"I don't believe it," said Polnivski. "Politicians invent nothing new, they create no _facts_. They only use those which exist, suppress some, and make the most of others. They can fan the flame of hell-fire, but not a spark can they kindle for themselves. It is human nature, not the politician, that weaves the thread of history. The politicians plait it, twist it, knot it, and entangle it. "Anti-Semitism is a disease. The politician stands by the patient's bedside like a dishonest doctor who tries to spin out the sickness. "The politician makes use of anti-Semitism--a stone flies through the air and Bismarck's assistant directs it through the window of the Shool; otherwise _other_ panes would be smashed. Does anyone raise a protesting fist? Immediately a thin, shrinking Jewish shoulder is thrust beneath it, otherwise _other_ bones would crack. "But the stone, the fist, the hatred, and the detestation, these exist of themselves. "Who die of a physical epidemic? Children, old people, and invalids. Who fall victims to a moral pestilence? The populace, the decadent aristocrat, and a few lunatics who caper round and lead the dance. Only the healthy brains resist." "How many healthy brains have we?" I asked. "How many? Unhappily, very few," replied Polnivski. There was a short, sad silence. "I do not know what my neighbor's thoughts may have been; it seemed to _me_ that the strongest and best-balanced brains had not escaped infection. There are two different phases in history: one in which the best and cleverest man leads the mass, and one in which the mass carries the best and cleverest along with it. The popular leader is a Columbus in search of new happiness, a new America for mankind; but no sooner is there scarcity of bread and water on board than the men mutiny, and _they_ lead. The first thing is to kill somebody, the next, to taste meat, and still their hatred." * * * * * "And don't suppose," said Polnivski, "that I am fishing for compliments, that I consider myself an _esprit fort_, who runs no danger of infection, an oak-tree no gale can dislodge. "No, brother," he went on, "I am no hero. I might have been like the rest; I also might have been torn like a decayed leaf from the tree of knowledge, and whirled about in the air. I might have tried to think, with the rest of the dead leaves, that it was a ball, and we were dancing for our enjoyment; that the wind was our hired musician who played to us on his flute. "I was saved by an accident; I learned to know a Jewish woman. Listen!" I leaned toward my neighbor. His face had grown graver, darker; he rested his elbows on his knees and supported his head with his hands.