"Everything is marvellously involved in this poor world," said the ancient poet. This is certain, that more than once life becomes so involved that it is only to be cut like that Gordian knot of old. So was it with Yosef.

A few years before he had come to Kieff full of confidence in his own strength. It had seemed to him that he could push forward not only his own fate, but that of others in a way chosen in advance. Meanwhile he had convinced himself that in a short time he had lost the rudder even of his own boat. He had been left to rush and save himself if he wished, but he had to sail with the wind, and therewith he had little happiness in life. In his case, as in that of all men, life, or rather the excess of that seething of youthful years, had to pour out in the single but very narrow direction of love for woman. There was little space between the banks; hence the stream flowed too violently, so that in all Yosef's past there were barely a few peaceful moments. He lacked