Part 5 (1/2)
But I was mistaken. Polnivski recognized me, fell upon my neck, nor had I spoken a word before he asked me how I liked ”this vile anti-Semitism.”
”It is,” he said to me, of course in Polish, ”a kind of cholera--an epidemic.”
”Some say it is political.”
”I don't believe it,” said Polnivski. ”Politicians invent nothing new, they create no _facts_. They only use those which exist, suppress some, and make the most of others. They can fan the flame of h.e.l.l-fire, but not a spark can they kindle for themselves. It is human nature, not the politician, that weaves the thread of history. The politicians plait it, twist it, knot it, and entangle it.
”Anti-Semitism is a disease. The politician stands by the patient's bedside like a dishonest doctor who tries to spin out the sickness.
”The politician makes use of anti-Semitism--a stone flies through the air and Bismarck's a.s.sistant directs it through the window of the Shool; otherwise _other_ panes would be smashed. Does anyone raise a protesting fist? Immediately a thin, shrinking Jewish shoulder is thrust beneath it, otherwise _other_ bones would crack.
”But the stone, the fist, the hatred, and the detestation, these exist of themselves.
”Who die of a physical epidemic? Children, old people, and invalids. Who fall victims to a moral pestilence? The populace, the decadent aristocrat, and a few lunatics who caper round and lead the dance. Only the healthy brains resist.”
”How many healthy brains have we?” I asked.
”How many? Unhappily, very few,” replied Polnivski.
There was a short, sad silence. ”I do not know what my neighbor's thoughts may have been; it seemed to _me_ that the strongest and best-balanced brains had not escaped infection. There are two different phases in history: one in which the best and cleverest man leads the ma.s.s, and one in which the ma.s.s carries the best and cleverest along with it. The popular leader is a Columbus in search of new happiness, a new America for mankind; but no sooner is there scarcity of bread and water on board than the men mutiny, and _they_ lead. The first thing is to kill somebody, the next, to taste meat, and still their hatred.”
”And don't suppose,” said Polnivski, ”that I am fis.h.i.+ng for compliments, that I consider myself an _esprit fort_, who runs no danger of infection, an oak-tree no gale can dislodge.
”No, brother,” he went on, ”I am no hero. I might have been like the rest; I also might have been torn like a decayed leaf from the tree of knowledge, and whirled about in the air. I might have tried to think, with the rest of the dead leaves, that it was a ball, and we were dancing for our enjoyment; that the wind was our hired musician who played to us on his flute.
”I was saved by an accident; I learned to know a Jewish woman. Listen!”
I leaned toward my neighbor. His face had grown graver, darker; he rested his elbows on his knees and supported his head with his hands.
”But don't suppose,” he said again, ”that I discovered the heroine of a romance, a strong character that breaks through bolt and bar, and goes proudly on its way. Don't suppose that she was an 'exception,' an educated woman full of the new ideas, or, in fact, any 'ideal' at all.
No; I learned to know a simple Jewish woman--one of the best, but one of the best of those who are most to be pitied. I learned to love her, and I'll tell you the truth: Whenever I read anything against Jews in general, she comes hack to my mind with her soft, sad eyes; stands before me and begs: 'Do not believe it. I am not like that.'”
He is lost in thought.
”The story is a simple one,” he rouses himself and begins afresh. ”We have not written to one another the whole time, and you don't know what has happened to me, so I'll tell you--briefly. I am only going as far as Lukave.
”On leaving the gymnasium I entered the university and studied medicine.
I did _not_ finish the course; it was partly my comrades' fault, partly the teachers', and most of all my own. I had to leave and become an apothecary, had to marry, take my marriage portion, and set up a shop full of cod-liver oil in a little out-of-the-way town. But I was fortunate in many ways. I had a good father-in-law, who was prompt in fulfilling the contract, a pretty wife--it was a little bit of a town.
”My wife's name was Maria--I see her before me now, turning round helplessly from the looking-gla.s.s. Her golden curls refuse to submit to the comb, they fly merrily in all directions; they will not be twisted into the wreath which was just then the fas.h.i.+on.
”Slender--and such good, laughing, sky-blue eyes.
”We were not much disturbed by my professional duties. The town was too poor and an apothecary shop where there is no doctor isn't worth much.
There was little doing, but we lived in a paradise, and we were always on the veranda--it was summer-time--side by side, hand in hand.
”And what should have claimed our interest? We had enough to live on, and as for going out, where were we to go? The veranda overlooked nearly the whole town--the low, sagging houses, broad, black, wooden booths that leaned, as though in pity, over the roll and apple sellers at their wretched stalls before the house-doors, as though they wanted to protect the old, withered, wrinkled faces from the sun.