The Jew and Other Stories | Page 3

began to doze where I was sitting.
A discreet cough waked me: I opened my eyes, and saw standing
before me a Jew, a man of forty, wearing a long-skirted grey wrapper,
slippers, and a black smoking-cap. This Jew, whose name was Girshel,

was continually hanging about our camp, offering his services as an
agent, getting us wine, provisions, and other such trifles. He was a
thinnish, red-haired, little man, marked with smallpox; he blinked
incessantly with his diminutive little eyes, which were reddish too; he
had a long crooked nose, and was always coughing.
He began fidgeting about me, bowing obsequiously.
'Well, what do you want?' I asked him at last.
'Oh, I only--I've only come, sir, to know if I can't be of use to your
honour in some way...'
'I don't want you; you can go.'
'At your honour's service, as you desire.... I thought there might be, sir,
something....'
'You bother me; go along, I tell you.'
'Certainly, sir, certainly. But your honour must permit me to
congratulate you on your success....'
'Why, how did you know?'
'Oh, I know, to be sure I do.... An immense sum... immense....Oh! how
immense....'
Girshel spread out his fingers and wagged his head.
'But what's the use of talking,' I said peevishly; 'what the devil's the
good of money here?'
'Oh! don't say that, your honour; ay, ay, don't say so. Money's a capital
thing; always of use; you can get anything for money, your honour;
anything! anything! Only say the word to the agent, he'll get you
anything, your honour, anything! anything!'
'Don't tell lies, Jew.'
'Ay! ay!' repeated Girshel, shaking his side-locks. 'Your honour doesn't
believe me.... Ay... ay....' The Jew closed his eyes and slowly wagged
his head to right and to left.... 'Oh, I know what his honour the officer
would like.... I know,... to be sure I do!'
The Jew assumed an exceedingly knowing leer.
'Really!'
The Jew glanced round timorously, then bent over to me.
'Such a lovely creature, your honour, lovely!...' Girshel again closed his
eyes and shot out his lips.
'Your honour, you've only to say the word... you shall see for yourself...
whatever I say now, you'll hear... but you won't believe... better tell me

to show you... that's the thing, that's the thing!'
I did not speak; I gazed at the Jew.
'Well, all right then; well then, very good; so I'll show you then....'
Thereupon Girshel laughed and slapped me lightly on the shoulder, but
skipped back at once as though he had been scalded.
'But, your honour, how about a trifle in advance?'
'But you 're taking me in, and will show me some scarecrow?'
'Ay, ay, what a thing to say!' the Jew pronounced with unusual warmth,
waving his hands about. 'How can you! Why... if so, your honour, you
order me to be given five hundred... four hundred and fifty lashes,' he
added hurriedly....' You give orders--'
At that moment one of my comrades lifted the edge of his tent and
called me by name. I got up hurriedly and flung the Jew a gold coin.
'This evening, this evening,' he muttered after me.
I must confess, my friends, I looked forward to the evening with some
impatience. That very day the French made a sortie; our regiment
marched to the attack. The evening came on; we sat round the fires...
the soldiers cooked porridge. My comrades talked. I lay on my cloak,
drank tea, and listened to my comrades' stories. They suggested a game
of cards--I refused to take part in it. I felt excited. Gradually the officers
dispersed to their tents; the fires began to die down; the soldiers too
dispersed, or went to sleep on the spot; everything was still. I did not
get up. My orderly squatted on his heels before the fire, and was
beginning to nod. I sent him away. Soon the whole camp was hushed.
The sentries were relieved. I still lay there, as it were waiting for
something. The stars peeped out. The night came on. A long while I
watched the dying flame.... The last fire went out. 'The damned Jew
was taking me in,' I thought angrily, and was just going to get up.
'Your honour,'... a trembling voice whispered close to my ear.
I looked round: Girshel. He was very pale, he stammered, and
whispered something.
'Let's go to your tent, sir.' I got up and followed him. The Jew shrank
into himself, and stepped warily over the short, damp grass. I observed
on one side a motionless, muffled-up figure. The Jew beckoned to
her--she went up to him. He whispered to her, turned to me, nodded his
head several times, and we all three went into the tent. Ridiculous to
relate, I was breathless.

'You see,