nearest the door, 'they are women and maidens, they have all preferred
death to dishonour.--Do you think that we men fear death at thy hands
and the hands of thy murderous associates? Murder me, monster, and be
accursed, here and hereafter, in this world and the next, for ever and
ever!'--a moment afterwards the bold speaker lay on the ground
weltering in his blood. At sight of the countless corpses of the women
the beastly rage of the populace, that saw itself cheated of the
fairest portion of its booty, mounted to absolute madness. Hyenas drunk
with blood would have behaved with greater humanity. Not a life was
spared, and even infants were slaughtered over the bodies of their
mothers. Blood flowed in streams. One boy alone was later on dragged
still living from under the heaps of dead. As they approached the
tabernacle, in order to inflict the death-stroke on the Rabbi, who
knelt on the steps before it, they found him lifeless, his head turned
upwards towards the East, a soft smile upon his death-like features.
Death had anticipated them; his pure soul had exhaled in fervent
prayer.
"The mob surveyed the work that had been accomplished, and now that the
thirst for blood was stilled, shrunk in terror before the bloody horror
that had been perpetrated.--The tabernacle remained untouched, the
house of God unplundered. Discharging oaths and curses at the knight,
their ringleader, the wild troop dispersed in apprehensive fright of
the divine and human judge. But King Wenceslaus left the iniquity, in
spite of the most urgent representations of the Bohemian nobility,
unvisited and unpunished. But from that day his good angel left him.
The spirit of those helpless murdered ones seemed continually to hover
about his head. His reign became unfortunate. The nobility felt itself
deeply injured by this outrage upon justice. A series of interminable
disputes sprung up between the nobles and populace, and Wenceslaus who
went on from one cruelty to another was twice imprisoned by the states,
and died at length, probably of the trouble and anxiety cause by a
bloody revolt of the Hussites that had broken out shortly before his
death. To his life's end he never recovered either happiness on
confidence.--The knight too, the author of that foul deed, who
afterwards marched through the country, burning, robbing and murdering
was overtaken by a righteous punishment. The Archbishop of Prague ten
years later, at the time of the second captivity of Wenceslaus, hanged
him up with fifty other robbers in sight of the city of Prague.--His
name was forgotten."
"You are a wonderful narrator," thus Gabriel broke the silence that had
lasted for some time, after Schoendel had ended her story: "I could
listen to you by the hour."
Indeed he had been especially struck by the impassioned elevation of
her language, and the choiceness of her expressions so little in
accordance with her position in life.
"Excuse a question," he began again after a short pause. "I feel myself
for the first time really at home, when I am intimately acquainted with
those about me. A happy chance led me to your house, a house than which
I could not wish or find a better--but you will not be offended with my
frankness. I am surprised to find such remarkably easy circumstances in
the house of a servant, and still more in you, dear goodwife, such an
unusually high degree of cultivation.--Perhaps, you will explain this
to me."
"Oh yes," replied the goodman, "but at table, it is late and we will
sup."
The three took their seats and an old maidservant came in. The goodman
said a blessing over a flagon of wine, they washed their hands, and
after grace had been said over two cakes of white bread that had up to
that moment been covered by a velvet cloth, the maid-servant placed the
smoking dishes on the table. The two men set too with a will.
"You know, Reb Gabriel," began Schlome, "where two are sitting and the
word of God is not between them so may I ask you to impart to me some
of the results of your religious researches."
"Researches," said Gabriel slowly, "I will try"--and passing his hands
slowly over his forehead, and rubbing his eyes as though he would force
back all other thoughts, and conjure up recollections long left in the
background, he began a very ingenious dissertation upon the Talmud. At
first measured and thoughtful as though moving on strange and slippery
ground, he became gradually more confident and at home, and expressed
himself as he warmed with that oriental vivacity, that gives to these
studies a singular attraction. He displayed unusual knowledge. All that
he said, was so acutely considered and well-balanced, that he easily
repelled the objections that Reb Schlome here and there attempted to
interpose. He, in spite of his ripe knowledge of the Talmud and his
practised dexterity soon saw the futility of every disputation and
listened to the student in almost reverential silence to the end. "That
is a glorious dissertation," he said, when Gabriel left off speaking,
"and our assessor of the college of Rabbis, Reb. Lippman Heller will be
delighted to have got such a scholar. But you do not often attend his
lectures?"
"I have as yet had a good deal to arrange after my journey and cannot
attend the lecture as often as I could wish; but now, dear sir, as we
have already had our discourse on the Talmud, tell me, how it happens
that you are so prosperous and yet a servant, how it comes to pass that
your wife has attained to such a high degree of culture, as one so
seldom finds in a Jew, especially a woman, on account of the oppression
that the Jews, in spite of much even if slow progress, have still to
endure. Explain this to me, unless special reasons impose silence upon
you."
Schlome, who had already enjoyed the thought of proving to his
guest that he too had profitably devoted himself to Talmudic studies,
was obliged to put it off to another opportunity and yield to the
earnestly expressed wish of his guest. "I am now much pleased with you,
Reb Gabriel, and as I feel more and more convinced that you are a
genuine scholar, a certain feeling of distrust--I may now confess it
openly--that sometimes came over me with respect to you, is
disappearing, and I am heartily rejoiced at these your frank
expressions.--So listen: I am the son of Reb Carpel Sachs--may the
memory of the just be blessed.--My father was a very rich and pious man
and made the best use of his fortune. The Community, whose chief
overseer, and the Old-synagogue, whose ruler he was, have much to be
thankful to him for. I was his only child and was the more precious to
my father, as in me the memory of my early lost mother survived to him.
His affectionate care for me knew no bounds. I never dared to go out
alone, I never dared to leave him even for a moment, and all my tutors
were obliged to give me their lessons in his presence. As overseer of
the community frequently brought into relation with the leading men of
other religions, he saw the necessity of a Jew, devoting himself to the
assiduous study of universal sciences as well as to more strictly
religious studies, that the Jewish nation might stand worthily by the
side of the whole race of mankind as opposed to the Judaic alone. In
spite of his many occupations he was often with the worthy Loewe, and
the partner of his varied studies. I myself very early received
instruction in the learned languages and natural science, without on
that account at all neglecting the study of our holy scripture. It was
on a lovely winter morning, I, a little boy, was sitting by my father
in his study reading the Bible. The servant announced a man, who
urgently desired to see my father, and almost immediately he entered
the room carrying a little girl in his arms. I shall never forget the
scene, even this day it rises up before me clear and lifelike.--The man
was large and strongly built, but deep lines of sorrow and trouble were
stamped upon his earnest noble features. The child, that with anxious
tenderness he still held in his arms, was a lovely blooming little
girl; I need not farther describe her, picture to yourself my goodwife,
a girl of three year's old. Both were poorly clothed, the stranger wore
the dress of a needy wandering Pole, the little girl seemed
insufficiently protected from the cold by her tattered garments, and
her father--for that the stranger apparently was--warmed her tiny
frozen hands that were fast entwined round his neck with the breath of
his mouth.
"'I and my child,' said the stranger, 'arrive from a long and difficult
journey. I have come straight to your house, Reb Carpel, I ask that
help from you, that you both can and will afford me. Grant me an hour
of your time, I must speak with you alone.' These few words of the
stranger, and even before they had been spoken, his reverend aspect had
obviously, in spite of the meanness of his dress, made a favourable
impression upon my father. He rose from his seat, held out his hand to
his visitor in sign of welcome, and placed a chair by the stove in
which an hospitable fire was burning. My father bid me take the little
girl with me to my room, and let the servant give her some supper.
Schoendel looked at her father, and when he put her down, and told her
she might, took hold of my hand with a confiding smile and went with
me, I do not know what passed in secret between the two men, but when
two hours later my father opened the door of his apartment, I heard him
say aloud: 'Since you will neither be our counsellor nor assessor, nor
Klaus Rabbi, I consider it a special Providence, that just at this very
moment the post of upper-attendant in the Old-synagogue is vacant, that
that exactly meets your wishes, that I can have a decisive word in
arranging your appointment. I believe that I am sure of the consent of
my associates. I will see besides that that respect, Rabbi, which is
your due, is paid to you by all the servants and the congregation, with
whom in truth you will not be brought into contact. You will be able to
live in the manner you wish, unknown, cut off from all society, devoted
to your studies. I look upon it as a piece of good fortune, Rabbi, that
you have granted my request, and consent to initiate my boy in the
depths of our holy Scripture.' 'I thank thee, Reb Carpel, but call me
not Rabbi, call me Mosche as....' He saw me and stopped.
"I was astounded at the almost reverential behaviour of my father. The
first person in the community, he well knew how to keep up his dignity
on all occasions, and it could only be a very distinguished individual
indeed, who could be gladdened by such treatment.
"'Schlome, kiss the Rabbi's hand, from to-day he will undertake the
care of your education,' said my father. I lifted his hand respectfully
to my lips and from that time Reb Mosche seemed to me a being of a
superior nature. My father let him immediately into occupation of a
house close to the synagogue, the residence of the upper-attendant for
the time being, the very rooms in which we are now living, and the next
Saturday, after a long parley with the other overseers of the
synagogue, it was announced to the frequenters of the Old-synagogue,
that a stranger, for whom Reb Carpel Sachs answered in every respect,
had been appointed upper-attendant. Here then my step-father lived,
here it was that I as little boy came to make my first essay in the
study of the Talmud, here we closed his wearied eyes. Rabbi Mosche was
a wonderful man, all that, he said and did evinced the profoundest
religious feeling. He lived retired from all society and the only
visits that he received were from the high Rabbi Loewe and my father.
His expositions were clear and easy to be understood, and my rapt
attention, and firm determination to win his approbation came
excellently to the aid of my lessons. The man usually so reserved, soon
shared his love between his only child, whom he almost idolised, and
me. My father too loved with an infinite love the stranger's motherless
child. We children clung to one another with extraordinary tenderness,
a feeling, that, God be praised and thanked, has never been
extinguished in our hearts. When I received nay lessons from her
revered father, Schoendel would sit by me by the hour and listen, and
even when I was occupied by other studies, the dear little maid was my
constant companion. To this circumstance and to the remarkable industry
and talents of my wife you must ascribe the fact, that in a menial
position she surpasses in knowledge and culture many ladies of
rank.--In a word, this confined room was even in my free hours the
place where I loved best to be, I knew no higher enjoyment than to
converse with Rabbi Mosche. I was often allowed to help him in certain
business about the synagogue, and I was the more glad to do so, as it
enabled him to decline the assistance of all the inferior servants that
were under his orders. What a childish pleasure I took on every
Thursday evening at the thought of the coming morning! Friday, I was
always up betimes, no need to wake me--dressed myself and ran down to
Reb Mosche. He was already expecting me, I took his hand and we went
together to the adjoining house of God. To this day a perfectly empty
temple makes a singular, not easily to be described impression upon me,
and when the grating doors opened and our steps echoed loud in the cool
and empty space, it seemed to me as though the blissful breath of God's
peace was upon me. My teacher first opened his desk in the tribune,
then placed candles in the chandeliers, and trimmed the lamp, that ever
burneth, with fresh oil, and I was allowed to follow him carrying the
flask of oil, candles and everything that he usually wanted. All this
was done in the profoundest silence, as if we feared by a word to
dispel the stillness that reigned through the building dedicated to
God's service. When all was duly arranged I sat me down on the steps
that led up to the tabernacle and began to read out of the Bible to my
teacher the portions of Scripture appointed for the week. The earliest
frequenters of the synagogue found us ever busy with our studies in the
Bible. I passed a peaceful and contented youth. The mysterious
obscurity that enveloped my second father,--for so had Reb Mosche
become to me--was only calculated to heighten, if possible, the feeling
of reverence with which he had inspired me and I dared not even wish to
raise this veil that enshrouded him. Neither Schoendel nor I would for
worlds have asked him about his past life, which had of a surety been
fruitful of sorrow to him, and even my father, to whom his secret was
probably known, preserved the most unbroken silence with respect to it.
The mutual relation of the two men was also a singular one. Sometimes
they addressed one another, as though years and years ago they had
known one another as children, and yet my father had never left his
native town, while Reb Mosche on the contrary--Schoendel could just
remember it as in a dream--had come from a very great way off. I myself
with respect to Reb Mosche adopted that demeanour which the Talmud
enjoins in the intercourse of scholar and tutor. I fulfilled his
smallest wishes, and learned to interpret them from his look; and if I
chanced without intending it to vex him by my talk, I was inconsolable
and could have wept by the hour. This, however, seldom happened, and I
can only recollect one instance of it. As we were reading the Psalms we
had come to that passage, 'Behold how good and how pleasant it is for
brethren to dwell together in unity!' and I expressed the childish
wish, that as well as Schoendel whom I regarded as my dear little
sister, I had a brother too. 'My son,' replied Reb Mosche earnestly,
'what God doeth, that is well done! Wherefore dost thou desire a
brother? Brothers do not always love one another, there where love and
friendship should prevail, enmity and strife have often mastery. Cain
slew his brother Abel, Jacob and Esau were brothers, but Esau hated
Jacob. Joseph was sold by his brethren, and the brethren of the
greatest prophet, even the brethren of Moses spoke evil of him.' I
gazed in astonishment at the face of my respected teacher, a bitter
smile played upon his lips, a tear shone in his mild eye.--
"I will not further weary you with the descriptions of my youth,--which
while they fill me with sad remembrances, are probably to you a matter
of indifference. My youth slipped away as happily and as untroubled as
my childhood. I ripened to manhood, Schoendel developed into a most
beautiful young woman. Our infelt mutual attachment was known to both
fathers, and Schoendel's two and twentieth birthday was fixed for our
betrothal.--Eight days before, one Saturday afternoon I was sent for to
the room of my father, where I found my father-in-law also. 'My son,'
he began, with deep emotion, 'I have joyfully consented to your
marriage, I have known you from a child, you are infinitely beloved and
dear to me, and I can now depart in peace from my own loved child
whenever the Lord calls me. But I have a request to make to you, and
your own worthy father adds his prayers to mine. See, Schlome, see, I
have early grown grey with trouble and sorrow, I have been unhappy, and
to-day I must confess it to you with deepest affliction, have learned
to know the iniquity of mankind. We both, thy father and I, are
ignorant when God will send his messenger to us.--Schlome, do not
refuse our request! _Remain always attendant in the synagogue_." I was
for a moment petrified with astonishment, I had expected anything but
this wish; but it was not for me to pry into the reasons of the strange
petition. My father fully agreed with him, I had nothing to do but
consent.--Eight days afterwards was the wedding. The poor of the
community had liberal alms, every synagogue, every charitable
institution was bountifully remembered, but the marriage-feast was
celebrated quietly and without display. When the two fathers came home
from the wedding, they fell into one another's arms with expressions of
the highest excitement, 'Reb. Carpel! could you have hoped for this
when we separated forty years ago,' asked my father-in-law, 'could we
have expected ever to meet again? and yet the gracious Lord of all
grants us the felicity of uniting our only loved children in the holy
bonds of wedlock.' 'Now, we may die in peace,' replied my father, with
the deepest emotion.
"My father seemed to have spoken prophetically. In the first year of
our marriage died my never-to-be-forgotten father, shortly afterwards
my father-in-law. Their souls seemed linked to one another by the bonds
of friendship even for the next world, and they rest in adjoining
graves.
"'My children,' said Rabbi Mosche, on his deathbed, 'your father, Reb.
Carpel Sachs, has left you a store of this world's goods, I am poor, I
leave you naught but my blessing, my infinite love. In this sealed
packet is the record of my life's history written in the long winter
nights for your benefit. Only after twenty years may you break the
seal, when he that wished to do me evil, is dead, and God will have
already forgiven him. That which was dark to you will then become
clear. My life was dedicated first to God, next to you, and my
boundless love will not expire with my last breath. Have God ever
before your eyes, what he doeth that he doeth well. This world is but
the vestibule of a more beauteous world beyond. Murmur not. Trust in
God! Farewell! God bless you. May the Eternal One let the light of his
countenance shine upon you. May the Everlasting turn his face upon you
and give you peace for evermore! Hear, o Israel, the Everlasting our
God is one God!' that was his last breath, his beautiful soul expired."
Reb Schlome was obliged to stop, the recollection had seized him with
overpowering might, his wife too sobbed aloud.
"We had suffered two violent blows following quickly one upon the
other," he continued after a long pause with more composure. "The
unutterable grief that filled us can only be measured by one whose
bosom has felt a like affliction, who has stood at the death-bed of a
man, as highly prized and dear to him. We felt as if the whole world
had escaped our grasp, we both were now so solitary and forsaken."
"Solitary and forsaken," echoed Gabriel in a heart-rending voice that
quivered with agony, "solitary and forsaken, and yet ye were two, who
hung upon one another with infinite affection."
"You too have stood sorrowing, solitary and forsaken, by the bed of a
dying father, a dying mother?" asked Schoendel with infelt sympathy.
"Yes, yes," replied Gabriel vehemently, almost screaming. "Yes, yes, I
did once stand by a mother's death-bed, wringing my hands and
despairing! Oh, a very tender mother, virtuous and tender, she loved
me, her only child, with a love that conquered death.--Oh, a good, good
mother, and I was, indeed, _solitary and forsaken when she died_!"
The student spoke these words with wild and passionate bitterness, his
large and brilliant eyes rolled restlessly, a pallor as of death, and a
purple flush covered in rapid succession his face marred, but once so
beautiful.
"Do not let the recollection obtain such mastery over you," implored
Schoendel soothingly, "consider: Perchance you have still a tender
father."--
"A tender father? No--yes.--Is it not true, fathers are all tender,
more tender than mothers?--
"Neither husband or wife had ever known a mother and kept silence."
"A father!" repeated Gabriel, with an expression of the most poignant
despair, and as though he would force back the overflowing tide of his
feelings, he pressed his hands violently against his breast; and then
after a short pause recovered himself, wiped the sweat, that had
collected in heavy drops, from his forehead and said with a visible
effort, "Excuse me, my friends, but you know, profound sorrow cannot be
restrained."
"Your sorrow must still be fresh," remarked Schlome.
"Oh, a deep heart-wound is never healed. But enough of this, proceed,"
exclaimed Gabriel; "the twenty years have not yet elapsed, and you are
still unacquainted with the affecting fortunes of your father-in-law?"
"No, it is but nine years since he passed into a more beautiful
existence, his life-history still rests unopened in the chest that
stands in your room.--We do not even know the name of his family."
"Strange!" said Gabriel; "you too never knew your mother? dear
housewife."--
"My father never alluded to his past history," she replied, "my mother
must have died in my earliest childhood."--
"Well for you!" cried Gabriel, and as both gazed at him in
astonishment, he continued hurriedly, "Well for you, that you cleave to
your father with the indissoluble link of love, that he still survives
in your memory; may you some day thus survive in the heart of your--but
you have no children?"
"God has not blessed our union with children," answered Schoendel,
sadly.
"What God doeth, is well done! cling fast to that belief," now
interposed Schlome, in quiet and earnest accents. "See, I was once sore
troubled about it; we, my wife and I, have neither brethren, nor
friends--we always lived so retired from all company--and even if we
had friends, the love of a child for its parents can be supplied by
nothing else, nothing can be weighed in the balance with it.... It made
me sad when I thought that if the Lord should call me or my wife to
himself, one of us must be left behind, desolate and forsaken in
bitterest woe.--It made me sad when I thought, that with us would be
entombed the memory of my father and father-in-law, that with me the
long web would be broken, that humanity was ever destined to weave
since the world's creation.--But consoling encouraging thoughts in time
germinated in my heart. 'Murmur not! this world is but a vestibule of
the next,' had my father said, and says not also the prophet? 'Oh, let
not the childless lament, I am as grass that withereth!--Thus saith the
Lord to them that are childless, they that observe my feast-days, and
choose that which pleaseth me and hold fast to my covenant. Even unto
them will I give in my house and within my walls a place, and a name
better than of sons and of daughters. I will give them an everlasting
name that shall not be cut off.' I bow to the decree of the Allwise,
what he doeth is well done--I live happy in the performance of my
duties, for the future, One that is above will provide--if, hereafter,
my soulless body be lowered by strangers into the vault, my spirit will
mount upwards to God!"--