in the following autumn Esther came to my daughter and entreated her
with tears to lend her a German book, or else she would die. She said
that her father had taken away every one of her books, and looked after
her so strictly that she couldn't herself get any to take their place.
He did not, however, go so far as to prevent her visiting us. Our
acquaintance was an honor to the girl, and besides that, he knew that I
was a woman of principle. Well, as I said before, Esther wept and
entreated in such a heart-rending manner that I was touched. So I lent
her some German books that I happened to have in the house: Heine's
'Reisebilder,' Klopstock's 'Messiade,' 'Kaiser Joseph,' by Louise
Muehlbach, the new 'Pitaval,' Eichendorf's poems, and the novels of Paul
de Kock. She read them all, devouring them much as a hungry wolf does a
lamb. She read them in the shop whenever her father's back was turned,
and at night when she went to her room. The only book she didn't like
was the first novel of Paul de Kock; she brought it back to me, and
asked me to find her something else. But I hadn't time to do so then, so
I said: 'Read it, child, read it; you'll like it when once you've fairly
begun.' I was right; she liked it so much that she never offered to give
back the second novel, and after the third, she wanted to finish all by
that author before reading anything else. I was able to gratify her, as
we have the whole of his works. She devoured the hundred and eighty
volumes in the course of one winter. For, I can assure you, these Jewish
girls have no moral feeling...!"
The ladies all agree in regarding this statement as true. The
estate-agent's wife is the only one who does not join in the chorus. For
though she is very fat and rather stupid, she has a good heart.
"It wasn't right," she says very distinctly and very gravely. "You have
a great deal to answer for."
The Frau Kasimira looks at her in silent astonishment. If she were not a
very courteous woman, a woman of the world, and, above all, if it were
not her own house, she would smile sarcastically and shrug her
shoulders. As it is, she contents herself with saying apologetically,
"Mon Dieu! she was only a Jewess!"
"Only a Jewess!" repeats the chorus of ladies aloud, and also in a
whisper. Many of them laugh as they say ... "only a Jewess!"
"Only a Jewess!" is echoed in a grave deep voice. The games in the
ante-room, are finished, and the gentlemen have rejoined the ladies
unnoticed. "You have made a great mistake, madam."
It is the doctor of Barnow who speaks, a tall stately man. He is a Jew
by birth. He is hated because of his religion, and feared because of
his power of sarcasm. His position obliges these people to receive him
into their society, and he accepts their invitations because theirs is
the only society to be had in the dull little country town.
"You have made a mistake," he repeats, addressing the estate-agent's
wife. "You have never been able to throw off the prejudices of your
German home, where people look upon a Jew as a human being. It is very
foolish of you not to have learned to look upon the subject from the
Podolian point of the view!"
"Laugh as much as you like," says his hostess quickly. "I still maintain
that an uneducated Jewess has very little moral feeling!"
"Yes," is the dry answer, "especially when she has been put through a
course of Paul de Kock--has been given the whole of his works without
exception. But, pray, don't let me interrupt you; go on with your
story."
Frau Kasimira continues:
"Very well; where did I leave off? Oh, I remember now. She had finished
Kock by the spring. I had no more German books to lend her; so she
begged me to subscribe to the Tarnapol lending library for her, and I at
length consented to do so. I didn't like it at all, but she entreated me
to do it so piteously, that I must have had a heart of stone to refuse.
She read every one of the books in the library, beginning with About and
ending with Zschokke. Her father had no suspicion of the truth, and he
never knew it. She used only to read in the night when she went to her
bedroom. The exertion did not hurt her eyes at all. She had most
beautiful eyes, large and blue--blue as the sky. As to her figure, it
was queenly, slender, upright, and rounded. In short, she was
lovely--very lovely. But at the same time she was a silly romantic girl,
who thought that real life was like the novels she used to devour. When
she was sixteen her father told her that he wished her to marry a son of
Moschko Fraenkel from Chorostko, a handsome Jewish lad of about her own
age. She said she would rather die than marry him. But old Freudenthal
isn't a man to jest with. The betrothal took place, and beautiful Esther
sat at the feast pale and trembling as though she were about to die. I
had gone down-stairs to see the ceremony from curiosity. My heart is not
a very soft one, but when I saw Esther looking so miserable, I really
felt for the girl. 'Why are you forcing your daughter to marry against
her will?' I asked the old man. He answered me abruptly, almost rudely,
I thought: 'Pardon me; you don't understand; our ways are different from
your ways. We don't look upon the chicken as wiser than the hen. And,
thank God, we know nothing of love and of all that kind of nonsense. We
consider that two things are alone requisite when arranging a marriage,
and these are health and wealth. The bride and bridegroom in this case
possess both. I've given in to Esther so far as to consent that the
marriage should be put off for a year. That will give her time to learn
to do her duty. Many changes take place in a year.'
"The old man was right. Many changes take place in a year. The greatest
possible change had taken place in beautiful Esterka, but it was not the
change that her father had expected or wished to see. Look here, the
doctor there looks upon me as hating all Jews, but I am perfectly just
to them, and I tell you that the girl, although inwardly depraved, had
hitherto conducted herself in the most praiseworthy manner. And yet her
temptations must have been very great. She was known throughout the
whole district, and every one called her the 'beautiful Jewess.' The inn
and bar down-stairs had more visitors than Moses cared for. When the
young nobles of the district came to Barnow on magisterial business,
they spread out the work they had to do over three days, instead of
contenting themselves with one as before; the unmarried lawyers and
custom-house officials spent their whole time at the bar; and as for the
hussar officers, they took up their quarters there altogether. These
men, one and all, paid their court to Esther, but she never wasted a
thought upon one of them. Her father kept her as much as possible out of
the way of his customers. When she met them, she returned their greeting
courteously, but was as if deaf to their compliments and flattery. And
if any one was rude to her, she was quite able to defend herself. Young
Baron Starsky found that out to his cost--you know him, don't you? A
tall fair man, and the hero of that queer story about Graefin Jadwiga
Bortynska. Well, he once met Esther as he was leaving the bar-parlor
rather the worse for wine. He will never forget that meeting, because of
the tremendous box on the ear that she gave him.
"There was a change in her after her engagement. Not that she was on
more friendly terms with these men than before, but that she no longer
rebuffed one of their number. This favored individual was a captain in
the Wuertemberg Hussars, Graf Geza Szapany by name. He was like a hero of
romance: tall, slight, and interesting-looking, with dark hair, black
eyes, and a lovely little mustache. This is no flattering portrait, I
can assure you; our friend Hortensia will bear witness that I do not
exaggerate, she used to know him too...."
Frau Hortensia, a handsome blonde, and wife of the assistant judge of
the district, blushes scarlet, and casts an angry look at her "friend"
and hostess, but forces herself to answer indifferently, "Ah yes, to be
sure, I remember him.... He was a good-looking man."
"Good-looking," repeats Frau Kasimira. "He was more than that. He was
very handsome; and so interesting! His manners were perfect. He
thoroughly understood the art of making himself agreeable to women; but
that was natural enough, for he had had plenty of experience. Beautiful
Esterka was soon caught in his toils. He approached her almost shyly,
and spoke to her with the utmost respect; and more than all, he paid her
no compliments. That helped on his cause wonderfully. And then you
mustn't forget what I told you before, that she was depraved at heart,
and foolishly romantic. The affair ran the usual course. At first a few
meetings, then many; at first but a few words were exchanged, afterward
many; at first one kiss, then many more.... It was very amusing!"
Every one present seems to regard it in the same light as Frau Kasimira.
The ladies giggle and the gentleman laugh. One lady alone remains
grave--and she is the fat, kind-hearted German woman sitting in the
corner of the sofa.
"You don't seem to be amused by the story," observes the doctor, who is
sitting beside her.
"No," she answers. "It is a very sad story. The poor girl was a victim."
"Yes," says the doctor, his voice sounding deep and low with suppressed
feeling, "she was a victim. But she was not a victim of the handsome
hussar, nor even of our kind hostess here. The cause of her ruin lies
deeper, much deeper than that. As the twilight is more eerie than
complete darkness, so a half education is more dangerous than absolute
ignorance. Darkness and ignorance alike lay a bandage over the eyes and
prevent the feet from straying beyond the threshold of the known;
knowledge and light open the eyes of man and enable him to advance
boldly on the path that lies before him; while half knowledge and
twilight only remove part of the bandage and leave him to grope about
blindly, perhaps even cause him to fall! Poor child! she was snatched
away from the pure stream, and her thirst was so great that she strove
to slake it in any puddles she passed on the way. Poor child! She...."
Here a yawn interrupts the speaker. The fat woman is thoroughly good and
kind, but she is by no means intellectual, and hates having to listen to
what she does not understand.
Meanwhile Frau Kasimira continues as follows:
"So Graf Geza soon succeeded in gaining complete influence over her. And
when he left this to be stationed at Marburg, she followed him there.
One Friday evening--just like to-day--when Moses came home, he found the
nest empty. There was a great uproar down-stairs. They called her,
sought her everywhere with tears--no words can describe the scene. My
husband went down-stairs--Moses raged like a madman. It all happened
five years ago, but I shall never forget that night....
"The next few days were very uncomfortable and queer. They all went on
as if Esther were dead. The shop and bar were both closed; the pictures
were hung with black; the mirrors were turned with their faces to the
wall. A small lamp was burnt in a corner of her room for seven days and
seven nights, and during the whole of that time Moses sat on the floor
of the room barefoot and with his clothes torn. I don't know whether it
is true, but I heard that the Jews took an empty coffin to the cemetery
on the Sunday following, and then filled in an empty grave. I have been
told that they even went so far as to put up a gravestone to Esther! On
the eighth day Moses rose up and went quietly about his business again.
These Jews are such strange creatures! Only fancy! he came to us that
very day to ask for his rent. I scarcely recognized him--his hair had
turned quite gray in the course of a week. His manner was quiet and
composed, and he seems to have forgotten all about his daughter now. But
as everybody knows, the Jews are fonder of their money than of their
children!"
"Has no one heard anything more about Esther?" asks the fat woman.
"Yes--once. But what we heard wasn't much to be relied on. Little
Lieutenant Szilagy--you remember what fibs he used to tell--went to
spend his leave in Hungary on one occasion, and when he came back, he
declared that he had seen Graf Geza and Esther in a box in the National
Theatre at Pesth. But the little man tells so many lies that one never
knows how much to believe. It may quite well have been some other pretty
girl."
"Do you know," says Frau Emilie, the highly educated lady from Lemberg,
"do you know what this story reminds me of? Of a very amusing play I
once saw acted in Lemberg. It was translated from the English of a
certain ... oh dear! these English names...."
"Perhaps you mean Shakespeare?" inquires the doctor, coming to the
rescue.
"Shakespeare," repeats the district judge; "he's a rather well-known
poet."
"Yes; a very talented man!" says the doctor, with the utmost gravity.
"You're right--Shakespeare!" continues Frau Emilie; "and the play was
called 'The Merchant of Venice.' There is a Jew in it, Shylock by name,
whose daughter also ran away, and who, like Moses, was far fonder of his
money than of his child. I therefore propose that we should no longer
call the Freudenthal of to-day by his own name, but instead of
that"--the speaker makes a long pause--"the Shylock--of Barnow!"
The registrar feels very proud of his clever wife. The gentlemen laugh,
the ladies titter, and even the estate-agent's fat wife smiles as they
one and all repeat:
"Ha! ha! ha! The Shylock of Barnow!"
* * * * *
But they do not laugh next morning. They never laugh at Shylock
again--neither they nor any one else.
The wan pale light of the Sabbath morning dawns upon a woful sight. It
is a damp, misty, disagreeable morning. The wind, which had risen at
midnight, and had driven the heavy black clouds across the sky, covering
the moon as though with a pall, has fallen; but the clouds are heavier
and blacker than ever, and a thick cold mist inwraps the whole plain and
the gloomy little town.
All sleep soundly in the small houses of the Ghetto. Not a step is to be
heard in the narrow streets. The dogs in the courtyards, and the
night-watchman in front of the town-hall, are alone awake. The latter is
usually asleep at this hour, but the dogs are making too much noise to
allow him even to fall into a doze. They are barking furiously. The dogs
at the town-gate are the first to begin it, then the watch-dog at the
monastery takes up the chorus, and lastly, Moses Freudenthal's black
"Britan" joins in the uproar. The wise watchman therefore makes up his
mind that some stranger is passing the monastery and going toward the
Jew's house. But it never occurs to him to go and see who it is. The
mist makes the morning very dark, and the streets very slippery. So the
guardian of Barnow remains quietly in his little box in front of the
town-hall. "Britan is barking so loud," he says to himself, consolingly,
"that the Jew can't help hearing him."
He is not mistaken. The people in Freudenthal's house hear the furious
barking. The old housekeeper gets up to see what is the matter, and to
call the man-servant. As she passes her master's room, she notices a
light under the door, and, on hearing the sound of her footsteps, old
Moses comes out. He is still dressed; he has evidently not yet gone to
bed, although it is nearly two o'clock in the morning. He looks
thoroughly worn-out.
"Go back to bed," he says to the old woman; "I will go myself and see if
anything is wrong."
At the same moment the dog again barks furiously, and then all at once
begins to whine and utter short barks of joy. They hear the huge
creature jumping about and scratching at the outer door. He has
evidently recognized the person who has come up to the house, and is
trying to get to him.
The old man turns as pale as death. "Who can it be?" he murmurs. Then he
proceeds with tottering steps toward the entrance-hall. The housekeeper
prepares to follow him, but he exclaims "Go away" so passionately, that
she draws back. He takes no candle with him, for it is the Sabbath; so
he feels his way to the house-door.
The old woman stands and listens. She hears the dog spring forward to
meet his master, and then run with joyous whines toward the outer door.
Then she hears Moses ask, "Who is there?"
All is still. The dog alone utters a short bark.
Moses repeats his question.
An answer comes from without. The housekeeper can not hear what it is.
It sounds to her like a cry of pain.
But the old man must have understood. He opens the heavy outer door,
steps out, and shuts it behind him. The dog has apparently slipped out
at the same time as his master, for the housekeeper can hear the stifled
sound of his bark.
Then Moses's voice becomes audible; he speaks very loudly and
passionately. What he says sounds at first like scolding, and then like
a solemn curse or conjuration. But the old woman can not hear the
words.... No mortal ear hears the words that Moses Freudenthal addresses
to the person who had knocked at his door that dismal night.
After a minute of suspense, the housekeeper hears the outer door creak.
Moses is coming back. He returns alone. The dog has remained outside.
There is a moment's silence; and then the housekeeper hears a heavy
fall.
She seizes the candle--what does she care in her terror about the old
pious custom?--and hastens to the door. There lies Moses Freudenthal,
motionless and pale as death. She raises his head; he breathes
stertorously.
On perceiving this, the old woman utters a loud shriek. The man-servant
and shopman, wakened by her cry, hasten to the spot. They lifted their
master, and, carrying him to his room, put him to bed. Then one of them
goes for the doctor of the district, who lives close by on the first
floor. He bleeds the sick man, but shakes his head as he does so. The
old man has had a stroke.
The housekeeper weeps, the men stand about the room awkwardly, not
knowing whether to go or stay, and the doctor attends to his patient.
Thus the hours pass slowly, and the morning comes. No one remembers the
stranger who had knocked at the door in the night.
Early in the morning a loud knocking is heard at the door. The
night-watchman stands without, accompanied by several people who have
come in early to the market. They have found a poorly-dressed,
half-starved-looking young woman lying dead at the door. Black Britan is
lying beside the corpse, whining, and licking its hands. When any one
tries to approach, he growls and shows his teeth.
The doctor goes on and bends over the dead woman. He lays his hand on
her heart; it has ceased to beat. He then looks at the pale, worn face,
and recognizes it at once.
He rises sadly, and orders the corpse to be taken to the dead-house. He
then returns to the sick man, who still lies senseless.
Next day they bury Esther Freudenthal. No one knows what her religion
had been--whether she had remained a Jewess, or had become a Christian.
Not even her uncle Schlome, who cowers down by her bier in a stupor of
grief. So they bury her where suicides are laid; and yet she had died of
starvation.
A packet of letters is found in her pocket. They are all written in the
same hand, and bear the same superscription--Geza. The last of these
letters, which is stamped with the post-mark of a small Hungarian town,
contains the following lines: "I tell you honestly that I am tired of
the whole thing. I am now with my regiment, and advise you not to
attempt to follow me. My sergeant, Koloman, has promised to marry you.
He likes you. If you don't like him, you had better go home."
She did go home.
Old Moses does not die in consequence of the occurrences of that night.
He lives on for a long time; he outlives his brother-in-law, and many
happy people. He lives a gloomy, solitary, mysterious life. When he
dies, the only people who weep for him are the mourning-women who have
been hired for the purpose. He leaves his great fortune to the
wonder-working Rabbi of Sadagora, the most jealous opponent of light,
the most fanatical supporter of the old dark faith.
This is the story of Moses Freudenthal, whom they called the "Shylock of
Barnow."
CHANE.
(1873.)
Many years have passed since poor Esther Freudenthal died at her
father's feet. Moses has also been dead for a long time. The large white
house opposite the Dominican monastery, which now belongs to the Rabbi
of Sadagora, looks quite as grand and well cared for as when it was
owned by the stern, unhappy old man. An oval plate now hangs above the
door, on which a black eagle is painted on a yellow shield, and round
the edge are the words, "Royal and Imperial District Court." Petty
thieves, Polish rebels, and Jewish usurers are brought to trial where
Moses and his daughter had lived and suffered. These public offices
occupy the ground-floor on the right of the entrance-door. The shop
formerly kept by old Moses still remains on the left hand, but another
name is now painted above the door--"Nathan Silberstein, Grocer and
Wine-Merchant." Two words of the inscription were wrongly spelt; but
that was the fault of humpbacked little Janko, who painted the sign.
The new owner has made no changes on the first floor, which is still let
to the doctor and district judge. The district judge is, however,
different from the one Moses Freudenthal knew. Herr Julko von Negrusz
has succeeded Herr Hippolyt Lozinski, with the yellow face and
attenuated figure. He differs from his predecessor in every respect.
Herr Lozinski considered the Jews his prey, rich and poor alike; and
what he extorted from them he gave to poor Christians--such as the
nobles, officials, and officers. His wife, Kasimira, who came of the
noble family of Cybulski--which name in English means Onion--was
celebrated for five German miles around Barnow for three
peculiarities--her debts, her brilliant toilets, and her love of
dancing. She deceived her husband so openly, that people wondered how he
could continue to cock his hat so jauntily on his long yellow head.
But all this is changed.
Herr von Negrusz extorts nothing from the Jews, nor does he give great
feasts to the Christians. He lives entirely in his office, and for his
lovely young wife and two pretty boys. His wife is very beautiful. Her
figure is straight and slender, and though her carriage is proud, she is
extremely graceful. Her features are finely cut, and her dreamy dark
eyes are unfathomably deep. But her most striking beauty is her rich
olive complexion. Her appearance conjures up Zuleima and Zuleika, and
the enchanted beauties of the East; but it must be observed that the
district judge's wife wears a cross upon a chain round her throat, and
that she has printed upon her calling-cards, "Christine von Negrusz."
Strange to say, these cards form her sole connection with other people.
She has no visitors, and she visits no one. Between her and the world of
Barnow there is a limit of acquaintance, past which neither she nor
they try to step.
If some public functionary sent to Barnow happens to be a married man,
he is carefully instructed by his colleagues to borrow the old carriage
and horses of old Herr von Wolanski, and drive with his wife to the
large white house. Arrived there, he is to send in cards, and is warned
that the customary answer received on such occasions is, that the
district judge is not at home, and that _gnaedige Frau_ is not well. In
the course of a week Herr von Negrusz and his wife drive in the same
carriage to return the visit, and the ceremony is acted over again with
the parts reversed. All intercourse then ceases between the two
families. This custom is invariable.
Another curious circumstance is, that Frau von Negrusz never goes out of
the house alone. Once or twice a week she takes a walk with her husband.
The inhabitants of Barnow are accustomed to walk in the new park
surrounding the castle of Graefin Jadwiga Bortynska, _nee_ Polanska.
Unlike other people, the district judge and his wife always take their
constitutional in the deserted garden by the river-side, and close to
the old castle. The direct road to these pleasure-grounds is through the
Jews' quarter; but this unsociable pair avoid the nearest way, and
choose rather to go all round the outskirts of the town. One might have
supposed their reason to have been that they wished to escape the dust
and bad odors of the Ghetto; but this hardly accounts for it, as when
once caught in a storm, they made the same long round in the pouring
rain.
Herr von Negrusz looks everybody pluckily in the face, and never avoids
meeting his friends; why should his wife be so unsociable, and what
proscription separates her from the rest of the world?