him in gratitude and affection, and with her whole life did she wish to reward him for his noble love, for the self-sacrificing gratitude with which he had given up his entire fortune to her father, and saved the name and honor of his house from disgrace and shame.  She desired neither splendor nor jewels.  Surrounded by the halo of her love, and of her quiet, peaceful happiness, this poor, little dwelling seemed to her as a temple of peace and of holy rest; and, locked in Bertram’s embrace, her wishes never reached beyond its narrow sphere.

But Gotzkowsky was not as yet able to attain this resignation.  This repose was to him an annihilating torment, and the inactive vegetation a living death.  With each day the torture increased, the soreness of his heart became more corroding and painful.  At times he felt as if he must scream out aloud in the agony of his despair.  He would strike his chest with his clinched fists, and cry to God in the overflow of his sufferings.  He who his whole life long had been active, was now condemned to idleness; he who through his whole life had worked for others, was now obliged to lay his hands in his lap, and allow others to labor for him.  How had he deserved this?  What crime had he committed, that after he had toiled and worked honestly, he should go down, whilst others who had enriched themselves by fraud and lying, by cunning and malice, should drive through the streets in splendid carriages, surrounded by elegance and wealth, while he was obliged to creep along, bowed down with sorrow?  He had gone down, while Ephraim had risen higher and higher.  He had become poor because he was honest; but Ephraim had grown rich on usury.  His firm had failed, while Ephraim continued to coin money.  What did the Jew care that his name was branded by the people, that they spoke with cutting sarcasm of the pewter-money to which he had so skilfully imparted the appearance of silver coin, and that he was derided by all?  Gotzkowsky’s name, too, had been scoffed at, and he had been a benefactor of the people, while Ephraim had been their blood-sucking leech.

At last, Gotzkowsky came to a firm determination that he would have revenge—­yes, revenge on this ungrateful generation which had betrayed and forsaken him—­revenge on the men who had shown themselves so small and pitiful.  He wanted to remind those who were flourishing in pride and splendor, of their meanness and ingratitude.  He would accuse no one, but his whole life was an indictment, not against individual men, but whole communities and cities, against the king himself.  They had all been ungrateful toward him.  They were all his debtors, and in presence of the whole world he would cast their ingratitude, their meanness, their malice, and knavery in their face, and humble them by recalling the past.  He wrote for that purpose The History of his Life, not in anger and scorn; he did not dip his pen in gall, he made no ill-natured reflections, no contemptuous remarks.  He did nothing more than quietly and simply, clearly and truthfully, describe his life and his deeds, and whenever it was necessary, confirm his assertions by quotations from the official documents relating thereto.[1]