this misery?'
"'Yes,' I answered, with determination, for the spirit of defiance was
roused within me, and I felt more than ever convinced of the truth of
the proverb, 'Where there's a will there's a way.' 'I will go and speak
to your father, and prove to him how foolish the prejudice he feels
toward me really is. I will entreat him not to make his only child
unhappy, and ask him to give you to me. If he will not consent, I will
win you by my own labor; but when I have done that, you must leave your
parents for your husband. We should have to wait and work for two years.
But you will not tire any more than I shall. And then you will be my
dear wife, and will be able to look back at your cares and anxieties of
to-day with a smile. I swear that you shall be my wife--or else, I shall
never marry.'
"'I will be true to you,' she said, in a low voice, but so earnestly
that it almost seemed like a sacred oath.
"So we parted...."
Adolf was silent for a time. We stared out into the dusk without
speaking, and gazed at the shadowy outlines of the vast plain of Western
Galicia.
It was not until the silence had lasted a long time that I asked, "Did
you go to Hirsch Welt?"
"Yes," he answered.
"And were you successful?"
"He turned me out of the house," returned Adolf calmly; "but what of
that? Rachel shall be my wife. 'Where there's a will, there's a
way!...'"
* * * * *
Fifteen months passed away after our conversation in the
railway-carriage without any event worthy of record taking place. When
we returned to Vienna we took up our abode in different parts of the
town, and in consequence met but seldom. I only knew that Adolf was
working very hard, and that he had good accounts of Rachel.
Early one morning in December, before the sun was well up, I heard a
violent knocking at my door, and ere I could call out "Come in," the
door opened, and my friend entered hurriedly, his face deadly pale and
anxious-looking.
"What! it's you, Adolf!" I exclaimed. "But what's the matter?... Is
anything wrong?"
He passed his hand across his forehead, and pushed back his hair to
which a few snow-flakes were sticking. "I don't know what has happened,"
he said, "that is the reason I am so uneasy.... Don't question me, but
get up and come with me...."
I obeyed, and dressed as quickly as I could, for something in his voice
and manner made me feel very anxious. He went to the window, and
throwing himself into my arm-chair with a weary sigh, stared out into
the cold, gray, winter morning. His face was deadly pale, and his eyes
shone with a feverish brightness.
"Adolf," I exclaimed, "you are ill."
"No, I'm not ill," he answered impatiently--"I mustn't be ill. But come,
come--"
"Where?"
"I'll tell you."
I followed him out into the cold, stormy December morning with a feeling
of anxiety that increased every moment.
"Where is the nearest telegraph-office?" he asked.
"A good way off; what are we to do there?"
"Come on--and don't ask so many questions."
Seeing how excited he was, I accompanied him in silence. When we at
length reached the door of the telegraph-office, he said:
"And now, please, will you do something for me? Will you telegraph to
your mother and ask her if it is true that--Rachel Welt is to be married
next week--?"
"What? Did you hear that she was?"
"Never mind just now--I'll tell you all afterward; but now, pray, go at
once and send off the telegram. Beg for an immediate answer--immediate,
you understand. Have mercy on me, and go!"
His words, and the repressed pain in his voice, had all the more effect
on me from their contrast with the habitual coldness and reserve of his
manner. I went into the office and sent off the telegram. Somehow or
other it never occurred to me until after I had dispatched the message,
that my people would think it strange that I should be so much
interested in the fate of Rachel Welt, and I almost smiled at the
thought. But all desire to smile forsook me when I rejoined Adolf. His
face was now flushed, his eyes were shining, and every now and then he
shivered as though with ague....
"You _are_ ill," I once more exclaimed. "Come...." And, seizing him by
the arm, I took him to the nearest _cafe_--the snow, meanwhile, had
begun to fall thick and fast.
"It's nothing," he answered. "It's only a slight feverish attack--I must
have had a chill--I have been wandering all night long in the streets. I
know what you're going to say--it was foolish of me, I am quite aware of
that, my medical studies have taught me how foolish it was; but I
couldn't help it--I couldn't keep still.... When do you expect an
answer to your telegram?" he added, suddenly and quickly.
"Late in the afternoon--perhaps not till nightfall."
"Not till then?"
"Remember that Barnow is a hundred and fifty miles[6] from here, that
there is a dreadful snow-storm, and that--what is perhaps more to the
purpose--Herr Michalski, the telegraph officer at home, is generally
drunk, and is in the habit of keeping back telegrams till it suits him
to deliver them. But you may trust me to bring you the answer as soon as
it arrives."
[Footnote 6: An Austrian mile is equal to 4.714 English miles.]
"Thank you," he said. "You can not tell what I have suffered since I was
startled by the sudden intelligence."
"Who told you?" I asked.
"I got to know by a strange accident," he replied. "I happened to go
into one of the surgical wards of the infirmary yesterday evening;
suddenly I heard some one call me by my name. I went to the bed from
which the voice had come, and there I found a Jewish lad lying--it was
Salomon Pinkus, brother of Chaim Pinkus, the cattle-dealer at Barnow.
Salomon told me sadly that he had brought some cattle belonging to his
brother to Vienna, had sold them well, and was preparing to return home,
when he slipped on some ice in the street and broke his arm. 'I didn't
want to go to Vienna,' he whined--'I was afraid; but I had to do it, as
my brother could not leave home just then--he is to be married to
Rachel, daughter of the butcher at Barnow, next week.'--'To whom did you
say?' I cried, catching his sound arm in such a firm grip that he
shrieked out that I wanted to break it too. Well, he afterward told me
that his brother's bride was Rachel Welt--he was sure that I must know
her--I think he chuckled when he said it--'she had refused to marry
Chaim for a long time, but had suddenly come to her senses again, and
was now quite willing to take him....'
"He told me a good deal more, and though I answered him, I can't
remember what I said. I only know that I ran away from him in the end,
and, rushing out-of-doors, paced the streets all night like a madman,
unheeding the storm and the cold. What I felt I can never describe, nor
would you understand if I were to attempt to do so...."
"Poor fellow!" I answered, compassionately.
"No," he cried, passionately, "you couldn't understand, nor would any
one. It was not a mere boyish affair, you see--such a thing would have
been impossible to me. It was the first great passion of my life, and it
will be the last. I have poured out all the love my nature is capable of
feeling at that girl's feet, and if she has deceived me, I shall go mad
or die. Believe me, I am not exaggerating--I can read my own case as
clearly as if it were physical illness from which I am suffering: as a
proof of this, let me tell you that love never made me blind; I always
saw the difficulties that would beset Rachel's path and mine. I know
that no one could well imagine anything more opposite than our habits of
mind and opinions on every subject. She and I have both to thank
orthodox Judaism for this. But I also know that the barriers between us
are not insuperable. If I have been man enough to make my own life and
open a career for myself, I shall also be man enough to raise my wife to
my own level. There is only one thing that could crush me--only one: if
Rachel were untrue!..."
"And do you think that possible?" I asked.
"I am unwilling to believe it; no one yields at once to a belief that
would make his life worthless in his eyes for evermore--and so I cling
to a last hope. That was why I asked you to telegraph. Although it is
very improbable that Salomon should have lied to me, yet it is possible
that he may have done so;... still, I confess that I have very little
hope, for she used to write to me every week regularly, and I haven't
heard from her for the last fortnight...."
"But," I asked, "even supposing that the marriage is really fixed for
next week, may you not suspect the girl unjustly? What if she were not
faithless after all, but forced into this marriage by her relations, God
knows how?"
"Impossible," said Adolf, firmly. "If I could have believed in the
possibility of such a thing for a single moment, I should have been on
my way to Barnow instead of sitting here. I know the girl far too well
to entertain such an idea. Rachel is simple-hearted, clear-minded, and
immovable. She could not be forced to do anything against her will. If
the worst came to the worst, she would rather have run away from her
parents and come to me, than have given way, even though she'd had to
beg her bread from Barnow to Vienna. I know her...."
Adolf and I talked long together on that gloomy winter morning. At last
I persuaded him to go to the hospital and do his usual work, promising
at the same time to bring him the telegram, whatever it might contain,
the very moment that it arrived.
It did not come until early on the following morning, so our worthy
fellow-townsman, Herr Michalski, must have been celebrating some
festival on the preceding evening. It ran as follows: "Yes; Rachel is
going to marry Pinkus the cattle-dealer next Tuesday. But what does it
matter to you?"
Alas! it mattered much more to me at that moment than my dear mother
imagined. I immediately sent for a drosky, and drove to Mariengasse,
where Adolf had taken a little room. My heart beat when I pulled the
bell.
His old housekeeper came out to meet me.
"Thank God that you've come!" she exclaimed joyfully as soon as she saw
me. "I've been so dreadfully anxious all night. Just think, another
letter came from Poland yesterday for the Herr Doctor; I knew where it
came from by the stamp; well, I put it carefully in his flat candlestick
that he might find it the very moment he came home. If I had only
guessed what was in that letter--I'm an honest woman, sir, and have
never stolen anything in my life, but I should have destroyed it, God
forgive me! and thought it a good deed. For, just listen, sir. He came
home early yesterday evening and asked me breathlessly if you had been
here. 'No,' said I--'but there's a letter for you from Poland.' 'Where?'
said he, running into his room and snatching up his letter. There must
have been something dreadful in that letter, sir, for the doctor turned
as pale as death, and shivered all over. Then, suddenly, he threw the
letter away and began to laugh aloud--it made my blood run cold to hear
him, it was such a mad laugh. Then he looked about him like this"--the
old woman tried to put on an insane stare--"and shouted to me to go
away--and--God forgive me!--I was so frightened that I ran away as
quickly as I could. All was silent for a time, but soon I heard the
doctor walking up and down, up and down, very quickly, and then he threw
himself on the sofa and moaned quite low. I can't describe it, it made
me shiver with terror; for, you see, a dreadful thing happened in this
very house about two years ago. My neighbor's lodger, a young
apothecary, poisoned himself because his sweetheart was false to him. I
heard him moan just like the doctor last night; and I couldn't help
thinking that it was the same story over again. So at last I summoned
courage and went into the room. He started up, and stared at me as if he
didn't know who I was. 'It's only me,' I said; 'are you ill?'--'No,'
said he, 'I only want to be alone,' so I went away again, but the whole
night long...."
I left the old woman talking, and hastened to my friend's room.
Adolf was sitting motionless in his arm-chair, his face buried in his
hands--it almost seemed as if he must be asleep, he was so very still.
When he heard the sound of my steps, he let his hands fall to his side
and got up. I never saw the stamp of grief more strongly marked on any
human face than on his as he turned toward me.
"Read that," he said, hoarsely, at the same time pushing a letter nearer
me that was lying on the table. I read as follows:
"HERR DOCTOR: Forgive me for not having written sooner to tell
you that I had made a mistake. I find that I do not love you. I
had mistaken friendship for love. I soon found out that this
was the case, but was afraid to write to you sooner. That is
why I only write now, the week before I am married to Chaim.
Perhaps you may think that I am forced to marry him by my
father, but that is not the case--I do it willingly. Forgive
me, Herr Doctor--it was a mistake.
"RACHEL."
"It was a mistake!" cried Adolf in despair, and then sank fainting on
the floor.
* * * * *
One spring morning, more than four years after that gloomy winter day
when Adolf received the news of Rachel's treachery, I was seated in a
large dull house in Vienna bending over a manuscript.
My servant came into the room and gave me a card, saying that the
gentleman was waiting to see whether I could receive him.
I looked at the card, and on seeing the name of Dr. Adolf Leiblinger,
rushed to the outer door and opened it.
I had not seen my friend for two years. We had never met since the day
when he came to me and said very quietly and unconcernedly: "I have
accepted a medical appointment under the Dutch Government, and am to
start for Batavia immediately. Good-by!"
He was very little changed. His pale face, with its unalterable
expression of calm defiance, had only grown browner and darker in the
tropical climate where he had lived during the last year or two.
"So you've come back to Europe!" I exclaimed joyfully. "I am so glad.
You remember how earnestly I tried to dissuade you from carrying out
your project. Going to that murderous climate was neither more nor less
than a sort of suicide on your part."
"Yes, it was so," he answered, calmly, "you're quite right."
"You'll remain here now that you've come back, won't you?"
"Yes. My life is not a happy one even now, but it is no longer
miserable. I am, and always shall be, indifferent to death; but so long
as I live it shall be my endeavor to make my life as useful as possible.
I shall settle down either here or in some other university town, as
assistant professor."
"I am very glad to hear it," I said. "I never lost hope that time would
bring you healing."
"If you call this healing, it was not time that brought it, but--a
letter."
"A letter!"
"Yes--from Barnow--from _her_. As soon as I got it I set out for
Europe--and went straight to Barnow. I think that I traveled quicker
than any one ever did before,--and yet I arrived too late."
"She is dead?" I asked in a low voice.
"Yes; she died four weeks ago."
"She called you to visit her on her deathbed then?"
"As you know the whole story, I will let you read her letter."
He put it in my hand.
It was written in trembling and scarcely legible characters, and ran as
follows:
"Spring will soon be here, but I feel that I shall not live to
see it, so I will write to you now when I have strength. I do
so partly for my own sake, but far more for yours. For my sake,
that you may not despise me after I am dead, and for yours,
that you may no longer have the pain of feeling that the woman
you loved was unworthy of you.
"I lied in that letter which I wrote to you four years ago. I
loved you then, love you now, and shall love you till I die.
And if God grants that we are the same in heaven as on earth, I
shall love you even after death. And it was because I loved you
that I parted from you.
"Do not shake your head in despair at these strange words.
"Happiness that I had purchased at the expense of my father's
curse and my mother's despair would not have been pure and
unsullied. But I should have lived that down.
"_One_ thing alone I could not have got over--you smiled at me
for saying so long ago, and yet I was right: my ignorance
unfitted me for the position your wife would have to hold.
"I had lived too long, in a little provincial town, a gray,
still life passed in utter ignorance of the world and its ways;
I could not have borne an active life and the full light of
day. I should not have been able rightly to understand you
either in sorrow or in joy, and that would have been terrible
to me, and perhaps even more terrible to you. I should never
have been at my ease with your friends or their wives; they
would have laughed at my manners and mode of speaking, and I
should have been hurt and you also. You would then perhaps have
kept me shut out from society, and I could not have borne that.
The thought that my husband was ashamed of me would have been
agony to me--as well as to you. And so the time would have
surely come of which I once warned you: you would have cursed
the hour when I became your wife. You would not have separated
from me--I know that. But we should have been unhappy, and you,
perhaps, would have been even more unhappy than I.
"I saw all this clearly, and I loved you so dearly that I did
not want you to be made miserable through me. So I determined
that the sorrow should all be mine--told my parents that I
would marry Chaim, and wrote that letter to you.
"Though I lied to you, I told Chaim the whole truth. I told
him my story, and said that I could only be his faithful
servant and helper. He answered that time would put all right.
I knew that it would have no effect, but I had taken up my
burden and would bear it.
"It was right, and I do not complain.
"But, alas! I must needs confess that I was too weak to bear my
weight of sorrow. I have become pale and ill, and my heart
beats so quickly at times that I often faint. I am growing so
much weaker that I feel that death must be drawing very near.
But I have no fear of death, and I thank God for His goodness
in letting me suffer for so short a time, instead of for a long
term of years. What good would a long life have been to me?
"Ever since the day I formed the resolution never to be your
wife, I have looked forward to writing you one letter that
should tell you the whole truth before I died. I never thought
that the happiness would have come to me so soon of justifying
my conduct in your eyes.
"My life is drawing to a close--our God is truly a merciful
God. And now, let me thank you once more for all your love for
me. You have been the light and joy of my poor dark life. You
made me happy, and are innocent of causing my sorrow. Forgive
all the pain that I have brought upon you. It is my last
entreaty, and I am dying.
"Ah no!--I have something else to beg of you, and if you do not
grant my request, I shall find no rest in the grave.
"Your friend, the doctor's son, told his people in one of his
letters that you were now living in a distant land, where the
sun is very hot, and where nearly all foreigners die of a
malignant fever. He wrote that you had probably gone there
because my marriage had caused you misery and despair. I can
not tell you what I suffered when I heard that, and were I to
attempt to do so you would hardly believe it. But I entreat of
you, leave that deadly climate. My heart tells me that you are
the greatest and best doctor that ever lived. Come home and
help poor sick people.
"Your mother's old prayer-book, that you gave me long ago,
shall be buried with me.
"Farewell! May your life be as long and happy as I wish it to
be! I shall be dead when you read this letter.
"RACHEL."
I silently returned the letter to my friend.
He rose, and said as quietly as before: "Now you know why I am going to
remain in Europe. Good-by for the present."
But when we had taken each other's hand in silence, the proud reserved
man broke down utterly. With a low heart-broken sob, he ejaculated:
"Why couldn't it have been otherwise? Why?..."
I know not what answer to make to this question any more than he did,
and so I do not venture to add another word to the story of Rachel Welt,
who used to be known in Barnow by the name of "Esterka Regina."
"BARON SCHMULE."
(1874.)
When driving from Barnow toward the south, to Bukowina or Moldavia, a
grand castle may be seen perched on the top of a hill at about three
hours'[7] distance from Barnow. It is situated near Z----, at which
place the highroad crosses the Dniester, and it stands so high that its
white walls and shimmering windows may be seen from a great distance. It
is surrounded by beautiful pleasure-grounds, which extend over the hill,
and stretch far out into the plain below. It is, perhaps, the most
beautiful place in Podolia, and is certainly better kept up than any
other. Its owner is known far and wide as "Baron Schmule;" for although
he is now the powerful Freiherr Sigismund von Ronnicki, he began life as
Schmule Runnstein.
[Footnote 7: About fifteen English miles.]
His success was rapid and wonderful, for he went straight as an arrow
toward his object, without wasting time by looking to the right hand or
to the left. Very few people can do that. Most men resemble tops, for
they are quite satisfied with making rapid and noisy gyrations, and do
not perceive that they never leave the spot from which they started, but
are only turning round and round upon their own axis; while the arrow,
which Baron Schmule resembled, neither hastens nor lags in its flight,
but makes straight for the mark. Putting metaphor aside, let me say that
Baron Schmule knew what he wanted, and attained the object for which he
strove as quickly and certainly as if he had had two eyes to guide him
on his way instead of one.
Like every one else, he began life as a top; but something happened that
changed his whole character, and with his character, his career. That
something was a _blow with a riding-whip_. It is a strange story....
More than fifty years ago a poor widow lived in Z---- with her son. She
strove to make enough to feed and clothe them both by the proceeds of
her trade of confectioner--a poor one to follow in a place so small as
Z----. She was called Miriam Runnstein. The little boy began to help his
mother as soon as he could walk and count: he had to sell the
sweetmeats that his mother made, and used to perambulate the streets,
calling, "Who'll buy 'Fladen'? 'Fladen' and almond comfits! who'll buy?
who'll buy?"
But very few people in the Ghetto make a practice of eating sweetmeats,
and a marriage or circumcision feast, on which occasion a confectioner
is hired for the day, is not of constant occurrence. Pennies came in
very slowly, and poor little Schmule often cried with hunger, as he
walked about trying to sell the sugar-plums in his basket.
His best customers lived at the castle, about half a mile[8] from the
town. This castle belonged to Baron Wodnicki. Alfred Wodnicki was a very
rich man--so rich that, although he was a great spendthrift, he could
not manage to squander much more than the income accruing from his
immense property. He lived very little at the castle, for he was soon
bored by the quietness and dullness of country life, so he spent most of
his time at Paris or Baden-Baden. He always went to Baden-Baden when his
wife was in Paris, and to Paris when she was at Baden-Baden. The husband
and wife got on very well together now that they had agreed to live
separate lives. Their only child, young Baron Wladislaus, did not live
at the castle either, but had been sent to a celebrated Jesuit seminary
at Krakau.
[Footnote 8: A little more than two English miles.]
So the servants had the castle all to themselves. There is an old Polish
proverb that runs very much to this effect: "Who is so idle and has so
sweet a tooth as a lackey!" The proverb was true in this case at least.
Little Schmule always found purchasers for his wares when he had
succeeded in dragging his heavy basket up the hill, and so he used often
to go there both in summer and winter, although it was a long way for
such a little fellow to walk with his burden. It is true that he got as
many boxes on the ear as pence, but what did he care for that?--a Jewish
child was used to such treatment!
So time went on, till Schmule was thirteen years old. Who knows how long
he might have gone on hawking his mother's "Fladen" and almond comfits
about the country-side, if something had not happened that changed the
whole course of his life.