_ and the _Listok_? I should not wonder if we had an outbreak here. There was a little affray yesterday in the _pereouloks_ of the Jewish quarter, though we are quiet enough down this way.... Great God! What is that noise I hear?... Yes! it is! it is! "Down with the _Zhits_! Down with the _Zhits_!" There is red on the horizon. _Bozhe moi!_ It is flame! _Voi!_ They are pillaging the Jewish quarter. The sun sinks in blood, as on that unhappy day among the village hills.... _Ach!_ Paul, Paul! Why did I not stop your murderous pen?... But if not you, another would have written.... No, that is no excuse.... Forgive me, O God, I have been weak. Ever weak and cowardly from the day I first deserted Thee, even unto this day.... I am not worthy of my blood, of my race.... They are coming this way. It goes through me like a knife. "Down with the _Zhits_! Down with the _Zhits_!" And now I see them. They are mad, drunk with the vodka they have stolen from the Jewish inns. Great God! They have knives and guns. And their leader is flourishing a newspaper and shouting out something from it. There are soldiers among them, and sailors, native and foreign, and mad muzhiks. Where are the police?... The mob is passing under my window. _God pity me, it is Paul's words they are shouting._... They have passed. No one thinks of me. Thank God, I am safe. I am safe from these demons. What a narrow escape!... Ah, God, they have captured Rabbi Isaac and are dragging him along by his white beard toward the barracks. My place is by his side. I will rouse my brethren. We are not a few. We will turn on these dogs and rend them. _Proshchai_, my loved diary. Farewell! I go to proclaim the Unity.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] In order to preserve the local colour, the Translator has occasionally left a word or phrase of the MS. in the original Russian.

[2] Dissenters.

* * * * *

X

"INCURABLE"

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