CHAPTER I.

STORIES BY FOREIGN AUTHORS

GERMAN

CHRISTIAN GELLERT’S LAST CHRISTMAS …… BY BERTHOLD AUERBACH

A GHETTO VIOLET …… BY LEOPOLD KOMPERT

THE SEVERED HAND …… BY WILHELM HAUFF

PETER SCHLEMIHL …… BY ADELBERT VON CHAMISSO

PUBLISHERS’ NOTE

The translations in this volume, where previously published, are used

by arrangement with the owners of the copyrights (as specified at the

beginning of each story). Translations made especially for the series

are covered by its general copyright. All rights in both classes are

reserved.

Contents

CHRISTIAN GELLERT’S LAST CHRISTMAS — BY BERTHOLD AUERBACH

A GHETTO VIOLET — BY LEOPOLD KOMPERT

THE SEVERED HAND — BY WILHELM HAUFF

PETER SCHLEMIHL — BY ADELBERT VON CHAMISSO

CHRISTIAN GELLERT’S LAST CHRISTMAS

BY BERTHOLD AUERBACH

Three o’clock had just struck from the tower of St. Nicholas, Leipzig,

on the afternoon of December 22d, 1768, when a man, wrapped in a loose

overcoat, came out of the door of the University. His countenance was

exceedingly gentle, and on his features cheerfulness still lingered,

for he had been gazing upon a hundred cheerful faces; after him

thronged a troop of students, who, holding back, allowed him to precede

them: the passengers in the streets saluted him, and some students, who

pressed forwards and hurried past him homewards, saluted him quite

reverentially. He returned their salutations with a surprised and

almost deprecatory air, and yet he knew, and could not conceal from

himself, that he was one of the best beloved, not only in the good city

of Leipzig, but in all lands far and wide.

It was Christian Furchtegott Gellert, the Poet of Fables, Hymns, and

Lays, who was just leaving his college.

When we read his “Lectures upon Morals,” which were not printed until

after his death, we obtain but a very incomplete idea of the great

power with which they came immediately from Gellert’s mouth. Indeed, it

was his voice, and the touching manner in which he delivered his

lectures, that made so deep an impression upon his hearers; and Rabener

was right when once he wrote to a friend, that “the philanthropic

voice” of Gellert belonged to his words.

Above all, however, it was the amiable and pure personal character of

Gellert which vividly and edifyingly impressed young hearts. Gellert

was himself the best example of pure moral teaching; and the best which

a teacher can give his pupils is faith in the victorious might, and the

stability of the eternal moral laws. His lessons were for the Life, for

his life in itself was a lesson. Many a victory over the troubles of

life, over temptations of every kind, ay, many an elevation to nobility

of thought, and to purity of action, had its origin in that

lecture-hall, at the feet of Gellert.

It was as though Gellert felt that it was the last time he would

deliver these lectures; that those words so often and so impressively

uttered would be heard no more from his mouth; and there was a peculiar

sadness, yet a peculiar strength, in all he said that day.

He had this day earnestly recommended modesty and humility; and it

appeared almost offensive to him, that people as he went should tempt

him in regard to these very virtues; for continually he heard men

whisper, “That is Gellert!”

What is fame, and what is honor? A cloak of many colors, without

warmth, without protection: and now, as he walked along, his heart

literally froze in his bosom, as he confessed to himself that he had as

yet done nothing—nothing which could give him a feeling of real

satisfaction. Men honored him and loved him: but what was all that

worth? His innermost heart could not be satisfied with that; in his own

estimation he deserved no meed of praise; and where, where was there

any evidence of that higher and purer life which he would fain bring

about! Then, again, the Spirit would comfort him and say: “Much seed is

lost, much falls in stony places, and much on good ground and brings

forth sevenfold.”

His inmost soul heard not the consolation, for his body was weak and

sore burdened from his youth up, and in his latter days yet more than

ever; and there are conditions of the body in which the most elevating

words, and the cheeriest notes of joy, strike dull and heavy on the

soul. It is one of the bitterest experiences of life to discover how

little one man can really be to another. How joyous is that youthful

freshness which can believe that, by a thought transferred to another’s

heart, we can induce him to become another being, to live according to

what he must acknowledge true, to throw aside his previous delusions,

and return to the right path!

The youngsters go their way! Do your words follow after? Whither are

they going? What are now their thoughts? What manner of life will be

theirs? “My heart yearns after them, but cannot be with them: oh, how

happy were those messengers of the Spirit, who cried aloud to youth or

manhood the words of the Spirit, that they must leave their former

ways, and thenceforth change to other beings! Pardon me, O God! that I

would fain be like them; I am weak and vile, and yet, methinks, there

must be words as yet unheard, unknown—oh! where are they, those words

which at once lay hold upon the soul?”

With such heavy thoughts went Gellert away from his college-gate to

Rosenthal. There was but one small pathway cleared, but the passers

cheerfully made way for him, and walked in the snow that they might

leave him the pathway unimpeded; but he felt sad, and “as if each tree

had somewhat to cast at him.” Like all men really pure, and cleaving to

the good with all their might, Gellert was not only far from contenting

himself with work already done: he also, in his anxiety to be doing,

almost forgot that he had ever done anything, and thus he was, in the

best sense of the word, modest; he began with each fresh day his course

of action afresh, as if he now for the first time had anything to

accomplish. And yet he might have been happy, in the reflection how

brightly beamed his teaching for ever, though his own life was often

clouded. For as the sun which glows on summer days still lives as

concentrated warmth in wine, and somewhere on some winter night warms

up a human heart, so is the sunshine in that man’s life whose vocation

it is to impart to others the conceptions of his own mind. Nay, there

is here far more; for the refreshing draught here offered is not

diminished, though thousands drink thereof.

Twilight had set in when Gellert returned home to his dwelling, which

had for its sign a “Schwarz Brett” or “black board.” His old servant,

Sauer by name, took off his overcoat; and his amanuensis, Gödike, asked

whether the Professor had any commands; being answered in the negative,

Gödike retired, and Sauer lighted the lamp upon the study-table. “Some

letters have arrived,” said he, as he pointed to several upon the

table: Gellert inclined his head, and Sauer retired also. Outside,

however, he stood awhile with Gödike, and both spoke sorrowfully of the

fact that the Professor was evidently again suffering severely. “There

is a melancholy,” said Gödike, “ and it is the most usual, in which the

inward depression easily changes to displeasure against every one, and

the household of the melancholic suffers thereby intolerably; for the

displeasure turns against them,—no one does anything properly, nothing

is in its place. How very different is Gellert’s melancholy! Not a soul

suffers from it but himself, against himself alone his gloomy thoughts

turn, and towards every other creature he is always kind, amiable, and

obliging: he bites his lips; but when he speaks to any one, he is

wholly good, forbearing, and self-forgetful.

Whilst they were talking together, Gellert was sitting in his room, and

had lighted a pipe to dispel the agitation which he would experience in

opening his letters; and while smoking, he could read them much more

comfortably. He reproached himself for smoking, which was said to be

injurious to his health, but he could not quite give up the “horrible

practice,” as he called it.

He first examined the addresses and seals of the letters which had

arrived, then quietly opened and read them. A fitful smile passed over

his features; there were letters from well-known friends, full of love

and admiration, but from strangers also, who, in all kinds of

heart-distress, took counsel of him. He read the letters full of

friendly applause, first hastily, that he might have the right of

reading them again, and that he might not know all at once; and when he

had read a friend’s letter for the second time, he sprang from his seat

and cried, “Thank God! thank God! that I am so fortunate as to have

such friends!” To his inwardly diffident nature these helps were a real

requirement; they served to cheer him, and only those who did not know

him called his joy at the reception of praise—conceit; it was, on the

contrary, the truest modesty. How often did he sit there, and all that

he had taught and written, all that he had ever been to men in word and

deed, faded, vanished, and died away, and he appeared to himself but a

useless servant of the world. His friends he answered immediately; and

as his inward melancholy vanished, and the philanthropy, nay, the

sprightliness of his soul beamed forth, when he was among men and

looked in a living face, so was it also with his letters. When he

bethought him of the friends to whom he was writing, he not only

acquired tranquillity, that virtue for which his whole life long he

strove; but his loving nature received new life, and only by slight

intimations did he betray the heaviness and dejection which weighed

upon his soul. He was, in the full sense of the word, “philanthropic,”

in the sight of good men; and in thoughts for their welfare, there was

for him a real happiness and a joyous animation.

When, however, he had done writing and felt lonely again, the gloomy

spirits came back: he had seated himself, wishing to raise his thoughts

for composing a sacred song; but he was ill at ease, and had no power

to express that inward, firm, and self-rejoicing might of faith which

lived in him. Again and again the scoffers and free-thinkers rose up

before his thoughts: he must refute their objections, and not until

that was done did he become himself.

It is a hard position, when a creative spirit cannot forget the

adversaries which on all sides oppose him in the world: they come

unsummoned to the room and will not be expelled; they peer over the

shoulder, and tug at the hand which fain would write; they turn images

upside down, and distort the thoughts; and here and there, from ceiling

and wall, they grin, and scoff, and oppose: and what was just gushing

as an aspiration from the soul, is converted to a confused absurdity.

At such a time, the spirit, courageous and self-dependent, must take

refuge in itself and show a firm front to a world of foes.

A strong nature boldly hurls his inkstand at the Devil’s head; goes to

battle with his opponents with words both written and spoken; and keeps

his own individuality free from the perplexities with which opponents

disturb all that has been previously done, and make the soul

unsteadfast and unnerved for what is to come.

Gellert’s was no battling, defiant nature, which relies upon itself; he

did not hurl his opponents down and go his way; he would convince them,

and so they were always ready to encounter him. And as the applause of

his friends rejoiced him, so the opposition of his enemies could sink

him in deep dejection. Besides, he had always been weakly; he had, as

he himself complained, in addition to frequent coughs and a pain in his

loins, a continual gnawing and pressure in the centre of his chest,

which accompanied him from his first rising in the morning until he

slept at night.

Thus he sat for a while, in deep dejection: and, as often before, his

only wish was, that God would give him grace whereby when his hour was

come, he might die piously and tranquilly.

It was past midnight when he sought his bed and extinguished his light.

And the buckets at the well go up and go down.

About the same hour, in Duben Forest, the rustic Christopher was rising

from his bed. As with steel and flint he scattered sparks upon the

tinder, in kindling himself a light, his wife, awakening, cried:

“Why that heavy sigh?”

“Ah! life is a burden: I’m the most harassed mortal in the world. The

pettiest office-clerk may now be abed in peace, and needn’t break off

his sleep, while I must go out and brave wind and weather.”

“Be content,” replied his wife: “why, I dreamt you had actually been

made magistrate, and wore something on your head like a king’s crown.”

“Oh! you women; as though what you see isn’t enough, you like to

chatter about what you dream.”

“Light the lamp, too,” said his wife, “and I’ll get up and make you a

nice porridge.”

The peasant, putting a candle in his lantern, went to the stable; and

after he had given some fodder to the horses, he seated himself upon

the manger. With his hands squeezed between his knees and his head bent

down, he reflected over and over again what a wretched existence he had

of it. “Why,” thought he, “are so many men so well-off, so comfortable,

whilst you must be always toiling? What care I if envy be not a

virtue?—and yet I’m not envious, I don’t grudge others being well-off,

only I should like to be well-off too; oh, for a quiet, easy life! Am I

not worse off than a horse? He gets his fodder at the proper time, and

takes no care about it. Why did my father make my brother a minister?

He gets his salary without any trouble, sits in a warm room, has no

care in the world; and I must slave and torment myself.”

Strange to say, his very next thought, that he would like to be made

local magistrate, he would in no wise confess to himself.

He sat still a long while; then he went back again to the sitting-room,

past the kitchen, where the fire was burning cheerily. He seated

himself at the table and waited for his morning porridge. On the table

lay an open book; his children had been reading it the previous

evening: involuntarily taking it up, he began to read. Suddenly he

started, rubbed his eyes, and then read again. How comes this verse

here just at this moment? He kept his hand upon the book, and so easily

had he caught the words, that he repeated them to himself softly with

his lips, and nodded several times, as much as to say: “That’s true!”

And he said aloud: “It’s all there together: short and sweet!” and he

was still staring at it, when his wife brought in the smoking porridge.

Taking off his cap, he folded his hands and said aloud:

“Accept God’s gifts with resignation,

Content to lack what thou hast not:

In every lot there’s consolation;

There’s trouble, too, in every lot!”

The wife looked at her husband with amazement. What a strange

expression was upon his face! And as he sat down and began to eat, she

said: “What is the meaning of that grace? What has to you? Where did

you find it?”

“It the best of all graces, the very best,—real God’s word. Yes, and

all your life you’ve never made such nice porridge before. You must

have put something special in it!”

“I don’t know what you mean. Stop! There’s the book lying there—ah!

that’s it—and it’s by Gellert, of Leipzig.”

“What! Gellert, of Leipzig! Men with ideas like that don’t live now;

there may have been such, a thousand years ago, in holy lands, not

among us; those are the words of a saint of old.”

“And I tell you they are by Gellert, of Leipzig, of whom your brother

has told us; in fact, he was his tutor, and haven’t you heard how pious

and good he is?”

“I wouldn’t have believed that such men still lived, and so near us,

too, as Leipzig.”

“Well, but those who lived a thousand years ago were also once living

creatures: and over Leipzig is just the same heaven, and the same sun

shines, and the same God rules, as over all other cities.”

“Oh! yes, my brother has an apt pupil in you!”

“Well, and why not? I’ve treasured up all he told us of Professor

Gellert.”

“Professor!”

“Yes, Professor!”

“A man with such a proud, new-fangled title couldn’t write anything

like that!”

“He didn’t give himself the title, and he is poor enough withal! and

how hard it has fared with him! Even from childhood he has been well

acquainted with poverty: his father was a poor minister in Haynichen,

with thirteen children; Gellert, when quite a little fellow, was

obliged to be a copying office-clerk: who can tell whether he didn’t

then contract that physical weakness of his? And now that he’s an old

man, things will never go better with him; he has often no wood, and

must be pinched with cold. It is with him, perhaps, as with that

student of whom your brother has told us, who is as poor as a rat, and

yet must read; and so in winter he lies in bed with an empty stomach,

until day is far advanced; and he has his book before him, and first he

takes out one hand to hold his book, and then, when that is numb with

cold, the other. Ah! tongue cannot tell how poorly the man must live;

and yet your brother has told me, if he has but a few pounds, he

doesn’t think at all of himself; he always looks out for one still

poorer than he is, and then gives all away: and he’s always engaged in

aiding and assisting others. Oh! dear, and yet he is so poor! May be at

this moment he is hungry and cold; and he is said to be in ill-health,

besides.”

“Wife, I would willingly do the man a good turn if I could. If, now, he

had some land, I could plough, and sow, and reap, and carry, and thresh

by the week together for him. I should like to pay him attention in

such a way that he might know there was at least one who cared for him.

But his profession is one in which I can’t be of any use to him.”

“Well, just seek him out and speak with him once; you are going to-day,

you know, with your wood to Leipzig. Seek him out and thank him; that

sort of thing does such a man’s heart good. Anybody can see him.”

“Yes, yes; I should like much to see him, and hold out to him my

hand,—but not empty: I wish I had something!”

“Speak to your brother, and get him to give you a note to him.”

“No, no; say nothing to my brother; but it might be possible for me to

meet him in the street. Give me my Sunday coat; it will come to no harm

under my cloak.”

When his wife brought him the coat, she said: “If, now, Gellert had a

wife, or a household of his own, one might send him something; but your

brother says he is a bachelor, and lives quite alone.”

Christopher had never before so cheerfully harnessed his horses and put

them to his wood-laden wagon; for a long while he had not given his

hand so gayly to his wife at parting as to-day. Now he started with his

heavily-laden vehicle through the village; the wheels creaked and

crackled in the snow. At the parsonage he stopped, and looked away

yonder where his brother was still sleeping; he thought he would wake

him and tell him his intention: but suddenly he whipped up his horses,

and continued his route. He wouldn’t yet bind himself to his

intention—perchance it was but a passing thought; he doesn’t own that

to himself, but he says to himself that he will surprise his brother

with the news of what he has done; and then his thoughts wandered away

to the good man still sleeping yonder in the city; and he hummed the

verse to himself in an old familiar tune.

Wonderfully in life do effects manifest themselves, of which we have no

trace. Gellert, too, heard in his dreams a singing; he knew not what it

was, but it rang so consolingly, so joyously! … Christopher drove on,

and he felt as though a bandage had been taken from his eyes; he

reflected what a nice house, what a bonny wife and rosy children he

had, and how warm the cloak which he had thrown over him was, and how

well off were both man and beast; and through the still night he drove

along, and beside him sat a spirit; but not an illusion of the brain,

such as in olden time men conjured up to their terror, a good spirit

sat beside him—beside the woodman who his whole life long had never

believed that anything could have power over him but what had hands and

feet.

It is said that, on troublous nights, evil spirits settle upon the

necks of men, and belabor them so that they gasp and sweat for very

terror; quite another sort it was to-day which sat by the woodman: and

his heart was warm, and its beating quick.

In ancient times, men also carried loads of wood through the night,

that heretics might be burned thereon: these men thought they were

doing a good deed in helping to execute justice; and who can say how

painful it was to their hearts, when they were forced to think:

To-morrow, on this wood which now you carry, will shriek, and crackle,

and gasp, a human being like yourself? Who can tell what black spirits

settled on the necks of those who bore the wood to make the

funeral-pile? How very different was it to-day with our woodman

Christopher!

And earlier still, in ancient times, men brought wood to the temple,

whereon they offered victims in the honor of God; and, according to

their notions, they did a good deed: for when words can no longer

suffice to express the fervency of the heart, it gladly offers what it

prizes, what it dearly loves, as a proof of its devotion, of the

earnestness of its intent.

How differently went Christopher from the Duben Forest upon his way! He

knew not whether he were intending to bring a purer offering than men

had brought in bygone ages; but his heart grew warm within him.

It was day as he arrived before the gates of Leipzig. Here there met

him a funeral-procession; behind the bier the scholars of St. Thomas,

in long black cloaks, were chanting. Christopher stopped and raised his

hat. Whom were they burying? Supposing it were Gellert.—Yes, surely, he

thought, it is he: and how gladly, said he to himself, would you now

have done him a kindness—ay, even given him your wood! Yes, indeed you

would, and now he is dead, and you cannot give him any help!

As soon as the train had passed, Christopher asked who was being

buried. It was a simple burgher, it was not Gellert; and in the deep

breath which Christopher drew lay a double signification: on the one

hand, was joy that Gellert was not dead; on the other, a still small

voice whispered to him that he had now really promised to give him the

wood: ah! but whom had he promised?—himself: and it is easy to argue

with one’s own conscience.

Superstition babbles of conjuring-spells, by which, without the

co-operation of the patient, the evil spirit can be summarily ejected.

It would be convenient if one had that power, but, in truth, it is not

so: it is long ere the evil desire and the evil habit are removed from

the soul into which they have nestled; and the will, for a long while

in bondage, must co-operate, if a releasing spell from without is to

set the prisoner free. One can only be guided, but himself must move

his feet.

As Christopher now looked about him, he found that he had stopped close

by an inn; he drove his load a little aside, went into the parlor, and

drank a glass of warmed beer. There was already a goodly company, and

not far from Christopher sat a husbandman with his son, a student here,

who was telling him how there had been lately quite a stir. Professor

Gellert had been ill, and riding a well-trained horse had been

recommended for his health. Now Prince Henry of Prussia, during the

Seven Years’ War, at the occupation of Leipzig, had sent him a piebald,

that had died a short time ago; and the Elector, hearing of it, had

sent Gellert from Dresden another—a chestnut—with golden bridle, blue

velvet saddle, and gold-embroidered housings. Half the city had

assembled when the groom, a man with iron-gray hair, brought the horse;

and for several days it was to be seen at the stable; but Gellert dared

not mount it, it was so young and high-spirited. The rustic now asked

his son whether the Professor did not make money enough to procure a

horse of his own, to which the son answered: “Certainly not. His salary

is but one hundred and twenty-five dollars, and his further gains are

inconsiderable. His Lectures on Morals he gives publicly, i.e., gratis,

and he has hundreds of hearers; and, therefore, at his own lectures,

which must be paid for, he has so many the fewer. To be sure, he has

now and then presents from grand patrons; but no one gives him, once

and for all, enough to live upon, and to have all over with a single

acknowledgment.”

Our friend Christopher started as he heard this; he had quite made up

his mind to take Gellert the wood: but he had yet to do it. How easy

were virtue, if will and deed were the same thing! if performance could

immediately succeed to the moment of burning enthusiasm! But one must

make way over obstacles; over those that outwardly lie in one’s path,

and over those that are hidden deep in the heart; and negligence has a

thousand very cunning advocates.

How many go forth, prompted by good intentions, but let little

hindrances turn them from their way—entirely from their way of life! In

front of the house Christopher met other woodmen whom he knew, and—“You

are stirring betimes!” “Prices are good to-day!” “But little comes to

the market now!” was the cry from all sides. Christopher wanted to say

that all that didn’t concern him, but he was ashamed to confess that

his design was, and an inward voice told him he must not lie. Without

answering he joined the rest, and wended his way to the market; and on

the road he thought: “There are Peter, and Godfrey, and John, who have

seven times your means, and not one of them, I’m sure, would think of

doing anything of this kind; why will you be the kind-hearted fool?

Stay! what matters it what others do or leave undone? Every man shall

answer for himself. Yes, but go to market—it is better it should be so;

yes, certainly, much better: sell your wood—who knows? perhaps he

doesn’t want it—and take him the proceeds, or at least the greater

portion. But is the wood still yours? You have, properly speaking,

already given it away; it has only not been taken from your keeping….”

There are people who cannot give; they can only let a thing be taken

either by the hand of chance, or by urgency and entreaty. Christopher

had such fast hold of possession, that it was only after sore wrestling

that he let go; and yet his heart was kind, at least to-day it was so

disposed, but the tempter whispered: “It is not easy to find so

good-natured a fellow as you. How readily would you have given, had the

man been in want, and your good intention must go for the deed.” Still,

on the other hand, there was something in him which made opposition,—an

echo from those hours, when, in the still night, he was driving

hither,—and it burned in him like sacred fire, and it said, “You must

now accomplish what you intended. Certainly no one knows of it, and you

are responsible to no one; but you know of it yourself, and One above

you knows, and how shall you be justified?” And he said to himself,

“I’ll stand by this: look, it is just nine; if no one ask the price of

your wood until ten o’clock, until the stroke of ten,—until it has done

striking, I mean; if no one ask, then the wood belongs to Professor

Gellert: but if a buyer come, then it is a sign that you need

not—should not give it away. There, that’s all settled. But how? what

means this? Can you make your good deed dependent on such a chance as

this? No, no; I don’t mean it. But yet—yet—only for a joke, I’ll try

it.”

Temptation kept him turning as it were in a circle, and still he stood

with an apparently quiet heart by his wagon in the market. The people

who heard him muttering in this way to himself looked at him with

wonder, and passed by him to another wagon, as though he had not been

there. It struck nine. Can you wait patiently another hour? Christopher

lighted his pipe, and looked calmly on, while this and that load was

driven off. It struck the quarter, half-hour, three-quarters.

Christopher now put his pipe in his pocket; it had long been cold, and

his hands were almost frozen; all his blood had rushed to his heart.

Now it struck the full hour, stroke after stroke. At first he counted;

then he fancied he had lost a stroke and miscalculated. Either

voluntarily or involuntarily, he said to himself, when it had finished

striking, “You’re wrong; it is nine, not ten.” He turned round that he

might not see the dial, and thus he stood for some time, with his hands

upon the wagon-rack, gazing at the wood. He knew not how long he had

been thus standing, when some one tapped him on the shoulder, and said,

“How much for the load of wood?”

Christopher turned round: there was an odd look of irresolution in his

eyes as he said: “Eh? eh? what time is it?”

“Half-past ten.”

“Then the wood is now no longer mine—at least to sell:” and, collecting

himself, he became suddenly warm, and with firm hand turned his horses

round, and begged the woodmen who accompanied him to point him out the

way to the house with the “Schwarz Brett,” Dr. Junius’s. There he

delivered a full load: at each log he took out of the wagon he smiled

oddly. The wood-measurer measured the wood carefully, turning each log

and placing it exactly, that there might not be a crevice anywhere.

“Why are you so over-particular to-day, pray?” asked Christopher, and

he received for answer:

“Professor Gellert must have a fair load; every shaving kept back from

him were a sin.”

Christopher laughed aloud, and the wood-measurer looked at him with

amazement; for such particularity generally provoked a quarrel.

Christopher had still some logs over; these he kept by him on the

wagon. At this moment the servant Sauer came up, and asked to whom the

wood belonged.

“To Professor Gellert,” answered Christopher.

“The man’s mad! it isn’t true. Professor Gellert has not bought any

wood; it is my business to look after that.”

“He has not bought it, and yet it is his!” cried Christopher.

Sauer was on the point of giving the mad peasant a hearty scolding,

raising his voice so much the louder, as it was striking eleven by St.

Nicholas. At this moment, however, he became suddenly mute; for yonder

from the University there came, with tired gait, a man of a noble

countenance: at every step he made, on this side and on that, off came

the hats and the caps of the passers-by, and Sauer simply called out,

“There comes the Professor himself.”

What a peculiar expression passed over Christopher’s face! He looked at

the new-comer, and so earnest was his gaze, that Gellert, who always

walked with his head bowed, suddenly looked up. Christopher said: “Mr.

Gellert, I am glad to see you still alive.”

“I thank you,” said Gellert, and made as though he would pass on; but

Christopher stepped up closer to him, and, stretching out his hand to

him, said: “I have taken the liberty—I should like—will you give me

your hand, Mr. Gellert?”

Gellert drew his long thin hand out of his muff and placed it in the

hard oaken-like hand of the peasant; and at this moment, when the

peasant’s hand lay in the scholar’s palm, as one felt the other’s

pressure in actual living grasp, there took place, though the mortal

actors in the scene were all unconscious of it, a renewal of that

healthy life which alone can make a people one.

How long had the learned world, wrapped up in itself, separated from

the fellow-men around, thought in Latin, felt as foreigners, and lived

buried in contemplation of bygone worlds! From the time of Gellert

commences the ever-increasing unity of good-fellowship throughout all

classes of life, kept up by mutual giving and receiving. As the

scholar—as the solitary poet endeavors to work upon others by lays that

quicken and songs that incite, so he in his turn is a debtor to his

age, and the lonely thinking and writing become the property of all;

but the effects are not seen in a moment; for higher than the most

highly gifted spirit of any single man is the spirit of a nation. With

the pressure which Gellert and the peasant exchanged commenced a mighty

change in universal life, which never more can cease to act.

“Permit me to enter your room?” said Christopher, and Gellert nodded

assent. He was so courteous that he motioned to the peasant to enter

first; however, Sauer went close after him: he thought it must be a

madman; he must protect his master; the man looked just as if he were

drunk. Gellert, with his amanuensis, Gödike, followed them.

Gellert, however, felt that the man must be actuated by pure motives:

he bade the others retire, and took Christopher alone into his study;

and, as he clasped his left with his own right hand, he asked: “Well,

my good friend, what is your business?”

“Eh? oh! nothing—I’ve only brought you a load of wood there—a fair,

full load; however, I’ll give you the few logs which I have in my

wagon, as well.”

“My good man, my servant Sauer looks after buying my wood.”

“It is no question of buying. No, my dear sir, I give it to you.”

“Give it to me? Why me particularly?”

“Oh! sir, you do not know at all what good you do, what good you have

done me; and my wife was right; why should there not be really pious

men in our day too? Surely the sun still shines as he shone thousands

of years ago; all is now the same as then; and the God of old is still

living.”

“Certainly, certainly; I am glad to see you so pious.”

“Ah! believe me, dear sir, I am not always so pious; and that I am so

disposed today is owing to you. We have no more confessionals now, but

I can confess to you: and you have taken a heavier load from my heart

than a wagon-load of wood. Oh! sir, I am not what I was. In my early

days I was a high-spirited, merry lad, and out in the field, and

indoors in the inn and the spinning-room, there was none who could sing

against me; but that is long past. What has a man on whose head the

grave-blossoms are growing,” and he pointed to his gray head, “to do

with all that trash? And besides, the Seven Years’ War has put a stop

to all our singing. But last night, in the midst of the fearful cold, I

sang a lay set expressly for me—all old tunes go to it: and it seemed

to me as though I saw a sign-post which pointed I know not whither—or,

nay, I do know whither.” And now the peasant related how discontented

and unhappy in mind he had been, and how the words in the lay had all

at once raised his spirits and accompanied him upon the journey, like a

good fellow who talks to one cheerfully.

At this part of the peasant’s tale Gellert folded his hands in silence,

and the peasant concluded: “How I always envied others, I cannot now

think why; but you I do envy, sir: I should like to be as you.”

And Gellert answered: “I thank God, and rejoice greatly that my

writings have been of service to you. Think not so well of me. Would

God I were really the good man I appear in your eyes! I am far from

being such as I should, such as I would fain be. I write my books for

my own improvement also, to show myself as well as others what manner

of men we should be.”

Laughing, the peasant replied: “You put me in mind of the story my poor

mother used to tell of the old minister; he stood up once in the pulpit

and said: ‘My dear friends, I speak not only for you, but for myself

also; I, too, have need of it.’”

Christopher laughed outrageously when he had finished, and Gellert

smiled, and said: “Yes, whoever in the darkness lighteth another with a

lamp, lighteth himself also; and the light is not part of ourselves,—it

is put into our hands by Him who hath appointed the suns their

courses.”

The peasant stood speechless, and looked upon the ground: there was

something within him which took away the power of looking up; he was

only conscious that it ill became him to laugh so loudly just now, when

he told the story of the old minister.

A longer pause ensued, and Gellert seemed to be lost in reflection upon

this reference to a minister’s work, for he said half to himself: “Oh!

how would it fulfil my dearest wish to be a village-pastor! To move

about among my people, and really be one with them; the friend of their

souls my whole life long, never to lose them out of my sight! Yonder

goes one whom I have led into the right way; there another, with whom I

still wrestle, but whom I shall assuredly save; and in them all the

teaching lives which God proclaims by me. Did I not think that I should

be acting against my duty, I would this moment choose a country life

for the remnant of my days. When I look from my window over the

country, I have before me the broad sky, of which we citizens know but

little, a scene entirely new; there I stand and lose myself for half an

hour in gazing and in thinking. Yes, good friend, envy no man in the

rank of scholars. Look at me; I am almost always ill; and what a burden

is a sickly body! How strong, on the contrary, are you! I am never

happier than when, without being remarked, I can watch a dinner-table

thronged by hungry men and maids. Even if these folks be not generally

so happy as their superiors, at table they are certainly happier.”

“Yes, sir; we relish our eating and drinking. And, lately, when felling

and sorting that wood below, I was more than usually lively; it seems

as though I had a notion I was to do some good with it.”

“And must I permit you to make me a present?” asked Gellert, resting

his chin upon his left hand.

The peasant answered: “It is not worth talking about.”

“Nay, it might be well worth talking about; but I accept your present.

It is pride not to be ready to accept a gift. Is not all we have a gift

from God? And what one man gives another, he gives, as is most

appropriately said, for God’s sake. Were I your minister, I should be

pleased to accept a present from you. You see, good friend, we men have

no occasion to thank each other. You have given me nothing of yours,

and I have given you nothing of mine. That the trees grow in the forest

is none of your doing, it is the work of the Creator and Preserver of

the world; and the soil is not yours; and the sun and the rain are not

yours; they all are the works of His hand; and if, perchance, I have

some healthy thoughts rising up in my soul, which benefit my

fellow-men, it is none of mine, it is His doing. The word is not mine,

and the spirit is not mine; and I am but an instrument in His hand.

Therefore one man needs not to utter words of thanks to his fellow, if

every one would but acknowledge who it really is that gives.”

The peasant looked up in astonishment. Gellert remarked it, and said:

“Understand me aright. I thank you from my heart; you have done a kind

action. But that the trees grow is none of yours, and it is none of

mine that thoughts arise in me; every one simply tills his field, and

tends his woodland, and the honest, assiduous toil he gives thereto is

his virtue. That you felled, loaded, and brought the wood, and wish no

recompense for your labor, is very thank-worthy. My wood was more

easily felled; but those still nights which I and all of my calling

pass in heavy thought—who can tell what toil there is in them? There is

in the world an adjustment which no one sees, and which but seldom

discovers itself; and this and that shift thither and hither, and the

scales of the balance become even, and then ceases all distinction

between ‘mine’ and ‘thine,’ and in the still forest rings an axe for

me, and in the silent night my spirit thinks and my pen writes for

you.”

The peasant passed both his hands over his temples, and his look was as

though he said to himself, “Where are you? Are you still in the world?

Is it a mortal man who speaks to you? Are you in Leipzig, in that

populous city where men jostle one another for gain and bare

existence?”

Below might be heard the creaking of the saw as the wood was being

sundered: and now the near horse neighs, and Christopher is in the

world again. “It may injure the horse to stand so long in the cold; and

no money for the wood! but perhaps a sick horse to take home into the

bargain; that would be too much,” he thought.

“Yes, yes, Mr. Professor,” said he—he had his hat under his arm, and

was rubbing his hands—“yes, I am delighted with what I have done; and I

value the lesson, believe me, more than ten loads of wood: and never

shall I forget you to my dying day. And though I see you are not so

poor as I had imagined, still I don’t regret it. Oh! no, certainly not

at all.”

“Eh! did you think me so very poor, then?”

“Yes, miserably poor.”

“I have always been poor, but God has never suffered me to be a single

day without necessaries. I have in the world much happiness which I

have not deserved, and much unhappiness I have not, which perchance I

have deserved. I have found much favor with both high and low, for

which I cannot sufficiently thank God. And now tell me, cannot I give

you something, or obtain something for you? You are a local magistrate,

I presume?”

“Why so?”

“You look like it: you might be.”

Christopher had taken his hat into his hands, and was crumpling it up

now; he half closed his eyes, and with a sly, inquiring glance, he

peered at Gellert. Suddenly, however, the expression of his face

changed, and the muscles quivered, as he said: “Sir, what a man are

you! How you can dive into the recesses of one’s heart! I have really

pined night and day, and been cross with the whole world, because I

could not be magistrate, and you, sir, you have actually helped to

overcome that in me. Oh! sir, as soon as I read that verse in your

book, I had an idea, and now I see still more plainly that you must be

a man of God, who can pluck the heart from one’s bosom, and turn it

round and round. I had thought I could never have another moment’s

happiness, if my neighbor, Hans Gottlieb, should be magistrate: and

with that verse of yours, it has been with me as when one calms the

blood with a magic spell.”

“Well, my good friend, I am rejoiced to hear it: believe me, every one

has in himself alone a whole host to govern. What can so strongly urge

men to wish to govern others? What can it profit you to be local

magistrate, when to accomplish your object you must perhaps do

something wrong? What were the fame, not only of a village, but even of

the whole world, if you could have no self-respect? Let it suffice for

you to perform your daily duties with uprightness; let your joys be

centred in your wife and children, and you will be happy. What need you

more? Think not that honor and station would make you happy. Rejoice,

and again I say, rejoice: ‘A contented spirit is a continual feast.’ I

often whisper this to myself, when I feel disposed to give way to

dejection: and although misery be not our fault, yet lack of endurance

and of patience in misery is undoubtedly our fault.”

“I would my wife were here too, that she also might hear this; I grudge

myself the hearing of it all alone; I cannot remember it all properly,

and yet I should like to tell it to her word for word. Who would have

thought that, by standing upon a load of wood, one could get a peep

into heaven!”

Gellert in silence bowed his head; and afterwards he said: “Yes,

rejoice in your deed, as I do in your gift. Your wood is

sacrificial-wood. In olden time—and it was right in principle, because

man could not yet offer prayer and thanks in spirit—it was a custom and

ordinance to bring something from one’s possessions, as a proof of

devotion: this was a sacrifice. And the more important the gift to be

given, or the request to be granted, the more costly was the sacrifice.

Our God will have no victims; but whatsoever you do unto one of the

least of His, you do unto Him. Such are our sacrifices. My dear friend,

from my heart I thank you; for you have done me a kindness, in that you

have given me a real, undeniable proof, that my words have penetrated

your heart, and that I do not live on for nothing: and treasure it up

in your heart, that you have caused real joy to one who is often, very

often, weighed down with heaviness and sorrow. You have not only

kindled bright tapers upon my Christmas-tree, but the tree itself

burns, gives light, and warms: the bush burns, and is not consumed,

which is an image of the presence of the Holy Spirit, and its

admonition to trust in the Most High in this wilderness of life, in

mourning and in woe. Oh! my dear friend, I have been nigh unto death.

What a solemn, quaking stride is the stride into eternity! What a

difference between ideas of death in the days of health, and on the

brink of the grave! And how shall I show myself worthy of longer life?

By learning better to die. And, mark, when I sit here in solitude

pursuing my thoughts, keeping some and driving away others, then I can

think, that in distant valleys, upon distant mountains, there are

living men who carry my thoughts within their hearts; and for them I

live, and they are near and dear to me, till one day we shall meet

where there is no more parting, no more separation. Peasant and

scholar, let us abide as we are. Give me your hand—farewell!”

And once again, the soft and the hard hand were clasped together, and

Christopher really trembled as Gellert laid his hand upon his shoulder.

They shook hands, and therewith something touched the heart of each

more impressively, more completely, than ever words could touch it.

Christopher got downstairs without knowing how: below, he threw down

the extra logs of wood, which he had kept back, with a clatter from the

wagon, and then drove briskly from the city. Not till he arrived at

Lindenthal did he allow himself and his horses rest or food. He had

driven away empty: he had nothing on his wagon, nothing in his purse;

and yet who can tell what treasures he took home; and who can tell what

inextinguishable fire he left behind him yonder, by that lonely

scholar!

Gellert, who usually dined at his brother’s, today had dinner brought

into his own room, remained quite alone, and did not go out again: he

had experienced quite enough excitement, and society he had in his own

thoughts. Oh! to find that there are open, susceptible hearts, is a

blessing to him that writes in solitude, and is as wondrous to him as

though he dipped his pen in streams of sunshine, and as if all he wrote

were Light. The raindrop which falls from the cloud cannot tell upon

what plant it drops: there is a quickening power in it, but for what?

And a thought which finds expression from a human heart; an action,

nay, a whole life is like the raindrop falling from the cloud: the

whole period of a life endures no longer than the raindrop needs for

falling. And as for knowing where your life is continued, how your work

proceeds, you cannot attain to that.

And in the night all was still around: nothing was astir; the whole

earth was simple rest, as Gellert sat in his room by his lonely lamp;

his hand lay upon an open book, and his eyes were fixed upon the empty

air; and on a sudden came once more upon him that melancholy gloom,

which so easily resumes its place after more than usual excitement.

It is as though the soul, suddenly elevated above all, must still

remember the heaviness it but now experienced, though that expresses

itself as tears of joy in the eye.

In Gellert, however, this melancholy had a more peculiar phase: a sort

of timidity had rooted itself in him, connected with his weak chest,

and that secret gnawing pain in his head; it was a fearfulness which

his manner of life only tended to increase. Surrounded though he was by

nothing but love and admiration in the world, he could not divest

himself of the fear that all which is most horrible and terrible would

burst suddenly upon him: and so he gazed fixedly before him. He passed

his hand over his face, and with an effort concentrated his looks and

thoughts upon surrounding objects, saying to himself almost aloud: “How

comforting is light! Were there no light from without to illumine

objects for us, we should perish in gloom, in the shadows of night. And

light is a gentle friend that watches by us, and, when we are sunk in

sorrow, points out to us that the world is still here, that it calls,

and beckons us, and requires of us duty and cheerfulness. ‘You must not

be lost in self,’ it says, ‘see! the world is still here:’ and a friend

beside us is as a light which illumines surrounding objects; we cannot

forget them, we must see them and mingle with them. How hard is life,

and how little I accomplish! I would fain awaken the whole world to

goodness and to love; but my voice is weak, my strength is

insufficient: how insignificant is all I do!”

And now he rose up and strode across the room; and he stood at the

hearth where the fire was burning, made of wood given to him that very

day, and his thoughts reverted to the man who had given it. Why had he

not asked his name, and where he came from? Perchance he might have

been able in thought to follow him all the way, as he drove home; and

now … but yet ’tis more, ’tis better as it is: it is not an individual,

it is not So-and-so, who has shown his gratitude, but all the world by

the mouth of one. “The kindnesses I receive,” he thought, “are indeed

trials; but yet I ought to accept them with thanks. I will try

henceforth to be a benefactor to others as others are to me, without

display, and with grateful thanks to God, our highest Benefactor: this

will I do, and search no further for the why and for the wherefore.”

And once more a voice spoke within him, and he stood erect, and raised

his arms on high. “Who knows,” he thought, “whether at this moment I

have not been in this or that place, to this or that man, a brother, a

friend, a comforter, a saviour; and from house to house, may be, my

spirit travels, awakening, enlivening, refreshing—yonder in the attic,

where burns a solitary light; and afar in some village a mother is

sitting by her child, and hearing him repeat the thoughts I have

arranged in verse; and peradventure some solitary old man, who is

waiting for death, is now sitting by his fireside, and his lips are

uttering my words.”

“And yonder in the church, the choir is chanting a hymn of yours; could

you have written this hymn without its vigor in your heart? Oh! no, it

MUST be there.” And with trembling he thought: “There is nothing so

small as to have no place in the government of God! Should you not then

believe that He suffered this day’s incident to happen for your joy?

Oh! were it so, what happiness were yours! A heart renewed.” … He moved

to the window, looked up to heaven, and prayed inwardly: “My soul is

with my brothers and my sisters: nay, it is with Thee, my God, and in

humility I acknowledge how richly Thou hast blessed me. And if, in the

kingdom of the world to come, a soul should cry to me: ‘Thou didst

guide and cheer me on to happiness eternal!’ all hail! my friend, my

benefactor, my glory in the presence of God. … In these thoughts let me

die, and pardon me my weakness and my sins!”

“And the evening and morning were the first day.”

At early morning, Gellert was sitting at his table, and reading

according to his invariable custom, first of all in the Bible. He never

left the Bible open—he always shut it with a peaceful, devotional air,

after he had read therein: there was something grateful as well as

reverential in his manner of closing the volume; the holy words should

not lie uncovered.

To-day, however, the Bible was lying open when he rose. His eye fell

upon the history of the creation, and at the words, “And the evening

and the morning were the first day,” he leaned back his head against

the arm-chair, and kept his hand upon the book, as though he would

grasp with his hand also the lofty thought, how night and day were

divided.

For a long while he sat thus, and he was wondrously bright in spirit,

and a soft reminiscence dawned upon him; of a bright day in childhood,

when he had been so happy, and in Haynichen, his native place, had gone

out with his father for a walk. An inward warmth roused his heart to

quicker pulsation; and suddenly he started and looked about him: he had

been humming a tune.

Up from the street came the busy sound of Jay: at other times how

insufferable he had found it! and now how joyous it seemed that men

should bestir themselves, and turn to all sorts of occupations! There

was a sound of crumbling snow: and how nice to have a house and a blaze

upon the hearth! “And the evening and the morning were the first day!”

And man getteth himself a light in the darkness: but how long, O man!

could you make it endure? What could you do with your artificial light,

if God did not cause His sun to shine? Without it grows no grass, no

corn. On the hand lying upon the book there fell a bright sunbeam. How

soon, at other times, would Gellert have drawn the defensive curtain!

Now he watches the little motes that play about in the sunbeam.

The servant brought coffee, and the amanuensis, Gödike, asked if there

were anything to do. Generally, Gellert scarce lifted his head from his

books, hastily acknowledging the attention and reading on in silence;

to-day, he motioned to Gödike to stay, and said to Sauer, “Another cup:

Mr. Gödike will take coffee with me. God has given me a day of

rejoicing.” Sauer brought the cup, and Gellert said: “Yes, God has

given me a day of rejoicing, and what I am most thankful for is, that

He has granted me strength to thank Him with all my heart: not so

entirely, however, as I should like.”

“Thank God, Mr. Professor, that you are once more in health, and

cheerful: and permit me, Mr. Professor, to tell you that I was myself

also ill a short time ago, and I then learned a lesson which I shall

never forget. Who is most grateful? The convalescent. He learns to love

God and His beautiful world anew; he is grateful for everything, and

delighted with everything. What a flavor has his first cup of coffee!

How he enjoys his first walk outside the house, outside the gate! The

houses, the trees, all give us greeting: all is again in us full of

health and joy!” So said Gödike, and Gellert rejoined:

“You are a good creature, and have just spoken good words. Certainly,

the convalescent is the most grateful. We are, however, for the most

part, sick in spirit, and have not strength to recover: and a sickly,

stricken spirit is the heaviest pain.”

Long time the two sat quietly together: it struck eight. Gellert

started up, and cried irritably: “There, now, you have allowed me to

forget that I must be on my way to the University.”

“The vacation has begun: Mr. Professor has no lecture to-day.”

“No lecture to-day? Ah! and I believe today is just the time when I

could have told my young friends something that would have benefited

them for their whole lives.”

There was a shuffling of many feet outside the door: the door opened,

and several boys from St Thomas’ School-choir advanced and sang to

Gellert some of his own hymns; and as they chanted the verse—

“And haply there—oh! grant it, Heaven!

Some blessed saint will greet me too;

‘All hail! all hail! to you was given

To save my life and soul, to you!’

O God! my God! what joy to be

The winner of a soul to thee!”

Gellert wept aloud, folded his hands, and raised his eyes to heaven.

A happier Christmas than that of 1768 had Gellert never seen; and it

was his last. Scarcely a year after, on the 13th of December, 1769,

Gellert died a pious, tranquil death, such as he had ever coveted.

As the long train which followed his bier moved to the churchyard of

St. John’s, Leipzig, a peasant with his wife and children in holiday

clothes entered among the last. It was Christopher with his family. The

whole way he had been silent: and whilst his wife wept passionately at

the pastor’s touching address, it was only by the working of his

features that Christopher showed how deeply moved he was.

But on the way home he said: “I am glad I did him a kindness in his

lifetime; it would now be too late.”

The summer after, when he built a new house, he had this verse placed

upon it as an inscription:

“Accept God’s gifts with resignation,

Content to lack what thou hast not:

In every lot there’s consolation;

There’s trouble, too, in every lot.”

A GHETTO VIOLET

BY LEOPOLD KOMPERT

From “Christian and Leah.” Translated by A.S. Arnold.

Through the open window came the clear trill of a canary singing

blithely in its cage. Within the tidy, homely little room a pale-faced

girl and a youth of slender frame listened intently while the bird sang

its song. The girl was the first to break the silence.

“Ephraim, my brother!” she said.

“What is it, dear Viola?”

“I wonder does the birdie know that it is the Sabbath to-day?”

“What a child you are!” answered Ephraim.

“Yes, that’s always the way; when you clever men can’t explain a thing,

you simply dismiss the question by calling it childish,” Viola

exclaimed, as though quite angry. “And, pray, why shouldn’t the bird

know? The whole week it scarcely sang a note: to-day it warbles and

warbles so that it makes my head ache. And what’s the reason? Every

Sabbath it’s just the same, I notice it regularly. Shall I tell you

what my idea is?

“The whole week long the little bird looks into our room and sees

nothing but the humdrum of work-a-day life. To-day it sees the bright

rays of the Sabbath lamp and the white Sabbath cloth upon the table.

Don’t you think I’m right, Ephraim?”

“Wait, dear Viola,” said Ephraim, and he went to the cage.

The bird’s song suddenly ceased.

“Now you’ve spoilt its Sabbath!” cried the girl, and she was so excited

that the book which had been lying upon her lap fell to the ground.

Ephraim turned towards her; he looked at her solemnly, and said

quietly:

“Pick up your prayer-book first, and then I’ll answer. A holy book

should not be on the ground like that. Had our mother dropped her

prayer-book, she would have kissed it … Kiss it, Viola, my child!”

Viola did so.

“And now I’ll tell you, dear Viola, what I think is the reason why the

bird sings so blithely to-day … Of course, I don’t say I’m right.”

Viola’s brown eyes were fixed inquiringly upon her brother’s face.

“How seriously you talk to-day,” she said, making a feeble attempt at a

smile. “I was only joking. Mustn’t I ask if the bird knows anything

about the Sabbath?”

“There are subjects it is sinful to joke about, and this may be one of

them, Viola.”

“You really quite frighten me, Ephraim.”

“You little goose, I don’t want to frighten you,” said Ephraim, while a

faint flush suffused his features. “I’ll tell you my opinion about the

singing of the bird. I think, dear Viola, that our little canary knows

… that before long it will change its quarters.”

“You’re surely not going to sell it or give it away?” cried the girl,

in great alarm; and springing to her feet, she quickly drew her brother

away from the cage.

“No, I’m not going to sell it nor give it away,” said Ephraim, whose

quiet bearing contrasted strongly with his sister’s excitement. “Is it

likely that I should do anything that would give you pain? And yet, I

have but to say one word … and I’ll wager that you will be the first to

open the cage and say to the bird, ‘Fly, fly away, birdie, fly away

home!’”

“Never, never!” cried the girl.

“Viola,” said Ephraim beseechingly, “I have taken a vow. Surely you

would not have me break it?”

“A vow?” asked his sister.

“Viola,” Ephraim continued, as he bent his head down to the girl’s

face, “I have vowed to myself that whenever he … our father … should

return, I would give our little bird its freedom. It shall be free,

free as he will be.”

“Ephraim!”

“He is coming—he is already on his way home.”

Viola flung her arms round her brother’s neck. For a long time brother

and sister remained locked in a close embrace.

Meanwhile the bird resumed its jubilant song.

“Do you hear how it sings again?” said Ephraim; and he gently stroked

his sister’s hair.

“It knows that it will soon be free.”

“A father out of jail!” sobbed Viola, as she released herself from her

brother’s arms.

“He has had his punishment, dear Viola!” said Ephraim softly.

Viola turned away. There was a painful silence, and then she looked up

at her brother again. Her face was aglow, her eyes sparkled with a

strange fire; she was trembling with agitation. Never before had

Ephraim seen her thus.

“Ephraim, my brother,” she commenced, in that measured monotone so

peculiar to intense emotion, “with the bird you can do as you please.

You can set it free, or, if you like, you can wring its neck. But as

for him, I’ll never look in his face again, from me he shall not have a

word of welcome. He broke our mother’s heart … our good, good mother;

he has dishonored himself and us. And I can never forget it.”

“Is it right for a child to talk like that of her own father?” said

Ephraim in a tremulous voice.

“When a child has good cause to be ashamed of her own father!” cried

Viola.

“Oh, my Viola, you must have forgotten dear mother’s dying words. Don’t

you remember, as she opened her eyes for the last time, how she

gathered up her failing strength, and raising herself in her bed,

‘Children,’ she said, ‘my memory will protect you both, yea, and your

father too.’ Viola, have you forgotten?”

Had you entered that little room an hour later, a touching sight would

have met your eyes. Viola was seated on her brother’s knee, her arms

round his neck, whilst Ephraim with the gentle love of a brother for a

younger sister, was stroking her hair, and whispering in her ear sweet

words of solace.

The bird-cage was empty. … That evening Ephraim sat up till midnight.

Outside in the Ghetto reigned the stillness of night.

All at once Ephraim rose from his chair, walked to the old bureau which

stood near the door, opened it, and took from it a bulky volume, which

he laid upon the table in front of him. But he did not seem at all bent

upon reading. He began fingering the pages, until he came upon a bundle

of bank-notes, and these he proceeded to count, with a whispering

movement of his lips. He had but three or four more notes still to

count, when his sharp ear detected the sound of stealthy footsteps, in

the little courtyard in front of the house. Closing the book, and

hastily putting it back again in the old bureau, Ephraim sprang to the

window and opened it.

“Is that you, father?” he cried.

There was no answer.

Ephraim repeated his question.

He strained his eyes, peering into the dense darkness, but no living

thing could he see. Then quite close to him a voice cried: “Make no

noise … and first put out the light.”

“Heavens! Father, it is you then…!” Ephraim exclaimed.

“Hush!” came in a whisper from without, “first put out the light.”

Ephraim closed the window, and extinguished the light. Then, with

almost inaudible step, he walked out of the room into the dark passage;

noiselessly he proceeded to unbolt the street-door. Almost at the same

moment a heavy hand clasped his own.

“Father, father!” Ephraim cried, trying to raise his parent’s hand to

his lips.

“Make no noise,” the man repeated, in a somewhat commanding tone.

With his father’s hand in his, cautiously feeling his way, Ephraim led

him into the room. In the room adjoining lay Viola, sleeping

peacefully. …

Time was when “Wild” Ascher’s welcome home had been far otherwise.

Eighteen years before, upon that very threshold which he now crossed

with halting, stealthy steps, as of a thief in the night, stood a fair

and loving wife, holding a sturdy lad aloft in her arms, so that the

father might at once see, as he turned the street corner, that wife and

child were well and happy. Not another Ghetto in all Bohemia could show

a handsomer and happier couple than Ascher and his wife. “Wild” Ascher

was one of those intrepid, venturesome spirits, to whom no obstacle is

so great that it cannot be surmounted. And the success which crowned

his long, persistent wooing was often cited as striking testimony to

his indomitable will. Gudule was famous throughout the Ghetto as “the

girl with the wonderful eyes,” eyes—so the saying ran—into which no man

could look and think of evil. During the earlier years of their married

life those unfathomable brown eyes exercised on Ascher the full power

of their fascination. A time came, however, when he alleged that those

very eyes had been the cause of all his ruin.

Gudule’s birthplace was far removed from the Ghetto, where Ascher had

first seen the light. Her father was a wealthy farmer in a secluded

village in Lower Bohemia. But distant though it was from the nearest

town of any importance, the solitary grange became the centre of

attraction to all the young swains far and near. But there was none who

found favor in Gudule’s eyes save “Wild Ascher,” in spite of many a

friendly warning to beware of him. One day, just before the betrothal

of the young people, an anonymous letter was delivered at the grange.

The writer, who called himself an old friend, entreated the farmer to

prevent his dear child from becoming the wife of one who was suspected

of being a gambler. The farmer was of an easy-going, indulgent nature,

shunning care and anxiety as a very plague. Accordingly, no sooner had

he read the anonymous missive than he handed it to his daughter, as

though its contents were no concern of his.

When Gudule had read the letter to the end, she merely remarked:

“Father, this concerns me, and nobody else.”

And so the matter dropped.

Not until the wedding-day, half an hour before the ceremony, when the

marriage canopy had already been erected in the courtyard, did the

farmer sum up courage to revert to the warning of the unknown

letter-writer. Taking his future son-in-law aside, he said:

“Ascher, is it true that you gamble?”

“Father,” Ascher answered with equal firmness, “Gudule’s eyes will save

me!” Ascher had uttered no untruth when he gave his father-in-law this

assurance. He spoke in all earnestness, for like every one else he knew

the magnetic power of Gudule’s eyes.

Nowhere, probably, does the grim, consuming pestilence of gaming claim

more victims than in the Ghetto. The ravages of drink and debauchery

are slight indeed; but the tortuous streets can show too many a humble

home haunted by the spectres of ruin and misery which stalked across

the threshold when the FIRST CARD GAME was played.

It was with almost feverish anxiety that the eyes of the Ghetto were

fixed upon the development of a character like Ascher’s; they followed

his every step with the closest attention. Long experience had taught

the Ghetto that no gambler could be trusted.

As though conscious that all eyes were upon him, Ascher showed himself

most punctilious in the discharge of even the minutest of communal

duties which devolved upon him as a denizen of the Ghetto, and his

habits of life were almost ostentatiously regular and decorous. His

business had prospered, and Gudule had borne him a son.

“Well, Gudule, my child,” the farmer asked his daughter on the day when

his grandson was received into the covenant of Abraham,—“well, Gudule,

was the letter right?”

“What letter?” asked Gudule.

“That in which your husband was called a gambler.”

“And can you still give a thought to such a letter?” was Gudule’s

significant reply.

Three years later, Gudule’s father came to visit her. This time she

showed him his second grandchild, her little Viola. He kissed the

children, and round little Viola’s neck clasped three rows of pearls,

“that the child may know it had a grandfather once.”

“And where are your pearls, Gudule?” he asked, “those left you by your

mother,—may she rest in peace! She always set such store by them.”

“Those, father?” Gudule replied, turning pale; “oh, my husband has

taken them to a goldsmith in Prague. They require a new clasp.”

“I see,” remarked her father. Notwithstanding his limited powers of

observation, it did not escape the old man’s eyes that Gudule looked

alarmingly wan and emaciated. He saw it, and it grieved his very soul.

He said nothing however: only, when leaving, and after he had kissed

the Mezuza [Footnote: Small cylinder inclosing a roll of parchment

inscribed with the Hebrew word Shadai (Almighty) and with other texts,

which is affixed to the lintel of every Jewish house.], he said to

Gudule (who, with little Viola in her arms, went with him to the door),

in a voice quivering with suppressed emotion: “Gudule, my child, the

pearl necklet which I have given your little Viola has a clasp strong

enough to last a hundred years … you need never, therefore, give it to

your husband to have a new clasp made for it.” And without bestowing

another glance upon his child the easy-going man left the house. It was

his last visit. Within the year Gudule received a letter from her

eldest brother telling her that their father was dead, and that she

would have to keep the week of mourning for him. Ever since his last

visit to her—her brother wrote—the old man had been somewhat ailing,

but knowing his vigorous constitution, they had paid little heed to his

complaints. It was only during the last few weeks that a marked loss of

strength had been noticed. This was followed by fever and delirium.

Whenever he was asked whether he would not like to see Gudule, his only

answer was: “She must not give away the clasp of little Viola’s

necklet.” And but an hour before his death, he raised his voice, and

loudly called for “the letter.” Nobody knew what letter. “Gudule knows

where it is,” he said, with a gentle shake of his head. Those were the

last words he spoke.

Had the old man’s eyes deceived him on the occasion of his last visit

to his son-in-law’s house? No! For, setting aside the incident of the

missing pearls, the whole Ghetto could long since have told him that

the warning of the anonymous letter was not unfounded—for Gudule was

the wife of a gambler.

With the resistless impetuosity of a torrent released from its prison

of ice and snow, the old invincible disease had again overwhelmed its

victim. Gudule noticed the first signs of it when one day her husband

returned home from one of his business journeys earlier than he had

arranged. Gudule had not expected him.

“Why did you not come to meet me with the children?” he cried

peevishly; “do you begrudge me even that pleasure?”

“_I_ begrudge you a pleasure?” Gudule ventured to remark, as she raised

her swimming eyes to his face.

“Why do you look at me so tearfully?” he almost shouted.

Ascher loved his wife, and when he saw the effect which his rough words

had produced, he tenderly embraced her. “Am I not right, Gudule?” he

said, “after a man has been working and slaving the livelong week,

don’t you think he looks forward with longing eyes for his dear

children to welcome him at his door?”

At that moment Gudule felt the long latent suspicion revive in her that

her husband was not speaking the truth. As if written in characters of

fire, the words of that letter now came back to her memory; she knew

now what was the fate that awaited her and her children.

Thenceforward, all the characteristic tokens of a gambler’s life, all

the vicissitudes which attend his unholy calling, followed close upon

each other in grim succession. Most marked was the disturbance which

his mental equilibrium was undergoing. Fits of gloomy despondency were

succeeded, with alarming rapidity, by periods of tumultuous exaltation.

One moment it would seem as though Gudule and the children were to him

the living embodiment of all that was precious and lovable, whilst at

other times he would regard them with sullen indifference. It soon

became evident to Gudule that her husband’s affairs were in a very bad

way, for her house-keeping allowance no longer came to her with its

wonted regularity. But what grieved and alarmed her most, was the fact

that Ascher was openly neglecting every one of his religious duties. To

return home late on Friday night, long after sunset had ushered in the

Sabbath, was now a common practice. Once even it happened, that with

his clothes covered with dust, he came home from one of his business

tours on a Sabbath morning, when the people in holiday attire were

wending their way to the synagogue.

Nevertheless, not a sound of complaint escaped Gudule’s lips. Hers was

one of those proud, sensitive natures, such as are to be met with among

all classes and amid all circumstances of life, in Ghetto and in

secluded village, no less than among the most favored ones of the

earth. Had she not cast to the winds the well-intentioned counsel given

her in that unsigned letter? Why then should she complain and lament,

now that the seed had borne fruit? She shrank from alluding before her

husband to the passion which day by day, nay, hour by hour, tightened

its hold upon him. She would have died sooner than permit the word

“gambler” to pass her lips. Besides, did not her eyes tell Ascher what

she suffered? Those very eyes were, according to Ascher, the cause of

his rapid journey along the road to ruin.

“Why do you look at me so, Gudule?” he would testily ask her, at the

slightest provocation.

Often when, as he explained, he had had “a specially good week,” he

would bring home the costliest gifts for his children. Gudule, however,

made no use whatever of these trinkets, neither for herself nor for the

children. She put the things away in drawers and cupboards, and never

looked at them, more especially as she observed that, under some

pretext or another, Ascher generally took those glittering things away

again, “in order to exchange them for others,” he said: as often as not

never replacing them at all.

“Gudule!” he said one day, when he happened to be in a particularly

good humor, “why do you let the key remain in the door of that bureau

where you keep so many valuables?”

And again Gudule regarded him with those unfathomable eyes.

“There, you’re … looking at me again!” he exclaimed with sudden

vehemence.

“They’re safe enough in the cupboard,” Gudule said, smiling, “why

should I lock it?”

“Gudule, do you mean to say …” he cried, raising his hand as for a

blow. Then he fell back in his chair, and his frame was shaken with

sobs.

“Gudule, my heart’s love,” he cried, “I am not worthy that your eyes

should rest on me. Everywhere, wherever I go, they look at me, those

eyes … and that is my ruin. If business is bad, your eyes ask me, ‘Why

did you mix yourself up with these things, without a thought of wife or

children?’… Then I feel as if some evil spirit possessed me and

tortured my soul. Oh, why can’t you look at me again as you did when

you were my bride?—then you looked so happy, so lovely! At other times

I think: ‘I shall yet grasp fortune with both hands … and then I can

face my Gudule’s eyes again.’ But now, now … oh, don’t look at me,

Gudule!”

There spoke the self-reproaching voice, which sometimes burst forth

unbidden from a suffering soul.

As for Gudule, she already knew how to appreciate this cry of her

husband’s conscience at its true value. It was not that she felt one

moment’s doubt as to its sincerity, but she knew that so far as it

affected the future, it was a mere cry and nothing more.

The years rolled on. The children were growing up. Ephraim had entered

his fifteenth year. Viola was a little pale girl of twelve. In opinion

of the Ghetto they were the most extraordinary children in the world.

In the midst of the harassing life to which her marriage with the

gambler had brought her, Gudule so reared them that they grew to be

living reflections of her own inmost being. People wondered when they

beheld the strange development of “Wild” Ascher’s children.

Their natures were as proud and reserved as that of their mother. They

did not associate with the youth of the Ghetto; it seemed as though

they were not of their kind, as though an insurmountable barrier

divided them. And many a bitter sneer was hurled at Gudule’s head.

“Does she imagine,” she often heard people whisper, “that because her

father was a farmer her children are princes? Let her remember that her

husband is but a common gambler.”

How different would have been their thoughts had they known that the

children were Gudule’s sole comfort. What their father had never heard

from her, she poured into their youthful souls. No tear their mother

shed was unobserved by them; they knew when their father had lost and

when he had won; they knew, too, all the varying moods of his unhinged

mind; and in this terrible school of misery they acquired an

instinctive intelligence, which in the eyes of strangers seemed mere

precocity.

The two children, however, had early given evidence of a marked

difference in disposition. Ephraim’s nature was one of an almost

feminine gentleness, whilst Viola was strong-willed and proudly

reserved.

“Mother,” she said one day, “do you think he will continue to play much

longer?”

“Viola, how can you talk like that?” Ephraim cried, greatly disturbed.

Thereupon Viola impetuously flung her arms round her mother’s neck, and

for some moments she clung to her with all the strength of her

passionate nature. It was as though in that wild embrace she would fain

pour forth the long pent-up sorrows of her blighted childhood.

“Mother!” she cried, “you are so good to him. Never, never shall he

have such kindness from me!”

“Ephraim,” said Gudule, “speak to your sister. In her sinful anger,

Viola would revenge herself upon her own father. Does it so beseem a

Jewish child?”

“Why does he treat you so cruelly, then?” Viola almost hissed the

words.

Soon after fell the final crushing blow. Ascher had been away from home

for some weeks, when one day Gudule received a letter, dated a prison

in the neighborhood of Vienna. In words of genuine sympathy the writer

explained that Ascher had been unfortunate enough to forge the

signature to a bill. She would not see him again for the next five

years. God comfort her! The letter was signed: “A fellow-sufferer with

your husband.”

As it had been with her old father, after he had bidden her a last

farewell, so it was now with Gudule. From that moment her days were

numbered, and although not a murmur escaped her lips, hour by hour she

wasted away.

One Friday evening, shortly after the seven-branched Sabbath lamp had

been lit, Gudule, seated in her arm-chair, out of which she had not

moved all day, called the two children to her. A bright smile hovered

around her lips, an unwonted fire burned in her still beautiful eyes,

her bosom heaved … in the eyes of her children she seemed strangely

changed. “Children,” said she, “come and stand by me. Ephraim, you

stand here on my right, and you, dear Viola, on my left. I would like

to tell you a little story, such as they tell little children to soothe

them to sleep. Shall I?”

“Mother!” they both cried, as they bent towards her.

“You must not interrupt me, children,” she observed, still with that

strange smile on her lips, “but leave me to tell my little story in my

own way.

“Listen, children,” she resumed, after a brief pause. “Every human

being—be he ever so wicked—if he have done but a single good deed on

earth, will, when he arrives above, in the seventh heaven, get his

Sechûs, that is to say, the memory of the good he has done here below

will be remembered and rewarded bountifully by the Almighty.” Gudule

ceased speaking. Suddenly a change came over her features: her breath

came and went in labored gasps; but her brown eyes still gleamed

brightly.

In tones well-nigh inaudible she continued: “When Jerusalem, the Holy

City, was destroyed, the dead rose up out of their graves … the holy

patriarchs Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob … and also Moses, and Aaron his

brother … and David the King … and prostrating themselves before God’s

throne they sobbed: ‘Dost Thou not remember the deeds we have done?…

Wouldst Thou now utterly destroy all these our children, even to the

innocent babe at the breast?’ But the Almighty was inexorable.

“Then Sarah, our mother, approached the Throne… When God beheld her, He

covered His face, and wept. ‘Go,’ said He, ‘I cannot listen to thee.’ …

But she exclaimed … ‘Dost Thou no longer remember the tears I shed

before I gave birth to my Joseph and Benjamin … and dost Thou not

remember the day when they buried me yonder, on the borders of the

Promised Land … and now, must mine eyes behold the slaughter of my

children, their disgrace, and their captivity?’… Then God cried: ‘For

THY sake will I remember thy children and spare them.’ …”

“Would you like to know,” Gudule suddenly cried, with uplifted voice,

“what this Sechûs is like? It has the form of an angel, and it stands

near the Throne of the Almighty. … But, since the days of Rachel, our

mother, it is the Sechûs of a mother that finds most favor in God’s

eyes. When a mother dies, her soul straightway soars heavenward, and

there it takes its place amid the others.

“‘Who art thou?’ asks God. ‘I am the Sechûs of a mother,’ is the

answer, ‘of a mother who has left children behind her on earth.’ ‘Then

do thou stand here and keep guard over them!’ says God. And when it is

well with the children, it is the Sechûs of a mother which has caused

them to prosper, and when evil days befall them … it is again the Angel

who stands before God and pleads: ‘Dost Thou forget that these children

no longer have a mother?’… and the evil is averted. …”

Gudule’s voice had sunk to a mere whisper. Her eyes closed, her head

fell back, her breathing became slower and more labored. “Are you still

there, children?” she softly whispered.

Anxiously they bent over her. Then once again she opened her eyes.

“I see you still”—the words came with difficulty from her blanched

lips—“you, Ephraim, and you, my little Viola … I am sure my Sechûs will

plead for you … for you and your father.” They were Gudule’s last

words. When her children, whose eyes had never as yet been confronted

with Death, called her by her name, covering her icy hands with burning

kisses, their mother was no more …

Who can tell what influence causes the downtrodden blade to raise

itself once more! Is it the vivifying breath of the west wind, or a

mysterious power sent forth from the bosom of Mother Earth? It was a

touching sight to see how those two children, crushed as they were

beneath the weight of a twofold blow, raised their heads again, and in

their very desolation found new-born strength. And it filled the Ghetto

with wonder. For what were they but the offspring of a gambler? Or was

it the spirit of Gudule, their mother, that lived in them?

After Gudule’s death, her eldest brother, the then owner of the grange,

came over to discuss the future of his sister’s children. He wished

Ephraim and Viola to go with him to his home in Lower Bohemia, where he

could find them occupation. The children, however, were opposed to the

idea. They had taken no previous counsel together, yet, upon this

point, both were in perfect accord,—they would prefer to be left in

their old home.

“When father comes back again,” said Ephraim, “he must know where to

find us. But to you, Uncle Gabriel, he would never come.”

The uncle then insisted that Viola at least should accompany him, for

he had daughters at home whom she could assist in their duties in the

house and on the farm. But the child clung to Ephraim, and with flaming

eyes, and in a voice of proud disdain, which filled the simple farmer

with something like terror, she cried:

“Uncle, you have enough to do to provide for your own daughters; don’t

let ME be an additional burden upon you; besides, sooner would I wander

destitute through the world than be separated from my brother.”

“And what do you propose to do then?” exclaimed the uncle, after he had

somewhat recovered from his astonishment at Viola’s vehemence.

“You see, Uncle Gabriel,” said Ephraim, a sudden flush overspreading

his grief-stricken features, “you see I have thought about it, and I

have come to the conclusion that this is the best plan. Viola shall

keep house, and I … I’ll start a business.”

“YOU start a business?” cried the uncle with a loud laugh. “Perhaps you

can tell me what price I’ll get for my oats next market day? A

business!… and what business, my lad?”

“Uncle,” said Ephraim, “if I dispose of all that is left us, I shall

have enough money to buy a small business. Others in our position have

done the same… and then…”

“Well, and then?” the uncle cried, eagerly anticipating his answer.

“Then the Sechûs of our mother will come to our aid.” Ephraim said

softly.

The farmer’s eyes grew dim with moisture; his sister had been very dear

to him.

“As I live!” he cried, brushing his hand across his eyes, “you are true

children of my sister Gudule. That’s all _I_ can say.”

Then, as though moved by a sudden impulse, he quickly produced, from

the depths of his overcoat, a heavy pocketbook. “There!”… he cried,

well-nigh out of breath, “there are a hundred gulden for you, Ephraim.

With that you can, at all events, make a start; and then you needn’t

sell the few things you still have. There … put the money away… oats

haven’t fetched any price at all to-day, ’tis true; but for the sake of

Gudule’s children, I don’t mind what I do… Come, put it away, Ephraim…

and may God bless you, and make you prosper.”

“Uncle!” cried Ephraim, as he raised the farmer’s hand to his lips, “is

all this to be mine? All this?”

“Yes, my boy, yes; it IS a deal of money isn’t it?” … said Gudule’s

brother, accompanying his words with a sounding slap on his massive

thigh. “I should rather think it is. With that you can do something, at

all events … and shall I tell you something? In Bohemia the oat crop

is, unfortunately, very bad this season. But in Moravia it’s splendid,

and is two groats cheaper … So there’s your chance, Ephraim, my child;

you’ve got the money, buy!” All at once a dark cloud overspread his

smiling face.

“It’s a lot of money, Ephraim, that I am giving you … many a merchant

can’t lay his hands on it,” he said, hesitatingly; “but if … you were

to … gam—”

The word remained unfinished, for upon his arm he suddenly felt a

sensation as of a sharp, pricking needle.

“Uncle Gabriel!” cried Viola—for it was she who had gripped his arm—and

the child’s cheeks were flaming, whilst her lips curled with scorn, and

her white teeth gleamed like those of a beast of prey. “Uncle Gabriel!”

she almost shrieked, “if you don’t trust Ephraim, then take your money

back again … it’s only because you are our mother’s brother that we

accept it from you at all … Ephraim shall repay you to the last

farthing … Ephraim doesn’t gamble … you sha’n’t lose a single penny of

it.”

With a shake of his head the farmer regarded the strange child. He felt

something like annoyance rise within him; an angry word rose to the

lips of the usually good tempered man. But it remained unsaid; he was

unable to remove his eyes from the child’s face.

“As I live,” he muttered, “she has Gudule’s very eyes.”

And with another thumping slap on his leg, he merrily exclaimed:

“All right, we’ll leave it so then…. If Ephraim doesn’t repay me, I’ll

take YOU, you wild thing… for you’ve stood surety for your brother, and

then I’ll take you away, and keep you with me at home. Do you agree…

you little spit-fire, eh?”

“Yes, uncle!” cried Viola.

“Then give me a kiss, Viola.”

The child hesitated for a moment, then she laid her cheek upon her

uncle’s face.

“Ah, now I’ve got you, you little spit-fire,” he cried, kissing her

again and again. “Aren’t you ashamed now to have snapped your uncle up

like that?”

Then after giving Ephraim some further information about the present

price of oats, and the future prospects of the crops, with a sideshot

at the chances of wool, skins, and other merchandise, he took his

leave.

There was great surprise in the Ghetto when the barely fifteen-year-old

lad made his first start in business. Many made merry over “the great

merchant,” but before the year was ended, the sharp-seeing eyes of the

Ghetto saw that Ephraim had “a lucky hand.” Whatever he undertook he

followed up with a calmness and tact which often baffled the restless

activity of many a big dealer, with all his cuteness and trickery.

Whenever Ephraim, with his pale, sad face, made his appearance at a

farmstead, to negotiate for the purchase of wool, or some such matter,

it seemed as though some invisible messenger had gone before him to

soften the hearts of the farmers. “No one ever gets things as cheap as

you do,” he was assured by many a farmer’s wife, who had been won by

the unconscious eloquence of his dark eyes. No longer did people laugh

at “the little merchant,” for nothing so quickly kills ridicule as

success.

When, two years later, his Uncle Gabriel came again to see how the

children were getting on, Ephraim was enabled to repay, in hard cash,

the money he had lent him.

“Oho!” cried Gudule’s brother, with big staring eyes, as he clutched

his legs with both hands, “how have you managed in so short a time to

save so much? D’ye know that that’s a great deal of money?”

“I’ve had good luck, uncle,” said Ephraim, modestly.

“You’ve been…playing, perhaps?”

The words fell bluntly from the rough country-man, but hardly had they

been uttered, when Viola sprang from her chair, as though an adder had

stung her. “Uncle,” she cried, and a small fist hovered before

Gabriel’s eyes in such a threatening manner that he involuntarily

closed them. But the child, whose features reminded him so strongly of

his dead sister, could not make him angry.

“Ephraim,” he exclaimed, in a jocund tone, warding off Viola with his

hands, “you take my advice. Take this little spit-fire with you into

the village one day…they may want a young she-wolf there.” Then he

pocketed the money.

“Well, Ephraim,” said he, “may God bless you, and grant you further

luck. But you won’t blame me if I take the money,—I can do with it, and

in oats, as you know, there’s some chance of good business just now.

But I am glad to see that you’re so prompt at paying. Never give too

much credit! That’s always my motto; trust means ruin, and eats up a

man’s business, as rats devour the contents of a corn-barn.”

There was but one thing that constantly threw its dark shadow across

these two budding lives,—it was the dark figure in a distant prison.

This it was that saddened the souls of the two children with a gloom

which no sunshine could dispel. When on Fridays Ephraim returned,

fatigued and weary from his work, to the home over which Viola presided

with such pathetic housewifely care, no smile of welcome was on her

face, no greeting on his. Ephraim, ’tis true, told his sister where he

had been, and what he had done, but in the simplest words there

vibrated that tone of unutterable sadness which has its constant

dwelling-place in such sorely-tried hearts.

Meanwhile, a great change had come over Viola. Nature continues her

processes of growth and development ’mid the tempests of human grief,

and often the fiercer the storm the more beautiful the after effects.

Viola was no longer the pale child, “the little spit-fire,” by whom her

Uncle Gabriel’s arm had been seized in such a violent grip. A womanly

gentleness had come over her whole being, and already voices were heard

in the Ghetto praising her grace and beauty, which surpassed even the

loveliness of her dead mother in her happiest days. Many an admiring

eye dwelt upon the beautiful girl, many a longing glance was cast in

the direction of the little house, where she dwelt with her brother.

But the daughter of a “gambler,” the child of a man who was undergoing

imprisonment for the indulgence of his shameful vice! That was a

picture from which many an admirer shrank with horror!

One day Ephraim brought home a young canary for his sister. When he

handed her the bird in its little gilt cage, her joy knew no bounds,

and showering kisses by turns upon her brother, and on the wire-work of

the cage, her eyes sparkling with animation:

“You shall see, Ephraim, how I’ll teach the little bird to speak,” she

cried.

The softening influence which had, during the last few months, come

over his sister’s nature was truly a matter of wonder to Ephraim.

Humbly and submissively she accepted the slightest suggestion on his

part, as though it were a command. He was to her a father and mother,

and never were parents more implicitly obeyed by a child than this

brother by a sister but three years his junior.

There was one subject, however, upon which Ephraim found his sister

implacable and firm—their absent father, the mere mention of whose name

made her tremble. Then there returned that haughty curl of the lips,

and all the other symptoms of a proud, inflexible spirit. It was

evident that Viola hated the man to whom she owed her existence.

Thus had it come about that Ephraim was almost afraid to pronounce his

father’s name. Neither did he care to allude to their mother before

Viola, for the memory of her death was too closely bound up with that

dark form behind the distant prison walls.

Let us now return to the night on which Ephraim opened the door to his

father. How had it come about? A thousand times Ephraim had thought

about his father’s return—and now he durst not even kindle a light, to

look upon the long-estranged face. As silent as when he had come,

Ascher remained during the rest of the night; he had seated himself at

the window, and his arm was resting upon the very spot where formerly

the cage had stood. The bird had obtained its freedom, and was, no

doubt, by this time asleep, nestling amid the breeze-swept foliage of

some wooded glen. HE too had regained his liberty, but no sleep closed

his eyes, and yet he was in safe shelter, in the house of his children.

At length the day began to break. The sun was still hiding behind the

mountain-tops, but its earliest rays were already reflected upon the

window-panes. In the Ghetto footsteps became audible; here and there

the grating noise of an opening street-door was heard, while from round

the corner resounded, ever and anon, the hammer of the watchman,

calling the people to morning service; for it was a Fast-day, which

commenced at sunrise.

At that moment Ascher raised himself from his chair, and quickly turned

away from the window. Ephraim was already by his side. “Father, dear

father!” he cried from the inmost depths of his heart, as he tried to

grasp the hand of the convict.

“Don’t make such a noise,” said the latter, casting a furtive glance in

the direction of the window, and speaking in the same mysterious

whisper in which he had asked for admittance into the house.

What a strange awakening it was to his son, when, in the gray twilight

of the breaking day, he looked at Ascher more closely. In his

imagination Ephraim had pictured a wan, grief-worn figure, and now he

saw before him a strong, well-built man, who certainly did not present

the appearance of a person who had just emerged from the dank

atmosphere of a prison! On the contrary, he seemed stronger and more

vigorous than he had appeared in his best days.

“Has he had such a good time of it…?” Ephraim felt compelled to ask

himself… “how different our poor mother looked!”

With a violent effort he repressed the feelings which swelled his

bosom. “Dear father,” he said, with tears in his eyes, “make yourself

quite comfortable; you haven’t closed your eyes the whole night, you

must be worn out. You are at home, remember…father!”

“It’s all right,” said Ascher, with a deprecating gesture, “WE fellows

know other ways of spending the night.”

“WE FELLOWS!” The words cut Ephraim to the heart.

“But you may be taken ill, father,” he timidly observed.

“I taken ill! What do you take me for?” Ascher laughed, boisterously.

“I haven’t the slightest intention of falling ill.”

At that moment the watchman was heard hammering at the door of the next

house. The reverberating blows seemed to have a strangely disquieting

effect upon the strong man: a violent tremor seized him; he cast one of

the frightened glances which Ephraim had noticed before in the

direction of the window, then with one bound he was at the door, and

swiftly turned the knob.

“Father, what’s the matter?” Ephraim cried, much alarmed.

“Does the watchman look into the room when he passes by?” asked Ascher,

while his eyes almost burst from their sockets, with the intentness of

their gaze.

“Never,” Ephraim assured him.

“Let me see, wait…” whispered Ascher.

The three well-known knocks now resounded upon their own door, then the

shadow of a passing figure was thrown upon the opposite wall. With a

sigh of relief, the words escaped Ascher’s bosom:

“He did not look inside…” he muttered to himself.

Then he removed his hand from the door-knob, came back into the centre

of the room, and approaching the table, rested his hand upon it.

“Ephraim…” he said after a while, in that suppressed tone which seemed

to be peculiar to him, “aren’t you going to synagogue?”

“No, father,” replied Ephraim, “I’m not going to-day.”

“But they’ll want to know,” Ascher observed, and at the words an ugly

sneer curled the corners of his lip; “they’ll want to know who your

guest is. Why don’t you go and tell them?”

“Father!” cried Ephraim.

“Then be good enough to draw down the blinds. …What business is it of

theirs who your guest is? Let them attend to their own affairs… But

they wouldn’t be of ‘the chosen race’ if they didn’t want to know what

was taking place in the furthermost corner of your brain. You can’t be

too careful with them…you’re never secure against their far-scenting

noses and their sharp, searching eyes.”

It was now broad daylight. Ephraim drew down the blinds.

“The blinds are too white…” Ascher muttered, and moving a chair

forward, he sat down upon it with his back to the window.

Ephraim proceeded to wind the phylacteries round his arm, and commenced

to say his prayers softly.

His devotions over, he hurriedly took the phylacteries from his head

and hand.

Ascher was still sitting immovable, his back to the window, his eyes

fixed upon the door.

“Why don’t you ask me where I’ve left my luggage?” he suddenly cried.

“I’ll fetch it myself if you’ll tell me where it is,” Ephraim remarked,

in all simplicity.

“Upon my word, you make me laugh,” cried Ascher, and a laugh like that

of delirium burst from his lips. “All I can say, Ephraim, is, the most

powerful giant upon earth would break his back beneath the weight of my

luggage!”

Then only did Ephraim grasp his father’s meaning.

“Don’t worry yourself, father…” he said lovingly.

“Would you like to support me, perhaps!” Ascher shouted, with cutting

disdain.

Ephraim’s heart almost ceased to beat. Then movements were heard in the

adjoining room.

“Have you any one with you?” cried Ascher springing up. His sharp ears

had instantly caught the sounds, and again the strong man was seized

with violent trembling.

“Father, it’s only dear Viola,” said Ephraim.

A nameless terror seemed to have over-powered Ascher. With one hand

convulsively clenched upon the arm of the chair, and the other pressed

to his temple, he sat breathing heavily. Ephraim observed with alarm

what a terrible change had come over his father’s features during the

last few seconds: his face had become ashen white, his eyes had lost

their lustre, he seemed to have aged ten years.

The door opened, and Viola entered.

“Viola!” cried Ephraim, “here is our—”

“Welcome!” said the girl, in a low voice, as she approached a few steps

nearer. She extended her hand towards him, but her eyes were cast down.

She stood still for a moment, then, with a hurried movement, turned

away.

“Gudule!” cried Ascher, horror-stricken, as he fell back almost

senseless in his chair.

Was it the glamour of her maiden beauty that had so overpowered this

unhappy father? Or was it the extraordinary resemblance she bore to the

woman who had so loved him, and whose heart he had broken? The

utterance of her name, the terror that accompanied the exclamation,

denoted the effect which the girl’s sudden appearance had produced upon

that sadly unhinged mind.

“Viola!” Ephraim cried, in a sorrow-stricken voice, “why don’t you come

here?”

“I CAN’T, Ephraim, I CAN’T…” she moaned, as, with halting steps, she

walked towards the door.

“Come, speak to him, do,” Ephraim entreated, taking her hand in his.

“Let me go!” she cried, trying to release herself … “I am thinking of

mother!”

Suddenly Ascher rose.

“Where’s my stick?” he cried. “I want the stick which I brought with

me…Where is it? I must go.”

“Father, you won’t…” cried Ephraim.

Then Viola turned round.

“Father,” she said, with twitching lips… “you’ll want something to eat

before you go.”

“Yes, yes, let me have something to eat,” he shouted, as he brought his

fist down upon the table. “Bring me wine…and let it be good …I am

thirsty enough to drink the river dry. …Wine, and beer, and anything

else you can find, bring all here, and then, when I’ve had my fill,

I’ll go.”

“Go, Viola,” Ephraim whispered in his sister’s ear, “and bring him all

he asks for.”

When Viola had left the room, Ascher appeared to grow calmer. He sat

down again leaning his arms upon the table.

“Yes,” he muttered to himself: “I’ll taste food with my children,

before I take up my stick and go…They say it’s lucky to have the first

drink of the day served by one’s own child …and luck I will have again,

at any price… What good children! While I’ve been anything but a good

father to them, they run hither and thither and take the trouble to get

me food and drink, and I, I’ve brought them home nothing but a wooden

stick. But I’ll repay them, so help me God, I’ll make them rich yet,

but I’ve got nothing but a wooden stick, and I want money, no play

without money, and no luck either…”

Gradually a certain thoughtfulness overspread Ascher’s agitated

features, his lips were tightly compressed, deep furrows lined his

forehead, while his eyes were fixed in a stony glare, as if upon some

distant object. In the meantime Ephraim had remained standing almost

motionless, and it was evident that his presence in the room had quite

escaped his father’s observation. With a chilling shudder running

through his frame, his hair on end with horror, he listened to the

strange soliloquy!…Then he saw his father’s eyes travelling slowly in

the direction of the old bureau in the corner, and there they remained

fixed. “Why does he leave the key in the door, I wonder,” he heard him

mutter between his teeth, “just as Gudule used to do; I must tell him

when he comes back, keys shouldn’t be left indoors, never, under any

circumstances.” The entrance of Viola interrupted the old gambler’s

audible train of thought.

Ephraim gave a gasp of relief.

“Ah, what have you brought me?” cried Ascher, and his eyes sparkled

with animation, as Viola produced some bottles from under her apron,

and placed them and some glasses upon the table.

“Now then, fill up the glass,” he shouted, in a commanding voice, “and

take care that you don’t spill any, or you’ll spoil my luck.”

With trembling hand Viola did as she was bidden, without spilling a

single drop. Then he took up the glass and drained it at one draught.

His face flushed a bright crimson: he poured himself out another glass.

“Aren’t you drinking, Ephraim?” he exclaimed, after he had finished

that glass also.

“I don’t drink to-day, father,” Ephraim faltered, “it’s a fast.”

“A fast? What fast? I have been fasting too,” he continued, with a

coarse laugh, “twice a week, on bread and water; an excellent thing for

the stomach. Fancy, a fast-day in midsummer. On such a long day, when

the sun is up at three already, and at eight o’clock at night is still

hesitating whether he’ll go to bed or not …what have I got to do with

your Fast-day?”

His face grew redder every moment; he had drunk a third and a fourth

glass, and there was nothing but a mere drain left in the bottle.

Already his utterance was thick and incoherent, and his eyes were fast

assuming that glassy brightness that is usually the forerunner of

helpless intoxication. It was a sight Ephraim could not bear to see.

Impelled by that natural, almost holy shame which prompted the son of

Noah to cover the nakedness of his father, he motioned to his sister to

leave. Then HE, too, softly walked out of the room.

Outside, in the corridor, the brother and sister fell into each other’s

arms. Both wept bitterly: for a long time neither of them could find

words in which to express the grief which filled their souls. At length

Viola, her head resting upon Ephraim’s shoulder, whispered: “Ephraim,

what do you think of him?”

“He is ill, I think…” said Ephraim, in a voice choked with sobs.

“What, you call THAT illness, Ephraim?” Viola cried; “if that’s

illness, then a wild beast is ill too.”

“Viola, for Heaven’s sake, be quiet: he’s our own father after all!”

“Ephraim!” said the girl, with a violent outburst of emotion, as she

again threw herself into her brother’s arms… “just think if mother had

lived to see this!”

“Don’t, don’t, Viola, my sweet!” Ephraim exclaimed, sobbing

convulsively.

“Ephraim!” the girl cried, shaking her head in wild despair, “I don’t

believe in the Sechûs! When we live to see all this, and our hearts do

not break, we lose faith in everything…Ephraim, what is to become of

us?”

“Hush, dear Viola, hush, you don’t know what you are saying,” replied

Ephraim, “I believe in it, because mother herself told us…you must

believe in it too.”

But Viola again shook her head. “I don’t believe in it any longer,” she

moaned, “I can’t.”

Noiselessly, Ephraim walked toward the door of the front room; he

placed his ear against the keyhole, and listened. Within all was

silent. A fresh terror seized him. Why was no sound to be heard?…He

opened the door cautiously lest it should creak. There sat his father

asleep in the arm-chair, his head bent on his bosom, his arms hanging

limp by his side.

“Hush, Viola,” he whispered, closing the door as cautiously as he had

opened it, “he is asleep. …I think it will do him good. Be careful that

you make no noise.”

Viola had seated herself upon a block of wood outside the kitchen door,

and was sobbing silently. In the meantime, Ephraim, unable to find a

word of solace for his sister, went and stood at the street door, so

that no unbidden guest should come to disturb his father’s slumbers. It

was mid-day; from the church hard by streamed the peasants and their

wives in their Sunday attire, and many bestowed a friendly smile upon

the well-known youth. But he could only nod his head in return, his

heart was sore oppressed, and a smile at such a moment seemed to him

nothing short of sin. He went back into the house, and listened at the

door of the room. Silence still reigned unbroken, and with noiseless

steps he again walked away.

“He is still sleeping,” he whispered to his sister. “Just think what

would have happened if we had still had that bird…He wouldn’t have been

able to sleep a wink.”

“Ephraim, why do you remind me of it?” cried Viola with a fresh

outburst of tears. “Where is the little bird now, I wonder?…”

Ephraim sat down beside his sister, and took her hand in his. Thus they

remained seated for some time, unable to find a word of comfort for

each other.

At length movements were heard. Ephraim sprang to his feet and once

more approached the door to listen.

“He is awake!” he softly said to Viola, and slowly opening the door, he

entered the room.

Ascher was walking up and down with heavy tread.

“Do you feel refreshed after your sleep, father?” Ephraim asked

timidly.

Ascher stood still, and confronted his son. His face was still very

flushed, but his eyes had lost their glassy stare; his glance was clear

and steady.

“Ephraim, my son,” he began, in a kindly, almost cheerful tone, “you’ve

grown into a splendid business man, as good a business man as one can

meet with between this and Vienna. I’m sure of it. But I must give you

one bit of advice; it’s worth a hundred pounds to one in your position.

Never leave a key in the lock of a bureau!”

Ephraim looked at his father as though stupefied. Was the man mad or

delirious to talk in such a strain? At that moment, from the extreme

end of the Ghetto, there sounded the three knocks, summoning the people

to evening prayer. As in the morning, so again now the sound seemed to

stun the vigorous man. His face blanched and assumed an expression of

terror; he trembled from head to foot. Then again he cast a frightened

glance in the direction of the window.

“Nothing but knocking, knocking!” he muttered. “They would like to

knock the most hidden thoughts out of one’s brains, if they only could.

What makes them do it, I should like to know?…To the clanging of a bell

you can, at all events, shut your ears, you need only place your hands

to them…but with that hammer they bang at every confounded door, and

drive one crazy. Who gives them the right to do it, I should like to

know?” He stood still listening.

“Do you think he will be long before he reaches here?” he asked

Ephraim, in a frightened voice.

“Who, father?”

“The watch.”

“He has already knocked next door but one.”

Another minute, and the three strokes sounded on the door of the house.

Ascher heaved a sigh of relief; he rubbed his hand across his forehead;

it was wet with perspiration.

“Thank God!” he cried, as though addressing himself, “that’s over, and

won’t come again till to-morrow.”

“Ephraim, my son!” he cried, with a sudden outburst of cheerfulness,

accompanying the words with a thundering bang upon the table, “Ephraim,

my son, you shall soon see what sort of a father you have. Now, you’re

continually worrying your brains, walking your feet off, trying to get

a skin, or praying some fool of a peasant to be good enough to sell you

a bit of wool. Ephraim, my son, all that shall soon be changed, take my

word for it. I’ll make you rich, and as for Viola, I’ll get her a

husband—such a husband that all the girls in Bohemia will turn green

and yellow with envy…Ascher’s daughter shall have as rich a dowry as

the daughter of a Rothschild… But there’s one thing, and one thing

only, that I need, and then all will happen as I promise, in one

night.”

“And what is that, father!” asked Ephraim, with a slight shudder.

“Luck, luck, Ephraim, my son!” he shouted. “What is a man without luck?

Put a man who has no luck in a chest full of gold; cover him with gold

from head to foot; when he crawls out of it, and you search his

pockets, you’ll find the gold has turned to copper.”

“And will you have luck, father?” asked Ephraim.

“Ephraim, my son!” said the old gambler, with a cunning smile, “I’ll

tell you something—There are persons whose whole powers are devoted to

one object—how to win a fortune; in the same way as there are some who

study to become doctors, and the like, so these study what we call

luck…and from them I’ve learned it.”

He checked himself in sudden alarm lest he might have said too much,

and looked searchingly at his son. A pure soul shone through Ephraim’s

open countenance, and showed his father that his real meaning had not

been grasped.

“Never mind,” he shouted loudly, waving his arms in the air, “what is

to come no man can stop. Give me something to drink, Ephraim.”

“Father,” the latter faltered, “don’t you think it will harm you?”

“Don’t be a fool, Ephraim!” cried Ascher, “you don’t know my

constitution. Besides, didn’t you say that to-day was a fast, when it

is forbidden to eat anything? And have I asked you for any food? But as

for drink, that’s quite another thing! The birds of the air can’t do

without it, much less man!”

Ephraim saw that for that evening, at all events, it would not do to

oppose his father. He walked into the kitchen where Viola was preparing

supper, or rather breakfast, for after the fast this was the first meal

of the day.

“Viola,” he said, “make haste and fetch some fresh wine.”

“For him?” cried Viola, pointing her finger almost threateningly in the

direction of the sitting-room door.

“Don’t, don’t, Viola!” Ephraim implored.

“And you are fasting!” she said.

“Am I not also fasting for him?” said Ephraim.

With a full bottle in his hand Ephraim once more entered the room. He

placed the wine upon the table, where the glasses from which Ascher had

drunk in the morning were still standing.

“Where is Viola?” asked Ascher, who was again pacing the room with firm

steps.

“She is busy cooking.”

“Tell her she shall have a husband, and a dowry that will make half the

girls in Bohemia turn green and yellow with envy.”

Then he approached the table, and drank three brimming glasses, one

after the other. “Now then,” he said, as with his whole weight he

dropped into the old arm-chair… “Now I’ll have a good night’s rest. I

need strength and sharp eyes, and they are things which only sleep can

give. Ephraim, my son,” he continued after awhile in thick, halting

accents… “tell the watch—Simon is his name, I think—he can give six

knocks instead of three upon the door, in the morning, he won’t disturb

me…and to Viola you can say I’ll find her a husband, handsomer than her

eyes have ever beheld, and tell her on her wedding-day she shall wear

pearls round her neck like those of a queen—no, no, like those of

Gudule, her mother.” A few moments later he was sound asleep.

It was the dead of night. All round reigned stillness and peace, the

peace of night! What a gentle sound those words convey, a sound akin

only to the word HOME! Fraught, like it, with sweetest balm, a fragrant

flower from long-lost paradise. Thou art at rest, Ascher, and in safe

shelter; the breathing of thy children is so restful, so tranquil…

Desist! desist! ’Tis too late. Side by side with the peace of night,

there dwell Spirits of Evil, the never-resting, vagrant,

home-destroying guests, who enter unbidden into the human soul! Hark,

the rustling of their raven-hued plumage! They take wing, they fly

aloft; ’tis the shriek of the vulture, swooping down upon the guileless

dove.

Is there no eye to watch thee? Doth not thine own kin see thy foul

deeds?

Desist!

’Tis too late…

Open is the window, no grating noise has accompanied the unbolting of

the shutter… The evil spirits have taken care that the faintest sound

shall die away…even the rough iron obeys their voices…it is they who

have bidden: “Be silent; betray him not; he is one of us.”

Even the key in the door of the old bureau is turned lightly and

without noise. Groping fingers are searching for a bulky volume. Have

they found it? Is there none there to cry in a voice of thunder:

“Cursed be the father who stretches forth his desecrating hand towards

the things that are his children’s”?…

They HAVE found it, the greedy fingers! and now, but a spring through

the open window, and out into the night…

At that moment a sudden ray of light shines through a crack in the door

of the room… Swiftly the door opens, a girlish figure appears on the

threshold, a lighted lamp in her hand…

“Gudule!” he shrieks, horror-stricken, and falls senseless at her feet.

Ascher was saved. The terrible blow which had struck him down had not

crushed the life from him. He was awakened. But when, after four weeks

of gruesome fever and delirium, his mind had somewhat regained its

equilibrium, his hair had turned white as snow, and his children beheld

an old, decrepit man.

That which Viola had denied her father when he returned to them in all

the vigor of his manhood, she now lavished upon him in his suffering

and helplessness, with that concentrated power of love, the source of

which is not human, but Divine. In the space of one night of terror,

the merest bud of yesterday had suddenly blossomed forth into a flower

of rarest beauty. Never did gentler hands cool a fever-heated brow,

never did sweeter voice mingle its melody with the gruesome dreams of

delirium.

On his sick-bed, lovingly tended by Ephraim and Viola, an ennobling

influence gradually came over the heart of the old gambler, and so

deeply touched it, that calm peace crowned his closing days. It was

strange that the events of that memorable night, and the vicissitudes

that had preceded it, had left no recollection behind, and his children

took good care not to re-awaken, by the slightest hint, his sleeping

memory.

A carriage drew up one day in front of Ascher’s house. There has

evidently been a splendid crop of oats this year. Uncle Gabriel has

come. Uncle Gabriel has only lately assumed the additional character of

father-in-law to Ephraim, for he declared that none but Ephraim should

be his pet daughter’s husband. And now he has come for the purpose of

having a confidential chat with Viola. There he sits, the kind-hearted,

simple-minded man, every line of his honest face eloquent with

good-humor and happiness, still guilty of an occasional violent

onslaught upon his thighs. Viola still remains his “little spit-fire.”

“Now, Viola, my little spit-fire,” said he, “won’t you yet allow me to

talk to my Nathan about you? Upon my word, the boy can’t bear the

suspense any longer.”

“Uncle,” says Viola, and a crimson blush dyes her pale cheeks: “Uncle,”

she repeats, in a tone of such deep earnestness, that the laughing

expression upon Gabriel’s face instantly vanishes, “please don’t talk

to him at all. MY place is with my father!”

And to all appearances Viola will keep her word.

Had she taken upon herself a voluntary penance for having, in her

heart’s bitter despair, presumed to abjure her faith in the Sechûs of

her mother? Or was there yet another reason? The heart of woman is a

strangely sensitive thing. It loves not to build its happiness upon the

hidden ruins of another’s life.

THE SEVERED HAND

BY WILHELM HAUFF

I was born in Constantinople; my father was a dragoman at the Porte,

and besides, carried on a fairly lucrative business in sweet-scented

perfumes and silk goods. He gave me a good education; he partly

instructed me himself, and also had me instructed by one of our

priests. He at first intended me to succeed him in business one day,

but as I showed greater aptitude than he had expected, he destined me,

on the advice of his friends, to be a doctor; for if a doctor has

learned a little more than the ordinary charlatan, he can make his

fortune in Constantinople. Many Franks frequented our house, and one of

them persuaded my father to allow me to travel to his native land to

the city of Paris, where such things could be best acquired and free of

charge. He wished, however, to take me with himself gratuitously on his

journey home. My father, who had also travelled in his youth, agreed,

and the Frank told me to hold myself in readiness three months hence. I

was beside myself with joy at the idea of seeing foreign countries, and

eagerly awaited the moment when we should embark. The Frank had at last

concluded his business and prepared himself for the journey. On the

evening before our departure my father led me into his little bedroom.

There I saw splendid dresses and arms lying on the table. My looks were

however chiefly attracted to an immense heap of gold, for I had never

before seen so much collected together.

My father embraced me and said: “Behold, my son, I have procured for

thee clothes for the journey. These weapons are thine; they are the

same which thy grandfather hung around me when I went abroad. I know

that thou canst use them aright; but only make use of them when thou

art attacked; on such occasions, however, defend thyself bravely. My

property is not large; behold I have divided it into three parts, one

part for thee, another for my support and spare money, but the third is

to me a sacred and untouched property, it is for thee in the hour of

need.” Thus spoke my old father, tears standing in his eyes, perhaps

from some foreboding, for I never saw him again.

The journey passed off very well; we had soon reached the land of the

Franks, and six days later we arrived in the large city of Paris. There

my Frankish friend hired a room for me, and advised me to spend wisely

my money, which amounted in all to two thousand dollars. I lived three

years in this city, and learned what is necessary for a skilful doctor

to know. I should not, however, be stating the truth if I said that I

liked being there, for the customs of this nation displeased me;

besides, I had only a few chosen friends there, and these were noble

young men.

The longing after home at last possessed me mightily; during the whole

of that time I had not heard anything from my father, and I therefore

seized a favorable opportunity of reaching home. An embassy from France

left for Turkey. I acted as surgeon to the suite of the Ambassador and

arrived happily in Stamboul. My father’s house was locked, and the

neighbors, who were surprised on seeing me, told me my father had died

two months ago. The priest who had instructed me in my youth brought me

the key; alone and desolate I entered the empty house. All was still in

the same position as my father had left it, only the gold which I was

to inherit was gone. I questioned the priest about it, and he, bowing,

said: “Your father died a saint, for he has bequeathed his gold to the

Church.” This was and remained inexplicable to me. However, what could

I do? I had no witness against the priest, and had to be glad that he

had not considered the house and the goods of my father as a bequest.

This was the first misfortune that I encountered. Henceforth nothing

but ill-luck attended me. My reputation as doctor would not spread at

all, because I was ashamed to act the charlatan; and I felt everywhere

the want of the recommendation of my father, who would have introduced

me to the richest and most distinguished, but who now no longer thought

of the poor Zaleukos! The goods of my father also had no sale, for his

customers had deserted him after his death, and new ones are only to be

got slowly.

Thus when I was one day meditating sadly over my position, it occurred

to me that I had often seen in France men of my nation travelling

through the country exhibiting their goods in the markets of the towns.

I remembered that the people liked to buy of them, because they came

from abroad, and that such a business would be most lucrative.

Immediately I resolved what to do. I disposed of my father’s house,

gave part of the money to a trusty friend to keep for me, and with the

rest I bought what are very rare in France, shawls, silk goods,

ointments, and oils, took a berth on board a ship, and thus entered

upon my second journey to the land of the Franks. It seemed as if

fortune had favored me again as soon as I had turned my back upon the

Castles of the Dardanelles. Our journey was short and successful. I

travelled through the large and small towns of the Franks, and found

everywhere willing buyers of my goods. My friend in Stamboul always

sent me fresh stores, and my wealth increased day by day. When I had

saved at last so much that I thought I might venture on a greater

undertaking, I travelled with my goods to Italy. I must however confess

to something, which brought me not a little money: I also employed my

knowledge of physic. On reaching a town, I had it published that a

Greek physician had arrived, who had already healed many; and in fact

my balsam and medicine gained me many a sequin. Thus I had at length

reached the city of Florence in Italy.

I resolved upon remaining in this town for some time, partly because I

liked it so well, partly also because I wished to recruit myself from

the exertions of my travels. I hired a vaulted shop, in that part of

the town called Sta. Croce, and not far from this a couple of nice

rooms at an inn, leading out upon a balcony. I immediately had my bills

circulated, which announced me to be both physician and merchant.

Scarcely had I opened my shop when I was besieged by buyers, and in

spite of my high prices I sold more than any one else, because I was

obliging and friendly towards my customers. Thus I had already lived

four days happily in Florence, when one evening, as I was about to

close my vaulted room, and on examining once more the contents of my

ointment boxes, as I was in the habit of doing, I found in one of the

small boxes a piece of paper, which I did not remember to have put into

it.

I unfolded the paper, and found in it an invitation to be on the bridge

which is called Ponto Vecchio that night exactly at midnight. I was

thinking for a long time as to who it might be who had invited me

there; and not knowing a single soul in Florence, I thought perhaps I

should be secretly conducted to a patient, a thing which had already

often occurred. I therefore determined to proceed thither, but took

care to gird on the sword which my father had once presented to me.

When it was close upon midnight I set out on my journey, and soon

reached the Ponte Vecchio. I found the bridge deserted, and determined

to await the appearance of him who called me. It was a cold night; the

moon shone brightly, and I looked down upon the waves of the Arno,

which sparkled far away in the moonlight. It was now striking twelve

o’clock from all the churches of the city, when I looked up and saw a

tall man standing before me completely covered in a scarlet cloak, one

end of which hid his face.

At first I was somewhat frightened, because he had made his appearance

so suddenly; but was however myself again shortly afterwards, and said:

“If it is you who have ordered me here, say what you want?” The man

dressed in scarlet turned round and said in an undertone: “Follow!” At

this, however, I felt a little timid to go alone with this stranger. I

stood still and said: “Not so, sir, kindly first tell me where; you

might also let me see your countenance a little, in order to convince

me that you wish me no harm.” The red one, however, did not seem to pay

any attention to this. “If thou art unwilling, Zaleukos, remain,” he

replied, and continued his way. I grew angry. “Do you think,” I

exclaimed, “a man like myself allows himself to be made a fool of, and

to have waited on this cold night for nothing?”

In three bounds I had reached him, seized him by his cloak, and cried

still louder, whilst laying hold of my sabre with my other hand. His

cloak, however, remained in my hand, and the stranger had disappeared

round the nearest corner. I became calmer by degrees. I had the cloak

at any rate, and it was this which would give me the key to this

remarkable adventure. I put it on and continued my way home. When I was

at a distance of about a hundred paces from it, some one brushed very

closely by me and whispered in the language of the Franks: “Take care,

Count, nothing can be done to-night.” Before I had time, however, to

turn round, this somebody had passed, and I merely saw a shadow

hovering along the houses. I perceived that these words did not concern

me, but rather the cloak, yet it gave me no explanation concerning the

affair. On the following morning I considered what was to be done. At

first I had intended to have the cloak cried in the streets, as if I

had found it. But then the stranger might send for it by a third

person, and thus no light would be thrown upon the matter. Whilst I was

thus thinking, I examined the cloak more closely. It was made of thick

Genoese velvet, scarlet in color, edged with Astrachan fur and richly

embroidered with gold. The magnificent appearance of the cloak put a

thought into my mind which I resolved to carry out.

I carried it into my shop and exposed it for sale, but placed such a

high price upon it that I was sure nobody would buy it. My object in

this was to scrutinize everybody sharply who might ask for the fur

cloak; for the figure of the stranger, which I had seen but

superficially, though with some certainty, after the loss of the cloak,

I should recognize amongst a thousand. There were many would-be

purchasers for the cloak, the extraordinary beauty of which attracted

everybody; but none resembled the stranger in the slightest degree, and

nobody was willing to pay such a high price as two hundred sequins for

it. What astonished me was that on asking somebody or other if there

was not such a cloak in Florence, they all answered “No,” and assured

me they never had seen so precious and tasteful a piece of work.

Evening was drawing near, when at last a young man appeared, who had

already been to my place, and who had also offered me a great deal for

the cloak. He threw a purse with sequins upon the table, and exclaimed:

“Of a truth, Zaleukos, I must have thy cloak, should I turn into a

beggar over it!” He immediately began to count his pieces of gold. I

was in a dangerous position: I had only exposed the cloak, in order

merely to attract the attention of my stranger, and now a young fool

came to pay an immense price for it. However, what could I do? I

yielded; for on the other hand I was delighted at the idea of being so

handsomely recompensed for my nocturnal adventure.

The young man put the cloak around him and went away, but on reaching

the threshold he returned; whilst unfastening a piece of paper which

had been tied to the cloak, and throwing it towards me, he exclaimed:

“Here, Zaleukos, hangs something which I dare say does not belong to

the cloak.” I picked up the piece of paper carelessly, but behold, on

it these words were written: “Bring the cloak at the appointed hour

to-night to the Ponte Vecchio, four hundred sequins are thine.” I stood

thunderstruck. Thus I had lost my fortune and completely missed my aim!

Yet I did not think long. I picked up the two hundred sequins, jumped

after the one who had bought the cloak, and said: “Dear friend, take

back your sequins, and give me the cloak; I cannot possibly part with

it.” He first regarded the matter as a joke; but when he saw that I was

in earnest, he became angry at my demand, called me a fool, and finally

it came to blows.

However, I was fortunate enough to wrench the cloak from him in the

scuffle, and was about to run away with it, when the young man called

the police to his assistance, and we both appeared before the judge.

The latter was much surprised at the accusation, and adjudicated the

cloak in favor of my adversary. I offered the young man twenty, fifty,

eighty, even a hundred sequins in addition to his two hundred, if he

would part with the cloak. What my entreaties could not do, my gold

did. He accepted it. I, however, went away with the cloak triumphantly,

and had to appear to the whole town of Florence as a madman. I did not

care, however, about the opinion of the people; I knew better than they

that I profited after all by the bargain.

Impatiently I awaited the night. At the same hour as before I went with

the cloak under my arm towards the Ponte Vecchio. With the last stroke

of twelve the figure appeared out of the darkness, and came towards me.

It was unmistakably the man whom I had seen yesterday. “Hast thou the

cloak?” he asked me. “Yes, sir,” I replied; “but it cost me a hundred

sequins ready money.” “I know it,” replied the other “Look here, here

are four hundred.” He went with me towards the wide balustrade of the

bridge, and counted out the money. There were four hundred; they

sparkled magnificently in the moonlight; their glitter rejoiced my

heart. Alas, I did not anticipate that this would be its last joy. I

put the money into my pocket, and was desirous of thoroughly looking at

my kind and unknown stranger; but he wore a mask, through which dark

eyes stared at me frightfully. “I thank you, sir, for your kindness,” I

said to him; “what else do you require of me? I tell you beforehand it

must be an honorable transaction.” “There is no occasion for alarm,” he

replied, whilst winding the cloak around his shoulders; “I require your

assistance as surgeon, not for one alive, but dead.”

“What do you mean?” I exclaimed, full of surprise. “I arrived with my

sister from abroad.” he said, and beckoned me at the same time to

follow him. “I lived here with her at the house of a friend. My sister

died yesterday suddenly of a disease, and my relatives wish to bury her

to-morrow. According to an old custom of our family all are to be

buried in the tomb of our ancestors; many, notwithstanding, who died in

foreign countries are buried there and embalmed. I do not grudge my

relatives her body, but for my father I want at least the head of his

daughter, in order that he may see her once more.” This custom of

severing the heads of beloved relatives appeared to me somewhat awful,

yet I did not dare to object to it lest I should offend the stranger. I

told him that I was acquainted with the embalming of the dead, and

begged him to conduct me to the deceased. Yet I could not help asking

him why all this must be done so mysteriously and at night? He answered

me that his relatives, who considered his intention horrible, objected

to it by daylight; if only the head were severed, then they could say

no more about it; although he might have brought me the head, yet a

natural feeling had prevented him from severing it himself.

In the meantime we had reached a large, splendid house. My companion

pointed it out to me as the end of our nocturnal walk. We passed the

principal entrance of the house, entered a little door, which the

stranger carefully locked behind him, and now ascended in the dark a

narrow spiral staircase. It led towards a dimly lighted passage, out of

which we entered a room lighted by a lamp fastened to the ceiling.

In this room was a bed, on which the corpse lay. The stranger turned

aside his face, evidently endeavoring to hide his tears. He pointed

towards the bed, telling me to do my business well and quickly, and

left the room.

I took my instruments, which I as surgeon always carried about with me,

and approached the bed. Only the head of the corpse was visible, and it

was so beautiful that I experienced involuntarily the deepest sympathy.

Dark hair hung down in long plaits, the features were pale, the eyes

closed. At first I made an incision into the skin, after the manner of

surgeons when amputating a limb. I then took my sharpest knife, and

with one stroke cut the throat. But oh, horror! The dead opened her

eyes, but immediately closed them again, and with a deep sigh she now

seemed to breathe her last. At the same moment a stream of hot blood

shot towards me from the wound. I was convinced that the poor creature

had been killed by me. That she was dead there was no doubt, for there

was no recovery from this wound. I stood for some minutes in painful

anguish at what had happened. Had the “red-cloak” deceived me, or had

his sister perhaps merely been apparently dead? The latter seemed to me

more likely. But I dare not tell the brother of the deceased that

perhaps a little less deliberate cut might have awakened her without

killing her; therefore I wished to sever the head completely; but once

more the dying woman groaned, stretched herself out in painful

movements, and died.

Fright overpowered me, and shuddering, I hastened out of the room. But

outside in the passage it was dark; for the light was out, no trace of

my companion was to be seen, and I was obliged, haphazard, to feel my

way in the dark along the wall, in order to reach the staircase. I

discovered it at last and descended, partly falling and partly gliding.

But there was not a soul downstairs. I merely found the door ajar, and

breathed freer on reaching the street, for I had felt very strange

inside the house. Urged on by terror, I rushed towards my

dwelling-place, and buried myself in the cushions of my bed, in order

to forget the terrible thing that I had done.

But sleep deserted me, and only the morning admonished me again to take

courage. It seemed to me probable that the man who had induced me to

commit this nefarious deed, as it now appeared to me, might not

denounce me. I immediately resolved to set to work in my vaulted room,

and if possible to assume an indifferent look. But alas! an additional

circumstance, which I only now noticed, increased my anxiety still

more. My cap and my girdle, as well as my instruments, were wanting,

and I was uncertain as to whether I had left them in the room of the

murdered girl, or whether I had lost them in my flight. The former

seemed indeed the more likely, and thus I could easily be discovered as

the murderer.

At the accustomed hour I opened my vaulted room. My neighbor came in,

as was his wont every morning, for he was a talkative man. “Well,” he

said, “what do you say about the terrible affair which has occurred

during the night?” I pretended not to know anything. “What, do you not

know what is known all over the town? Are you not aware that the

loveliest flower in Florence, Bianca, the Governor’s daughter, was

murdered last night? I saw her only yesterday driving through the

streets in so cheerful a manner with her intended one, for to-day the

marriage was to have taken place.” I felt deeply wounded at each word

of my neighbor. Many a time my torment was renewed, for every one of my

customers told me of the affair, each one more ghastly than the other,

and yet nobody could relate anything more terrible than that which I

had seen myself.

About mid-day a police-officer entered my shop and requested me to send

the people away. “Signor Zaleukos” he said, producing the things which

I had missed, “do these things belong to you?” I was thinking as to

whether I should not entirely repudiate them, but on seeing through the

door, which stood ajar, my landlord and several acquaintances, I

determined not to aggravate the affair by telling a lie, and

acknowledged myself as the owner of the things. The police-officer

asked me to follow him, and led me towards a large building which I

soon recognized as the prison. There he showed me into a room

meanwhile.

My situation was terrible, as I thought of it in my solitude. The idea

of having committed a murder, unintentionally, constantly presented

itself to my mind. I also could not conceal from myself that the

glitter of the gold had captivated my feelings, otherwise I should not

have fallen blindly into the trap. Two hours after my arrest I was led

out of my cell. I descended several steps until at last I reached a

great hall. Around a long table draped in black were seated twelve men,

mostly old men. There were benches along the sides of the hall, filled

with the most distinguished of Florence. The galleries, which were

above, were thickly crowded with spectators. When I had stepped towards

the table covered with black cloth, a man with a gloomy and sad

countenance rose; it was the Governor. He said to the assembly that he

as the father in this affair could not sentence, and that he resigned

his place on this occasion to the eldest of the Senators. The eldest of

the Senators was an old man at least ninety years of age. He stood in a

bent attitude, and his temples were covered with thin white hair, but

his eyes were as yet very fiery, and his voice powerful and weighty. He

commenced by asking me whether I confessed to the murder. I requested

him to allow me to speak, and related undauntedly and with a clear

voice what I had done, and what I knew.

I noticed that the Governor, during my recital, at one time turned

pale, and at another time red. When I had finished, he rose angrily:

“What, wretch!” he exclaimed, “dost thou even dare to impute a crime

which thou hast committed from greediness to another?” The Senator

reprimanded him for his interruption, since he had voluntarily

renounced his right; besides it was not clear that I did the deed from

greediness, for, according to his own statement, nothing had been

stolen from the victim. He even went further. He told the Governor that

he must give an account of the early life of his daughter, for then

only it would be possible to decide whether I had spoken the truth or

not. At the same time he adjourned the court for the day, in order, as

he said, to consult the papers of the deceased, which the Governor

would give him. I was again taken back to my prison, where I spent a

wretched day, always fervently wishing that a link between the deceased

and the “red-cloak” might be discovered. Full of hope, I entered the

Court of Justice the next day. Several letters were lying upon the

table. The old Senator asked me whether they were in my hand-writing. I

looked at them and noticed that they must have been written by the same

hand as the other two papers which I had received. I communicated this

to the Senators, but no attention was paid to it, and they told me that

I might have written both, for the signature of the letters was

undoubtedly a Z., the first letter of my name. The letters, however,

contained threats against the deceased, and warnings against the

marriage which she was about to contract.

The Governor seemed to have given extraordinary information concerning

me, for I was treated with more suspicion and rigor on this day. I

referred, to justify myself, to my papers which must be in my room, but

was told they had been looked for without success. Thus at the

conclusion of this sitting all hope vanished, and on being brought into

the Court the third day, judgment was pronounced on me. I was convicted

of wilful murder and condemned to death. Things had come to such a

pass! Deserted by all that was precious to me upon earth, far away from

home, I was to die innocently in the bloom of my life.

On the evening of this terrible day which had decided my fate, I was

sitting in my lonely cell, my hopes were gone, my thoughts steadfastly

fixed upon death, when the door of my prison opened, and in came a man,

who for a long time looked at me silently. “Is it thus I find you

again, Zaleukos?” he said. I had not recognized him by the dim light of

my lamp, but the sound of his voice roused in me old remembrances. It

was Valetti, one of those few friends whose acquaintance I made in the

city of Paris when I was studying there. He said that he had come to

Florence accidentally, where his father, who was a distinguished man,

lived. He had heard about my affair, and had come to see me once more,

and to hear from my own lips how I could have committed such a crime. I

related to him the whole affair. He seemed much surprised at it, and

adjured me, as my only friend, to tell him all, in order not to leave

the world with a lie behind me. I confirmed my assertions with an oath

that I had spoken the truth, and that I was not guilty of anything,

except that the glitter of the gold had dazzled me, and that I had not

perceived the improbability of the story of the stranger. “Did you not

know Bianca?” he asked me. I assured him that I had never seen her.

Valetti now related to me that a profound mystery rested on the affair,

that the Governor had very much accelerated my condemnation, and now a

report was spread that I had known Bianca for a long time, and had

murdered her out of revenge for her marriage with some one else. I told

him that all this coincided exactly with the “red-cloak,” but that I

was unable to prove his participation in the affair. Valetti embraced

me weeping, and promised me to do all, at least to save my life.

I had little hope, though I knew that Valetti a clever man, well versed

in the law, and that he would do all in his power to save my life. For

two long days I was in uncertainty; at last Valetti appeared. “I bring

consolation, though painful. You will live and be free with the loss of

one hand.” Affected, I thanked my friend for saving my life. He told me

that the Governor had been inexorable in having the affair investigated

a second time, but that he at last, in order not to appear unjust, had

agreed, that if a similar case could be found in the law books of the

history of Florence, my punishment should be the same as the one

recorded in these books. He and his father had searched in the old

books day and night, and at last found a case quite similar to mine.

The sentence was: That his left hand be cut off, his property

confiscated, and he himself banished for ever. This was my punishment

also, and he asked me to prepare for the painful hour which awaited me.

I will not describe to you that terrible hour, when I laid my hand upon

the block in the public market-place and my own blood shot over me in

broad streams.

Valetti took me to his house until I had recovered; he then most

generously supplied me with money for travelling, for all I had

acquired with so much difficulty had fallen a prey to the law. I left

Florence for Sicily and embarked on the first ship that I found for

Constantinople. My hope was fixed upon the sum which I had entrusted to

my friend. I also requested to be allowed to live with him. But how

great was my astonishment on being asked why I did not wish to live in

my own house. He told me that some unknown man had bought a house in

the Greek Quarter in my name, and this very man had also told the

neighbors of my early arrival. I immediately proceeded thither

accompanied by my friend, and was received by all my old acquaintances

joyfully. An old merchant gave me a letter, which the man who had

bought the house for me had left behind. I read as follows: “Zaleukos!

Two hands are prepared to work incessantly, in order that you may not

feel the loss of one of yours. The house which you see and all its

contents are yours, and every year you will receive enough to be

counted amongst the rich of your people. Forgive him who is unhappier

than yourself!” I could guess who had written it, and in answer to my

question, the merchant told me it had been a man, whom he took for a

Frank, and who had worn a scarlet cloak. I knew enough to understand

that the stranger was, after all, not entirely devoid of noble

intentions. In my new house I found everything arranged in the best

style, also a vaulted room stored with goods, more splendid than I had

ever had. Ten years have passed since. I still continue my commercial

travels, more from old custom than necessity, yet I have never again

seen that country where I became so unfortunate. Every year since, I

have received a thousand gold-pieces; and although I rejoice to know

that unfortunate man to be noble, yet he cannot relieve me of the

sorrow of my soul, for the terrible picture of the murdered Bianca is

continually on my mind.

PETER SCHLEMIHL

BY ADELBERT VON CHAMISSO

CHAPTER I.

After a prosperous, but to me very wearisome, voyage, we came at last

into port. Immediately on landing I got together my few effects; and,

squeezing myself through the crowd, went into the nearest and humblest

inn which first met my gaze. On asking for a room the waiter looked at

me from head to foot, and conducted me to one. I asked for some cold

water, and for the correct address of Mr. Thomas John, which was

described as being “by the north gate, the first country-house to the

right, a large new house of red and white marble, with many pillars.”

This was enough. As the day was not yet far advanced, I untied my

bundle, took out my newly-turned black coat, dressed myself in my best

clothes, and, with my letter of recommendation, set out for the man who

was to assist me in the attainment of my moderate wishes.

After proceeding up the north street, I reached the gate, and saw the

marble columns glittering through the trees. Having wiped the dust from

my shoes with my pocket-handkerchief, and readjusted my cravat, I rang

the bell—offering up at the same time a silent prayer. The door flew

open, and the porter sent in my name. I had soon the honor to be

invited into the park, where Mr. John was walking with a few friends. I

recognized him at once by his corpulency and self-complacent air. He

received me very well—just as a rich man receives a poor devil; and

turning to me, took my letter. “Oh, from my brother! it is a long time

since I heard from him: is he well?—Yonder,” he went on,—turning to the

company, and pointing to a distant hill—“yonder is the site of the new

building.” He broke the seal without discontinuing the conversation,

which turned upon riches. “The man,” he said, “who does not possess at

least a million is a poor wretch.” “Oh, how true!” I exclaimed, in the

fulness of my heart. He seemed pleased at this, and replied with a

smile: “Stop here, my dear friend; afterwards I shall, perhaps, have

time to tell you what I think of this,” pointing to the letter, which

he then put into his pocket, and turned round to the company, offering

his arm to a young lady: his example was followed by the other

gentlemen, each politely escorting a lady; and the whole party

proceeded towards a little hill thickly planted with blooming roses.

I followed without troubling any one, for none took the least further

notice of me. The party was in high spirits—lounging about and

jesting—speaking sometimes of trifling matters very seriously, and of

serious matters as triflingly—and exercising their wit in particular to

great advantage on their absent friends and their affairs. I was too

ignorant of what they were talking about to understand much of it, and

too anxious and absorbed in my own reflections to occupy myself with

the solution of such enigmas as their conversation presented.

By this time we had reached the thicket of roses. The lovely Fanny, who

seemed to be the queen of the day, was obstinately bent on plucking a

rose-branch for herself, and in the attempt pricked her finger with a

thorn. The crimson stream, as if flowing from the dark-tinted rose,

tinged her fair hand with the purple current. This circumstance set the

whole company in commotion; and court-plaster was called for. A quiet,

elderly man, tall and meagre-looking, who was one of the company, but

whom I had not before observed, immediately put his hand into the tight

breast-pocket of his old-fashioned coat of gray sarcenet, pulled out a

small letter-case, opened it, and, with a most respectful bow,

presented the lady with the wished-for article. She received it without

noticing the giver, or thanking him. The wound was bound up, and the

party proceeded along the hill towards the back part, from which they

enjoyed an extensive view across the green labyrinth of the park to the

wide-spreading ocean. The view was truly a magnificent one. A slight

speck was observed on the horizon, between the dark flood and the azure

sky. “A telescope!” called out Mr. John; but before any of the servants

could answer the summons the gray man, with a modest bow, drew his hand

from his pocket, and presented a beautiful Dollond’s telescope to Mr.

John, who, on looking through it, informed the company that the speck

in the distance was the ship which had sailed yesterday, and which was

detained within sight of the haven by contrary winds. The telescope

passed from hand to hand, but was not returned to the owner, whom I

gazed at with astonishment, and could not conceive how so large an

instrument could have proceeded from so small a pocket. This, however,

seemed to excite surprise in no one; and the gray man appeared to

create as little interest as myself.

Refreshments were now brought forward, consisting of the rarest fruits

from all parts of the world, served up in the most costly dishes. Mr.

John did the honors with unaffected grace, and addressed me for the

second time, saying, “You had better eat; you did not get such things

at sea.” I acknowledged his politeness with a bow, which, however, he

did not perceive, having turned round to speak with some one else.

The party would willingly have stopped some time here on the declivity

of the hill, to enjoy the extensive prospect before them, had they not

been apprehensive of the dampness of the grass. “How delightful it

would be,” exclaimed some one, “if we had a Turkey carpet to lay down

here!” The wish was scarcely expressed when the man in the gray coat

put his hand in his pocket, and, with a modest and even humble air,

pulled out a rich Turkey carpet, embroidered in gold. The servant

received it as a matter of course, and spread it out on the desired

spot; and, without any ceremony, the company seated themselves on it.

Confounded by what I saw, I gazed again at the man, his pocket, and the

carpet, which was more than twenty feet in length and ten in breadth,

and rubbed my eyes, not knowing what to think, particularly as no one

saw anything extraordinary in the matter.

I would gladly have made some inquiries respecting the man, and asked

who he was, but knew not to whom I should address myself, for I felt

almost more afraid of the servants than of their master. At length I

took courage, and stepping up to a young man who seemed of less

consequence than the others, and who was more frequently standing by

himself, I begged of him, in a low tone, to tell me who the obliging

gentleman was in the gray cloak. “That man who looks like a piece of

thread just escaped from a tailor’s needle?” “Yes; he who is standing

alone yonder.” “I do not know,” was the reply; and to avoid, as it

seemed, any further conversation with me, he turned away, and spoke of

some commonplace matters with a neighbor.

The sun’s rays now being stronger, the ladies complained of feeling

oppressed by the heat; and the lovely Fanny, turning carelessly to the

gray man, to whom I had not yet observed that any one had addressed the

most trifling question, asked him if, perhaps, he had not a tent about

him. He replied, with a low bow, as if some unmerited honor had been

conferred upon him; and, putting his hand in his pocket, drew from it

canvas, poles, cord, iron—in short, everything belonging to the most

splendid tent for a party of pleasure. The young gentlemen assisted in

pitching it; and it covered the whole carpet; but no one seemed to

think that there was anything extraordinary in it.

I had long secretly felt uneasy—indeed, almost horrified; but how was

this feeling increased when, at the next wish expressed, I saw him take

from his pocket three horses! Yes, Adelbert, three large beautiful

steeds, with saddles and bridles, out of the very pocket whence had

already issued a letter-case, a telescope, a carpet twenty feet broad

and ten in length, and a pavilion of the same extent, with all its

appurtenances! Did I not assure thee that my own eyes had seen all

this, thou wouldst certainly disbelieve it.

This man, although he appeared so humble and embarrassed in his air and

manners, and passed so unheeded, had inspired me with such a feeling of

horror by the unearthly paleness of his countenance, from which I could

not avert my eyes, that I was unable longer to endure it.

I determined, therefore, to steal away from the company, which appeared

no difficult matter, from the undistinguished part I acted in it. I

resolved to return to the town, and pay another visit to Mr. John the

following morning, and, at the same time, make some inquiries of him

relative to the extraordinary man in gray, provided I could command

sufficient courage. Would to Heaven that such good fortune had awaited

me!

I had stolen safely down the hill, through the thicket of roses, and

now found myself on an open plain; but fearing lest I should be met out

of the proper path, crossing the grass, I cast an inquisitive glance

around, and started as I beheld the man in the gray cloak advancing

towards me. He took off his hat, and made me a lower bow than mortal

had ever yet favored me with. It was evident that he wished to address

me; and I could not avoid encountering him without seeming rude. I

returned his salutation, therefore, and stood bareheaded in the

sunshine as if rooted to the ground. I gazed at him with the utmost

horror, and felt like a bird fascinated by a serpent.

He affected himself to have an air of embarassment. With his eyes on

the ground, he bowed several times, drew nearer, and at last, without

looking up, addressed me in a low and hesitating voice, almost in the

tone of a suppliant: “Will you, sir, excuse my importunity in venturing

to intrude upon you in so unusual a manner? I have a request to

make—would you most graciously be pleased to allow me—?” “Hold! for

Heaven’s sake!” I exclaimed; “what can I do for a man who—” I stopped

in some confusion, which he seemed to share. After a moment’s pause he

resumed: “During the short time I have had the pleasure to be in your

company, I have—permit me, sir, to say—beheld with unspeakable

admiration your most beautiful shadow, and remarked the air of noble

indifference with which you, at the same time, turn from the glorious

picture at your feet, as if disdaining to vouchsafe a glance at it.

Excuse the boldness of my proposal; but perhaps you would have no

objection to sell me your shadow?” He stopped, while my head turned

round like a mill-wheel. What was I to think of so extraordinary a

proposal? To sell my shadow! “He must be mad,” thought I; and assuming

a tone more in character with the submissiveness of his own, I replied,

“My good friend, are you not content with your own shadow? This would

be a bargain of a strange nature indeed!”

“I have in my pocket,” he said, “many things which may possess some

value in your eyes: for that inestimable shadow I should deem the

highest price too little.”

A cold shuddering came over me as I recollected the pocket; and I could

not conceive what had induced me to style him “GOOD FRIEND,” which I

took care not to repeat, endeavoring to make up for it by studied

politeness.

I now resumed the conversation: “But, sir—excuse your humble servant—I

am at a loss to comprehend your meaning,—my shadow?—how can I?”

“Permit me,” he exclaimed, interrupting me, “to gather up the noble

image as it lies on the ground, and to take it into my possession. As

to the manner of accomplishing it, leave that to me. In return, and as

an evidence of my gratitude, I shall leave you to choose among all the

treasures I have in my pocket, among which are a variety of enchanting

articles, not exactly adapted for you, who, I am sure, would like

better to have the wishing-cap of Fortunatus, all made new and sound

again, and a lucky purse which also belonged to him.”

“Fortunatus’s purse!” cried I; and, great as was my mental anguish,

with that one word he had penetrated the deepest recesses of my soul. A

feeling of giddiness came over me, and double ducats glittered before

my eyes.

“Be pleased, gracious sir, to examine this purse, and make a trial of

its contents.” He put his hand in his pocket, and drew forth a large

strongly stitched bag of stout Cordovan leather, with a couple of

strings to match, and presented it to me. I seized it—took out ten

gold-pieces, then ten more, and this I repeated again and again.

Instantly I held out my hand to him. “Done,” said I; “the bargain is

made: my shadow for the purse.” “Agreed,” he answered; and, immediately

kneeling down, I beheld him, with extraordinary dexterity, gently

loosen my shadow from the grass, lift it up, fold it together, and, at

last, put it his pocket. He then rose, bowed once more to me, and

directed his steps towards the rose bushes. I fancied I heard him

quietly laughing to himself. However, I held the purse fast by the two

strings. The earth was basking beneath the brightness of the sun; but I

presently lost all consciousness.

On recovering my senses, I hastened to quit a place where I hoped there

was nothing further to detain me. I first filled my pockets with gold,

then fastened the strings of the purse round my neck, and concealed it

in my bosom. I passed unnoticed out of the park, gained the high-road,

and took the way to the town. As I was thoughtfully approaching the

gate, I heard some one behind me exclaiming: “Young man! young man! you

have lost your shadow!” I turned, and perceived an old woman calling

after me. “Thank you, my good woman,” said I; and throwing her a piece

of gold for her well-intended information, I stepped under the trees.

At the gate, again, it was my fate to hear the sentry inquiring where

the gentleman had left his shadow; and immediately I heard a couple of

women exclaiming, “Jesu Maria! the poor man has no shadow.” All this

began to depress me, and I carefully avoided walking in the sun; but

this could not everywhere be the case: for in the next broad street I

had to cross, and, unfortunately for me, at the very hour in which the

boys were coming out of school, a humpbacked lout of a fellow—I see him

yet—soon made the discovery that I was without a shadow, and

communicated the news, with loud outcries, to a knot of young urchins.

The whole swarm proceeded immediately to reconnoitre me, and to pelt me

with mud. “People,” cried they, “are generally accustomed to take their

shadows with them when they walk in the sunshine.”

In order to drive them away I threw gold by handfuls among them, and

sprang into a hackney-coach which some compassionate spectators sent to

my rescue.

As soon as I found myself alone in the rolling vehicle I began to weep

bitterly. I had by this time a misgiving that, in the same degree in

which gold in this world prevails over merit and virtue, by so much

one’s shadow excels gold; and now that I had sacrificed my conscience

for riches, and given my shadow in exchange for mere gold, what on

earth would become of me?

As the coach stopped at the door of my late inn, I felt much perplexed,

and not at all disposed to enter so wretched an abode. I called for my

things, and received them with an air of contempt, threw down a few

gold-pieces, and desired to be conducted to a first-rate hotel. This

house had a northern aspect, so that I had nothing to fear from the

sun. I dismissed the coachman with gold, asked to be conducted to the

best apartment, and locked myself up in it as soon as possible.

Imagine, my friend, what I then set about? O my dear Chamisso! even to

thee I blush to mention what follows.

I drew the ill-fated purse from my bosom; and, in a sort of frenzy that

raged like a self-fed fire within me, I took out gold—gold—gold—more

and more, till I strewed it on the floor, trampled upon it, and

feasting on its very sound and brilliancy, added coins to coins,

rolling and revelling on the gorgeous bed, until I sank exhausted.

Thus passed away that day and evening; and as my door remained locked,

night found me still lying on the gold, where, at last, sleep

overpowered me.

Then I dreamed of thee, and fancied I stood behind the glass door of

thy little room, and saw thee seated at thy table between a skeleton

and a bunch of dried plants; before thee lay open the works of Haller,

Humboldt, and Linnaeus; on thy sofa a volume of Goethe, and the

Enchanted Ring. I stood a long time contemplating thee, and everything

in thy apartment; and again turning my gaze upon thee, I perceived that

thou wast motionless—thou didst not breathe—thou wast dead.

I awoke—it seemed yet early—my watch had stopped. I felt thirsty,

faint, and worn out; for since the preceding morning I had not tasted

food. I now cast from me, with loathing and disgust, the very gold with

which but a short time before I had satiated my foolish heart. Now I

knew not where to put it—I dared not leave it lying there. I examined

my purse to see if it would hold it,—impossible! Neither of my windows

opened on the sea. I had no other resource but, with toil and great

fatigue, to drag it to a huge chest which stood in a closet in my room;

where I placed it all, with the exception of a handful or two. Then I

threw myself, exhausted, into an arm-chair, till the people of the

house should be up and stirring. As soon as possible I sent for some

refreshment, and desired to see the landlord.

I entered into some conversation with this man respecting the

arrangement of my future establishment. He recommended for my personal

attendant one Bendel, whose honest and intelligent countenance

immediately prepossessed me in his favor. It is this individual whose

persevering attachment has consoled me in all the miseries of my life,

and enabled me to bear up under my wretched lot. I was occupied the

whole day in my room with servants in want of a situation, and

tradesmen of every description. I decided on my future plans, and

purchased various articles of vertu and splendid jewels, in order to

get rid of some of my gold; but nothing seemed to diminish the

inexhaustible heap.

I now reflected on my situation with the utmost uneasiness. I dared not

take a single step beyond my own door; and in the evening I had forty

wax tapers lighted before I ventured to leave the shade. I reflected

with horror on the frightful encounter with the schoolboys; yet I

resolved, if I could command sufficient courage, to put the public

opinion to a second trial. The nights were now moonlight. Late in the

evening I wrapped myself in a large cloak, pulled my hat over my eyes,

and, trembling like a criminal, stole out of the house.

I did not venture to leave the friendly shadow of the houses until I

had reached a distant part of the town; and then I emerged into the

broad moonlight, fully prepared to hear my fate from the lips of the

passers-by.

Spare me, my beloved friend, the painful recital of all that I was

doomed to endure. The women often expressed the deepest sympathy for

me—a sympathy not less piercing to my soul than the scoffs of the young

people, and the proud contempt of the men, particularly of the more

corpulent, who threw an ample shadow before them. A fair and beauteous

maiden, apparently accompanied by her parents, who gravely kept looking

straight before them, chanced to cast a beaming glance on me; but was

evidently startled at perceiving that I was without a shadow, and

hiding her lovely face in her veil, and holding down her head, passed

silently on.

This was past all endurance. Tears streamed from my eyes; and with a

heart pierced through and through, I once more took refuge in the

shade. I leaned on the houses for support, and reached home at a late

hour, worn out with fatigue.

I passed a sleepless night. My first care the following morning was to

devise some means of discovering the man in the gray cloak. Perhaps I

may succeed in finding him; and how fortunate it were if he should be

as ill satisfied with his bargain as I am with mine!

I desired Bendel to be sent for, who seemed to possess some tact and

ability. I minutely described to him the individual who possessed a

treasure without which life itself was rendered a burden to me. I

mentioned the time and place at which I had seen him, named all the

persons who were present, and concluded with the following directions:

He was to inquire for a Dollond’s telescope, a Turkey carpet interwoven

with gold, a marquee, and, finally, for some black steeds—the history,

without entering into particulars, of all these being singularly

connected with the mysterious character who seemed to pass unnoticed by

every one, but whose appearance had destroyed the peace and happiness

of my life.

As I spoke I produced as much gold as I could hold in my two hands, and

added jewels and precious stones of still greater value. “Bendel,” said

I, “this smooths many a path, and renders that easy which seems almost

impossible. Be not sparing of it, for I am not so; but go, and rejoice

thy master with intelligence on which depend all his hopes.”

He departed, and returned late and melancholy. None of Mr. John’s

servants, none of his guests (and Bendel had spoken to them all), had

the slightest recollection of the man in the gray cloak. The new

telescope was still there, but no one knew how it had come; and the

tent and Turkey carpet were still stretched out on the hill. The

servants boasted of their master’s wealth; but no one seemed to know by

what means he had become possessed of these newly acquired luxuries. He

was gratified; and it gave him no concern to be ignorant how they had

come to him. The black coursers which had been mounted on that day were

in the stables of the young gentlemen of the party, who admired them as

the munificent present of Mr. John.

Such was the information I gained from Bendel’s detailed account; but,

in spite of this unsatisfactory result, his zeal and prudence deserved

and received my commendation. In a gloomy mood, I made him a sign to

withdraw.

“I have, sir,” he continued, “laid before you all the information in my

power relative to the subject of the most importance to you. I have now

a message to deliver which I received early this morning from a person

at the gate, as I was proceeding to execute the commission in which I

have so unfortunately failed. The man’s words were precisely these:

‘Tell your master, Peter Schlemihl, he will not see me here again. I am

going to cross the sea; a favorable wind now calls all the passengers

on board; but in a year and a day I shall have the honor of paying him

a visit; when, in all probability, I shall have a proposal to make to

him of a very agreeable nature. Commend me to him most respectfully,

with many thanks.’ I inquired his name; but he said you would remember

him.”

“What sort of a person was he?” cried I, in great emotion; and Bendel

described the man in the gray coat feature by feature, word for word;

in short, the very individual in search of whom he had been sent. “How

unfortunate!” cried I bitterly; “it was himself.” Scales, as it were,

fell from Bendel’s eyes. “Yes, it was he,” cried he, “undoubtedly it

was he; and fool, madman, that I was, I did not recognize him—I did

not, and I have betrayed my master!” He then broke out into a torrent

of self-reproach; and his distress really excited my compassion. I

endeavored to console him, repeatedly assuring him that I entertained

no doubt of his fidelity; and despatched him immediately to the wharf,

to discover, if possible, some trace of the extraordinary being. But on

that very morning many vessels which had been detained in port by

contrary winds had set sail, all bound to different parts of the globe;

and the gray man had disappeared like a shadow.