except that Herr von Bolwinski took the rest of his potations at home
that day. Of course he took an extra quantity, to console him for what
he considered his undeserved rebuff. Next day he appeared as usual,
passing Chane in the shop.
Herr von Negrusz also came as usual in the middle of the day. That he
should do so was not a matter of surprise. It was, however, astonishing
that things went on in the old way. Bolwinski continued his customary
badinage, and getting no reply from Chane, he said, "Ho, ho! you are
proud, but I love you all the same!" while Herr von Negrusz only bowed
as before.
What was his reason?
It is not difficult for people to deceive themselves when they wish to
do so. "I will not speak to her," he said to himself, "lest I should
give the old gossip an opportunity for sarcasm, or the invention of
fresh slanders." At the same time he was conscious that this was not his
real reason, and sometimes he was childish enough to be angry with the
woman whose beauty tempted his heart to be untrue to its natural sense
of honor.
It was not the bashfulness of which the lively Emilie accused him;
because, after she had on one occasion pressed his hand confidentially,
he had not offered to shake hands with her again. Neither was it that
"unsusceptibility to the charms of women" of which the three graces
complained. No sensible, clever man is ever bashful, and what did his
unsusceptibility amount to? Alas! the beautiful and outraged woman had
made a deeper impression on his heart than was altogether pleasant to
him. The wanton conduct of Herr von Bolwinski had placed him in such a
peculiar position toward a woman with whom he was unacquainted, that he
could not hit upon the right tone or words with which to address her. He
certainly did not feel at ease in her presence, although he swore to
himself that he was so. He continually said to himself, "I will not
speak to her, so that that wicked old woman in trousers may have no
reason for chatter; besides, I have nothing to talk to her about." He
knew that he was deceiving himself, and that he was behaving badly; but
as time passed on, he found it more and more impossible to break the
silence which he knew to be a mistake. He longed to know what she
thought of him.
And Chane never spoke of him, even to her husband. She had talked about
him openly before the scene in the wine-room, and now she could do so no
longer. She did not even tell Nathan, on his return home after a month's
absence, of the gross conduct of Herr von Bolwinski. "Why should I make
him angry?" she thought; but she knew that she was unwilling to mention
the name of Herr von Negrusz. An inexplicable reticence prevented her
from doing so. She thought so much about him, and yet she could not
speak of him. Every day her imagination took a different turn. Sometimes
she thought it was not nice of him to treat her with such marked
indifference; and at other times she wondered if the haughty Christian
really believed she was in love with him, and wished to show her that
she was nothing to him. "He need not do that," she thought, "for he is
certainly nothing to me. But then he stood up for me nobly, and perhaps
he does not intend to give that fat, ugly Bolwinski an opportunity for
further lies. It must be true that his heart is buried in the grave. He
loves a dead woman so truly that he will never speak to a living one.
He does not even talk to the custom-house officer's wife. How is it
possible to love one who is dead--and what is love?..."
The Power that shapes our lives often uses strange means. Two people
were being brought together who were not on speaking terms!
They maintained silence for three long months, though they saw one
another daily. The summer passed away, the yellow leaves in the
monastery garden began to fall; the vintage came, and Nathan started on
his long rounds through Hungary and Moldavia. He was to return on the
Sabbath before the great feast. "Take care of yourself, and see that you
get good vinegar out of the spoiled must," were his parting words. He
embraced his wife, calmly kissing her on the brow. He little thought
that he did so for the last time.
* * * * *
One beautiful sunny day in September Chane was busy in the shop, and
Herr von Bolwinski and the collector of taxes were talking politics in
the _casino_. Everything was as usual. Herr von Negrusz stepped into the
shop. He lifted his hat, and was passing on, but was prevented by a cask
of herrings, which filled the passage.
"You must come round here," said Chane, pointing behind the counter.
"Thank you," he said, passing her. Then he stopped, and added, "You are
making changes here." He wished to say something, and could think of
nothing better.
"Yes; for the fruit season."
"There is a splendid crop this year...."
"Particularly of apples...."
"And the wine promises well, I hear. Where is Herr Nathan just now?"
"At Hegyallja, I believe; but I do not know for certain. He has not much
time for writing when he is traveling. Perhaps he is at Tokay now."
Pride in the flourishing state of the business here triumphed over her
shyness, and she continued: "We opened up a good trade with Potocki and
Czartoryski last spring, so we now import wines direct from Tokay, as
well as from the Rhine."
"I congratulate you on doing so well!" he said, lightly, and passed into
the _casino_.
This was their first conversation, and Herr von Bolwinski could not have
found any love-making in it, even after his thirtieth pint.
The ice was, however, broken, and many similar conversations followed,
sometimes about the weather, or trade, or little everyday events. It was
strange that while they were on distant terms, they were shy of one
another; but on knowing each other better, they became firm friends.
They might now be said to stand at cross-roads. Their simple daily
intercourse might put an end to the peculiar feelings toward each other
that had been produced by their first acquaintance, and subsequent
coldness of manner; or it might bring about a still more dangerous
juxtaposition. They were unconscious of the different paths that lay
before them, and as they saw more of one another, and enjoyed the
pleasure of each other's society more and more, they did not know that
they had already entered upon the road which must lead to sorrow and
renunciation, or to shame....
Surely, had they known they would not have ventured on dangerous
subjects of conversation, which gave opportunities for the expression of
deep feeling and the revelation of each other's hearts. For instance,
she allowed him to know that Herr von Bolwinski had told her of his love
for one who had died. She almost joked about it, but was immediately
sorry when she saw the gravity of his face.
"I have wounded you," she said, regretfully.
"No, no," he answered, "but I should have liked to be the first to tell
you."
He then told her the simple story of his first love.
When he was a student in Munich he had fallen in love with a young girl
of noble family, to whom he gave lessons. She returned his affection;
but the world was too strong for them, and she married some one else,
only to die after a short wedded life.
To the Jewess his story sounded like a fairy tale. A few months before,
she would not have understood his feeling at all, and even now it was
partly incomprehensible to her. She showed this by her next question.
"And you love her still?" she asked.
"She is dead," he replied, "and I do not love her in the same way as I
loved the living woman; but her memory will be dear to me as long as I
live. I shall never forget her."
Chane looked thoughtfully before her.
"Love must be strong," she whispered.
He made no reply. Perhaps he had not heard what she said.
Weeks fled rapidly, and the time of the great feast came nearer. Nathan
would soon return home, and they talked of him continually, praising his
industry, his honorable character, and his good honest heart. It is
surprising that they should have spoken of him so often, but perhaps
they did it because they felt they ought to strengthen their
recollection of his existence. He was the barrier that stood between
them, and respect for him was their last safeguard.
The day of Nathan's arrival dawned; it was the Friday before the Jewish
new year. The decisive word was yet unspoken. The fatal time was,
however, near when the scales should fall from their eyes, and they
should see the abyss that yawned beneath them.
* * * * *
It was October. The rain had fallen ceaselessly all night, making the
country and the dark little town look doubly desolate. Toward morning
the wind rose and scattered the clouds, blowing down the narrow,
tortuous streets, and robbing the poplars of the last red leaves that
clung to their branches. It was one of those miserable days when sorrow
and loneliness seem doubly heavy to those who have to bear their weight.
Chane was alone in the shop. No customers were likely to come in such
weather. She watched the wind sporting with the leaves. Without any
apparent reason for unhappiness, her heart felt heavy.
At last Rosel Juster came in. She was a very poor, but pretty and lively
girl. She made great purchases of sugar, almonds, raisins, and spices.
"You are preparing for your betrothal," said Chane in a friendly tone.
"I have heard of it, and wish you every happiness. He is a lucky man."
"Thank you," answered the girl; "the betrothal is to be on Tuesday, and
the wedding will be on the second Sabbath after that. We have to think
of his little children--he is a widower."
"You will have a great deal to do."
"Oh, I should think nothing of the work, but he has a sister living with
him, and he is an old man; but what is the good of talking about it?"
"Then you would rather not marry him?"
Rosel looked at her in surprise. "When are we women ever consulted as to
what we should like?" she asked. "I am a poor girl, and he takes me, and
provides for me--that is all that I have to do with it." She shrugged
her shoulders, passed her hand over her eyes, and went on quickly:
"Please give me two ounces of ginger."
Chane said no more, but turned to weigh out the requisite quantity of
ginger. Her hands trembled as she twisted up the little paper packet,
and she made several mistakes with the weights.
"You are not well, I am sure," said Rosel, as she prepared to go. "You
look so pale!"
"I am tired," answered Chane, sinking into a chair.
As the door closed behind the girl, she let her face fall between her
hands, and sat a long time buried in thought. The words spoken by Rosel
rang in her ears: "When are we women ever consulted as to what we should
like? I am a poor girl, and he has taken me, and provided for me, that
is all--my God, all!..."
She kept her eyes firmly closed, but she could not shut them to the
truth any longer. Her whole life lay before her, and she knew that she
was living a lie. "I belong to Nathan, body and soul--not because it was
my will--not because it was his will--but because our fathers desired
it. And now, when I feel that I am a human being, with a heart and will
of my own--when I love another, I must either be miserable, or ..."
She did not finish her sentence, for she was no longer able to control
her thoughts. She was filled with self-commiseration, and burning tears
fell from her eyes. She forgot where she was, and that he whom she
loved, and yet feared to meet, might come at any moment. She was first
roused by the monastery bell ringing at twelve o'clock, and tried to
recover her composure.
It was too late. He stood within the door he had just opened.
They had never hitherto spoken of their love for each other. They had
scarcely known that it existed. But when he came near her, and took her
hand in his, gazing into her large, soft, tearful eyes, which were fixed
pathetically upon his face, their love was revealed to him, and all the
sorrow it must bring. She, too, knew that her love was returned as he
gently smoothed her hair back from her forehead, and tried to comfort
her. Then he let her hands fall and left her side.
"We shall have much to endure," he said, as if their love and all its
consequences were mutually understood. "But we must be firm. I have much
to say to you, but this is not the right time or place; and this
evening"--he hesitated, and then continued: "your husband is coming
back, and I will not ask you to give me an interview in secret from him.
I will write to you, and tell you what I think we ought to do."
He pressed her hand and went into the _casino_.
Chane got up from her chair, and sent the apprentice, who had been
rubbing up the silver and brass utensils in preparation for the feast,
into the shop. She remained in the kitchen preparing for the Sabbath,
and for the return of her husband. She did everything carefully, but her
manner was different from usual.
"Have you a headache, ma'am?" asked the maid-servant, seeing her
suddenly clasp her hands upon her brow, as if she were trying to
recollect something. She felt confused and at a loss, but yet there was
some secret source of joy.
In the evening the office-boy brought her a note.
"From the district judge to your husband," he said; but when she opened
the envelope, she found that it contained a letter addressed to herself.
She did not open it, trembling for its purport.
Dusk had fallen, and candles were brought. She repeated the beautiful
old prayer dutifully, that light and peace should dwell in the house,
and that God's mercy should avert every sorrow, pain, and grief.... She
knew the few words of the formula by heart, and yet this evening they
fell slowly from her lips. She doubted that she was worthy to pray to
God--she a Jewess, who had in her possession a letter from her Christian
lover!
Overcome with fatigue and anxiety, she sank upon a chair, and looked at
the outside of the letter. It was sealed. It was a sin to break a seal
upon the Sabbath. "It is not my greatest sin," she thought, as she tore
open the letter.
Herr von Negrusz wrote of his love for her, and that he must die or go
mad without her. "Become a Christian, and be my wife. The sin against
your husband will not be so great as the sin against our love, if you
refuse. I know that you love me. Only tell me that you will come to me,
and all else is my care."
She crushed the letter in her hand, and threw it down. Then she picked
it up, straightened it out, and reread it. Her hands fell from the
table, and bending over them, her tears fell fast. She stammered
convulsively: "O my God! help me, enlighten me. Let me not become like
Esther Freudenthal, and end my days in shame and remorse. I have been a
faithful wife.... I can not break my marriage vows ... but I love him,
and feel that life is worthless away from him. He is a good man ... but
were he as wicked as the hussar who ruined Esther.... O my God! desert
me not...."
Crying thus in the agony of her soul, she did not hear the door open, or
a man's step behind her. A hand was laid upon her shoulder. She looked
up, her husband stood before her.
"Thank God!" he cried, joyfully, "I am home at last. The storm has made
the roads...." He stopped and looked at her.... "Chane," he added,
anxiously, "how ill you look! what is the matter?"
She did not answer, and his glance fell on the letter. He reached toward
it, and she did not try to stop him. He read the first line, and became
as pale as death. "To you--writing to you thus!" He read a little
further, and then looked at the signature. "From him! This is a blow I
did not expect." He read on. His eyes seemed starting out of their
sockets, his hand trembled, and his face showed how he suffered. "What?"
he cried, when he had reached a certain point. "What? Is this true?" He
ceased, and she slipped on to the floor and clasped his knees, while he
finished reading the letter.
He then threw it on the table, and bending over her, said sternly, "Rise
and be seated."
She obeyed.
"I only wish to know one thing," he went on, standing in front of
her--"the Christian writes that you love him.... Is it not a lie?...
Chane, the Christian lies?..."
Lower and lower she bent her head. "Kill me," she said, "for I deserve
it. What he writes is true. I do love him."
Nathan started convulsively. His usually placid features were strangely
agitated. "The truth!" he hissed; "and you remain in my house, you false
wife?"
She looked him in the face with flashing eyes.
"Nathan!" she cried, "I swear by my dead mother that he touched my hand
to-day for the first time."
He gave a short laugh.
"What if I believe you?" he said. "Shall we divide you between us? Shall
I possess you, and he have your love? Are you not mine, body and soul?
and if you could not be altogether mine, why did you become my wife?"
She stepped close up to him, and said, with a despairing gesture, and a
sharp ring in her voice: "Do not be so hard, Nathan. I have been a true
wife to you; but when you ask why I married you, I reply, that my wishes
were never consulted."
Her words seemed to strike him, for he could not answer, and there was a
long silence.
She buried her face in the sofa-cushions.
At last he said, "Go--we will talk of this to-morrow."
She left the room.
He bolted the door and resumed his restless pacing up and down. The old
servant knocked at the door--she had brought the supper-tray, but he
dismissed her at once. She went away grumbling, and he heard her
afterward saying to the cook: "God knows what is the matter! The master
has locked himself into the parlor, and the mistress is in her bedroom.
Neither of them will have any supper."
A hot flush of shame mounted quickly to Nathan's face.
"The servants suspect something already," he thought, "and soon all the
world will wonder what has happened. Old Jutta is right; God alone knows
what misery has fallen on my house, and God alone can help, for I know
not what to do."
He threw himself down on the sofa, and thought it all over again, but he
could not keep still, and soon started up and began to walk up and down
the room again.
"How foolish it was of me to say that God alone could help!" he thought.
"God can not be expected to work miracles for our individual needs. What
can God do but let him die, or me?--that would solve the difficulty."
He pressed his burning brow on the window-pane, and stared out into the
darkness. "I possessed a treasure, and I did not know its value until
another, who was wiser than I, came and took it from me.
Perhaps--perhaps I deserve it....
"Deserve it!" he repeated. "No, no, she is my wife, and whoever takes
her from me is a robber and a coward....
"He is a coward!... He, who always used to be such a good,
straightforward man. I can scarcely believe that he could have been so
wicked.... It must have been her fault--her fault alone.
"But oh, is a wife like other property, as I have always thought? Is she
no more than any other chattel, such as an ornament or a house? Has she
not a will like every other human being? And has that will ever been
consulted?...
"That was the sin, and now we are suffering from its consequences.
"I was not to blame in those old days; nor was she. And we have lived
irreproachably for many years. The punishment for that sin has come upon
us now; and on which of us is the expiation to fall?...
"Can I give her up? If I do, my heart will break; but my heart must not
decide. I must not think of myself; but try to find out whether it would
not be a sin against God and the law. Ought I to let my wife leave me,
and become the mistress of a Christian, or even become a Christian
herself? Ought I to bring such shame upon the name of our God and upon
his people?"
He drew himself up to his full height, and stretched out his hand toward
heaven: "Though my heart and hers should break, Thy name shall not be
dishonored, my Lord and my God."
His hand fell slowly, and he paused. "Alas!" he whispered, "has not Thy
name even now been dishonored? Has she not spread her hands out to Thee
above the lights in my house, with the image of the Christian in her
heart? Could any sin be greater? Is it Thy will that this wickedness
should go on for the rest of our lives? Is it Thy will, O God?"
He sat down, and bent his head upon the table. "I do not know what to
do," he exclaimed aloud. "Help me, O God! Thou hast revealed Thy will
through Thy priests and Thy prophets. I will study the law."
He went to the bookcase and took out a large folio. As he did so, a
little book that had been lying behind it fell on the floor. He did not
observe it, and carried the folio to the table, opened it, and began to
read.
He read for a long time, consulting different parts of it. At last he
closed the book sharply, stood up, and resting his clinched fist heavily
upon it, said, mournfully:
"The law does not help me; there is nothing in it at all applicable to a
case such as this. The oldest law ordains that 'she should be stoned.'
And the law of the Talmud is this: 'Let her die because of her sin, if
the laws of the land in which ye live permit. If not, let the guilty
woman be thrust out of her husband's house, and let her return to her
father, who shall then punish and correct her as shall seem good in his
eyes. She shall be without honor and without rights, excluded from all
inheritance, and deprived of family ties....'
"The law does not apply to us," he repeated. "She has been weak, not
criminal. She has not deceived me--she is mine; but, alas! her heart
does not belong to me. It never did, and I never thought of trying to
make it mine. The law does not apply; and who can show me a higher law?"
Sighing deeply, he replaced the folio on the shelf, but when he tried to
close the doors of the bookcase, he found that the little volume which
had fallen unobserved prevented his doing so. He picked it up and looked
at it. Memories of the past came back in a flood as he recognized the
German book he had read so often as a youth. He had never quite
understood its contents, and yet had studied it again and again, because
of the sympathetic emotion it aroused in him. Schiller's poems, which he
had laid aside for so many years, came into his hands again at this dark
hour of his life....
He sat down at the table, opened the book, and began to read. His
youthful days returned vividly to his mind. One poem he had read beneath
the old oak-tree in the park, and another he had surreptitiously studied
in a corner of the cellar when he was overlooking his father's workmen.
As he read on, he found to his surprise that he understood the whole
meaning of the poems, and yet he had learned nothing new since these old
days, except perhaps the secrets of the wine-trade. Each poem made a
deep impression on him. It was so different from all that he had found
in it before! Whether better or worse he did not stop to inquire; but
the influence must have been good, for his heart felt relieved of the
load that had oppressed it.
He rose and walked about the room in the stillness of the early Sabbath,
repeating in a whisper some of the words he had just read. The only
sound that was to be heard was the sputtering of one or other of the
numerous wax-lights, or the fall of a heavy rain-drop against the
window-pane.
* * * * *
Morning came at last. The rain had ceased falling, and the last clouds
were being driven by the wind across the leaden sky. In the east the sun
was beginning to redden, and send its first bright rays upon the sodden
plain: it had also penetrated to Nathan's parlor.
It found him still awake, but he was no longer restless, or speaking to
himself. He stood quietly by the window, his face turned toward the
east. The reflection of the sunrise lighted up his pale worn face, on
which the calmness and peace of determined action were expressed. His
eyes were fixed steadily on the east, and he seemed to be praying,
though his lips did not move.
He had stood there a long time communing with God in the silence of the
early morning.
The other inmates of the house began to stir. The servants held
whispered consultations; they guessed that something unusual had
happened.
Chane left her room. Her face was pale, and her eyes were red with
weeping. She approached Nathan with bent head.
"Chane," he said, gently, "I have made up my mind. I hope that what I
mean to do will be for the best for you--and for him. As for me, our God
is a merciful God--He will not forsake me."
He spoke the last words in so low a voice that she did not hear them.
She blushed deeply, but did not speak. A moment later she hurried from
the room, and after a long absence, returned with his breakfast.
That done, they went to the synagogue together as usual; and no one
seeing them had the least idea of the agony of heart they were both
enduring.