became ever more remarkable for beauty and cleverness as time went on.
She was very like her father, for she had the same black curly hair,
high forehead, and determined mouth; but in strange and touching
contrast with the other features of the defiant little face, were the
gentle blue eyes she had inherited from her mother. The father often
looked at those eyes, and whenever he did so, he took his little girl in
his arms, pressed her to his heart, and called her by a thousand pet
names; but except at such times, the grave reserved man showed the child
few tokens of the almost insane love he bore her.
When Esther was five years old they left the small house they had
formerly inhabited in the Ghetto, and went to live in the large white
house opposite the monastery. And after that Moses began to take
measures for the education of his daughter, who was to be brought up
according to old established usage. Esther learned to cook, to pray, and
to count--that was enough for the house, for heaven, and for life. And
what could her father have taught her in addition to this? Polish and
German, perhaps? She could speak both languages, and he, like every
other Jew in Barnow, regarded reading and writing as needless luxuries
for a girl. He had learned both in order that he might write his
business letters, and understand the book of civil law; his daughter did
not need to do either. Besides that, would greater knowledge make her a
better or happier woman? "When a Jewish girl knows how to pray"--has
come to be a proverb among these stern-natured men--"she needs nothing
more to make her good and happy!" And yet little Esther was to learn to
read German, and much more besides!...
"It was in an hour of weakness," murmurs the old man, as he rises with
the rest of the congregation to take part in the long prayer, during
which all must stand--"of weakness and folly that I gave way. Woe unto
me for consenting, and cursed be he who led me astray!"
How can you say so, Moses Freudenthal! However much your misfortunes may
have enlightened you, and taught you to know your own heart, you can not
even yet see that it was a sin you were committing in shutting out the
light of the world from your child, and that you did right when you
consented to permit another to reveal it to her. Oh, how you sin, old
man, when, hardening your heart in egotism and ignorance, you say, "That
was the cause of her misfortunes and of mine also! From that time
forward her mind was poisoned, and turned away from me and my God!
Cursed, cursed be that hour!"
... But all this happened on a warm bright summer evening thirteen years
ago.... The moonlight lay on the houses and streets, and the very dust
on the road seemed to glitter like silver. Moses Freudenthal was sitting
on the stone seat at his door lost in thought. He felt strangely soft
hearted that evening; for whether he would or not, he could not help
living over again in memory the occurrences of his former life, and
thinking of his dead wife Rosele. His daughter, who was now nine years
old, was sitting beside him, gazing wide-eyed into the moonlit night.
Suddenly a man came up the street and stood looking at them. Moses did
not at once recognize him, but little Esther sprang to her feet with a
cry of joy--"Uncle Schlome! How glad I am that you have come to see us,
Uncle Schlome!"
Moses now recognized the stranger, and rose in astonishment. What did
Schlome Gruenstein want with him, and how had his daughter become
acquainted with the "Meschumed?" He was Rosele's brother, and had been
his playfellow in his boyhood, but Moses had not spoken to him for
twenty years; for a pious Jew could hold no communication with a
Meschumed, an apostate from the faith--and Schlome was an apostate in
the eyes of the Ghetto. And yet the pale, delicate-looking man, with the
gentle dreamy expression, had always remained a Jew, and had lived
quietly and peacefully among his neighbors, spending his wealth in works
of charity and mercy. But the name and the shame had cleaved to him from
his youth upward.
His had been a strange boyhood. As he had been a shy, thoughtful child,
living only in his books, and showing no talent except in literary
things, his father determined to make him a Rabbi. Schlome was pleased
with this decision, and studied so hard to fit himself for his future
calling that he not only injured his health, but soon got beyond his
teacher. The delicate boy was consumed by an unquenchable thirst for
knowledge. And this thirst became the cause of his destruction, the
curse of his life. By means of money and passionate entreaties combined,
he induced the Christian schoolmaster of the place to teach him at night
and in secret. Thus he learned High German, the forbidden and much-hated
language of the Gentiles around him, and also "Christian theology." Of
the latter branch of learning the schoolmaster himself knew very little;
so he helped out his ignorance by lending his unwearied pupil many books
belonging to the Dominican library, and this he did before Schlome had
got over all the difficulties of learning to read. In this way the boy
read all manner of strange books, one on the top of the other, and often
enough, no doubt, put sufficiently curious interpretations upon them. At
last one day a book fell into his hands, which nearly drove him mad. The
form and tone were well known to him, for did they not enforce obedience
to the holy Thora (Law)? But the spirit that breathed in its pages was
another and--the youth's very blood seemed to freeze in his veins--a
milder and better than what he had known. For this book was the New
Testament. Its teaching seemed to him like the mild beauty of a spring
day, and yet his hair stood on end with horror. This, then, was the
idol-worship of the Christians,--this was the history of the life and
labors of that Man whom his father crucified, and from whose likeness he
had been taught to turn away his head in hatred and contempt! The blow
was too severe. Schlome became very ill, and lay for many weeks
dangerously sick of a fever. Often and often in his delirium the
unconscious youth wept and talked of the pale Nazarene, of the cross,
and of that ill-starred book. His parents and neighbors listened to his
ravings in horror; they searched into their cause, and at length
discovered Schlome's secret studies. Soon afterward a strange rumor was
circulated in the Ghetto, to the effect that Schlome Gruenstein had
wished to become a Christian, and that as a punishment for this sin God
had visited him with madness. In course of time the youth recovered, and
went about among his brethren in the faith as usual; but henceforth he
seemed paler, shyer, and more depressed than before. No one knew what
inward conflicts he had to wage; but every child in the Jewish quarter
called him a Meschumed, and told how he had sworn a holy oath to his
father that he would only remain a Jew on two conditions--first, that
he might buy and read whatever books he chose; and second, that he might
remain unmarried. He kept his oath, even when the death of his parents
made him rich and independent. Thus he passed his life in the narrow,
gloomy Ghetto. He had only one friend, David Blum, a man who devoted his
life to tending the sick, and whose own story was both strange and sad.
But then he did not make him his friend till late in life, and lost him
soon afterward; for David Blum died, whether of low fever or of a broken
heart it were difficult to say. The Meschumed mourned his loss deeply.
It seemed to him as though a bit of his own heart had been buried with
his friend. And yet these men differed from each other as much in
character as in the circumstances that had moulded their lives. David
was strong and high-hearted, but quick-tempered and fantastic, so that
he broke down once for all when fate aimed a heavy blow at him; Schlome,
on the contrary, was weak and gentle, and endowed with a great power of
endurance which enabled him to bend under the blows of fate instead of
being broken by them. Thus he lived on in the midst of men and yet
terribly alone--the poor even hesitated to accept charity at his hands.
Still he loved all men, but especially children; and these alone
returned his affection, although they could seldom show it from fear of
their parents. He almost idolized little Esther, the only child of his
dead sister; and she loved him better than her grave, reserved father.
Such was the man who came up to the bench on which Moses Freudenthal and
his daughter were seated on that lovely summer evening.
"I want to speak to you, brother," he said, as Moses rose and looked at
him with a coldly questioning gaze. He then requested the child to go to
bed, and after she had left them, continued: "I want to speak to you
about many important things. Sit down beside me.... You needn't be
afraid! There isn't a creature to be seen in the street...."
Moses sat down hesitatingly.
"It is about the child," resumed the Meschumed. "I have been thinking
long and earnestly about her, and when I chanced to see you this evening
as I was passing, I determined to say what I had to say at once. You
see, brother, the child is growing a big girl. She will be beautiful one
day; but what is more to the purpose at present, is, that her goodness
and intelligence are surprising in one so young. You have scarcely any
idea of the sort of questions she asks, and of the kind of thoughts that
little head contains--you'd hardly believe it, brother."
"And how do you know?" interrupted Moses, in a harsh stern voice. "Did I
ever give you leave?..."
"Don't let us discuss that point, if you please," replied Schlome,
raising his hand in deprecation, "don't let us discuss that point. I
could answer you boldly that Esther is my sister's child, and that I
have a right to love and care for her. But I will not answer you thus;
we have been kept apart long enough by angry words. And even if you tell
me that I am a stranger in your house, and by my own fault, too, I will
answer you nothing. Love is not alone induced by ties of blood, and the
world is not so rich in love that one can afford to cast any aside.
But--it isn't that you mean. You fear danger for your child; you fear
that I should try to undermine her faith. You feel less confidence in me
than in the lowest servant in your house."
He ceased, but Moses made no reply. And yet the hard man's heart was
really touched when he once more heard the voice that had been so dear
to him in his boyhood. But he shook off his emotion, and when Schlome
repeated his question, answered with cold severity, "My servants are all
pious, and are stanch believers in the faith of their fathers." This he
said with his eyes fixed on the ground. Had he looked up he would have
seen his brother-in-law's lips tremble with bitter grief and
disappointment. And yet his answer was gentle.
"Listen, Moses," he said; "it is written, and it is a true saying, 'By
their fruits ye shall know them.' Every incident of my life is known to
you, and to all our neighbors. I have always been terribly alone in the
world, forsaken of all men, but still I have striven with all my heart
and soul to unite my life to that of others. I have striven to make it
as useful as it was possible for it to be after the blight that had
fallen upon it. You are the first person to whom I have ever said this,
and you will be the last who will ever hear from me that I know I have
acted toward my fellow-men with as much beneficence--as it is called--as
I could; and yet, what is such beneficence in reality but the duty every
man owes to his kind? I have not, therefore, lived either a happy or a
good life; but judge, Moses, I entreat of you, whether it shows either
folly or sin?"
Moses passed his hand slowly across his forehead and eyes, as though to
give himself time for thought.
Then he answered more mildly:
"No man can judge a whole life with a righteous judgement; God, who
knows all, can alone do so. I am willing to believe it is as you say,
and it is well for you that you can thus justify your life. For you can
thus wait quietly for the hour when God Himself will judge you. But"--he
interrupted himself, and then continued, almost shyly--"_do_ you believe
in God?"
"Yes," replied Schlome, raising his head; "yes, I believe in Him. I
sought Him in my boyhood, when I imagined that he was a God of wrath and
vengeance, the light and refuge of one people alone; I sought Him in my
youth, when I imagined that He was a God of love and mercy, who yet was
only gracious to those who worshiped Him with certain forms and
ceremonies. Later on, I really found Him and knew Him as He is. He is
neither a God of wrath nor of mercy, but a God of justice and necessity;
He _is_, and all are in Him, even those who deny Him...."
He had risen in his excitement, and as he stood in the moonlight before
Moses, the latter felt strangely moved; it seemed to him almost as if
Schlome's face shone. He did not know how it happened, but he could not
help looking at the image of Christ opposite to him in the monastery
garden, which stood out sharp and distinct in the clear pale light
against the dark sky. "And He over there?" he asked, almost fearing the
words he had uttered.
"He," answered the Meschumed, his voice sounding strangely soft and
gentle, "He was a great and noble man, perhaps the best man that ever
lived. But He is dead, and His spirit has died out--died out even in
those who call Him their Redeemer! The fools! Through himself alone can
man be redeemed--through himself and in himself...."
He ceased, and Moses was silent also.
The two men sat side by side for some time without speaking, each busied
with his own thoughts.
At length Moses asked: "And what do you want with the child?"
"I want to be her teacher," replied Schlome, "for I have learned to love
her dearly in the few interviews I dared to have with her. And believe
me--she is no common child! Oh, had she only been a boy! I have often
thought; and then, again, I have been thankful she was a girl--you can
guess why, perhaps. She has a real hunger for knowledge, and a strange
longing for the light of truth...."
Here the other interrupted him impatiently. "You are dreaming,
Schlome!... Esther is scarcely nine years old, and I, her own father,
have noticed nothing of the kind in her."
"Because you wouldn't see it," was the answer; "because you wouldn't see
it, or, forgive me, couldn't see it. You look upon it as dreaming or
folly, or else think it childish. But I know what it is for a young
heart to have to bear that longing alone. Believe me, it would be a sin
to let it die out for want of food. I therefore beg of you to allow me
to be Esther's teacher!"
There was another long silence between the men.
At length Moses answered: "I can not, brother, and I dare not if I
would. It isn't because of you that I say this--I believe that you are
good, and that you would only teach the child what is good. But it would
not be suitable for my daughter. I wish her to remain a simple Jewish
girl; I wish it, and it must be so. Why should she learn what may make
her sad, and discontented with her lot? My daughter is to grow up a
pious, simple-minded woman; it is best for her that it should be so, and
that is my reason for refusing your request. I have already arranged
that she should marry a rich and honorable man."
"Yes," said the Meschumed, and, for the first time during this
conversation, his voice sounded bitter and hard--"yes; you are rich and
have the right to do as you will: you have therefore arranged that you
should have a rich son-in-law. The girl is now nine years old; in six or
seven years' time you will give her to the wealthiest and most pious
youth in the district, or perhaps to a widower who is even richer and
more pious. She will not know him, but what of that? she will have
plenty of time to make his acquaintance after marriage! Then she will
probably fear him, or hate him, or else he will be indifferent to her.
But what of that? What does a Jewish woman want with love? What more
does she need but to love God, and her children, and--let me not forget
to mention it--her little possessions?..."
"I don't understand you," said Moses, hesitating and astonished.
"You do not understand me!" cried the other, springing up excitedly.
"Can _you_ say that--_you_? O Moses, think of my sister...."
Moses Freudenthal started like a wild creature shot to the heart. He
wanted to answer angrily, to order Schlome to leave him at once and for
ever; but he could not do it. His eyes involuntarily sank before those
of the despised Meschumed: after a long and hard struggle with himself
he felt constrained to answer low and sadly, "It was not my fault."
"No," replied the other, gently; "no, it was not your fault; it was that
of your father and mine. But remember that you, and you only, will be
responsible for what you do with your child."
He paused a while, and then finding that Moses was too deeply moved to
be able to answer, went on: "Do not harden your heart, lest you be
tempted to evil. Remember what is written, 'Give to the thirsty to
drink.' Brother, will you allow me to show your child the light and life
for which her whole nature thirsts?"
Moses was unable to answer, but next day a strange rumor was afloat in
the Ghetto, to the effect that Moses Freudenthal had become reconciled
to Schlome, the Meschumed, and had permitted him to teach his only
child!...
It is of that hour that the lonely old man in the synagogue is thinking,
and it is that hour which he curses from the bottom of his soul. The
remembrance of it follows him as he rises with the rest of the
congregation and goes out into the spring night. The narrow streets are
full of life; the houses are lighted up; the children and young girls
are standing in the doorway of their homes waiting for the return of
their parents. The unhappy man tortures himself as he walks with the
thought of how different everything would be if he were now going home
with his son-in-law and his daughter, to be greeted by his grandchildren
at the gate. Every child's laugh, every word of welcome that he hears,
cuts him to the heart. Ah, well! Perhaps he is not so very much to blame
when he mutters below his breath, "If God is just, he will punish him
who gained the heart of my child only to lead her astray, and him also
who opened her ears to the words of the tempter!..."
At this moment he feels a hand laid upon his shoulder, and, turning
round to see who it is, starts back as though he saw a ghost. His breath
comes thick and fast, his eyes flash, and he clinches his fist. The man
he has just cursed stands before him--a sickly, broken old man--Schlome,
the Meschumed.
"I must speak to you," he says to Moses. "I have a letter...."
"Silence, wretch!" cries the other, half mad with rage and misery.
"Silence .... I will not listen.... May you words choke...."
A crowd collects round the two men.
The Meschumed advances a few steps nearer his brother-in-law, and
repeats: "I must speak to you. Curse me if you like, but listen to me.
She is...."
Before he can utter another word, Moses has turned and rushed away. He
flies like a hunted creature through the narrow streets, across the
market-place, and up to his own house. There he sinks half fainting on
the stone seat by the door. He sits still, waiting till his breathing
becomes more regular, and his pulses beat less quickly. Then all at once
he thinks he hears some one mention his name. The first-floor windows
are lighted up and widely opened; loud laughter can be heard within the
room. Frau Kasimira Lozinska is having an "at home" this evening. Now he
hears it again quite distinctly: his name, and then a burst of laughter.
He pays no attention to it, but goes into his parlor and sits down,
silently pushing away the food and drink the old housekeeper sets before
him. "She is dead!"--these words seem to ring in his ears and heart--"of
course--she is dead!"
Thus he sits alone in the brilliantly lighted room in a tumult of wild
thoughts, of passionate internal conflict. All around him is hushed; the
melancholy sputtering of the numerous candles is the only sound to be
heard.
* * * * *
The wife of the district judge has an "at home" to-night.
The gentlemen are in the ante-room playing at whist and _tarok_, and
perhaps a little innocent game of hazard. The ladies in the drawing-room
are seated round a large tea-table, drinking tea out of enormous cups,
eating sweet cakes of all kinds, and talking a great deal. The only
person at all out of humor is the fat wife of the fat estate agent. She
is accustomed to be the principal lady in Barnow, but is dethroned for
to-day by the wife of a beggarly Government official--i. e., the new
registrar. For Frau Emilie comes from Lemberg, the capital of the
province, and has brought with her not only the latest fashions in
dress, but also a number of piquant stories. In return for these, she is
of course told all the scandals of Barnow that relate to any lady who
happens not to be present at the time. But that amusement soon comes to
an end, as almost every one of any standing is at Frau Kasimira's this
evening. Then, as luck will have it, Frau Emilie asks to be told the
curious story her husband has heard about from the district judge that
day.
"I can tell you that story better than any one else," answers her
hostess, eagerly. "We have lived in this house for the last twelve
years, and I know everything that happened. It is very interesting, for
a handsome hussar is the hero of the tale. I'm sure that you can not
have heard anything like it in Lemberg."
She then goes on to relate as follows:
"Well, as you know already, the story is about Esterka, the daughter of
the Jew to whom this house belongs. She was ten years old when we came
here, and tall of her age, with black hair and large blue eyes. She was
scarcely ever to be seen, and never to be heard: she used to sit over
her books all day long, and often far into the night. My daughter
Malvina, who was about the same age, used to ask her to come and play
with her; but the proud little Jewish girl wouldn't accept any of her
invitations, she was so taken up with her reading. It was very foolish
of her, and her uncle Gruenstein was at the bottom of it all. Old
Gruenstein is a very queer sort of man--most disagreeable to have
anything to do with, I should say: he's neither Jew nor Christian--quite
an infidel, in fact; indeed, some people go so far as to say that he can
raise the dead when he likes. Yes, I mean what I say! He can raise the
very dead from their graves! And he was Esterka's teacher. He must have
given her a nice sort of education, for at the end of three years she
was every bit as foolish and godless as himself. To give you an example
of this, let me tell you what happened one very hot August afternoon
when she was with us. You must know that she embroidered beautifully, so
we had asked her to come and help Malvina to finish a bit of work. As we
sat at our sewing the clouds began to come up thick and fast, and soon
afterward there was a terrible storm; it thundered, lightened, and
hailed with the greatest possible fury. My daughter, who, thank God, had
received the education of a good Catholic, began to pray aloud; but the
Jewess remained calm and cool. 'Esther,' I said, 'aren't you afraid of
the judgement of God?'--'A thunder-storm isn't a judgement of God,'
answered the conceited little thing.--'Well, then, what do you call the
lightning?' I asked.--'A discharge of atmospheric electricity,' was her
reply.--'Aren't you afraid of the lightning, then?'--'Oh, yes,' she
answered, 'because we haven't a lightning-conductor on the house!'--I
couldn't possibly allow such godless sentiments to pass unreproved, as
Malvina was there, so I said very sternly: 'You're a little infidel,
child; remember this, the good God guides every flash of
lightning!'--'How can that be?' answered Miss Impudence. 'The poor
peddler, Berisch Katz, was killed by lightning last year, when he was
crossing the open fields, although he was a very good man; and now that
he is dead, his children haven't enough to eat.'--I said nothing more at
the time, but next day, when I happened to see old Moses, I told him the
whole story. 'The child is having a nice sort of education,' I said in
conclusion, 'and if this kind of thing goes on, who knows what the end
of it will be?'--'It shall not go on,' he replied; 'I had made up my
mind to put a stop to it before, and what you tell me determines me to
do so at once.'--He was as good as his word, and took away all of
Esther's books. Then he put her in the shop, and made her weigh the
sugar and sell the groceries. As for Schlome, he turned him out of the
house.