CHAPTER III.
Thaddeus von Wiliszenski was, with some exceptions, a Polish Walter von der Vogelweide. He, too, gained less by his learning than by his genius; he, too, wandered from castle to castle, exhorting the nobles to justice--rejoicing when he received a new coat or negotiated a loan, for I doubt if any one ever borrowed so much.
Like Walter, he was a political poet, though not a one-sided one, like the German singer. He read stirring war-songs against Austria to the nobles, and then, by order of the magistracy, composed odes for the emperor's birthday. For the burghers he wrote lampoons against the nobles; for the nobles, skits against the bourgeoisie.
He, too, belonged to the later nobility, for though a "von" was under his poems and a coat-of-arms on his writing-paper, it was difficult to trace his genealogy. Some, indeed, said he was the son of a shoemaker, and had failed in the gymnasium; others, that he had been a barber's apprentice.
It was equally difficult to ascertain his birthplace. Several provinces strove about declining the honor. He was in the habit of saying he was the son of that neighborhood in which he happened to be collecting subscriptions, just at the time, for his poems. If the book had ever appeared, a large edition would have been required, for one could scarcely count the numbers from whom he had collected its price of three gulden. But, like the Minnesänger, he contented himself with leaving it oral.
Uninvited, and suddenly as if dropped from the skies, he would appear at the farm-houses. Sometimes he was kicked out after three, sometimes after eight days' sojourn, for he never departed of his own volition. But as one cannot live by poetry alone, he also acted as mediator when bribery or some equally dirty business was on hand, which accounted for his friendship with Von Wroblewski.
It was, then, in honor of this son of the muse that Lady Anna had made this little party. There sat Wiliszenski, his long, tangled, sandy curls in greater confusion than usual, while he declaimed poems in honor of the great ones of the land. It had been long since he had reckoned a count among his hearers, and he concluded that Agenor having come, notwithstanding he had at first declined the invitation, it was because of his interest in the poet. How gratifying, then, the close attention which this wealthy man accorded him!
He was reading an historical ballad--"The Bloody Day;" the hero was a Poniatowski, but the poet read it Baranowski, since it scanned equally well. His breast was overflowing with a strong current of poetical inspiration. "May the devil fetch me, if that is not worth fifty gulden to me!"
When he had finished, all were silent. He was unable to see the faces of his auditors, for Lady Anna had so placed the lamp-shade that the light fell only on the manuscript. But deep silence was the highest of all praise.
"Wonderful!" ejaculated the lady of the house. The jingle of the verses had swept her ear without conveying a meaning. She had been watching the count as he sat there motionless and awkward as a boy. A sigh heaved her ample bosom. "What a magnificent fellow! And all this for that Jewish girl!"
"Yes, very good indeed," said the count, rousing himself from his brown study.
"Especially the descriptions of the landscape," remarked the magistrate.
"What landscape?" inquired Judith, in surprise. She alone had followed the poem, hoping thereby to regain her self-possession and quiet her wildly beating heart. She had come in obedience to her father's wishes when she heard the count had refused to come, but when he walked in so unexpectedly she felt as though she must fly--fly from herself.
Herr von Wroblewski pretended not to have heard the gentle interruption. "And these people!" he exclaimed, enthusiastically. "One can really see them! And the feeling!" he added, cautiously. "There must have been some such stupid rubbish," he thought. Then he gave his daughter a signal, and she slipped out of the room unperceived.
"Our Thaddeus is a master mind," he exclaimed. "Some of his ballads rival Mickowicz, parole d'honneur! And he is so versatile! After what he has just read, you would class him among sentimental poets. But now, Thaddeus, give us those songs--'Venus in her Night-gown!'"
It was a collection of very ambiguous poems, which, at the last recitation, had driven Judith into another room. She could not understand what had so amused the rest of the company, but her instinct had warned her that they were unfit for her ears.
"Perhaps later on," said the poet; "but now I should like to read the 'Ballad of King Casimir and the Beautiful Esther.'"
"What are you thinking of?" cried Wroblewski, anxiously, for he knew it was a ribald poem against the Jews.
"Let it be!" said Thaddeus. "You have not heard the new version." For, since several Jewish farmers in Eastern Galicia had proven their interest in Polish literature by showing him hospitality for a few days, he had transformed entirely the story of Casimir the Great and his Jewish mistress. "That will fit in splendidly to-day," he thought, "and I may perhaps receive one hundred gulden!" For he had heard of the scene in the ballroom, and the character of his host was a guarantee that Judith and the count had not been brought together on this occasion by accident.
He began to read; the first verses quieted the apprehensions of the head of the house. The former version had shown what a pestilence the Jewish element had been in Poland, but this showed how the chosen people of the Old Testament had found a sanctuary in the poet's native land; and how Casimir, for love of the beautiful Esther, had granted charters to the Jews, and finally made a queen of his beloved. The poem closed with an ardent appeal to charity and fraternity.
Again all was still. "Excellent!" murmured the host, glancing at the count. Entranced, he gazed at the excited face of the beautiful girl opposite him. Judith did not notice him. Breathing deeply, she sat with eyes half closed, buried in thought, carried away by the emotions aroused by the poem. She had never before heard of the beautiful Esther. It was a revelation that the boundaries which she had felt so bitterly the past few days had not been set by nature; that there had been a time when they had not existed; that there had been a queen of Poland who had been a Jewess, and that it had been neither forbidden by God nor hindered by man. And then again she experienced that not inscrutable emotion which had stirred within her since the event of the ballroom; though, to be sure, a count was not a king, but-- She aroused herself as if to shake off these thoughts, and met the fixed fiery gaze of the count. She started, and, blushing deeply, arose as if to take flight.
"Admirable!" Wroblewski repeated, with sincerity. "But now I must manage to arrange a private chat," he added to himself.
"Now, my dear poet, please let us have the Venus songs." He grinned like a faun. "They are splendid count, I assure you."
The poet put out his hand for the dilapidated manuscript, for these poems were the ones most in demand; but the count interfered. "I think," he said, decidedly, "we had better ask Herr von Wiliszenski for something else better fitted for the ears of ladies."
There was nothing more to be said; so a ghastly but insignificant ballad was read, after which supper was announced, which passed off very quietly. Judith and the count were silent, and the poet also; for, to his idea, conversation at such a supper was a sinful waste of time, and of opportunity which did not present itself every day. Wroblewski had therefore to carry on the entire conversation himself; for his wife was in a bad humor, as she did not approve of her husband's plans in the slightest, but quite the contrary.
As she looked at the dreamy young girl, an idea, and a good one, so it seemed, struck her. "Judith," she said, laughingly, "you are not eating! Has it touched you so deeply that Wiliszenski made the beautiful Esther a queen?"
The probe went deeper than she expected. The girl started, and changed color. "Did she not become one?" she asked, almost under her breath.
Lady Anna laughed aloud. "Did you really believe it?"
"Why not?" exclaimed her husband, with an angry glance. "I believe it. It was so, was it not, my dear Wiliszenski?"
The poet's mouth was so full just then that it was impossible to respond immediately. An equivocal answer seemed wisest. He swallowed hastily. "Some chroniclers say so."
"The most reliable," affirmed Wroblewski, energetically.
"Do come to my aid," said Lady Anna to the count. "I have always read that she was only the king's mistress."
The count hesitated, but only for a second. "So she was," he said. "Our poet knows the old chroniclers better than I do, no doubt; but his poem would scarcely hold its own against the facts brought to light in modern research. It has been proven that Casimir the Great opened his land to the Jews for precisely the same reason as he did to the Germans--that the middle class, which was lacking, might be created. It is certain that the beautiful Esther fascinated him for a longer period than did his other amies, but history has never allowed her much influence over his actions."
"With due respect to your information," said the magistrate, "I must say I have often read the contrary, 'pon my honor, very often! You will, at least, allow that Casimir loved the Jewess better than he did any Christian?"
"Certainly, they all assert that," Agenor answered.
They rose from the table and retired to the drawing-room. Wanda and Judith sat down to look at some albums. Lady Anna entangled the count in a conversation, while the poet took possession of the host. But the latter listened abstractedly, though Wiliszenski was unfolding a business scheme.
The magistrate had caused the arrest of a scoundrel of good family for cheating. Thaddeus portrayed eloquently the grief of his relatives, on account of his having disgraced the Franciscan monastery, where he had been serving his novitiate. They now proposed to send him to Russia, and wished to avoid public sentence of guilt; it would hurt them so keenly.
"All right," responded the magistrate. "I am not a monster; but we will talk of it after a while. Now go into the smoking-room."
The poet obeyed. Wanda vanished at her father's nod; and Lady Anna, who did not dare to cross his plans for a second time that day, also withdrew, though unwillingly.
"Now, my dear count," said the magistrate, with a glance at Judith, "I must beg you to excuse me, too."
"But, Herr von Wroblewski--" Agenor began.
"What is it you wish?"
"I must say I do not approve of the way in which--" He paused, although his host stood before him, with drooping eyes, like a penitent sinner.
"Don't scold me," Wroblewski said. "Do not spoil my pleasure in seeing you here, although so unexpectedly." He bowed, and left the room.
The count bit his lips, and looked hesitatingly, first after him and then at Judith. She stared at the book which lay before her. The lamp-light shone on her auburn hair and delicate rosy face. He drew a deep breath, and stepped up to her.
She glanced up at his approach, and when she saw they were alone she seemed ready to run.
"What is interesting you so?" he asked, as unconcernedly as he could, looking at the engraving open before her. "Heidelberg? A splendid town! My regiment was in Mayence for some time, and I often ran over to Heidelberg."
"My brother is going there to stay," said Judith.
The count inquired why Raphael had not attended an Austrian high-school, to which she replied that it was Bergheimer's advice, who had so strongly recommended the law schools of Heidelberg; that her father had the greatest confidence in Bergheimer, and had intrusted to him the education of both her brother and herself. The count then asked in what subjects she had been taught, and the methods of instruction, so that, if the magistrate had been eavesdropping, the conversation would not have interested him much.
But after a time it took a more important turn. She told him Bergheimer was a zealous botanist, and had made a good herbarium of plants, special to Eastern Galicia.
"Then I suppose the gardens of the castle interested him?" said Agenor.
"Certainly. Though he was never there."
"Why not?"
"He was not allowed. Admission is forbidden to Jews, as you will see on the board at the entrance. But do not think this embittered him. He always said: 'It is not the fault of the count; such a board stands on the park-gates of every castle in Podolia. If they should be removed, it would create great gossip.' Bergheimer is such a noble, gentle creature. He never dreamed of an exception being made in his favor, although he is so fond of flowers. 'Perhaps the gardener would allow it,' he used to say, 'but I do not wish for any advantages above my brethren.' And he was right."
"Then you, too, have never been in the garden?"
"Yes," she answered, blushing deeply. "I have often been there with Wanda and the burgomaster's daughters, and occasionally alone. The custodians know me, but they said nothing, and I was weak enough to be glad of it. I fancied I was superior to the others. But I have atoned! How I felt when I recognized--"
"By that scene in this house," he said, interrupting her. "I have only known since yesterday what an impression it must have made upon you, and a wrong one. Fräulein Judith! Believe me, this gulf--"
She listened intently, but he came to a stand. No, he could not, he ought not, lie.
"Well, the gulf?"
"Is not so deep, after all. But why talk about it? Your brother, then, is in Heidelberg!"
A sad smile played around her lips. "You are an honest man, Count Baranowski. Once before this evening you alone had the courage to speak the truth. Now I understand why I never heard of the beautiful Esther from either my father or Raphael or Bergheimer."
"And why not?"
Her face glowed. "She was an outcast."
"A hard judgment! Just think how Casimir loved her."
"I do not believe it. Perhaps I ought not to talk about it. It does not seem quite proper. But yet why should I be silent? If he had really loved her, he would have made her his wife; or if this was not possible, since he was a king and she a Jewess, then he should have kept away from her, and not brought her to shame--the worst of fates. For if her name is ever spoken among us Jews, it would be as disgraced."
"I do not know about that," he answered. "Any one with human feelings ought not to condemn her so mercilessly, even had Casimir not been a king. Suppose she loved him with all her heart?"
Judith shook her head.
"You do not believe it?
"I don't know;" she was confused, but conquered herself, and continued bravely: "At least I have never heard of such love among ourselves. My parents, for instance; no one could have found a happier pair, yet they were introduced to each other at their betrothal. And this is generally the case. I think we must be different in this regard from other races."
"Do you really believe so?" he exclaimed. "For then nature herself has formed the gulf. But I think you are mistaking cause for effect. Isolation and the clinging to ancient usages have brought your people to it. When I see you standing before me, I think--"
"Please do not talk of me," she implored, in such a piteous tone that he became silent instantly.
"How quiet!" said a laughing voice during the unpleasant pause. It was Lady Anna.
The following day, as Judith entered the dining-room at the dinner-hour, her father came to meet her. "A letter from our dear ones!" he exclaimed, "from Breslau. They have journeyed that far without pausing, but they propose to remain there a week before crossing Saxony and Bavaria to the Neckar. Only think, Bergheimer has found our old pupil from Mayence in Breslau. He is a banker, named Berthold Wertheimer, and Bergheimer cannot laud him enough. I have written to Raphael, and told him of the generous conduct of our count. How much he and the others of our co-religionists have misjudged the man!"
"What conduct?" inquired Judith.
"Have you not heard of it yet? The whole town is talking of it. The sign-board at the entrance of the castle gardens has been removed, and he has notified the heads of the congregation in a very pleasant letter. I suppose you will wish to add something to this letter to Raphael. He sends you his love, and says: 'Judith's promise at our parting to remember our last conversation makes me very happy.' What does he mean by that?"
"Nothing," she murmured. "Only childishness!"
"I thought so; but you are surely not well, my child? You are so pale!"
CHAPTER IV.
It was three weeks later; a mild, bright October day. The landscape is scantily blessed with that beauty which in more favored countries delights the heart of man. Limitless plains surround us on all sides, from which gently swelling billows of earth occasionally elevate themselves above the dead level, only to sink back into it again. Brooks and rivers roll their muddy, sluggish waters between miry banks, from their birthplace in the distant mountains to the lower and drearier steppe country, while here and there a streamlet is sucked up by the thick turf, or dammed into a pond, whose broad, turbid mirror reflects the reed of the small boggy islands and the pale, misty blue of the firmament.
The small towns, where the Jews, the outcast chosen people (chosen, it would seem, for unspeakable miseries), live huddled together in crowded groups of wretched huts, are poor and dirty. More pitiful still are the villages, where the Ruthene, sullen and fierce, ploughs the land under the lash of the Pole.
Here and there are tiny plantations of birch-trees; but one may wander over heath for miles and miles, where little grows but the juniper and nothing blooms but the heather.
The winter is fearful, when the storms from the north drive the snow across the vast plains. Short and scanty is the spring, and parching the heat of summer; but the autumn, gentle and bright, revives the hearts of the poor and refreshes the barren land. The heath takes on a vivid crimson blush, the woods a darker tinge; the deep blue of the sky is intensified by the greater purity of the atmosphere; and even the stubble-field becomes a thing of beauty, with the transparent spider-webs floating over it like a bridal veil.
The soothing calm of the autumnal day had its influence upon Count Agenor, as he rode slowly homeward over the steppe, the air vibrating with the music of the noonday bells. He started off early in the morning, after a sleepless night, during which he had been tossed and shaken as by spirits of evil.
That had come to pass which was inevitable after he had yielded to the tempter and gone to the Wiliszenski recital. Since then, thanks to the ingenuity of the magistrate, he had often met the beautiful Jewess alone, and knew now he had no need to ask her whether she comprehended that sensation which Christians call love.
Since yesterday, too, he felt he no longer required the medium so obnoxious to him; for Judith had been in the park alone, had fallen on his breast; his arm had clasped her youthful form, his lips had dared to touch hers. And she had promised to go again, and he knew she would keep her word.
True, he did not expect to attain his desire to-day; weeks might elapse before he wakened the passion in her which raged in his veins. But the hour must come when she would be his. Yet this certainly did not make him happy. Quite the contrary. Never before had he felt so sad.
For, as she had said, he was an honest man. The handsome Uhlan officer had enjoyed almost everything that the beauty of woman could offer him. But on one point his conscience was clear. He had enticed no wife from her husband's side; he had brought no girl to misery. This was to be partly attributed to his exquisite sense of the requirements of his noble birth, partly to the subjection he was still under to his late father's wishes.
This clever and good man had early recognized that, in spite of many noble qualities, his son was lacking in that which was most important for the head of an impoverished branch of a noble house; that is, energy of character and the power to say "no." So, with the best of motives, he had striven to maintain and increase his influence over him. It was principally owing to this that Agenor had always so scrupulously held himself above reproach, until the death of his father made him the head of the family. Never had a lie passed his lips. But now he had lied and cheated, and if he wished to attain his desires he must continue to do so.
The young count had won Judith because she thought him noble and knightly, and free from prejudices against her nation. She trusted entirely in his love and honor. One word about the gulf that divided them, one intimation of the impossibility of making her his wife, and she was lost to him forever. As yet she had said nothing to him about the future--but if she did? And even if she did not, and he kept silence, or was only ambiguous in his speech, would it rest any less lightly on his conscience?
But, aside from all this, Agenor did not merely lust after the Jewess, but loved her with his whole heart. He often questioned himself as to how it happened, but never found an answer. Certainly her beauty had at first inflamed his senses; but that was not all. She was so pure, so noble in her pride, so touching in her submission, so pitiable in the way she felt her position.
But this could not explain the mystery which had taken possession of his heart. "Perhaps," he sometimes thought, "it is only pity, or horror of the fate towards which I am leading her, if I continue so weak."
This fate seemed gloomy enough to him. "She is not a girl who would accommodate herself to the position of a kept mistress, or would be shrewd enough to save her reputation by marriage with another man." Through the anxious nights he thought, with horror, "She cannot survive it! You will be her murderer!" With feverish pulses he paced up and down his bedroom till, quite worn out, he sank again into his chair. But the voice of his conscience kept repeating, through the stillness of the night, "Her murderer! if your weakness is not overcome."
Could he give her up? It seemed impossible; more impossible than ever, now when every nerve of his body tingled with feverish, almost painful desire. Could he make her his wife? "Rather die!" he said to himself; and, as he sat there brooding over it, there seemed but one thing equal to the disgrace of placing Judith Trachtenberg's name in the line of his pedigree, and that was the committing a base action.
The dawn found him absorbed in these confused, antagonistic ideas. He had his horse saddled, and galloped away across the heath, without rest, without aim; then dropped the reins, and, as he rode slowly back over the plain, from which the morning mists were rising, he became more composed in body and mind. He had viewed things too gloomily in the silence of this painful night, and he tried to strengthen himself in this opinion by a thousand subterfuges. But there was one idea that he could not coax himself to tolerate--that of a nobleman taking to his arms a girl of inferior birth, and she, after years of separation, meeting with a new love and a husband.
Still, though Agenor could not make her his wife, he could make this proud, beautiful creature the companion of his life; and was this such a disgraceful position that she would reject it with scorn? She would not, if she loved him as the old chroniclers said Esther did the king. He would be perfectly frank, and tell her she could count on his love and fidelity, but not on his hand. He resolved upon this as he rode home across the glowing heather. He would neither commit a crime against her nor violate his conscience; and should she tear herself away from him, he must find strength to endure it. If any one doubts the possibility of renunciation, let him go to the moorlands in autumn to learn it.
With a pacified conscience and filled with good resolves, he reached home. As he entered the courtyard he frowned angrily. The magistrate's britzska stood before the door. His interviews with this man were growing more and more painful; each time Wroblewski became more insolent and more familiar, and, in his present frame of mind, nothing could be more unpleasant than a meeting with his "faithful aid."
He met his unwelcome guest in the breakfast-room. "You see," shouted the latter, "I make myself quite at home; I have even ordered Jan to put a plate for me."
Agenor nodded, sat down, and invited him by a wave of the hand to help himself. "And to what am I indebted for this pleasure?" he asked, abruptly.
"You don't appear to consider it much of a pleasure," the official said, playfully, filling his plate. "And wrongly, too! You really ought to be satisfied with me, or do you fancy you would have secured a meeting in the park without my assistance?"
"Don't speak in such a tone," said the young man. "So you know of that already."
"Oh, I know much more. My congratulations on the first kiss. Why, I was in the garden myself, 'pon my honor; and, 'pon my honor, quite accidentally, though it is not necessary to say that, for I am a chevalier and will keep quiet about it." The repetition of the word "honor" was not to be wondered at, as the whole story was a fabrication. He had not seen the couple himself, but his wife, impelled by curiosity and envy, had followed Judith, and had not only confided the result of her observations to him, but also to the wife of the burgomaster, a lady who filled a vacuum in the little town with rare zeal, as she took upon herself the functions of a local newspaper, in so far as her breath permitted. In this way it happened that every individual in the town above the age of ten years knew of it.
"Is this all you have to tell me?" inquired the count.
The magistrate grew pathetic. "I don't deserve that. I came with the very best intentions, and because I thought it necessary. I thought it possible you might wish to utilize the absence of old Trachtenberg, and so have appointed a rendezvous for to-day. I came to warn you. Yesterday I saw two Jewish girls wandering about who might have observed something. Don't forget the board has been taken down. It was noble of you and very like King Casimir, who opened all gates to the Jews at Esther's request. But take care! Her father has only gone to Tarnopol and will return to-day. Of course, I have no idea what progress you have made, but I should imagine an interference on the part of the father might spoil your little game."
The count felt himself blushing with shame. He was about to use some violent language, but had he not forfeited his right to do this?
"And now, my dear fellow," continued the magistrate, "I have a favor to ask for myself."
He hesitated. The count drew out his purse. "How much?"
"No, no, I do not mean that. It will only cost a kind word to a man who is dependent on you. I have got into a damnable fix, through pure good nature, 'pon my honor."
Agenor glanced at the clock. It was one, and in a half-hour he had an appointment with Judith in the park. "Well, tell me, and in as few words as possible."
"I suppose you remember the farmer on your estate at Syczkow. An Armenian, Bagdan Afanasiewicz? He was here when you came."
"Certainly; a stout man, with a long black beard. He was spoken of as a very good and pious man, but avaricious."
"Quite right. His avarice and piety have been my misfortune. About four months since--it was in June--a young priest, representing himself as on his way to a new cure, came to Syczkow, and asked for a night's lodging. The pious Bagdan received him hospitably, and when they were at supper mentioned the distress he was in because of the excessive drought, which nothing could relieve except a solemn procession. The vicar of Syczkow was ill, and the vicar of the adjacent village demanded twelve gulden for this service. The young priest offered to do it for five. The vicar loaned his cope, the procession took place, and rain fell the following day. As the stranger seemed to understand his business, Bagdan had his new barn blessed for another five gulden, and the peasants took the opportunity to have their children baptized at cheaper rates. After a week the young priest continued his journey, and if he had stayed away all parties would have been satisfied, and I should have kept out of a row."
"Well?" asked Agenor, impatiently, looking at the clock.
"You shall hear. He returned, and this aroused the suspicions of even Bagdan, for he remembered the priest had said he was to take charge of a parish. Besides, the vicar of Syczkow was well again, and had no inclination for having a competitor in his field. Inquiries were made, and they found he was a scamp, born in the district of Zolkier, of good family, to whom he had caused much trouble. He had acquired a certain amount of clerical hocus-pocus by having been a novice in a monastery, whence he was kicked out for sacrilege. Bagdan told me and several others upon whom he had tried the same game, and I had him arrested. But his brothers have sent a friend to me whose talents I esteem greatly, and who has much influence over me, the poet Wiliszenski; and he has prevailed upon me to give him his liberty because of his innocent family, they pledging themselves to send him to Russia. I was very loath to say yes, but it is so difficult to refuse anything to the amiable poet. The Armenian then said I had been bribed to release the fellow, who had not only cheated, but committed sacrilege into the bargain. I!--bribed! Then he sent an appeal to the government at Lemberg."
"But that can do you no harm," said the count, "your wife's uncle--"
"Has done his duty," broke in the magistrate, "and Bagdan received the reply he deserved. But his piety and avarice will not let him rest. The loss of his ten gulden and the blasphemy, as he calls it, grieve him, so that he is having an appeal drawn up by some pettifogger here to present to the archbishop of Lemberg. That I heard this morning. Now you know the state of things in Austria. An official can do much--but a cleric can do everything. If the archbishop receives this communication, there will be an investigation, and though my conscience is clear, yet--"
"I understand--I am to request Bagdan to let the matter drop. But how can I interfere? The man is quite right."
"A friend is asking your help," said the magistrate, energetically. "In such a case, one does not consider right and wrong. I have not in your case. The man's name is Ignatius Tondka. Please make a note of it and write to your farmer to-day."
Agenor turned his back, then walked hastily up and down the room. At last he drew out his note-book and wrote the name.
"My best thanks," exclaimed the magistrate. "Your letter will go off to-day, will it not? Au revoir."
CHAPTER V.
Agenor was still under the excitement of this interview when he went to the appointment with Judith. "The reptile!" he muttered, as he descended the steps into the park, clenching his fists until the nails penetrated the flesh. "I must shake off this toad, who is defiling both Judith and myself."
But as he walked hurriedly through the rustling leaves towards the pine allée, the only one that could afford a shelter at this season of the year, his anger gradually evaporated, until he felt but one sensation, that of longing for Judith's sweet presence.
"I will tell her everything," he thought, "and she must choose for herself;" and the thought found expression in words even, but he felt he only uttered them to keep to his resolution. After he had waited a half-hour, there was only one word which he continually and hoarsely repeated, as if in a delirium--"Come! Come!"
At last he heard her swift step among the leaves, and caught sight of her dress glinting among the trees. She came hastily, with a glowing face. The lace mantilla she had wrapped about her head had become partly undone, and fluttered over her auburn hair.
"At last!" he murmured, rushing to meet her. She stood still, and when she saw his passionate face a trembling seized her limbs, and she stretched out her hands imploringly.
He scarcely observed it. "At last!" he repeated, catching the half-resisting girl in his arms, while his lips sought hers till he found them.
But only for a moment, for then she released herself. "Please do not make it harder for me than it is, for now it is bitter enough; but--"
"Why, what is the matter? You were not like this yesterday, you--"
"Then it is all right?" she asked, wiping her wet eyes and struggling to smile. "You have kissed me and we belong to each other for life."
This was said with such trust and earnestness that Agenor was touched to the quick. His arm dropped which was about to embrace her again.
"You dear love," he said, falteringly, "certainly we belong to each other. Nothing can part us again, Judith--nothing. And I shall do all that lies in my power to keep you from ever repenting it." He could safely promise that, for it was his firm resolve. "I love you as I never loved before."
A happy smile lit up her face, yet her eyes were filled with tears. "I believe you. Would I be here if I had one moment's doubt of your honor? Would I have come yesterday? No, I should be sitting in my own room, weeping my eyes out for my misfortune in loving a man who had no love for me--who would not make me his wife. And perhaps," she continued shrilly, "I could not endure life with such shame and misery at my heart."
"Judith," he said, startled, "what thoughts are these?"
"Silly ones, I know. But see how much has happened these past few days. I am quite changed. I do not think it ever occurred to any girl before. I have no control over my own heart; it commands me, and I must come to you and be caressed, and caress you in turn. It is the same with my thoughts. They roam about in wild confusion. I am only quiet when I think of you. For I know you--"
"And yet," he said, looking at her tenderly, "you must have wept much since yesterday!"
"Are you surprised?" She asked this with a sorrowful smile. "Remember, my father and brother love me, and I love them. How startled they will be when you ask for my hand, and how it will distress them for me to become a Christian! Perhaps I may lose their hearts forever. They may never wish to have any more to do with me. You do not know what it means with us to change our faith. In our parish there is a poor old widow, Miriam Gold, who earns her living as a nurse. Her husband was a village publican, and her only daughter fell in love with a peasant, became a Christian, and married him. The father died of grief at the disgrace and from the sneers of our co-religionists, and the mother leads a wretched life. Had my father not interfered in her behalf, she would have perished. She, too, has cast off her daughter, and scarcely ever mentions her. She herself told me to-day that she had not spoken of her for years."
The count listened, his mind filled with contending emotions. "What, to-day?" he asked, in surprise.
"Just now. The reason I was so late was that she begged me to allow her to tell her story. Perhaps," drawing a deep breath--"perhaps it was no coincidence. She knows my position, and wishes to warn me. If so, my father may hear of it, and that would be a bad thing. Honesty demands he should hear it from us first, not from others. If you preferred, I could tell him myself."
"I must have time for consideration," replied the count. "I should like to spare you needless strife."
"Be upright," whispered his conscience. "You are a scoundrel if you are silent now." But how could he do it, and how would she receive it? Only just now she had said: "Perhaps I could not endure to go on living."
"Needless quarrels simply embitter the life," he resumed, mechanically. "See, Judith, how I love you."
"I know it, and because I know it I will be still, and leave it to you as to how and when you will speak with my father. Of course, if he asks me, I must tell him the truth. You must surely realize it is hard for me; and since you love me, you must not expect to meet me in secret. If you only knew how I felt yesterday and to-day before I came. I knew it was not right, and I felt the shame burning my cheeks, and the bright daylight hurt me. Still, I came--I had to. I was drawn as if with chains; for I love you, I love you!"
As she stood before him, her glowing, face drooping over her heaving bosom, he lost what little self-possession he had, and his conscience was deadened by the rushing of blood in his ears. He pressed her to him, covering head, face, and clothes with kisses, till after a few minutes she tore herself away.
"I have tolerated it," she said, breathlessly, "because it is the last time before your formal proposal. Farewell!"
"May I not accompany you?" he begged, endeavoring to pass his arm about her shoulders.
She shook her head in silence, and hurried away. Once again she looked back. He stood as she had left him, gazing after her with ravening eyes. She waved her handkerchief, and hastened on. As she passed into the street which led through the town to her home, she hesitated. It seemed impossible to go along under everybody's eyes; it seemed as if every one must see the kisses that still burned on her cheeks. She slipped into a foot-path that led along in the rear of the houses, sat down on a bench, and gave full vent to the tears that rained down her face. This soothed her, and she went on her way, entering the house by the back door.
Her father's carriage was standing in the court-yard, so he had probably returned. The old servant, who had carried her in her arms, met her in the hall. Poor old Sarah was very white, and trembled in every limb. "There you are at last!" she almost screamed, wringing her hands. "O God! merciful God! why did you let me live to see this come to pass?"
Judith, too, grew white as the wall, against which she leaned. But the weakness passed away in a moment, and she asked: "Where is my father?"
"In the reception-room. But you cannot see him yet. The burgomaster is there, and is telling him the whole story. I have just heard it from the magistrate's cook. Oh! child, what--"
"You will let me know when he is alone," interrupted Judith; and she went to her room.
She had to wait a long time; in her present state of mind it was an intolerably long time. For the burgomaster was a good old simpleton, so he thought it expedient to tell Nathaniel what all the town knew; and he was also a gifted orator. Therefore, he began with a discourse on friendship, followed by another on the corrupt morals of recent times, until finally the poor old father discovered the drift of the whole. It was ghastly to see him sitting in his arm-chair, pale as death, and motionless, except when he occasionally passed his hand over his silvery beard.
"Thanks," he said, when the speaker had at last ended. His voice was hoarse, but otherwise he spoke slowly and deliberately as usual. "You have intended for the best. But now for the chief point. Did your wife herself see that kiss in the garden?"
"No, Frau von Wroblewski."
"And you only tell me that now?" cried Trachtenberg, almost gayly. He really succeeded in forcing a laugh. "A reliable witness! That quiets me. I was never in much doubt, for I know my child. I can willingly believe she went for a walk in the park; that she met the count, who accosted her politely, and received a polite answer. The rest is a lie. I, as her father, am sure of that."
"Well, if you, Pani Trachtenberg--"
"Yes; I, her father! Please repeat this to everyone who cares to hear it."
He accompanied his astounded guest to the door, and then returned to his arm-chair. There he sank down and buried his face in his hands, where he lay motionless, not hearing, in his wild grief, the gentle, hesitating step which came into the room. It was only when Judith dared to touch his hand that he was aroused.
"Father," she said, with faltering voice. "Do not be angry with me. I know it was another happiness you had planned for me, but I did not choose this myself. It came upon me unawares."
"Silence!" he yelled, flinging her hand from off his. His wrath at her daring to speak to him almost robbed him of consciousness. "Happiness!" he repeated. "What rubbish are you talking?"
"My happiness," she answered, gently but firmly. "For I love him, and he will make me his wife."
The old man jumped up suddenly. His eyes became rigid and seemed standing out of their sockets; his lips quivered, and he held out his hands as if to defend himself. "A--ah!" he groaned. The next instant he had caught her by both hands, and dragged her to the window into the full light. His eyes sought hers and held them fast, his gaze sinking deeper and deeper into hers. He breathed with difficulty; there was a gurgling in his throat, but no words came in this anguish of soul. The question to which he demanded an answer lay in his glazed and terrified eyes.
She bore the stare, the color mounting higher and higher in her pale face, until neck and brow were suffused with a vivid purple; but her eyelids never drooped. She understood the silent question conveyed by the horror in his eyes, and she answered it in the same silent manner.
He drew a deep, deep breath, and let her hands fall. "Tell me," he commanded, abruptly.
She hesitated.
"Have I not the right?" he exclaimed.
"Yes, perhaps, but I am not sure. Father, I do not know myself how it has come about. I did not wish it, but I was forced into it, and perhaps it was the same with him. But his intentions are honorable."
"We will hear of that later. Go on."
She told, at first in confused, indistinct words, how she had met his eyes at the entrance into the town, and what a tumult of emotions his conduct had awakened in her the evening of the ball. But as she passed on to the conversation after Wiliszenski's reading, she overcame her fears, and she told everything as she knew it--the whole truth.
He stood with his forehead pressed against the window, and listened quietly, interrupting her but once. As she was telling him of other meetings at Wroblewski's house, he asked suddenly: "And you did not observe you were always alone?"
"No, I supposed it was a--"
"A coincidence!" he said, mockingly, shaking his clenched fist at the ceiling. "But go on."
He sank down in his arm-chair again, while she sat by him, and finished her story, not even suppressing the conversation of that day.
"Father," she concluded, piteously, "I have never forgotten, and never can forget, how much I grieve you and Raphael. Therefore I can never be fully happy. But you are clever and good, and must see that I cannot help it." She knelt at his feet and clasped his knees. "Father, don't be angry with me!"
He sat still for a long time without moving. Then he felt gently for her hands, and loosed them from his knees, rose, and, going to the window, looked into the street over which the twilight of a late autumn day was sinking. Now and then he muttered to himself: "And I, fool that I am, often bewailed your early death! It was good for you!" Then he said aloud: "Your mother--" Then he stopped again.
He stood in that attitude, and it grew darker and darker in the room. Finally he pulled himself together, lit the candles on the table, and went to his child, who was still on her knees, her head resting against the chair.
"Stand up!" he ordered, going up close to her.
She obeyed. She attempted to look him in the eye, but could not, she was so shocked to see how suddenly old his face had grown. But his voice no longer quavered.
"It is a heavy misfortune," he said. "I thank God with all my heart that he has not utterly undone us; but what he has sent is fearful enough. I am not blaming you. You ought not to have had any secrets from me; but you are so young, and he is handsome and a count. If I accuse you, I ought also to accuse myself. I ought to have considered the character of the people I was sending you among, and how their influence would affect you. I ought to have been more clever, as clever as my poor boy, whose heart would break if he knew of this. But he shall never know it--never!"
She made a motion as if to speak.
"Never!" he repeated. "Listen, Judith! I know that madness blinds your eyes to-day, and deafens your ears. You will not understand what I am going to tell you. The wall here would comprehend it better. But you ought to feel that it is your father who thinks so, who loves you more than his own life, and who will not change his opinion. You are never to see or speak to the people up-stairs or to the count. You are to remain in your own room, and not to leave it without my orders. It would be best for me to have the horses harnessed and take you to the house from which I just came--my sister Recha's, in Tarnopol. She is a clever woman, your aunt Recha, and understands the management of sick people. But that will not be possible before the close of the week. Otherwise, this story would spread the more."
"Father," she implored, "do not ruin me!"
"Others wished to do that, and were in the best way to accomplish their purpose; but I, your father, will save you. Whether the count is a scoundrel, who is calculating on it in cold blood, and has hired that other scoundrel up-stairs to help him, or whether he is only a weak man, who, in the turmoil of passion, has tolerated the assistance of the wretch, I do not know; but it is all the same, as in either case your fate would have been a fearful one."
"Do not insult him!" she cried. "He is good and true! Ask him, if you doubt it, or listen to him when he comes to ask for my hand."
"I can safely promise that," he replied, bitterly; "for he will not come. And I shall certainly not ask him, because I already know the answer, and will not have it said of me: 'The old man lost his senses in despair, and actually implored the count to make the lost girl his wife.'"
"But if he should come?"
"Then I should say, 'No! no! no!' as long as there was breath in my body, in order to save you from unhappiness. For fire and water will not mix quietly, and a woman who is a curse to her husband is the most wretched creature on earth. If Count Agenor Baranowski was really insane enough to marry my daughter, he would be morally dead. There would be a three months' delirium, and then a life of misery, and you deserve a better fate. Not another word," he continued, imperiously, as she was about to speak. "You have had to hear my will to-day, though as yet you cannot understand me."
She stepped forward and raised her hands imploringly. He silently shook his head. Her arms fell, and she staggered from the room, her entire body quivering with emotion. He looked after her sadly, and even after the door closed his eyes were fixed in that direction.
So the old servant found him. She brought the letters that had accumulated during his absence, and asked if he wanted his supper. He declined it, and tried to read the letters. It was impossible. Only one interested him. It was from Bergheimer's old pupil, Berthold Wertheimer, in Breslau, who informed him, in well-measured sentences, that he was passing through Galicia on business, and would give himself the pleasure of calling upon him.
"That is done for, too," sighed the old man, painfully. "I shall consider myself happy if the poor child is cured in a year or two."
Brooding over these troubles, he failed to hear a knock at the door, and only looked up when the visitor stood before him. It was Herr von Wroblewski. With a sorrowful air, he reached out his hand. "Pani Nathaniel," he said, softly, "I have heard you are in trouble and sorrow. The faithful friend should not be missing."
The old man's face worked, but he controlled himself. He did not accept the proffered hand, but his voice was quiet as he asked, "And what has the faithful friend to tell me?"
"Mon Dieu! how you look at me! as if I were to blame. You do me injustice, 'pon my honor! Not one compromising word passed between the young people in my house, and I was dumb with surprise when I heard of the affair."
"Indeed!" said the Jew, still coldly and deliberately. "But you surely do not expect me to believe this? Why this comedy? What is it you wish from me?"
"Pani Nathaniel, you hurt me! It was only our old friendship, 'pon my honor! Then, too, I am compromised, in a way. You may treat me as you like, but I will do my duty. As a man of honor and as your friend, I will go to-morrow, or to-day, if you wish, and will say to the count: 'You were introduced to this young girl in my house, and I have the right to remind you that you are about to commit an outrage against an honorable family. I beg of you to discontinue the attempt.' Yes, I will do it."
"Very well, do what you cannot avoid doing."
"But, are you not willing? It is the only way to influence the count. And you could not find a better go-between."
"Certainly not more honest. But I require no go-between in this affair. I have forbidden my daughter ever to speak, even one syllable, to the count, you, or your ladies. As she is a good child and a Jewess, brought up to obey her father, she will do as I say, though it may be hard for her."
Herr von Wroblewski smiled. "But is not that as the old proverb says, 'emptying out the spoons with the slops'? Perhaps the count will say, 'I am serious in this, and wish to marry the girl.' It is possible."
"That would not make the least difference. I should say 'no,' and Judith knows it. Not because I have any feeling against Christians, but because it would be certain misery for both." He arose.
"That is surely not your final word? You will not refuse the hand of an old friend?"
"Yes," said the Jew, abruptly. "I do not think the less of you for coming," he continued, in a tone of the utmost contempt, "for every one must act according to his principles. Your principles, both private and public, allow you to be convinced by both sides. You have been convinced by the count; now you wish to be by me also. But I decline."
Wroblewski changed color. His face was distorted by rage and hate. With difficulty he restrained himself. "But, Pani Nathaniel, some one must have libelled me to you. The burgomaster perhaps-- Oh! if you only knew how his wife-- It really grieves me to part with you in such a state of mind."
"Yet you will be obliged to do it," said Trachtenberg, quietly, pointing to the door, "otherwise I shall have to call my coachman."
When the magistrate was again in the dark passage, he was forced to hold to the door-posts, he was so overcome with rage.
"You shall pay for that," he groaned, "yes, pay for it," and he reiterated it at least ten times. He then went into the street, where he walked up and down meditating. At last he had made up his mind. "That would be the very best plan, but it must be carried out to-day." He looked at the clock. "Nine; a very convenient hour!" and he then turned his steps in the direction of the castle.
Half an hour later he stood before the count. The young man had just arisen from dinner.
"You have come to ask about the letter?" he inquired. "It has been attended to."
"Of that I had no doubts. I have come to show my gratitude in a practical way." He hastily told what had transpired, in the most glaring colors, of course. "It must have been a frightful scene. The girl swore she would not leave you, and her father that he regarded your proposal as an insult. So he has locked her in her room, and is going to drag her off to some Ghetto to-morrow early--who knows where. The girl will be lost to you forever if you do not act with promptitude."
The count paced the floor in great excitement. "But what can I do?" he asked.
"It would be bad if you required me to tell you!"
"An abduction! But that would be an act of violence."
"Has it never happened before? At any rate, you need not bother yourself. There will be no obstacles. I know the girl's room."
"But if she refuses?"
"Has she refused to come to the park, and is it likely she will refuse to go with you, now her father has been foolish and fanatical enough to tell her he would not even agree to a marriage with you?"
"But she will demand an oath from me!"
"Well, then, swear. You know the proverb about lovers' oaths. As it is, you seem to have developed considerable skill in this critical situation. If you have gone so far without oaths, you can manage the rest."
"It is impossible; my conscience will not allow it." And yet, as he said this, he saw in his mind's eye a carriage stopping before a hunting-lodge belonging to him, five hours distant, and himself stepping out, with Judith in his arms.
"Your conscience," said the magistrate. "Well, of course you can best judge of that yourself. Only consider the matter. You have a few hours still. If you dare venture, let your carriage wait in the street behind the house, about one o'clock, a few hundred feet away from the court-yard gate. I shall be enjoying the fresh air at an open window at that time. If I see you below, I will open the gate to you at the stroke of the clock. Good-night, or au revoir!"
He started to go, but a motion of the count detained him. "Only one question. Trachtenberg told his daughter he would reject even a formal proposal from me--is that true?"
"Do I ever lie?" asked Herr von Wroblewski, angrily and yet smiling at the same time. "Do you think I am so stupid as to tell a lie which could be disproven by your asking his daughter one question? You do not know me yet, my dear count!"
"Does his fanaticism carry him so far?"
"You are surely not surprised at that. Those people barely consider us human beings, and if your conscience cannot accommodate itself-- But that is your own business."
He bowed and left.