CHAPTER XI.
That same evening Raphael's neighbors heard the news. The following morning it passed from mouth to mouth, exciting universal horror and surprise. God had avenged the sin against his holy name, and hurled the sinner in the dust.
Judith Trachtenberg had come home a beggar, and sick unto death; and if she died, as those who had seen her thought she must, the account would be squared. There was no further occasion for pity or persecution. And because God himself had judged her, they praised Raphael for not having stayed his avenging arm, and blamed Miriam for showing compassion. "She will spoil her chance of future salvation." The milder ones said: "Besides the responsibility she has in regard to her own child, she is now assuming this." But the rougher Jews who, impelled by curiosity, had surrounded the little house in Roskowska since early morning, in the chance of catching a glimpse of the victim of God's wrath, judged differently. And when the old woman came out and entreated them either to go away or to make less noise, only a few complied with the modest request, the majority crying, "Shame upon you, to bring disgrace on the congregation!"
But the little old woman, who crept about generally under the overwhelming consciousness of her misfortune and bowed in humility before the humblest, gave way now not one step. She stood there, drawn up to her full height, with that sort of glorified expression on her withered face as had been there the previous evening when it dawned upon her that God had thus shown her a way of atonement. "Shame upon you!" she cried. "What do you know of God, and of what is disgrace in his sight? Go back, I say!" and there was something in her face and voice which awed them into obedience.
But only for a second. Then some one cried, "Have you found a Christian to marry you?" and these insulting words loosed the ban. However, help came to Miriam. One of the elders of the congregation, old Simeon Tragmann, came up, and, standing in front of the woman, said to the crowd, authoritatively, "Go! When God speaks, let man keep silence. Go! I command it in the name of your dead benefactor. If it was his wish that the sinner should be buried at his side, it was also his wish that she should be allowed to die in peace."
Sullenly they left the house, but they gathered together in knots in the street, clenching their fists and speaking with bated breath. Curiosity chained them to the spot, though they could not have said for what they were waiting. It was only the feeling that such an unheard-of circumstance must have some result.
For a time they waited in vain. Only the doctor, who had already been there at break of day, entered again. But while he was paying his second visit a carriage drove up in which the burgomaster was seated. When he saw the gathering of people, he felt greatly tempted to make a speech; but he remembered in time that he had come to see his ward, and so passed into the sick-room.
There he gave Miriam a large sum of money for Judith's use, inquiring of Dr. Reiser as to her condition. The doctor had no definite answer to give; he could only say she was suffering from a severe attack of nervous fever, and he did not know how it might end.
The burgomaster felt moved to give expression to his sympathy in some eloquent words, and, having once heard his own mellifluous tones, he passed into an oration in praise of Miriam and her generosity. But the old woman interrupted him curtly with a request that he should not excite the invalid, which request the doctor emphasized still more energetically by taking the Demosthenes by the arm and leading him to the door.
Then there was a sight which rewarded the on-lookers for their waiting. An equipage came in full speed from the castle, and stopped in front of the house. Count Agenor alighted, and, hastening to the two men, seized the doctor's hand, asking, "How is she?"
Dr. Reiser gave a cautious answer, nor was his manner the most affable in the world.
"I must see her. She must be brought to the castle at once, both she and my boy. I cannot leave her here."
The doctor cleared his throat dubiously: "We must first consider that. The sight of you would affect her seriously."
Just then Miriam rushed into the passage, placing herself in front of the count. "Go away!" she screamed. "Go away!" she repeated, with determination. "Judith and her child shall remain here."
"My good woman," said the count, soothingly, "I am very grateful to you for your kindness, but she will have better air and better attention at the castle."
"I do not require your thanks," returned Miriam, almost in a whisper, and evidently controlling herself with great difficulty. "It is not every one who can be so merciful to Judith as you have been. But Judith shall stay here with me, and so shall her baby. No one can care for her better than I; and as for the air--there is no good air in your castle, Monsieur le Comte; it kills--"
"I demand my rights!" replied Agenor. "I want my family."
"Hush!" and Miriam went close to him, and whimpered in his ear: "You want your wife, were you going to say? Do not force me--"
He drew back, and was silent. "Doctor!" he said, imploringly. But the old gentleman shook his head. "I fear I cannot help you. Come, gentlemen, the woman is needed inside."
A few hours later the rumor of Judith's death spread through the town. Hundreds went to Roskowska to find out for a certainty. But the report was false. Perhaps it originated with the thought in the minds of the people that she could not recover. God had judged her; her grave was in readiness; it was in order for her to die.
But as she did not, and the doctor reported her to be gradually recovering, the people, both Jews and Christians, became restless. How were they to judge her? In what light should they regard her? Yet, for all that, there was but one individual in the whole town who wished for her death with his entire heart.
That was Herr Ludwig von Wroblewski. Her recovery threatened his safety. He had nothing to fear from the count; but if she lived, and informed against him, his pleasant, comfortable life was ended. He would have to exchange his palatial residence for a lowlier dwelling-place; and that the count would have to share this with him proved a poor consolation.
The more favorable the bulletins, the more sleepless his nights; and when, three weeks after Judith's return, he heard she was able to be about, he begged Agenor for an audience. Although the count permitted him to occupy rooms in his house, and had not dared refuse his most insolent requests, yet he had had but one short conversation with him since his return, early in January.
Agenor had avoided him assiduously, and Wroblewski had been obliged to deal with the lawyer. "He is a coward," thought the ex-magistrate, "and for that reason he dare not refuse to see me."
But Agenor did refuse, and Wroblewski had to resort to his pen. He described in vivid colors the reports that had been afloat in aristocratic circles regarding the sham-marriage, and were now well known for miles around. No one doubted them, and it was a mystery why Groze had not taken the case up. How would it be if Judith made a declaration? Even then there would be no danger for him. It was his friendship for the count which induced his anxiety.
Even this touching letter was left unanswered; and when Wroblewski inquired of the lawyer regarding it, the latter replied that the count had nothing to fear from the mother of his child, and that if she made an affidavit, the consequences would be disagreeable to Herr von Wroblewski principally, since the testimony of Ignatius Tondka would prove that it was he who bore the lion's share of the responsibility in this dirty matter. Tondka had already placed himself at the lawyer's disposal for that purpose.
It was an evil hour for the ex-magistrate when he received this information, for as he had not had any letters from Mohilev lately, he had sent no money, but used the funds for himself. Now, suddenly, his guilty confederate appears again on the scene. "Bah!" he thought, "if the count is not afraid, I need not be. For he has his reputation to lose, and I nothing," Nevertheless, he was not quite at his ease.
Perhaps he overestimated the count's position. Perhaps Baranowski, too, had little to lose in the estimation of people. Judith's return had accentuated the reports circulated about him; and whether his old friends disapproved of so much fuss on account of a Jewess, or whether they really disapproved of his actions, they all agreed in condemning him.
The contempt with which they regarded him had caused him much discomfort during the first weeks of his return, but it was trifling now in comparison with this new affliction which burdened his soul--his repentance and his terror of the law. All the good and evil in his nature seemed to have united to sharpen his agony. His love for his victim, his longing to make expiation for his crime, his desire to regain his old self-respect, and again that false idea of honor that made him think his sin a lesser evil than marriage with a Jewess.
"She must not die!" he cried, in mad fear, to the old doctor, whom he visited almost daily, and in the same breath, with vehement earnestness, "she must not accuse me!" It did not seem clear which evil he dreaded most.
Dr. Reiser, who at first was very hard on him, grew at last to pity the tortured man, and at his request promised to make an attempt to act as mediator. But careful though he was, at the first intimation the pale cheeks of the convalescent flushed, and she raised her hand in protest. "Do not speak of him to me, please. I am not strong enough to bear it. When I regain my strength I will remember him."
"So as to ruin him?"
"So as to do my duty to myself, my child, and my brother. You do not know how he has misused me. He even tried to rob me of my inheritance."
"No! surely not that."
"I mean my grave, the best that remained to me. Ah! it was more than I dared to hope. You look at me curiously, doctor, but my brain is perfectly clear, and I see everything now as it really was, his cowardice and baseness! How great they were--how great!"
"Let us drop the subject," said the doctor, taking her by the hand. "I see you hate him, and I have nothing more to say."
"Yes, I hate him," she replied, sullenly, "but I would not wrong him. I can understand, and in a certain measure forgive, his deception. How could he know a Jewess is a human being and has honor and a heart? Besides, I know that scoundrel urged him on and arranged matters for him--even his conscience. In his way he loved me. I can even understand that mean trick, the sham marriage, to which he was led by Wroblewski. He, a Baranowski! It seemed his only way of escape. He robbed me of my honor; he gave me in exchange his protection and his fidelity. But he robbed me of something still more sacred without giving an equivalent. He stole my faith, and gave me in its place--some drops of water from the hand of a swindler! This crime could not seem to him as grave as the first, and he feared I might be suspicious. But can that excuse him? May a man rob another of his most precious possession in order to hide another crime? And it might have been so different. Had he known how blindly I trusted him, the most stupid excuse as to baptism would have sufficed, and this mockery might have been avoided. But of that he had no thought. Has a Jewess a soul? does she need a creed? And when I told him I did, and he saw that, shut out in overwhelming darkness, I was perishing for warmth and light, his only sensation was annoyance because he was reminded of his crime."
"Suppose he had felt otherwise, what could he have done? Ought he to have had you baptized afterwards, or converted to his faith without this formality? Would this have been a lesser offence?"
"As I view it, yes! If I were a Catholic I should think of it as a terrible misfortune, but his guilt would not be so great. Furthermore: when I heard of my father's death, and I looked upon myself as a murderess, when I writhed in anguish, I implored the man I loved to allow me to bewail my father's death in the way of our people, and to tell me the truth that I might not go mad, he lied! Have you an excuse for that?"
"No excuse, but an expiation. I suppose Miriam has told you what the count is prepared to do. He had hardly heard of your arrival when he came here to take his wife and child home. How white you are! Has this been kept from you?"
The blood had left her cheeks and her head sank back on the chair. "It is nothing," she murmured, as he anxiously felt her pulse. She breathed with difficulty. "Miriam told me, but I interpreted it otherwise."
"And what will you do, now that you know the real interpretation? The very hour you become a Christian, the count is ready to marry you. That is the message I bring you."
She lay back, her eyes shut, her mouth quivering, panting for breath.
He rose. "You are unprepared. I will come for the answer to-morrow."
She was silent. But as he looked at her he saw her face grow more fixed and set. Two large tears forced their way from under the closed eyelids and rolled down her cheeks, but her brows contracted, and she made reply by a shake of the head.
"What is it? Do you decline?"
"What else can I do? It is as if he would bring the dead to life. When I thought of the happiness it might have brought, had it been a voluntary action, tears came to my eyes. But when he does it from fear of the law--"
"Have a talk with him and see how sincere is his repentance. Think, too, of your child, and you cannot say no. Is your boy to go through the world as heir of the Baranowskis or as a bastard? Pardon me, but that must be considered."
She seemed to have forgotten that, for involuntarily her glance turned towards the cradle of her baby. Again tears filled her eyes.
"I will not torture you more," said the doctor, taking up his hat; "but ask your conscience and then decide. I will come again to-morrow." And he left the room.
"I believe you will have your 'yes' to-morrow," said the doctor to the count, as he reported the conversation, "and, both of you being young, all will yet end well."
Agenor looked down moodily.
"I hope you are not mistaken in thinking her love for her child outweighs her hatred for me."
"I am sure of it. She is a Jewess, and what is there a Jewess would not do for her child? It is upon that I place my hope. For those things which would influence a meaner nature, such as prudence, personal advantage, rank, she will not for a moment take into consideration; and if she did, they would not move her."
The doctor was much surprised when Miriam appeared the next morning, saying Judith begged he should not call, as, since she was allowed to go out, she was going to her father's grave.
"That will excite her too much," he said. "Say I beg her to postpone it for some days."
"She will not hear of it; nor do I think it will hurt her. It will injure her more if she wishes to go and is not allowed. If I had yielded to her entreaties I should have taken her there in a carriage long ago. She will not be kept back to-day. She did not sleep last night for excitement. I believe," said the old woman, as calmly as if she spoke of visiting some living friend--"I believe she has something to say to her father!"
The doctor entered Judith's room next day with anxious forebodings, which were not diminished when he saw her face. It wore an expression of gloomy calm, which had become habitual during her convalescence. "That is not the face of one who wishes for reconciliation," he thought, and he had scarcely taken his seat before she began:
"I cannot do it, doctor. I must say no."
"And your boy--have you considered that also!"
"That also. No doubt it would be better for him. It is a sad misfortune to have been born a Jew, and I am leaving him a heritage worse than that even, one which rarely falls to a Jewish child--the shame of birth. But whatever a mother may do to better the status of her child, one thing she must not do--become a criminal. And if I were baptized to-day, it would be a crime against God."
He was astonished. "I did not expect that. Once you were willing, and it was not your fault that it was not done."
"What did I know of God then? What does any young, happy, innocent thing know of him? And I was so happy. I believed in him, of course; and although I should have preferred to be a Christian, yet I was fairly contented with my creed, and when I wished for anything in addition to my abundance, I prayed for it. My faith was a cloak, and why should I not change it, especially as my lover wished it? It was hard for me only because it parted me from my relations. But they provided me with no new cloak; and when I felt guilty and miserable, then I found what faith was. It was no cloak, but one's very soul. I know what you are going to say," she continued, impatiently; "I have heard it often enough. We have all one Father in heaven! I believed that, too, and when I was in the deepest misery it was a consolation to hope it. But now when I consider my fate and that of those about me, I do not believe it. Why should we have suffered so much for our creed, if it were unnecessary? Is he indifferent as to whether we hold to our Jewish faith or not? Why were we born Jews? No, he must know his own wishes. Our blood, our tears, do not flow in vain, else he would not be the all-merciful, the all-just. Therefore I yield to his will in this, and will not burden my soul with fresh guilt. I have enough to answer for already."
"To your God, the God of the Jews," said the old man, sorrowfully. "I understand you have returned to him. Nevertheless it is true--he is not the God of Jews or of Christians only. You know little of our creed. Learn it."
"I know enough," she exclaimed, wildly. "It is a creed of love, of humanity. It ordains that doors should be opened to the pretty, wealthy Jewess, especially if the owner of the doors is in debt to her father; that young gentleman may talk more unrestrainedly with her than with ladies who are Christians. She, indeed, may feel no strangeness in that society, for she looks upon them as fellow-creatures. But her father and brother do not count as men with them: they are only Jews--of whom the men are born to make money which Christians may borrow, and the women to cater to your enjoyment by their beauty. If a Jewess loses her heart to a Christian and forsakes all to follow him, his religion teaches men never to forget her creed. And then you call your religion one of love!"
She sobbed bitterly, and, loosening a lock of hair, through whose auburn brightness ran a band of silver, she held it up for him to see. "I am twenty-two years old, doctor; need I say more?"
"Have not the Jews done their share in increasing those gray hairs? Even you have the commandment, 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' It is one of the most important of your creed, as it is of ours. Do your people act up to it? Remember your reception here."
"I deserved the treatment I received. What did they know? what do they know to-day, except that I am a dishonored woman and my father's murderess? But if you were right, and we had the same laws and sinned against them, still peace and springtide might some day visit the earth; but now it is winter, and we are at war. In winter we stay at home, and in wartime we do not desert to the enemy's camp. If you are correct in saying your altar is a sanctuary of God, then I must not desecrate it. What would be my thoughts when I bent over the font? Of what would I think during the marriage ceremony? After all that has passed, it would be my worst sin. And I fear God. I remember how my father thought of it, and for his sake it is now impossible. When I stood by his grave yesterday, it was clear to me that he was a God-fearing man, and would not have counselled me to lie in sacred matters."
"He was a kind man, too, and knew how much God could forgive. He himself forgave much."
"Yes, misdeeds against himself, but not against God. He thought: 'My child has broken my heart. God will punish her, but I will forgive her. As she will suffer much, let her rest by my side; and when at the last day the trumpet sounds, let her go before the Judge with her hand in mine.' This is what he meant, and it would be hard to surrender this privilege. Yet for my child's sake I would make the sacrifice, only I cannot sin again, even for him."
He looked at her white, inflexible face, and ventured no further remark. He arose silently, pressed her hand, and turned to go. A slight exclamation detained him; it sounded like a sigh. He looked around inquiringly.
She stood, her head slightly inclined, her face scarlet. "One thing more. If he could resolve to--"
"What?" he said, encouragingly.
But she sighed deeply, and dropped her arms. "No," she said. "He will not do that. He cannot, and according to our laws it is out of the question. He would only deride me for thinking of it. Pardon me, I have no more to say."
He asked again, but she answered decidedly, "It is nothing," and he went away.
He now had the unpleasant duty of conveying her answer to Agenor. But the latter was more collected than he had feared. He turned pale and said, "I told you so," and during the doctor's recital betrayed his excitement only by the nervous drumming of his fingers on the table.
"As God wills," he said, when the doctor had concluded. "I have at least the comfort of knowing I have done what I could. If she bring an accusation against me, you will not refuse to testify to my desire to grant all she could demand."
"No, but unwillingly," said the old gentleman, brusquely. This question of the count's annoyed him, but only for a moment, for he knew it was quite in keeping with a weak character, which was impelled by fear as well as by penitence; and then, to feel he had done his whole duty, he told the count her last words.
They had a startling effect. He leaped from his seat, with flaming cheeks, and, holding out his hands in protestation, he exclaimed: "That cannot be. Better the prison. How can she imagine such a thing?"
"She does not. She did not even tell me what it was, and I should prefer not to know."
"He is not so bad, after all," thought the doctor, as he went down-stairs. "He is in a bad position, and is pitiably weak. I'll wager he comes to me asking me to make another attempt before three days are over."
In this he was mistaken, for Agenor came to him the same evening. "Do have a talk with Raphael. He is the only one to influence her, and it cannot be a matter of indifference to him whether his sister lives here as my wife or as she is at present."
The doctor refused point-blank. "It would be useless. To him she is dead." And in this he was firm, despite prayers and entreaties.
Yet the good old man did go to Raphael the next day. What the count could not effect, Miriam Gold did. Shortly after Agenor's visit, she went in cautiously with a thousand apologies for disturbing him at such an hour. "But I had to come. My heart cries out, 'Tell Dr. Reiser,' and so I am here."
"Say what you wish, Miriam. But I cannot make any further effort for reconciliation between Judith and the count."
"Who speaks of that? Praise to the Father Everlasting that it has failed! While you were with her, I prayed to God so to confuse your words that they might not persuade her to become a renegade. I know God better than most people about here. My heart says he was merciful to Leah, and he will also be merciful to Judith." Her voice sank to a whisper. "Doctor, her soul is in a bad way! It is like a poor little bird that is longing to fly away, but is held back by a few slender threads. She must care for her child, justify herself in the sight of the people, and fulfil God's will. As long as she has to undergo disgrace and persecution she will stay, because she takes that as a punishment from God. But if she married the count, she would be justified, her child would be safe, and persecution cease. Then the threads would be severed, and the poor little bird would fly away."
"I fear that in any case. Has she ever hinted at it to you?"
"No. But when one lives with her, and hears her sigh! Thank God, you have not succeeded. Yet I should like to have another thread to bind her to earth. Her heart bleeds over Raphael's anger. If they could only be reconciled! It is true the thread of persecution would then be loosened," and the old woman gesticulated as if the network of threads were really there. "Yet not completely. I know our people too well. Doctor, because you have a good heart, and she is so miserable, will you not speak to Raphael?"
"It will be useless," he said, and yet he gave his promise.
When he was with Raphael, and beheld the stern face of a morose man of mature years, instead of the bright look of a young man of twenty-three, his heart failed, and he had only hinted at his errand when he arose.
"Dr. Reiser," said a cool, collected voice. "That name must never be mentioned in my house. A few days ago the elders of the congregation called to ask me to see that the boy was received into the covenant of Israel. To them I made answer that I had no right or duty in the matter. And yet a sacred question was therein involved."
"No holier than that which brought me here. If you listened to the elders, you should listen to me also." He then talked of Judith plainly and to the point, as was his wont; and he thought to himself, no heart could be so hard as to listen unmoved.
Raphael gave no sign of impatience, but when he turned his face to the doctor, the latter knew he had spoken in vain. It was the face of one who had forgotten to be merciful.
"You have told me nothing new. It is a hard fate, which you say is undeserved. I say it is deserved. For my part, I will neither add to nor take away from its misery. 'Vengeance is mine,' saith the Lord. For me, she is dead. You say she made no sacrifice of her honor, that she was tricked out of it. Let her accuse her betrayer. It is enough for me to know the well-guarded child of the best of fathers is a lost woman--the first of her faith in this town for centuries. She will not become a Christian? There is no merit in that. It is her duty, and her repentance cannot recall my father to life or wash the stain from our name."
"Herr Trachtenberg, this is exceptional severity."
"Perhaps not as exceptional," and here there was a break in his voice for the first time, "as my former love for her."
At the door the doctor found the count's carriage. The count was with the magistrate Groze, Fedko said. Had he been asked to call? the doctor queried; and then he had time to think again of Miriam's curious words. He did not believe in them, and yet they depressed him. The thread could not be tied; it had been cut for all time.
On his return home that afternoon from a round of visits, Dr. Reiser was informed that Count Baranowski and old Miriam had called, and that the latter had begged to know when he returned. "Go and tell her!" was the order.
Wearied out, he had scarcely seated himself, when the count entered. The latter looked wretched, and his eye was restless. "Forgive me, but I could not rest. Fedko told me you had been to Raphael, after all. What did he say?"
The doctor told him.
"Then, I have no occasion to repent the step I have taken to-day. I was afraid I had been in too much of a hurry."
His tone contradicted his words, for it was very shaky. He sighed profoundly. "I have been to Groze's, and, following my lawyer's advice, have confessed all."
"How did he receive you?"
"Worse than I expected. He said nothing offensive, but he looked very angry, and refused my hand when I took leave. He also said he would expect me at his office to-morrow morning at eleven. Well, as God will! Anyhow, it was not--"
Suddenly the old gentleman, who had been staring into the street, jumped up, took him by the arm, and led him into the adjoining room. He had seen Judith, her child in her arms, and Miriam, following his servant to the house. "You may listen," he whispered to Agenor, leaving the door ajar as he re-entered the other room.
Judith's cheeks were bright and her eyes flashed. "You are my only friend and will not take it amiss if I ask for advice. This paper was served upon me at noon to-day."
He opened the document. "The magistrate Groze summons you as witness to-morrow morning at eleven. You can imagine in what case you are called, I suppose; and if not, I can inform you. The count has surrendered himself to the law."
"Ah!" she exclaimed, "to mitigate his punishment."
"Even if that were the case, can you blame him? He has shown his penitence conclusively enough, but you remain irreconcilable. You will meet him tomorrow in the presence of the judge, for he has been summoned also."
"I will not meet him."
He looked at her. As she stood there, her clear-cut features faintly flushed, her slender form upright, a reflection of her former beauty seemed to surround her. But sorrow had cut its marks deep in her features, and the gray hair was in sad contrast with the delicate oval of her face. The doctor had much difficulty in keeping up his assumed tone.
"Why will you not see him?" he asked. "I think it very possible that Groze will summon you at the same time. It will expedite proceedings and mitigate his penalty. You do not require to take your boy when you appear against his father to-morrow, an act which will probably hand him over to a jailer--"
"Dr. Reiser, are you deserting me? I cannot become a Christian. What can I do?"
"He will tell you that himself," said the doctor, opening the door. She gave a faint scream when she saw Agenor.
"Judith," he sobbed, falling at her feet. "Forgive, forgive! You shall not become a Christian. We will go to Weimar and be married. I swear it."
Her eyes closed, the doctor ran and seized the child, and allowed her to sink gently into a chair.
"It is only a swoon," he said.
CHAPTER XII.
It was a clear, warm Sunday in September, four months later. It had been stormy the whole week, to the delight of many, as it furnished a sufficient excuse for not hanging out flags and otherwise decorating their houses.
But Friday the clouds passed away, and Saturday the sun shone warm and dried up streets and walls, so that the Christians hurried to make up for lost time, and the Jews, who dared not raise their hands till evening, had to work late in the night.
Herr Stiegle had ordered it, and had also stated that the count would forget none of those whose houses remained as usual. Never had garlands and festoons been prepared with such unwillingness or muttered curses, or such hopes for a downpour on Sunday morning.
But the sun shone as in June. "She succeeds in everything, even in this," they groaned. So they put on their festive garments, and went into the street to witness the entry of Count Baranowski and his wife, Judith Trachtenberg, who had been married two months before by the burgomaster of Weimar.
A stranger would have observed little difference between this reception and the one two years previously. Even the triumphal arch was not lacking, and the crowd in the street was greater, for numbers had come from far and wide to see the miracle. There would have been nothing very terrible to the minds of the sight-seers had the first version of the romance been correct--that the representative of one of the noblest names of Podolia had married a baptized Jewess. But that a Christian should marry a Jewess, without priest or altar, and that there was a country in the world where this could happen, without fear of an avenging thunderbolt! Yet the thunderbolt had not fallen, nor the earth quaked on that day; for, hard as it was to believe, much as it contradicted the traditions of the people, the marriage had taken place. It was not unlike a legend. Perhaps it was in one of those countries where there were yellow people and black, inky-black, people.
The count and the Jewess might be married according to the laws of that strange land, but they would surely stay there; they would not dare to breathe the same air as those who believed in God.
The fable became a miracle, hard to understand, but true, nevertheless, when the report went abroad that they were coming back. The emperor allowed it! Nothing could astonish any more, not even the order for a public reception. And why not? They had lost all sense of shame and reverence for God. They were trying how long-suffering was the patience of the Lord and of their fellow-countrymen.
It was warmly debated as to whether piety would permit them to witness the spectacle. Still, when the sun rose that eventful morning, hundreds were to be seen flocking in, in carriages, on horseback, on foot--burghers, peasants, and Jews. Only the clergy and the nobility were absent.
Besides these voluntary spectators, others were here, by order of Herr Stiegle--three hundred peasants and laborers from the count's estate, middle-aged, sober men, who were to form an escort. "You are to keep order," he had said. "Our master and his bride shall be worthily received." He had said only this, but he knew they understood, and would do their duty if necessary.
No one could foretell whether or not it would be necessary, not even this cool, calculating man, who knew the townspeople so well. He comforted himself with the thought that, if painful scenes occurred, it would not be his fault. Weeks before, he had received by special messenger a note from the count, saying that Prince Metternich had notified the government that the marriage was valid. The boy had been baptized and legitimatized, and therefore he desired a public reception.
The faithful Swabian had sent his protest, founded on public opinion; but it was fruitless, for another messenger renewed the order, as the countess wished it particularly. "The countess!" Even Herr Stiegle, whose only antipathies were the contracting of debts and the disagreeing of accounts, could not repress a mocking smile at the title. But he did his duty.
His orders were obeyed, and as he looked at the decorations he could not but be content. The Dominican monastery and the rabbi's house alone remained unornamented. Stiegle had not dared to speak to the prior, and the rabbi told him he feared God more than the count.
Herr Groze's house, too, wore its ordinary appearance; the windows were closed, and some of the blinds down. "I did not appear as his judge in the spring, because there was no plaintiff, and I was obliged to regard the count's confession as private. But I do not intend to show him respect I do not feel."
This was quite within the scope of Stiegle's understanding; but that the countess's brother should make no demonstration was unpardonable. He knew how many letters had passed between them, and therefore believed that there must have been a reconciliation.
There were other cares which pressed upon Herr Stiegle, as he arranged his peasant guard. These honest fellows could be trusted, and the mob was too cowardly for violent deeds; but what if there should be insulting words? Whichever way he looked he saw sullen or sneering faces.
"Herr Twanicki," he said to the little deformed cobbler, who had great influence over his equals, "I count upon you."
"Certainly, certainly; if we only knew what to shout. What is the Hebrew for 'hurrah'?"
Herr Stiegle spoke to Simeon Tragmann, the chief elder, at the triumphal arch, who answered, "We are in our places by your command. But if our people let their indignation master them, what can we do?"
"Indignation! Why, it is such a triumph for you as has never before occurred."
Old Simeon shook his head. "That which is contrary to God's law cannot be pleasing to us. It is the will of God that Jewesses should marry Jews, and that their sons should be Jews."
The only really pleasant face was that of the burgomaster. He had prepared a speech in which he proposed to explain the two creeds and to demonstrate the equalizing force of love. So even his pleasure was spoiled by Stiegle informing him that the count requested that the address should be as brief as possible.
This accomplished, Herr Stiegle placed his guards in line of march, took his stand, and waited anxiously for the shouts of the crowd. Nor were they lacking. The wags took care of that. The cobbler and his friends invented new words for hurrah, and amused themselves by making proposals of marriage to the Jewish women in the crowd. The women screamed, their friends interfered; here and there fists were clenched and a few blows exchanged; but just as the row threatened to become serious, the band of peasants lifted their axes and restored order.
Stupid as they might seem to be, they all knew what was expected from them. Before the Trachtenberg house the public peace was threatened. The Christians made loud complaint for having been forced to hang out banners, while Raphael had been required to make no sign, to which the Jews made answer by averring that he was right, for the disgrace had fallen most heavily on him. "No," retorted the Christians, "the disgrace is for us--the honor for you!"
Again sticks were raised, when a would-be wit called for three cheers for Wroblewski, which, causing a laugh, restored good-humor. It was known to all that Wroblewski had found refuge with a farmer of ill-repute since he had been turned out of the castle, and that he was maintained by his wife's shame.
There were two happy hearts in the town. They both blessed God, in whom they believed; and yet what a wide, impassable gulf was there in their belief!
In Roskowska, Miriam Gold had been waiting for many hours. She had awakened her servant at early dawn, and had herself dressed in her Sabbath clothes. The servant was a girl from the Ghetto, who lived with the eccentric old woman because of the excellent wages she received; for since Judith had cared for Miriam the former beggar had been enabled to act the part of a benefactress to others.
The servant obeyed, for she knew contradiction would be useless. "Miriam's mind as well as her body is waning," she thought. The old woman, whose vitality under persecution and want had seemed indestructible, had been restored, as it were, from the day when she met Judith and her boy, to her youthful energy.
But since Judith had returned to the count her strength had steadily declined. Yet she uttered no word of complaint; on the contrary, a proud smile played about her withered lips as she said, "He knows what he is doing. My work on earth is ended."
When the news of the marriage at Weimar was spread abroad, and the inmates of the Ghetto were loud in condemnation and curses, the old woman held her head still higher. "I knew it," she said to her servant. "But I did not dare hope He would let me see it. How my Lea will rejoice when she knows of it! for surely they will hear of it there?"
The girl reported these words, and there were many zealots who visited the small house in the suburb, to reprove the old woman for her laxity. But when they stood by her couch they could not find it in their hearts to say anything to hurt the poor creature, who would only be with them a few days longer.
But Miriam lived on. Even the doctor was surprised. She was always glad to see him, but she would not touch his prescriptions. "He will not let me die yet," she said. "I hope, in His mercy, He will grant me this short span of time."
When the doctor asked what she meant, she replied, with a peculiar smile, "You will soon hear; and when it happens, I shall go to the synagogue for the last time."
He did not press his inquiry, but told her Judith had requested him to look after her "benefactress."
"Nonsense!" cried the old woman. "She saved my life; and what I said to you about the little bird that wished to fly away, that is nonsense, too. Judith will not do that now. She must see that God has chosen her to demonstrate his will to poor, blind humanity, and this knowledge is a thread that will not be easily severed."
The doctor listened with emotion. How many great intellects would have raised themselves to such an ideal height of humanity as this simple Jewess had through her own misery? A few days passed, and then he discovered for what Miriam had been waiting.
When the news came of the imperial decision and the public reception, Miriam sent for him for the first time since her illness. "Forgive me, doctor; but I should like to share my thankfulness for God's goodness and greatness with one person at least."
The next Sabbath she dressed herself in her best, and, leaning on the arm of her servant, dragged herself to the synagogue. Many times she thought she would have fallen by the way, but she managed to reach the house of God.
The people gazed at her in surprise. For years she had crept in shyly and humbly, and taken her seat in the most retired corner in the women's gallery. Now she cried, imperiously, "Make room! Make room for the mother of Lea!" when some one stood in her way; and although people thought it wrong, they did it, moved by the shining eyes and pale, haggard face.
"She is mad," whispered some. "She is dying," said others; and they let her alone. Like a victor she moved in the midst of the worshippers; like a victor she returned to her home.
"This has been my last walk," she said. "I shall wear this dress but once more."
The day had come, and although it was early, she hurried the servant till everything was as she wished. She had her windows opened wide, so she could hear the volley which was to announce the count's arrival; then she opened her psalm-book, and sent the servant away. "Shall I not stay outside, Aunt Miriam? If you should want anything--"
"Silly girl," said the old woman, with a smile. "What can I want to-day?"
One other person waited the hour of their approach with impatience. He, too, thanked the Lord he had lived to see this day; but it was another God than Miriam's to whom his thoughts ascended. It was the God of vengeance--the God who punishes the sinner for his sins, and dashes the proud in the mire.
As Raphael paced nervously up and down his room, his pale face was lifted proudly, and one thought predominated all others. The shame with which the haughty Christian, in the consciousness of his power, had stained the Jewish house was expiated, and was to-day to be completely wiped out.
The count had made the Jewess his wife without her having abjured her faith. What he felt about it was his own concern; if he suffered, he deserved it. Praise and thanks to the Lord, who had ordained it should be so! And if Agenor was willing to give a satisfaction which even Raphael had not dared to demand, as Judith had written--that is, to stop at the house and ask formally for her brother's sanction to the union--it would be the most trying hour of the count's life. Yet it was just, and Judith had asked only because she knew what befitted her and hers.
Yes, God had greatly prospered them; and the more piercing the voices of the mob, the more proudly and defiantly Raphael held his head. He stamped his foot passionately. "Though they kill me the next moment, with my last breath will I give thanks for having seen this expiation."
His ideas became confused and struggling when he thought of Judith, of what she must feel when she bent her husband's neck so low--he, whose honor was now her honor--of how her life was to be fashioned after all that had transpired, and in an atmosphere saturated with hatred against her and her class.
He scarcely realized this; and when he remembered how he had prophesied her present misery in former times, the feelings which had been his support for the two fearful years which were passed now helped him. She had prepared her own couch. God above kept strict accounts.
But she was his sister, the being he had loved more than himself. There were moments when his anger and bitterness melted into warm, trembling tenderness. What had not this beautiful girl suffered, she who was worthy of any fortune! If she had erred, was it not from a noble impulse? And how she had paid for it!
The hour when she sank at his feet a penitent came into his mind. O God! how emaciated she was! how burdened by a sorrow which no human voice could dispel!
The cheering for Wroblewski aroused him from his musings; then from a great distance the first faint roar of a cannon, answered by volleys in the marketplace. The count had reached the boundary-line of the town, where the banderium was waiting for him. Another half-hour and the procession would be before the door.
But it was not so long. When the count, in an open landau with his wife, and a closed vehicle which contained Hamia, Jan, and the boy, who had been christened Ludwig, reached "The Three lindens," at the limits of the town, he scarcely gave the leader of the banderium time to hand him the bread and salt before he ordered the closed carriage to drive to the castle by a circuitous way, and told Fedko to "hurry up."
The landau was driven at a furious pace, and was enveloped in a cloud of dust as it reached the town.
Every moment the count's cheeks grew more colorless, and the quivering of his lips more pronounced. He never looked up, and several times he covered his face with his hands. For weeks, for months, he had anticipated this hour; it seemed life could have nothing more painful in store, and must it be?
Day by day he had asked himself this question; and now he was carried away with indignation at his wife's severity, and with shame at his weakness in yielding to her. What he had undergone the past four months he considered as undeserved; for though his sin had been great, his had been an unheard-of penance.
He had married her in Weimar; what more could she ask? Yet she did. She allowed him to do as he wished with the boy--indeed, it was as if it were her own desire; but when he said they must keep from home until the excitement was over, she urged him to go to Vienna, that they might bring about the recognition of their marriage. He resisted, but she said: "My whole soul hangs on this one thing. Grant this request, and I will reward you well."
"With what?" he thought. "With love and fidelity!" He had earned that before God and men by a greater sacrifice than any man of his position had ever made. Ought she not to be faithful to him, she for whose sake his best friends had been faithless, she for whom he had incurred so many slights? But his resistance grew weaker. His character was not adapted to resist a feeble will, much less this one of iron.
Finally he yielded, because he thought she would see for herself, when in Vienna, the impracticability of her desire. "If you do not succeed, we will go to Italy for two years," he said, and to this she agreed.
Convinced of the futility of her attempt, and annoyed at the gossip she was inciting, he watched her curiously. It was during the régime of Metternich--a régime which bowed only to the church, and therefore the more impossible. Whenever she spoke of it, he assured her that her object was unattainable.
But she never tired of devising new ways and means, and when these proved useless, she set herself to work to gain the aid of the church itself. A young prelate of an impoverished noble family was the first won over.
Soon her apartments in the "Wilder Mann" swarmed with soutanes and hoods, and one morning she exclaimed: "Congratulate me, Agenor; I am going to Metternich." They had been in Vienna six weeks, and only the banker who had charge of her funds knew how costly all this had been.
Agenor looked at her in astonishment. As she stood before him in her dark, flowing robe, her grayish hair wrapped in a black mantilla, her clearly cut features pale and fixed, only her lips showing her excitement, she inspired him with an emotion curiously compounded of respect and fear. The love he had now and then faintly felt of late was wanting. Never had he realized it as now.
"Are you certain he will receive you?" he asked, hesitatingly. She showed him a card admitting to an audience.
"Have you considered it well?" he continued, dubiously. She gave him no answer, but shook his hand by way of farewell. When she returned two hours later, he saw by her face she had gained her point. He sprang from his seat and gazed at her; but no word of triumph issued from her lips.
"We shall receive the papers this week," she said, abruptly; and when he besieged her with questions as to the methods by which she had accomplished her purpose, she said: "By telling the truth! One succeeds better that way with clever people, and he is clever. He saw at once I had no wish to overthrow either Austria or the church, or even the walls of the Ghetto. He did not make the concession to the Jews, but to the woman. I have concealed but one thing from him."
"What is that?"
She shook her head. "You shall know, and soon, but not to-day. I would have told him that, too, had it been necessary, but it was not," she continued, as if soliloquizing. "He is better than they allow; he is too clever to be entirely base."
He listened without thinking much of what she was saying, until she said: "As soon as we have the papers we will go home, of course."
To that he gave a vehement negative; and when she promised to reward him well, he asked her, indignantly, what she thought of him.
"You do not know what I mean," she said, quietly, with a peculiar smile; "but I do--I will do it in the best way possible." However, that had not so much effect as her promise to remain in town but one week. "After that, you shall decide as to the future."
But it was the word of a high official, a confidant of the premier, which made him quite subservient to her will. "The prince is greatly impressed by your wife, and thinks it a thousand pities such a splendid creature should have been rendered such a miserable woman. If he were the count, he would never forget who it was had done this."
So Judith had her way--even the public procession, with all the humiliation it entailed upon Baranowski, and all the train of evils which would probably follow.
The count straightened himself: "Drive faster, faster! and drive through the town as rapidly as possible!"
Judith had been reclining in a corner of the carriage. A dress of heavy black silk draped her slender form, a splendid lace shawl enveloped her head, and upon her forehead was the diamond diadem, the heirloom of the Baranowskis. But her face was set, and only an occasional sigh indicated the near approach of the hour she had been working for with almost superhuman energy. She laid her hand on her husband's arm: "Agenor, an honest man keeps his word at any cost."
"But it is for your good. You know what Stiegle--"
"No more words. Let us drive slowly now." Unwillingly he gave the order. The banderium, who had been left behind, collected again, and surrounded the carriage. The custom-house was in sight. "Hurrah!" shouted the peasants on guard. "Hurrah!" responded the banderium. Volleys crashed, the band played, but the confused shouting of the crowd overpowered all. Little could be understood, but that little was unpleasant. Some of the guard raised their axes and clubs threateningly. The banderium gathered closer about the carriage. The count sank back in his seat, deathly pale, but Judith sat erect, looking quietly from right to left. And thus they passed the custom-house.
From thence the street widened, and the crowd became greater. But, strange to say, when the music ceased the noise of the onlookers also ended. Had the shouts been provoked by this ovation, or were the people awed by the imperious glance of this pale woman?
There are some still living in the town who remember the entrée of the Countess Judith Baranowski, and if you ask regarding it they answer: "It is impossible to describe her appearance, or our emotions when we met her eyes. It was as if she were dying, and yet she had the air of a queen. Those who met her glance were hushed into silence; and when the peasants removed their caps, we did the same."
There was no particular ovation at the triumphal arch. Even the burgomaster felt it would be imprudent to risk breaking the spell which held the multitude in check; so his address was very brief, and the countess's thanks equally so.
Agenor turned to Judith: "I entreat you not to stop at your brother's door. It means certain destruction."
"It must be," she replied; and when he hesitated she herself gave Fedko the command.
And, indeed, it looked as if the count were right. A burst of rage and indignation filled the air when their destination became apparent. "What an insult! what a disgrace!" yelled a thousand throats. "Down with her! down with her!" The guards were pushed aside, axes were lifted, and the fight began. The carriage stopped, its only protection being a few of the mounted men who kept close to it.
The instinct of the cavalier was roused in the count. Drawing a pistol from the girdle of his fur cloak, he leaped out, when suddenly Judith, who as yet had sat still, staring rigidly at the mob, rose to her full height, so that the diamonds on her brow flashed like sunlight. "Away!" she cried to the mounted guards, so authoritatively that they instantly obeyed. "Away!" she said to Agenor, who stood in front of her.
The mob were dumfounded. The fight ceased, and all became suddenly still.
"What do you wish?" and her clear voice was like a silver trumpet. "Do you want to kill me? Here I am. No one shall protect me! No blood shall flow on my account. I have already enough on my soul. Come! I am ready."
No one moved; no sound was heard until a voice said: "She has to fulfil the work of the Lord; and the count is doing his share. Do not interfere with the will of God."
There was a murmur and a push, and the crowd gave way. The count sprang into the carriage, and Fedko drove towards the Trachtenberg house. In profound silence the count and Judith entered its door; and when they reappeared, a few minutes after, accompanied by Raphael, no voice was heard. The count shook his hand, and Judith embraced her brother. "To-day, at four, in the 'Good Place,'" she whispered.
They re-entered the carriage, and again something unexpected transpired. Raphael seized her hand, and, with streaming eyes, covered it with kisses. The next instant some one shouted: "She has suffered much; let her be happy now."
"Hurrah!" vociferated the crowd, with hundred-fold repetition. "Hurrah! Peace and joy go with her!"
So they drove to the castle, but Judith no longer sat upright. Nearly fainting, she lay back, the tears streaming down her cheeks.
The tenantry had assembled at the castle, and Dr. Reiser was there also. Judith inquired for old Miriam: "I will go to her as soon as I can leave the table."
"Do so," said the doctor, "for she will not be visible to-morrow. She died two hours ago. Her servant came for me just as I was coming here, and I went to her for a moment. I never saw so happy a face."
Dinner was served in the traditional wedding-dinner style of the Baranowskis, and on the same antique plate. But the feeling was not the same, and the guests left early.
Judith drove with the doctor to the little house in Roskowska to take a last look at her old friend. They had not yet placed her in the coffin. She sat, in her Sabbath clothes, in her arm-chair. Speechlessly Judith gazed on the face, which wore an expression of pure, unalloyed happiness.
"Do you know why Miriam smiled as she died?" asked Dr. Reiser. "She heard the guns which announced your approach;" and then he told Judith of their last conversation. "She died as a conqueror. She took it as an omen that her child had been forgiven, and that she would meet her soon in Paradise."
Judith knelt and kissed the dead hand. "You are right," she said. "She was happy, dying as a victor."
"And you are happy in living as a victor," he added.
"Do not speak so," she protested. "Only the innocent have a right to live after such a fight. The guilty do not survive their victories. But excuse me, I must go; my brother will be waiting."
"What an enigma she is!" thought the doctor, as he watched her drive away. After that he gave no more thought to her.
Raphael was at the grave punctually; and here, at the most sacred spot on earth for them, the long-estranged brother and sister sank into each other's arms in a close embrace.
"This is my place, is it not?" said Judith, pointing to the vacancy between her parents' graves. "No one can deprive me of this--because I am the wife of a Christian, and the pious might say-- But you will not allow them--will you, Raphael?"
"If I survive you, you shall be buried there. But we can speak of this in thirty years from now."
"But swear it--by the memory of our father. You know how excited I am to-day."
"If it will soothe you, I swear it."
"And you will put up the epitaph I leave behind?"
"If I survive you, yes."
They talked a little of his plans for the future, they embraced again and again, and she drove back to the castle.
The count was in his study with Stiegle and some of his tenants. She went to her boudoir, where she wrote two short notes--one to Agenor, another to Raphael. By this time it was twilight, but she had her boy brought to her, although he was already in his cot for the night, and she kept him with her for about an hour. When at last the servant came without being called, it was quite dark. She could not see the face of her mistress, for it was bent over the child. But she could tell by her voice she was weeping, as she said, "It is better for you too--for you too!"
She handed the baby to the nurse, with the remark that the evening was so mild she would take a turn in the garden.
She did so, walking past the spot where Agenor had first kissed her, towards the lake. On her way she met Fedko, the coachman, who said, "Good-evening," receiving from her a pleasant reply. He watched her as she went towards the pond, upon which the moon was shedding its silver light. "When I think," said the good fellow, "of that morning in Borky when I saw her rushing to the pond! How different her feelings must be to-day!"
He was mistaken.
When nine o'clock came, and Judith was still out, the count went to look for her. Unsuccessful in his search, he was about to send the servants, when Hamia brought him the letter she had found on Judith's table. The letter was short, but loving. She commended the boy to his care, and begged he should not torture himself with the thought that he had caused her death. She died that she might not make him miserable or herself more so. She died because, after all she had undergone, she had neither strength nor courage to live. It was no one's fault, certainly not his.
Her face was in no wise disfigured when they lifted her from the water. It was solemn and inflexible, as had been its expression for a long time before.
Two days after, she was buried by her co-religionists in the spot belonging to her in the "Good Place." As they dug the grave, they found the remains of a large bush. Only a few knew that it was once a rose-bush, which had been used in a very solemn ceremony connected with the deceased.
On her gravestone is this inscription: