ince himself that discovery is impossible. No one had seen him, no
one had heard; the wretched old man, half crazy as he was, had drawn his
own hat over his eyes and drowned himself.

And yet, through all this sophistry, he is conscious of that fearful
weight, till, exhausted by the inner conflict, he flies from his house
to his business, amid the crowd anxiously desiring to find something
that shall force him to forget. If any one on the street looks at him,
he trembles; if he meet a policeman, he must rush home to hide his
terror from those discerning eyes. Wherever he finds familiar faces, he
will press into the thick of the assembly, he will take an interest in
any thing, will laugh and talk more than heretofore; but his eyes will
roam recklessly around, and he will be in constant dread of hearing
something said of the murdered man, something surmised about his sudden
end. He may deceive his acquaintance: they will perhaps consider him
remarkably cheerful, and one and the other will say, "Itzig is a good
fellow; he is getting on in business." He will hang on many an arm that
he never touched before, will tell merry stories, and go home gladly
with any one who asks him, because he knows that he can not be alone. He
will frequent the coffee-houses and beer-shops to hunt out acquaintance,
and will drink and be as much excited as they, because he knows that he
dare not be alone.

And when, late of an evening, he returns home, tired to death and worn
out by his fearful struggle, he feels lighter hearted, for he has
succeeded in obscuring the truth, he is conscious of a melancholy
pleasure in his weariness, and awaits sleep as the only good thing earth
has still to offer him. And again he will fall asleep, and when he
awakes the next morning he will have to begin his fearful task anew. So
will it be this day, next day, always, so long as he lives. His life is
no longer like that of another man; his life is henceforth a battle, a
horrible battle with a corpse, a battle unseen by all, yet constantly
going on. All his intercourse with living men, whether in business or in
society, is but a mockery, a lie. Whether he laughs and shakes hands
with one, or lends money and takes fifty per cent. from another, it is
all mere illusion on their part. He knows that he is severed from human
companionship, and that all he does is but empty seeming; there is only
one who occupies him, against whom he struggles, because of whom he
drinks