Page:The International - Volume 1.djvu/278

beauty, glory lie at his feet. Wise fathers hold him up to their sons as a shining example. See how he has worked his way up! How? Whose business is that? All bow down to him. Grey-haired old men, who scorn the wickedness of the world, grow young in his presence. Grave philosophers brighten up at his smile. Protectors of the law frequent his halls, political parties fight over him; his name is ever before the public. . . .

And in that same little room under the rafters, where five years ago he pawned his character, sits to-day a delicate, pale-faced youth, in faded slippers and old clothes, and dedicates to him a long poem, full of enthusiasm for the noble aspirations of humanity. . . .

And I—I would rather write an ode on gold! That would be truly worthy of this age! Derzavin's Ode on God has out-lived itself; for our age it has no value, except in such forms as that in which the Emperor has immortalized it by having it woven in gold upon a silk curtain.

Yes, gold is the god of our century; the heavens proclaim its glory above that of the moon, the dollar is more beautiful than the stars. On earth all rulers bow before gold; in divers shapes and under various names we worship it. Some call it religion; others love; many call it law, and still others speak of it as wicked Mammon; but one and all, they pay it honor. For gold we preach; shed blood on the battle-field; sacrifice ourselves for our country; love humanity; work with hands and brain; saddle Pegasus,—for gold I write this, my satire, with none too keen a pen. Oh, metal bright, powerful, heavenly—I worship thee! All the day long would I play to thee on a golden harp, accompanying my hymn of praise with thy own heavenly sound!

Surely you will forgive me, my dear brother-searchers for gold, for this deviation from my story. My story, which is

dedicated to that which to you and me is dearest under the sun!

⁂

The liveried servant comes in and announces to Alfred that a dirty Jew is outside, who demands an interview with the master. Alfred remembers his bargain of five years ago.

"Let him come to my room," he commands.

It is a cozy little room, breathing forth luxury. The walls are covered with pictures of beautiful women, lively and gentle, proud and humble, slender and stout, all in costumes such as no modest woman would wear.

The Jew enters.

"You are late," Alfred says, looking at his watch.

"Yes," replies the Jew. "I was detained. I have had trouble over one of my characters, which I bought in a foreign country On the frontier it was confiscated. The officers did not know exactly what to do with it, and so my poor character was sent from one office to another, until it began to thaw like ice and finally, before it reached the third office, there was nothing left of it at all—"

"You have brought me back my pawned character, have you not?" Alfred interrupts.

"Yes, your Highness," the Jew replies, taking out of his pocket a soiled box.

"Well, never mind, you may keep it, I do not care to have it back. I have learned that I can live much better without it. And now, I would like to tell you something."

"Well?"

"I still possess a small piece of shame, which occasionally gives me a little trouble. I will sell that to you."

Aaron shrugged his shoulders, shook his head and replied, with a repulsive smile:

"Can't do it! Such goods have gone out of style. Look, your Highness, around the walls of your room."