"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.
Walking one behind the other, they crossed a long, narrow street, and found themselves in the fields which divided Abel Karaim's hut from the town.
It was now almost dark, but no flickering light was to be seen in Abel's window. They were not asleep yet, as Meir could see the dark outline of Golda near the window.
They greeted each other with a silent motion of the head.
"Golda," said Meir, in a low and rapid voice, "have you met with any unpleasantness lately? Has anybody molested you?"
The girl pondered a little over his question. "Why do you ask me that, Meir?"
"I was afraid some injury might have been done to you. People have spread some foolish slander about us."
"I do not mind injury; I have grown up with it. Injury is my sister."
Meir still looked troubled. "Why have you no light burning?" he asked.
"I have nothing to spin, and zeide prays in darkness."
"And why have you nothing to spin?"
"I carried the yarn to Hannah Witebska and Sarah, Ber's wife, and they did not give me any more wool."
"They have not insulted you?" asked Meir angrily
Golda was again silent.
"People's eyes often say worse things than tongues," she replied at last quietly.