turning with morbid interest to look after the retreating millionaire, he found him in converse with a feminine figure at the open door of a deck-cabin. could this be the great she, the arbitress of art? he moved nearer. why, this was but a girl—nay, unless his instinct was at fault, a jewish girl—a glorious young jewess, of that radiant red-haired type which the russian pale occasionally flowered with. what was she doing with this christian colossus? he tried vainly to see her left hand; the mere possibility that she might be mrs. wilhammer shocked his semitic instinct. wilhammer disappeared within—the relation was obviously intimate—but the girl still stood at the door, a brooding magical figure.
almost a sense of brotherhood moved him to speak to her, but he conquered the abnormal and incorrect impulse, contenting himself to walk past her with a side-glance, while at the end of the deck-promenade, instead of returning on his footsteps, he even arched his path round to the windy side. after some minutes of buffeting he returned chilled to his prior pacing ground. she was still there, but had moved under the same electric light which had illuminated wilhammer's face, and she was reading a letter. as his walk carried him past her, he was startled to see tears rolling down [356]those radiant cheeks. a slight exclamation came involuntarily from him; the girl, even more startled to be caught thus, relaxed her grip of the letter—a puff of wind hastened to whirl it aloft. rozenoffski grasped at it desperately, but it eluded him, and then descending sailed sternwards. he gave chase, stumbling over belated chairs and deck-quoits, but at last it was safe in his clutch, and as he handed it to the agitated owner whom he found at his elbow, he noted with a thrill that the characters were cursive hebrew.
'how can i zank you, sir!' her teutonic-touched american gave him the courage to reply gallantly in german:
'by letting me help you more seriously.'
'ach, mein herr'—she jumped responsively into german—'it was for joy i was crying, not sorrow.' as her american was germanic, so was her german like the yiddish of his remote youth, and this, adding to the sweetness of her voice, dissolved the musician's heart within his breast. he noted now with satisfaction that her fingers were bare of rings.
'then i am rejoiced too,' he ventured to reply.
she smiled pathetically, and began to walk back towards her cabin. 'with us jews,' she said, 'tears and laughter are very close.'
'us jews!' he winced a little. it was so long since he had been thus classed to his face by a stranger. but perhaps he had misinterpreted her phrase; it was her way of referring to her race, not necessarily to his.
'it is a beautiful night,' he murmured uneasily. but he only opened wider the flood-gates of race-feeling.
'yes,' she replied simply, 'and such a heaven of [357]stars is beginning to arise over the night of israel. is it not wonderful—the transformation of our people? when i left russia as a girl—so young,' she interpolated with a sad smile, 'that i had not even been married—i left a priest-ridden, paralysed people, a cringing, cowering, contorted people—i shall never forget the panic in our synagogue when a troop of cossacks rode in with a bogus blood-accusation. now it is a people alive with ideas and volitions; the young generation dreams noble dreams, and, what is stranger, dies to execute them. our bund is the soul of the russian revolution; our self-defence bands are bringing back the days of judas maccab?us. in the olden times of massacre our people fled to the synagogues to pray; now they march to the fight like men.'
they had arrived at her door, and she ended suddenly. the musician, fascinated, feared she was about to fade away within.
'but jews can't fight!' he cried, half-incredulous, half to arrest her.
'not fight!' she held up the hebrew letter. 'they have scouts, ambulance corps, orderlies, surgeons, everything—my cousin david ben amram, who is little more than a boy, was told off to defend a large three-story house inhabited by the families of factory-labourers who were at work when the pogrom broke out. the poor frenzied women and children had barricaded themselves within at the first rumour, and hidden themselves in cellars and attics. my cousin had to climb to their defence over the neighbouring tiles and through a window in the roof. soon the house was besieged by police, troops, and hooligans in devilish league. with his one browning revolver [358]david held them all at bay, firing from every window of the house in turn, so as to give the besiegers an impression of a large defensive force. at last his cartridges were exhausted—to procure cartridges is the greatest difficulty of our self-defence corps—they began battering in the big front-door. david, seeing further resistance was useless, calmly drew back the bolts, to the mob's amaze, and, as it poured in, he cried: 'back! back! they have bombs!' and rushed into the street, as if to escape the explosion. the others followed wildly, and in the panic david ran down a dark alley, and disappeared in search of a new post of defence. though the door stood open, and the cowering inhabitants were at their mercy, the assailants, afraid to enter, remained for over an hour at a safe distance firing at the house, till it was riddled with bullets. they counted nearly two hundred the next day, embedded in the walls or strewn about the rooms. and not a thing had been stolen—not a hooligan had dared enter. but david is only a type of the young generation—there are hundreds of davids equally ready to take the field against goliath. and shall i not rejoice, shall i not exult even unto tears?' her eyes glowed, and the musician was kindled to equal fire. it seemed to him less a girl who was speaking than truth and purity and some dead muse of his own. 'the pale that i left,' she went on, 'was truly a prison. but now—now it will be the forging-place of a regenerated people! oh, i am counting the days till i can be back!'
'you are going back to russia!' he gasped.
he had the sensation of cold steel passing through his heart. the pogroms, which had been as remote to [359]him as the squabbles of savages in central africa, became suddenly vivid and near. and even vivider and nearer that greater danger—the heroic cousin david!
'how can i live away from russia at such a moment?' she answered quietly. 'who or what needs me in america?'
'but to be massacred!' he cried incoherently.
she smiled radiantly. 'to live and die with my own people.'
the fire in his veins seemed upleaping in a sublime jet; he was like to crying, 'thy people shall be my people,' but all he found himself saying was, 'you must not, you must not; what can a girl like you do?'
a bell rang sharply from the cabin.
'i must go to my mistress. gute nacht, mein herr!'
his flame sank to sudden ashes. only mrs. wilhammer's hireling!
