said of him. He helped all who were in need of his assistance, without
desiring either thanks or payment. And as time passed on, all began to
feel a deep respect, and even love, for the pale silent man who did so
much for them. His face had quite lost the gloomy passionate expression
of his boyhood, and had become at once grave and gentle. While every one
felt a fearless confidence in his kindness and sympathy, no one would
have ventured to treat him with familiarity. The "Bocher" was the only
inhabitant of the Ghetto whom the Christian boys neither pelted nor
scorned, although outwardly he was only distinguished from his brethren
in the faith by the careful cleanliness of his clothing. He wore the
same curious old-fashioned Polish garments as all the other Jews in
Poland and Russia; and no dress could have shown off to better advantage
his tall stately figure, and pale intellectual face surrounded by
clustering curls of black hair.
This man was my teacher from my sixth till my twelfth year. I was a very
mischievous boy, always ready for fun, and hating to sit still, and he
treated me with continual grave kindness. We seldom exchanged a word
that had not to do with the lessons he was teaching me. But once it was
different: it was on the day on which I had gone to the monastery school
for the first time. I came home weeping bitterly because of the
contemptuous way in which my school-fellows had treated me for my
religion's sake. The "Bocher" came in, and I told him of my distress. He
listened to me in silence, and then opened the Bible at the place where
he had given me my last lesson on the previous evening. My tears would
not stop. "Don't cry," he said; "don't cry, my child, 'they know not
what they do.'" And then he added, in a harsh stern tone, such as I had
never heard from him before: "Don't cry. They are not worth your tears.
And a day of retribution will come sooner or later." I looked up at him
in surprise, and saw that his face wore a strange threatening
expression. He was silent for a time, and gradually the fierce look
faded away. Then he explained the passage to me in a quiet voice....
I was his only pupil during all these years, but all at once he gave up
teaching me. A strange and important event had taken place in his own
life, which made him wish me to leave him. I only spoke to him once
afterward.
* * * * *
Old Graf Adam Bortynski was a hard man, loved by none and feared by all.
He belonged to a younger branch of the Bortynskis, and so had had very
little chance of ever becoming head of the family. He seldom lived in
the country, and had his rents sent to him in Paris, London, Monaco, or
Homburg. Very little was known about him in Barnow, when he suddenly
came there as master at the death of young Graf Arthur, who died in
Paris of apoplexy brought on by intemperance. People used to whisper
mysteriously in Barnow about that time that no one had had such an evil
influence on the late lord of the manor as his present successor, Graf
Adam.
But, however that might be, Graf Adam was master now. He had never
married, although he was by no means a woman-hater; but on becoming head
of the family, he made up his mind that it was his duty to do so. He
chose lovely Jadwiga Polanska to be his wife. She was the daughter of an
impoverished noble in the vicinity. Every one knew that she feared and
hated Graf Bortynski, but it was also known that her father had sold her
to him; and several people who were better informed than the rest could
have told the price that had been paid for her to a farthing. For years
afterward the inhabitants of the little town used to talk about the
wedding procession, and tell how proud and triumphant Graf Adam had
looked that day, and how his bride had walked beside him pale as death,
and with an expression of deep wretchedness. The breakfast was very
grand, and went off well; but at an early hour on the following morning,
the servants heard a shot fired in the wing in which the rooms of the
newly-married couple were, and on hastening there they found Graf Adam
in his room, shot through the head, the pistol still convulsively
clutched in his right hand. No one knew what had induced him to commit
suicide in this unexpected way, and the pale young widow never said a
word to clear up the mystery.
The story formed the subject of endless discussion and conjecture, until
something else happened to take its place. Such things are not of
uncommon occurrence in Poland and Russia! The estates went to the heir
of entail, the head of a distant branch of the family, and Graefin
Jadwiga inherited the castle and town of Barnow.
It seemed fated that the castle should remain uninhabited, for even the
young widow went away. She was eighteen when she left Barnow, and it was
years before she returned. Rumors were current of her triumphs as a
beauty and a wit in Paris, Heligoland, or Baden-Baden. She did not marry
again, as every one expected. One spring day she returned to Barnow,
after an absence of nearly ten years. The castle was once more
inhabited, and its courtyards were full of life and bustle. Graefin
Jadwiga had grown rather stouter than of old, but she was still
beautiful, marvelously beautiful, in spite of what some people would
have thought the too great pallor of her face.
* * * * *
One fine morning in May two young people were out riding together, and
enjoying the freshness and brightness of the weather.
Were they happy? The rapid movement and the fresh morning air had
brought a tinge of color to the lady's pale face which was very becoming
to her. The Graefin Jadwiga looked bright and sweet that day, and really
happy. Her companion did not look either so cheerful or so happy as she
did. He was a young man with fair hair, the stature of a giant, and the
heart of a child. Scandal-mongers even went so far as to say that he was
like a child in intellect also. But however that may be, it is true that
Baron Starsky loved Graefin Jadwiga with all the intensity of _first_
love, as he used to call it, when he forgot that he had once talked
"love" to his mother's pretty little French maid. But that was long
ago--fully six months ago. He was very rich, his estates adjoined those
of the Graefin, but he would have loved her even had this not been the
case. He wanted to have told her all this during that morning's ride,
and to have asked her to be his wife; but he had had no opportunity. Who
could make an offer to a woman when riding at a hand-gallop?
At length Graefin Jadwiga grew tired of what Baron Starsky inwardly
called the "mad pace" at which she had been going. The horses panted as
they returned toward the town at a walk; but, strangely enough, the
palpitation which Starsky had before ascribed to the quickness of the
pace at which he had been riding, did not in the least diminish. It grew
worse. The moment for speaking had come, and he hesitated whether or not
to seize it.
He began to talk about the weather, like the good, stupid, loving giant
that he was. He expatiated on the beauty of the spring, and although as
a general rule he cared little or nothing for flowers, he now told
Graefin Jadwiga a great many wonderful things about them. The pauses in
their conversation grew longer and longer. At last he saw with terror
that he could not keep up this kind of small-talk much longer.
It was as though he had been suddenly relieved of a burden too heavy to
be borne, when the Graefin suddenly reined in her horse, and asked, "What
can that curious dark figure down there in the meadow be?"
Baron Starsky put up his eye-glass in order to see better.
"It's a Jew, Graefin," he said. "But look! he has got something shining
in his hand--a zinc box of some kind. What the deuce is he doing with
it?"
"Let us ask him."
So saying, the Graefin leaped the ditch into the meadow, and Starsky of
course followed her. The Jew started as though he would have run away,
but changing his mind, he waited quietly until the riders approached
him. His whole manner showed how timid he was and how little at his
ease.
"What are you doing there?" asked Graefin Jadwiga.
"I am collecting medicinal herbs for my sick people," he replied in pure
German.
"You're a doctor!" she inquired in surprise. "That's a strange calling
for a tradesman or a Talmudist--and you Jews are all either the one or
the other--to pursue in addition to your other work...."
Here Starsky interrupted her by asking somewhat roughly--
"If you're only gathering herbs, why can't you look people full in the
face? Why do you breathe so hard--eh, Jew?"
And stooping from the saddle, he seized him firmly by the shoulder. The
man wrenched himself free, and in so doing his hat fell off, letting
them see his noble, thoughtful face.
"Leave me alone!" he cried, threateningly.
Graefin Jadwiga hastily thrust her horse between the angry men. She was
deadly pale, her breath came quick and fast, and her colorless lips
trembled as if she were trying in vain to speak. Her eyes never left
the Jew's face.
He meanwhile had recovered his self-possession, and although pale,
looked calm and collected.
"Who are you?... Is it _really_ you?... Who are you?" she exclaimed, now
in a voice sharpened by anxiety, and again as though in joy....
"My name is David Blum," he answered, in a low toneless voice. "People
call me Bocher David. I am a Jewish teacher and sick-nurse in your
town...."
She reeled in her saddle and hid her face in her hands.
"My God!" she moaned, "is it a bad dream?... It is you, Friedrich!...
Your voice!... Your face!... Why are you here, and in that dress?... Can
I be going mad?... Friedrich, it _must_ be you ... Friedrich
Reimann!..."
She dismounted, and going to him, took his hands in hers. Starsky felt
his head going round as he watched the scene.
Bocher David had a hard struggle. He turned to go away; then he tried to
speak, but could not. At length he managed to force out the words in a
low, strained voice: "Friedrich Reimann is dead--has been dead for
years. I am David Blum, the sick-nurse."
She drew a long breath.
"I understand you," she said; "Friedrich is dead, but David Blum is
alive. And I must say to him what I can no longer say to Friedrich.... I
have sought you long, long and earnestly. I have found you at last. You
must not go until you have listened to me...."
"It would be useless, Frau Graefin," he answered, gently but firmly.
"Friedrich forgave you long ago--forgave you with all his heart...."
There was a look of pain on his face as he spoke.
"But it isn't useless," she exclaimed, "or at least not to me. I entreat
you to listen to me only once--for one hour. Come and see me this
afternoon at the castle...."
He shook his head with a sad smile.
"Don't say no," she continued. "You are a Jew, and it was a Jew who
said, 'Be merciful to the weak!' It is for mercy that I beg.... Oh,
come!... For God's sake come, and for the sake of old times!..."
"I promise," he said, after a short pause. Then silently raising his hat
he went away.
Graefin Jadwiga drew a long breath of relief, passed her hand across her
eyes as if she were waking from a dream, and then turned to Starsky, who
was approaching her with an expression of unmitigated astonishment. They
remounted their horses, and returned to Barnow Castle in silence. On
getting there they parted without a word.
Starsky rode home to his father's house in deep thought, a very unusual
circumstance with him. Graefin Jadwiga Bortynska and Bocher David.... His
brain reeled.... And this was the woman he would have asked to be his
wife! If he had done so, she would perhaps have accepted
him--_perhaps?_--undoubtedly--certainly! It was horrible!...
The domestic annals of the house of Starsky contained an unwonted
occurrence on that day: a youthful member of that noble family ate very
little dinner, and remained lost in thought during the whole of the rest
of the afternoon!...
* * * * *
The park at Barnow Castle was very prettily laid out in flower-beds, and
beyond these it was dotted with clumps of fine old trees. The air was
full of the song of birds and the perfume of spring flowers. The sun was
shining brightly.
A small summer-house was situated in a quiet corner, and from its
windows one could look down over blossoming elder-bushes upon the blue
waters of the lake, in which the willows at the edge were mirrored. It
was a place to sit and dream in.
But the woman who was seated in the large easy-chair near the window was
not thinking pleasant thoughts. Her eyes, which were gazing fixedly at
some point in the horizon, saw nothing of the quiet beauty of the spring
landscape. Her expression was as sad and despairing as her heart. The
mask she wore in public had fallen from her face, and she looked what
she was--an unhappy, sorely tried woman, and haunted by the bitter
memories of the past....
Memories of the past!
The days of childhood and early youth, which other people look back upon
as an Eden of light and joy, were a time of which she never thought
without a shuddering horror:--the dissipation and penury of the life in
her father's house--a life of misery and constant dread.... Her mother,
a pale, broken-hearted woman, who, foreseeing her husband's ruin, had
yet been powerless to prevent it, and who had at last faded and died
under the weight of a burden too heavy for her to bear.... She had been
the good angel of the house. After her death matters had come to a
climax, and everything had to be sold except a small estate to which
Jadwiga and her father had been removed.... How distinctly she
remembered the following years, with their ever-increasing poverty and
shame! This last was the worst--it had been harder to bear than even
cold and hunger. And the hopelessness of it all!... Her father, indeed,
had been able to find continual comfort in all the ills of life in the
brandy-bottle, and when he had drunk himself into a good humor and
hopefulness, it had irritated him to see his daughter's sad tearful
face. On such occasions he used to beat her cruelly in order to make her
look cheerful!...
As Jadwiga thought of these things her face wore an expression of utter
contempt. Alas for those who can only remember their parents with scorn!
She grew up to be a beautiful woman, in spite of her tears and the blows
she had to bear. But she cursed her beauty, and she cursed the day on
which Graf Adam had first seen her and fallen in love with her. She
shuddered as she thought of the day when he had bought her from her
father for ten thousand Polish gulden; when her father had come to her
and had told her that she must be Graefin Bortynska, if she did not wish
to see him, a gray-haired old man, begging his bread from door to door.
She remembered how she had thrown herself at his feet, and entreated him
with tears not to give her into the power of that harsh, cruel old man,
whom she hated and feared, and who, people said, was a murderer. How she
had promised to work for her father and herself, were it even as a
domestic servant, swearing that he should never, never starve. But all
in vain!... A Polanska should never become a household drudge.... And
after that she had become Graf Adam's bride....
Her memory of that time was so vivid that it was almost more than she
could bear. She started up from her seat, and paced up and down the
summer-house with folded arms and tightly compressed lips. But it was of
no use; one picture of the past after another rose up before her.
Once more she lived through that time of misery. She thought of the day
when they had dragged her to church, an unwilling victim, and had forced
her to perjure her soul in the sight of her God; her God, who had
hitherto been the only light and comfort in her dark life, and whom they
had thus, as it were, made a lie to her. She thought of the
marriage-feast, during which she had first made up her mind that either
she or her husband should die before morning.
She remembered how slowly the minutes had passed, till she could at
length get up and leave the table. She had gone at once to her room, and
finding her maid waiting for her, had sent her to bed. She had then
turned with loathing from the sight of the luxury surrounding her, and
had busied herself with thoughts of vengeance on the man who had forced
her to marry him, knowing all the time how she hated him.
Even now, so many years afterward, she could not help shuddering, when
she remembered that she had suddenly gained sufficient calmness to carry
out the diabolical plan she had thought of. She recollected how she had
taken one of the heavy silver candlesticks on her table, and had gone
through all the echoing passages and rooms in the wing in which her
rooms were situated. She had avoided looking in any of the mirrors that
she passed, fearing to see her own face, for she had a horror of
herself.
She had at last come to the large folding-doors opening into the
picture-gallery. She had gone in. At the end of the long row of
portraits, she had seen two leaning against the wall, and on examining
them had seen that they were those of the late Graf Arthur and of her
husband. They had come from Paris on the previous day, but had not been
hung up, because they had been forgotten in the hurry and confusion
caused by the preparations for the marriage.
She had then lifted the portrait of Graf Arthur in her arms. It was very
heavy, but she had not felt it. She had carried it to her room, and laid
it on a table in the middle of the room, and had arranged the
wax-candles round it in such a way as thoroughly to illuminate it.
Then with difficulty controlling her nervous horror, she had sat down in
the window and waited. The thoughts that had assailed her during those
hours of passive endurance were maddening. It was not until the gray of
the early morning that she had heard Graf Adam's step....
She had risen to meet him, pale and determined, and as he entered she
had seen from his face that he had been drinking deeply.
His eyes had at once fallen on the portrait of his victim.
In the pale gray of the morning, and with the flickering light of the
candles falling upon it, the pictured face had seemed alive and about to
start out of its frame.
She remembered how Graf Adam had started back on seeing it, and how his
drunken senses had reeled with ghostly terror.... That was what she had
counted upon.... She had then said in a clear hard voice: "Begone!...
You are a murderer!... Your victim stands between you and me...."
And Graf Adam had turned and staggered from the room.
When he had gone, she had sunk back in her chair, with a beating heart
and trembling limbs.
A minute later she had heard a shot.
Graefin Jadwiga closed her eyes, hoping thus to change the current of her
thoughts. She clasped her hands over her face. In vain! The memories of
the past persistently haunted her!...
She thought of the wretched time she had passed through immediately
after her husband's death--when she had been expected to weep and show
grief for his death, although her only feeling had been a dumb horror.
She had gone abroad as soon as she could. Life at the castle would have
been unendurable in those days.
She remembered how she had shone as a queen of fashion in luxurious
Paris _salons_. She had seemed happy then, for her smile had been
frequent, and her conversation both brilliant and witty. But in reality
she had not been happy, because she had not been able to forget, and
because the gay world and its amusements had not filled the void in her
heart.
Then temptation had come to her....
A fair-haired, pale, foolish ruler: the curse of his country; the worthy
son of a half-imbecile father and a vicious mother.
Pah! She had thrust him from her presence in disgust.
But hundreds of others had been at her feet, not only rich and handsome,
but also good and true-hearted men. And she had loved none of them.
Her hour had at last struck. She had gone to Baden-Baden....
There she had met Doctor Friedrich Reimann, private physician of Prince
Sugatscheff, and she had learned to love him as he loved her.
And then she had lost him--by her own fault, as her heart had told her
many a time....
She had never been able to make reparation, for he had disappeared
immediately after that fatal hour, and though she had tried to find him,
she had never been able to do so.
And she had smiled, jested, and ruled over her intimates as before. But
her heart was no longer empty, it was filled with a bitter repentance.
She had borne it for a long time, but at last the life she was leading
had become utterly distasteful to her.
She had then returned home, in the hope of forgetting what had happened,
or, at any rate, of finding relief in no longer being obliged to wear a
mask of happiness.
There she had found the man for whom she had sought. She had found him
under circumstances she could not understand. But what did that matter?
No one could prevent her marrying whom she would....
She longed to repair the wrong she had once done. She longed to be
happy, and to make her lover happy....
For the first time in the long hours in which she had been sitting alone
in the summer-house she smiled, and it was a smile of hope and love....
* * * * *
A breath of spring penetrated even the dark labyrinth of the Jewish town
on that day, making the anxious forget their anxieties, and the sick
their sufferings. The bright warm sunshine spread hope and joy around.
Bocher David found nearly all of his patients better and more cheerful.
He talked longer than usual with each of them, and promised almost
solemnly to see them next day.
After that he went to the castle. The fat porter told him that the Frau
Graefin was waiting for him in the summer-house in the park. He went
there, and entered with his usual expression of gentle gravity.
She hastened to meet him, and putting her hand in his, said:
"Thank you, Friedrich! Thank you for coming. I have looked forward to
this day, and have hoped so much from it. All will be well now."
She paused, as though expecting him to speak.
"I have come, Frau Graefin," he answered, gravely and quietly, "because
you entreated me to do so. And, as circumstances have brought us
together again so strangely, I owe you an explanation regarding my dress
and my former life. You have a right to it...."
Her eyes filled with tears when she heard him speak so coldly and
gravely.
"No, no, Friedrich," she exclaimed; "you are cruel. You are angry with
me, and you have just cause for anger. But I have suffered so terribly
ever since the day when I wrote that dreadful letter.... Forgive me for
the sake of my sorrow and repentance! Oh, forgive me, and don't look at
me so sternly!"
"I forgave you long ago," he said, more gently.
"I told you so before. But you want to do what is impossible. You want
to waken the dead, and to strike moments out of our life that are
imperishable, because they are too deeply engraved on our memories ever
to be forgotten. I know and can understand how you have suffered," he
continued, his voice trembling, "because I can compare your feelings
with my own. And now, that you may be spared more pain, and may not form
hopes that can never be fulfilled, I entreat you to listen to me,
although you asked me to come here to listen to you...."
When he began to speak she had raised her clasped hands in mute appeal
to his compassion, but now she let them fall listlessly to her side, and
sighed deeply. She then resumed her seat, and motioned to him to take a
chair opposite. He sat down, and went on firmly and decidedly: