in it, although a poet had given it her. This poet was Herr Thaddaeus
Wiliszewski. He had studied philosophy in Lemberg, but unfortunately
had been unable to pass his examination--a hopeful youth, who always
wore a tightly buttoned Czamara and long hair, and who wrote verses,
either for home use or for the Krakau "Ladies' Journal." The first time
that Herr Thaddaeus saw Rachel Welt walking by the river in her poor
Sabbath frock, he exclaimed in delight, "Now I understand the Bible at
last! Esther must have looked like that when the King of Persia turned
away his face and ordered that Haman should die on the gallows; and so
must that other Esther, who induced our good King Kazimirz, the
peasant's friend, to allow the Jews to settle freely in Poland, after
the wise Germans had turned them out. She is Esterka, the queen!" And
from that time forward all the educated people in Barnow called her
nothing but Esterka Regina.
I repeat that there was no exaggeration in this name. Perhaps I had
better content myself with making this assertion. For were I to add that
her eyes were deep, dark, and bright as the sea on a star-light night,
that her hair was black and perfumed like a southern night, and that her
smile resembled a dream of spring--you would even then have no clearer
idea of her beauty. I knew her, and remember her well. But the thought
of that lovely creature fills my heart with sorrow. Her beauty was
anything but a blessing to the dear child--nay, it was perhaps a curse.
Beautiful, queenly Esterka was very unhappy.
She is so no longer, nor has she been so for many years. She is happy
now. She is sleeping in the "good place." They laid her there to rest in
peace one spring day long years ago.
May her sleep be calm and sweet, for she suffered much, and her sorrow
was even greater than her beauty. The cause of her death was entered in
the register as heart complaint, and truly so, for she died of a broken
heart.
A most unusual thing to die of--far more unusual than any one thinks.
Very few people die of it, and those who most loudly bewail their
misery, and say that they are sure to die of a broken heart, generally
live a long time, and at last die of old age or indigestion.
Rachel never complained of her lot by word or sigh. She went about the
house as usual, and did her work as long as she could. When her strength
failed her, and she knew that her end was at hand, she sat down
tremblingly and wrote a long letter in the Hebrew character, sealed it,
and then tottered out to the post-office with it. She asked the clerk to
write the address for her in German: "An den wohlgeborenen Herrn Dr.
Adolph Leiblinger, hollaendischen Stabsartz in Batavia." The young man
smiled when she dictated this address to him, but on glancing at her
face and seeing that the hand of death was upon her, his smile died
away. She got a receipt for the letter which she registered, and then
tottered home and died.
Hers was a very simple story--simple as all the stories one meets with
in real life, which differ from those thought out in a poet's
brain--inasmuch as life is the greatest and most unrelenting of poets.
When I attempt to transcribe the events of this story, I can not remain
calm and unmoved, for I knew beautiful, unhappy Esterka Regina!...
I knew her when she was a little girl of seven years old, and I was a
mischievous boy, grumbling at the strict discipline of school. I used to
see her every day at that time. When I ran down the gloomy little street
on cold winter mornings with my satchel of books on my back, I was in
the habit of stopping at the door of the house in which she lived, and
calling out "Aaron! Aaron!" for one of my school-fellows--black
Aaron--lived in a poor garret of the same house with his mother. Hirsch
Welt had given the use of this room out of charity to Chane Leiblinger,
who was the widow of a butcher's man; for she was very poor, and could
scarcely keep herself and her boy from starving by the exercise of her
trade of fruit-seller. The moment I had called Aaron, the door opened
very softly, and little Rachel came out, her hands hidden under her
pinafore. Then the poor boy came down the worm-eaten wooden stairs,
dressed in threadbare clothing, and Rachel hastily thrust the food she
had been hiding in her pinafore into his hand.
He took it, often with hesitation, and always without a word of thanks;
but he would look at the child strangely and smile. No one who had not
seen it could have believed that that grave, stern-looking boy could
smile, and smile so kindly too!...
"Aaron, will you come with me to the ice? I am going to slide."
"No."
"Why not? You're always so quiet, and your eyes look so gloomy!"
"What reason have I to be happy? Is poverty such a cheering thing? Cold
is very disagreeable, and so is hunger. Or is it the blows I have to
endure that should make me happy? The schoolmaster beats me, and so do
all the Christian boys; and why? Because we crucified _Him_? _I_ didn't
crucify Him. Why do they beat me?"
"Oh, it'll be all right when we're grown up and are barristers."
"I shall never be a barrister; I intend to be a very great and very rich
doctor. Then I shall come back to Barnow and say to old Hirsch, 'Here
are a hundred ducats, which will pay off all our arrears of rent.' After
that, the Poles will come to me and entreat me to cure their diseases
and to lend them money; but I shall turn upon them and say, 'Go away,
you dogs!'"
"And Rachel?"
"What's that to you? Well--if you really want to know--I intend to marry
Rachel, and when she is my wife she shall wear silk gowns; but they must
be a thousand times more splendid than those that the Graefin...."
Aaron Leiblinger was strange and somewhat eccentric even as a boy. There
was nothing very noticeable in his appearance: he was short and
insignificant-looking, and his face was almost ugly, but it was redeemed
by beautiful and expressive eyes. His forehead was low, and the hair
that hung over it was black and curly. He was of a thoughtful
disposition, and many of his ideas were surprising in a boy who was the
son of an ignorant hawker, and who lived in a miserable garret. He made,
or rather forced, his way through life by his quick intelligence,
firmness, and energy. For a time it might have been said of him that he
succeeded in all his aims and desires. His mother had intended him to
help her in her labors as fruit-seller as soon as he had learned to read
the Prayer-book; but Aaron wanted to go to a Thorah school, and he went.
He wanted to learn the Talmud, and to know it better than his
school-fellows, and he succeeded. After that, he wanted to go to the
Christian school--an unheard-of thing--and yet he had his own way.
The means he employed were unusual. First of all he told his mother of
his determination. The woman was pious and narrow-minded, so she cursed
and swore, and then hastened to tell the members of session with loud
cries and lamentations that her son intended to become a Christian. For
what other reason could induce a Jewish boy to go to a Christian school?
The doctor certainly sent his sons to it; but then, the doctor was only
half a Jew, and wore a "German" suit of clothes. The chiefs of session
praised the woman for her pious zeal, and sent for the boy. He came, and
before they could overwhelm him with the remonstrances and threats they
deemed suitable for the case, he said: "I know all that you would tell
me, so you may save yourselves the trouble of speaking to me. Now,
listen to me, for you don't know what I have to say to you. I intend to
go to the Christian school, for I am determined to learn everything that
can be learned. We need not discuss that point, because my mind is made
up. What we have to settle is, whether I am to do it as a Christian or
as a Jew. My mother can no longer support me--she is growing old--so I
tell you plainly that if you will give me food, clothes, and books, I
will remain a Jew, and will teach the children for that remuneration. If
you refuse, I shall become a Christian--the fat dean will do anything to
secure the salvation of a soul."
This strange and eccentric address was not ineffectual. The elders of
the congregation bowed before the iron will of the boy, and gave him the
small help that he demanded. He went to the monastery school as a Jew,
in caftan and curls. It was dreadful what he suffered in consequence of
this dress. Perhaps God counted the tears he shed and the blows he
received; he grew tired of counting them, tired of weeping. He bore
everything--injustice and blows, hunger and cold, or the few, very few,
acts of kindness shown him--with the same gloomy and defiant composure.
An unquenchable longing for knowledge and an unquenchable thirst for
vengeance sustained him. His face even quite lost its youthful
expression. My school-fellow, Aaron Leiblinger, was much, very much, to
be pitied.
But even the poorest life possesses some treasure to which it clings.
The gloomy, reserved boy loved little Rachel dearly. His face softened
strangely and touchingly when he was talking to her. I used to feel,
though I could not have told why, that it did him good to speak to him
about the child. I believe that he would have died for her
unhesitatingly. And once a very curious thing happened--he wept--when
Rachel had small-pox.
He scarcely shed a tear when his mother died. Her death made no great
void in his life, and apparently did not much move him. He lived alone
in the garret now--that was all. Burly old Hirsch Welt provided him with
food after that, but he did not trespass long on his kindness. One
summer morning he came to see me very early. "Good-by," he said; "I've
come to say good-by, because you were always kind to me. I'm going away
from Barnow to-day, that I may become a rich man."
"But you'll starve by the way."
"Oh no; I have the money that my mother left--three florins. I'm going
to Lemberg--good-by."
So he went away, and I did not hear of him again for a long, long time.
* * * * *
Esterka Regina!...
It was a summer day--a bright, beautiful afternoon in July. The sun was
shining on the heath, which was sweet with flowers and musical with the
hum of insects. Although a dull solitary place during the greater part
of the year, it was full of color, perfume, and life in summer. All was
quiet and still in the Ghetto; no one was moving about in the street;
the bustle of trade was hushed.
The young people were walking by the river-side, dressed in their best
clothes. The young men looked pale and old of their age, and their
conversation was no more suited to their years than their appearance.
They discussed their Talmudic studies and their business; it seldom
happened that one of them whispered to his friend that he thought the
girl who had just passed was very pretty, and that he should esteem
himself lucky if his father were to fix upon her for his bride. It would
be hard to say what the girls talked about. Who can tell what thoughts
fill the head of a Jewish maiden, or why she titters as she passes down
the walk in her best gown on a fine Sabbath afternoon.
Why? Well, perhaps at the sight of the young gentlemen who, in spite of
their wearing neither caftan nor curls, came to walk on the "Jewish
promenade" by the river, as if it were a matter of course for them to be
there. And yet it was an unusual sight to see them there, for they were
Christians, and grand people; and such do not generally haunt Jewish
resorts. But it was worth while to make a sacrifice for the chance of
seeing Esterka Regina--even a greater sacrifice than that of spending an
hour or two on the Jewish promenade. The three groups of _elegants_
waited patiently, watching the stars of the society--the Rebeccas,
Miriams, and Doras--until at length the sun appeared--the butcher's
beautiful daughter. There were three groups, I said. There were the
military cadets and lieutenants of the Lichtenstein Hussars, in their
light blue uniforms, led by fair, talkative, little Szilagy; there were
young Polish nobles and _literati_, with the long-haired poet, Herr
Thaddaeus Wiliszewski, at their head; and lastly, there were a number of
boys at home for the holidays, among whom was a youth, who is no longer
a youth now, and who feels sad at heart whenever he thinks of that
glorious summer afternoon. For its glory has long since departed, and
that lovely girl sank into her early grave years ago, a broken-hearted
woman.
But I can see her now as distinctly as I did on that day when she came
slowly down the lime-tree walk leaning on the arm of a girl-friend.
There was a stir among all at her approach: even the Jewish youths felt
the influence of her beauty, and many of them involuntarily straightened
their caftans and the long curl at either side of their faces. The three
groups that I mentioned before prepared for the encounter. The
blue-coated hussars took up the first line as beseemed brave warriors,
and fore-most among them was little Szilagy, for he was the most
audacious. She walked on slowly, and at last came close to him, he
having placed himself directly in her way. She did not cast down her
eyes like the other girls on passing these would-be lady-killers, but,
on the contrary, held up her head and looked about her as calmly and
indifferently as if the blue-coated hussars had been nothing but blue
mist. When, however, she was forced to stand still, because the impudent
little man had placed himself so that she could not pass him, her
expression changed. This was clearly shown by Szilagy's conduct: he
flushed as red as a peony, stepped back, and--incredible as it may
sound--saluted her awkwardly. When Herr von Szervay laughed at him
afterward for having been routed with such disorder, he said, "I have
plenty of courage, and have often proved it, but I couldn't stand the
way that she looked at me...."
The second group, who had witnessed the defeat of the hussars, thought
discretion the better part of valor, and drew back betimes, the
long-haired poet gazing with great eyes of astonishment and delight at
the beautiful girl who was passing him. It was at that moment that Herr
Thaddaeus's poor little brain, which hitherto had only been capable of
making verses for home use or for the Krakau "Ladies' Journal," was
suddenly inspired to invent the name that I have put at the head of this
story....
And the third group! The school-boys were neither irresistible nor had
they any ambition to appear so; they had hardly courage to look at the
sparkling black eyes of the lesser lights, and when they saw the
loveliest of all the Jewish maidens approaching them, they huddled
together like a flock of frightened sheep. But one of their number--I
can not tell to this day how I found courage to do it--stepped forward
boldly and spoke to the girl--a good deal less boldly....
"Pardon me, Fraeulein," I stammered, touching my hat, "perhaps you don't
remember me--little Aaron...."
"Yes, I remember you," she answered kindly; "you were always a good
friend to him. Have you heard of him lately?"
"No, I haven't heard anything about him since he went away."
"Then I know more than you do. Old Itzig Tuerkischgelb, the
'Marschallik'--you know the silly old man--was at Lemberg a short time
ago, and when there he chanced to meet Aaron, so he stopped and spoke to
him. He hardly knew him at first; for just fancy what our poor little
Aaron has become! He has become a gentleman, and dresses and speaks like
a German. He left the Latin school three years ago, and ever since then
he has lived at Vienna, where he is learning to be a doctor! Who ever
would have believed it? And," she added, hesitatingly, "the
'Marschallik' says that he has grown very proud, and will not speak to a
Jew. Only think, he calls himself Adolf now, and they say that he is
going to become a Christian. I can't believe it, though--can you?"
I would not have believed in the possibility of anything that was
disagreeable to the girl for the world.
"No," I answered with decision, "I don't believe it either. However, I
shall soon have an opportunity of knowing for certain. I'm going to
Vienna in a few weeks, to the university; and when I am there I'll look
up Aaron or Adolf, whichever he calls himself."
"Yes, do," she said, quickly. "How glad he will be to see you again!
And," she added, her cheeks flushing, "remember me to him if he hasn't
forgotten me. But--you understand--only if he hasn't forgotten me...."
"Oh," I exclaimed, boldly and enthusiastically, "who could forget you?"
I was so terrified by my own boldness that I at once touched my hat and
withdrew, stammering some words of farewell. But I managed to regain
sufficient mastery over myself, before I joined my companions, to be
able to receive the storm of curiosity, envy, and admiration with which
they greeted me, with dignified calmness.
* * * * *
I did not set off in search of Aaron or Adolf Leiblinger as soon as I
arrived in Vienna, although I had fully determined to do so. Who will
not at once understand the reason? Imagine a lad of eighteen years of
age, shy, poor, ignorant of the world, and brought up in a small country
town, suddenly removed from all his accustomed surroundings and
transplanted to one of the great capitals of Europe. He would naturally
feel lost and dazed in the crowd hurrying past him, and among the
endless streets and houses stretched out before him. He would need time
to grow used to the change in his life, and to gain courage to face it.
It was so with me. And then again, how was I to find him among the four
thousand students who attended the university classes? I gave up the
idea, and trusted to chance.
It was on a dismal afternoon in December that we met at last. There had
been a thick mist all day, which after a time became a fine persistent
and very wetting rain. It was so disagreeable that I was driven to take
refuge in a large crowded _cafe_ in the Alster suburb, in hopes of the
shower passing off. Every seat was occupied, but at last I succeeded in
finding a vacant chair in the billiard-room. The rain lasted so long
that I grew tired of watching the drip from the leaves of the plants in
the garden, and turned my attention to the game that was going on.
Three young men were playing at pool. The marker addressed them all as
"Herr Doctor," so I saw that they must be medical students. My attention
was particularly drawn to one of the three--a slender and rather
delicate-looking man of middle height, with marked but finely cut
features. He would have looked pale anyhow, but the intense blue-black
of his wavy hair and beard made him appear almost startlingly pallid.
His face could not be called handsome--his lips were too thin for that,
and his forehead too low. The moment I caught sight of his face, I saw
that he had a story; it did not occur to me at first that I had ever
seen him before. But suddenly, when the thin lips were firmly pressed
together, and the low forehead was contracted into a frown at some
jesting remark of one of his companions, it flashed upon me all at
once--"That is black Aaron!" And so it was. I can hardly tell whether
our meeting was a pleasurable one; at any rate, our pleasure was not
unmixed. When two young people have been separated for some time, they
are apt to be rather shy with each other when they first meet, for they
hardly know how much change may have taken place in each other's ways
and ideas. This is doubly the case after a long separation, such as
Aaron's and mine. We strove hard to bring back the old footing that had
existed between us, but in vain. Our conversation was disjointed, and
threatened to come to a speedy conclusion, when I suddenly remembered
the message with which I had been intrusted.
"Somebody at Barnow," I said, "is very much interested in your career.
Can you guess who it is?"
"No." And so saying he blew a cloud of tobacco-smoke nonchalantly in the
air. "My dear boy, you have no idea how much trouble I have given myself
to forget the people at Barnow, entirely--absolutely."
"Even your guardian angel, little Rachel?"
"What, was it Rachel?" he exclaimed, eagerly. And then resuming his
indifferent manner: "What has become of the little girl? She must be
pretty big now, though--sixteen years old or thereabout."
"And very beautiful too," I replied.
I then proceeded to give him such an enthusiastic description of her
beauty and intelligence, that he could not help smiling. But when I had
finished, he said, gravely--"I am very sorry to hear it--very!"
"Why? What do you mean?"
"I am very grateful to the little guardian angel of my boyhood, and
should like her to be happy. But there's very small hope of that, if she
is really as beautiful and intelligent as you say. She will either be
tempted beyond her power of resistance, and fall a prey to some Polish
or Hungarian swell in spite of all her wisdom...."
"Impossible!" I cried, indignantly.
"Or else she will remain the good obedient child of a father who will
one day give her to wife, whether she will or not, to some rude
illiterate member of the Chassidim. And as she possesses more
intelligence than most women, she will sooner or later feel the whole
misery and humiliation of her lot very keenly, and will at length die a
poor broken-hearted creature in some corner of a Podolian Ghetto."
"You take too black a view of the subject."
"I see things as they are. You need not tell me what the Chassidim are.
Don't let us discuss the matter further. Good-by for the present."
So we parted, and although we spoke of meeting again, our words were
cool.
We did not give ourselves any trouble to bring about another meeting.
But accident at length brought us together again, and for a longer time.
Early in spring, I moved into new lodgings, and the first time that I
looked out at my window, I saw the face of my old school-fellow at
Barnow, in an opposite window, side by side with that of the skeleton he
was studying. He lived in the same house and in the same quadrangle as I
did. We therefore renewed our acquaintance in some measure, and
gradually even became friends--that is to say, as far as it was possible
for students of such different standing (he was in his fourth year, I
only in my first), and for characters so dissimilar as ours, to be
friends.
As regards his character, one saw in him a clear proof of the truth of
the old saying, that "the impressions of childhood are the most deeply
rooted of all." Adolf Lieblinger, student of medicine, was the same in
character as black Aaron. The metamorphosis of the reserved ugly boy,
into the able, worldly, interesting young man, had left the basis of his
character untouched: he still possessed the same defiant spirit and the
same consciousness of his own powers, and the same hatred as of old was
hidden away at the bottom of his heart. Besides that, he was unchanged
in his gratitude for every kindness, however small, and in his thirst
after knowledge. When he first left Barnow, he had had a hard struggle
for existence, and yet he had passed his examination at the gymnasium in
an incredibly short space of time. He made his way both there, and
afterward at the University of Vienna. And so he still regarded the old
proverb, "Where there's a will there's a way," as essentially true.
He was only changed in one respect; his ideas of God and religion were
fundamentally altered. In the old days, partly because he was so proud,
he had clung all the more tenaciously to the religious teaching of his
childhood that he had been persecuted for holding it, and his God had
been more or less the God of his own vengeance; for he had never tired
of imploring Him to send down a flash of lightning to destroy the
Christian boys who bullied him, and our stupid, rough-mannered teachers.
But now he was indifferent to God, and hated the Jewish faith with a
bitter hatred. He always spoke of Jews and Judaism with passionate
virulence. Herr Thaddaeus Wiliszewski, who had written some verses for
his friends, and not for the "Ladies' Journal" this time, which he
called a "Poem against the Jews," was mild as a dove in comparison. But
still he remained in appearance a member of the old faith. "My coat is
uncomfortable," he used to say, "and doesn't fit me well, but I can't
find any other on the face of the earth that would fit me better; and,
as you know, one can't go about coatless--people would stare so!"
I grew very fond of Adolf--as fond as I used to be of Aaron when I was a
boy; so when the vacation approached, I invited him to accompany me to
my eastern home, and was heartily glad when he accepted my invitation.
During this journey our conversation chanced to turn on Rachel as we
speeded through the night in the railway toward Barnow. Her name had
never been mentioned by either of us since the day on which we had first
met in Vienna.
"Take care of yourself," I said jestingly; "old love never rusts out."