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‘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 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!

III

The wind freshened towards the middle of the night, and Rozenoffski, rocking in his berth, cursed his encounter with the red-haired romanticist who had stirred up such a pother in his brain that he had not been able to fall asleep while the water was still calm. Not that he suffered physically from the sea; he was merely afraid of it. The shuddering and groaning of the ship found an echo in his soul. He could not shake off the conviction that he was doomed to drown. At intervals, during the tedious night, he found forgetfulness in translating into sound his sense of the mystic, masterless waste in which the continents swim like islands, but music was soon swallowed up in terror.

‘No,’ he sighed, with a touch of self-mockery. ‘When I am safe on shore again, I shall weave my symphony of the sea.’

Sleep came at last, but only to perturb him with a Jewish Joan of Arc who–turned Admiral–recaptured Zion from her battleship, to the sound of Psalms droned by his dead grandfather. And, though he did not see her the next day, and was, indeed, rather glad not to meet a lady’s maid in the unromantic daylight, the restlessness she had engendered remained, replacing the settled bitterness which was all he had brought back from America. In the afternoon this restlessness drove him to the piano in the deserted dining-hall, and his fever sought to work itself off in a fury of practice. But the inner turbulence persisted, and the new thoughts clung round the old music. He was playing Schumann’s Fantasiestuecke, but through the stormy passion of In der Nacht he saw the red hair of the heroic Jewess, and into the wistful, questioning Warum insinuated itself not the world-question, but the Jewish question–the sad, unending Jewish question–surging up again and again in every part of the globe, as Schumann’s theme in every part of the piano–the same haunting musical figure, never the same notes exactly, yet essentially always the same, the wistful, questioning Warum. Why all this ceaseless sorrow, this footsore wandering, this rootless life, this eternal curse?

Suddenly he became aware that he was no longer alone–forms were seated at the tables on the fixed dining-chairs, though there was no meal but his music; and as he played on, with swift side-peeps, other fellow-passengers entered into his consciousness, some standing about, others hovering on the stairs, and still others stealing in on reverent tip-toe and taking favourable seats. His breast filled with bitter satisfaction.

So they had to come, the arrogant Americans; they had to swarm like rats to the pied piper. He could draw them at will, the haughty heathen–draw them by the magic of his finger-touch on pieces of ivory. Lo, they were coming, more and more of them! Through the corner of his eye he espied the figures drifting in from the corridors, peering in spellbound at the doors.

With a great crash on the keys, he shook off his morbid mood, and plunged into Scarlatti’s Sonata in A, his fingers frolicking all over the board, bent on a dominating exhibition of technique. As he stopped, there was a storm of hand-clapping. Rozenoffski gave a masterly start of surprise, and turned his leonine head in dazed bewilderment. Was he not then alone? ‘Gott im Himmel!‘ he murmured, and, furiously banging down the piano-lid, stalked from these presumptuous mortals who had jarred the artist’s soliloquy.