He smiled. "You are very kind."

Slightly embarrassed, she answered: "That was not an empty compliment.

My mother's relatives on the maternal side have done much in scientific

ways. Professor Jacob Friedlaender in Breslau, Professor Emil Friedlaender

in Marburg, Professor Felix Friedlaender of the Karlsruhe Polytechnic,

are all men of scientific note; as is also Professor Ernest Biedermann,

whose mother was a Friedlaender, and who is a leader among modern German

painters."

All unconscious though she was of it, her words reflected pride and

joyous enthusiasm. A slight flush overspread her face; her animated

glance rested involuntarily upon the family pedigree that hung opposite

to them.

"You are well acquainted with the positions your relatives occupy. Do

you visit them?"

She was startled at his words as though she had discovered a false note

in them, irony and derision. But he looked at her so innocently and so

sympathetically that she was ashamed of her mistrust.

"Not at all. Occasionally we meet Professor Biedermann. As a rule his

calling takes him into quite different circles."

"And who are the people who would not be glad to have the _entree_ in

such a home as your parents'?" he asked thoughtfully.

"My parents have not cared for a wide circle of acquaintances for years.

My father, whose eminently successful career and public services entitle

him to a certain amount of pride, scorns to be put in a position where

he is merely tolerated; and my mother's pride is no more able to bear

rebuffs." She paused in alarm at what she had said. Why had she allowed

herself to be so carried away? She had been overcome by the everlasting

woe and sorrow of her race, which arise anew in every generation; and

this in the presence of a stranger,--of this stranger.

She looked at him timidly, with a troubled expression.

"Why do you not continue, Miss Rita,--or may I call you cousin, as I did

before? You have no idea how much I am interested by what you say. I

have met Professor Biedermann, but I did not introduce myself as

cousin."

"Indeed!" she answered suddenly becoming quite cold.

"Do not misunderstand me. You see, all these cousins of whom you spoke

have very plainly given me to understand that they have renounced me;

for otherwise one or the other of them who moves in the same walks that

I do would some time have bethought himself of me."

"How could you expect that?" she said eagerly. "You are unjust. You were

the one to withdraw entirely from the connection, without possibility

of recall." Again she hesitated.

"Do you believe that unprejudiced men would lay that up against me?"

"I do not believe that exactly; but what cause would there be for them

to approach you? Those who have need of the family can always find a

place in it, and there are many such, alas, many, far more than those

who have attained a position in life. The family connection establishes

a common interest; and this keeps them in touch with one another

permanently. At family gatherings every now and then one hears of some

good fortune that has befallen one or the other, and this brings

pleasure to each member of the family. My mother especially is very well

informed, and is anxious to learn of anyone who has risen to importance

or honor. And now we speak of an event of that kind oftener than

formerly; we take it as a consolation, a comfort, that one of us has

attained to some position, even though it be only what was well

deserved, without...."

"Say it openly, without baptism."

A deep flush covered her face, and in her eyes there were restrained

tears.

To what had the conversation led her? To a point at which he could not

but be hurt. She looked at him helplessly, unable to utter a word. At

length she stammered, "O no, that--I--that was not intended--I...."

"Why should they not say it? In reality, it is not an easy matter for

those gentlemen to attain the positions that are their due; and

therefore their promotion is received with especial delight, not only by

the family, but by the congregation, by the whole race. And now at last

I hear the tale from a wholly fair and unprejudiced source."

She gazed at him with open doubt.

"Aren't you unprejudiced, Miss Rita?"

"Not any longer," she answered, with a sigh. At this moment her mother

entered.

"Rita, Betty is going to sing, won't you accompany her?"

She arose quickly, as though released from some dread oppression.

"Gladly, mother."

He looked at her with a quiet smile. She noticed it, and was again

overcome by her shyness. What must he think of her? Like a babbling,

foolish child, she had inconsiderately touched upon subjects bound to

lead to painful discussions,--topics that all had tactfully avoided, all

except herself, the last person to intend an insult. If Hugo had said

such a thing, how it would have irritated her, and in his case it might

have been excusable; but she--was it fate, a spell that forced her

thoughts in such directions? It seemed as though these questions cast a

shadow over her every thought and action. That an innocent conversation

should suddenly and involuntarily take a turn that gives an equivocal

meaning to everything said, should give her words unintended innuendo

and insinuations--nothing was farther from her thoughts; and yet the

thing had occurred. It was only the interruption of her mother that had

saved her from further indiscretions.

"Our cousin Betty, Mrs. Lesser, has a charming voice."

"So Miss Rita has just told me."

"So, Rita, you have been entertaining our guest with the recital of the

talents of our family?"

"She has done so, excellently; I have the liveliest interest in them,

and am truly grateful to your daughter."

He looked at Rita with a lingering glance. She returned it. Their eyes

met, and then she bowed silently and went into the music-room. Presently

Schubert's "Wanderer," was heard, beautifully rendered.

"And ever longing asketh where!" was the sad, melancholy refrain. "Ever

where!"

He shook his head as if to rid himself of a sad thought.

* * * * *

Dr. Weilen took leave, promising to come soon again. Both Mr. and Mrs.

Benas had invited him to repeat his call. The other guests, who had

gathered in the drawing-room, remained to chat a little more and enjoy a

glass of Pilsener.

"You may say what you will, Benas, it is more congenial when we are by

ourselves," said Mr. Freudenthal.

"You are too exclusive, Isi," said Mrs. Benas. "Surely I am the last who

would plead for a mixed choir, since we have been plainly given to

understand that our voices do not please; but there is nothing about Dr.

Weilen that disturbs our company or seems strange. Even on the first

evening he came, he struck the right note, and he seemed one of us. He

really is at bottom. One cannot deny one's kin."

"But it took a long time for him to remember," Mr. Friedheim said

ironically.

"Only until an opportune moment arrived. How should he have known that

the names Lesser and Friedheim belonged to his family? He was still a

boy when connections were broken off with his mother's family, and he

has never had any occasion to resume the relation," added Mr. Benas.

"Friedheim, he knows you through your commentary; Lesser, you, through

your 'Order of Bankruptcy,' your names are well known to the lawyer; but

that is no reason for him to have supposed you to be his Mishpocheh. It

was very evident that he was pleased to discover the additional tie." He

laughed jovially. "That's human nature, but the feeling of satisfaction

when special honor comes to any member of the family, is particularly

developed among us. Even he does not deny this, and why? Estrangement

does not change one's inherited nature."

"But habit and education do. Whoever alienates himself and cuts himself

off, becomes an exile and a stranger," said Mr. Freudenthal.

"Dr. Weilen is not a case in point. The manner of his coming here is, in

fact, an argument against your thesis."

"A mere mood, father, a romantic whim," Hugo said scornfully.

"In such matters your opinion does not count, because your views blind

you and make a fanatic of you."

"After all, it is not a matter of great moment that he should have come

here," said the Justizrat.

"Years ago you might have said so, but not now. Whoever seeks us now and

acknowledges us, belongs to us."

"If you would only free yourself from the habit of considering whatever

is connected in the remotest degree with the Jewish question as

something of the greatest import. It's really a matter of absolute

indifference to me whether a given person comes or goes, how he comes

or goes, and what he thinks or does. It's merely a private matter, an

individual case."

"Every individual case is at the present time a matter of universal

concern," said Hugo, his eyes glowering.

"There we are, before we know it, at the same wearisome discussion.

Throw the cat as you will, it always lands on its feet," exclaimed Mr.

Benas, angrily.

"The question forces itself upon us, whether we wish it or not," said

Mr. Freudenthal, "the clearest proof that it exists; just as a painful

sickness reminds the suffering body of its existence. Of what use are

morphine injections? Merely a momentary deadening, but the evil is not

removed."

"But one gets tired of continually harping on the same old chord,"

Friedheim answered. "But in the world, by strangers, then in one's own

reflections, and finally in the talk of friends, acquaintances,

relations, in such social gatherings as this, at Skat, or

dinners--everywhere the same dish is served. Occasionally you really

long for an injection for the sake of peace."

"Yet there are few to whom the matter has been as vital as to you," said

Freudenthal.

"Just because of that. Do you think a wound is healed by constantly

tapping it? I use a morphine of my own, my own tried anaesthetic,--strenuous

work, untiring activity, and the development of my specialty. This for

the world; and for myself,--a quiet family life."

"That has not been your taste always," interrupted Lesser. "You, a

politician! A man made for public life! Concerned in every matter of

state and city government, always in the public eye."

Earlier in their careers the cousins had harbored slight jealousies in

matters of this kind.

"Now we have it again," cried Mr. Friedheim, angrily, rising, "now the

sequel will follow: And how did they reward you? Didn't they remind you

of the yellow badge your fathers wore? Didn't they wave it before you, a

token of past shame, and what is worse, of future shame? How did they

thank you for the gift you gave them in your legal work, in your

endeavors for the public weal, and so on _ad infinitum?_ I know this war

cry, and I am not in the mood to-day to hear it again."

Mr. Lesser and Mr. Freudenthal had also arisen.

"Whether you wish to hear it or not, that does not in the least change

matters," said Mr. Freudenthal. "And if you should stop up your ears

with cotton, you would only deafen yourself temporarily; the trumpet

call would sound all the louder."

"I'm entirely satisfied to hear no more of it for a time at least."

"Desire and convenience do not regulate such affairs," said Mr. Lesser,

ironically.

"Why not? What's to prevent our getting together comfortably without

these endless disputes and excited debates?"

"The fact that the stranger has been in our midst, and we are restless,

excited, nervous, like those who live in unrest, without a fixed

abiding-place."

All turned toward the speaker; both the women who had followed the

conversation in silence, after vain attempts to calm the disputants, and

the men, whose tempers were heated by the discussion.

The words seemed to echo from another world,--lamenting, exhorting,

warning.

It was Dr. Rosenfeld who had spoken them. The young man sat there

deathly pale, as though frightened by his uncalled-for interference in

the family quarrel. The whole evening and even during the last

conversation he and Hugo had remained quiet, although their faces

plainly expressed their interest.

"My dear Henry, you, too, carry matters too far," said Mr. Friedheim,

impatiently. "But as our humor is spoilt, and it is late, I think it is

best to break up. The fresh December air will cool us off, and we will

go home, only to begin over again, at the next opportunity."

"We expect you on Wednesday for Skat," said Mrs. Freudenthal.

"Aha, the session for the next discussion is arranged," Mr. Friedheim

laughed.

"Good-by, then, until Wednesday."

"Good-by."

* * * * *

Hugo and Henry also took their leave to spend an hour at the Cafe Bauer,

where they were to meet several friends.

Mr. and Mrs. Benas and Rita, left alone, went to Mrs. Benas's boudoir.

"It is strange how easily we are carried away when we are among

ourselves. Friedheim and Lesser are always ready for a fight. The

slightest difference of opinion, and off they go," said Mrs. Benas.

"The curious thing is that at bottom their opinions are not so very

different, but argumentation is a racial trait. There's no doubt, we

have too much temperament." Mr. Benas smiled, lighting a cigar, and

leaning back comfortably in his arm-chair. "I'm curious to know whether

Dr. Weilen is such a wrangler as the rest of the Friedlaenders and the

Friedheims," he added, trying to tease his wife.

"I, Joshua? I know others who don't lack the same trait."

"But, Fanny dear, how can you compare us? Generations of practice in the

subtle dialectics of the Talmud--that tells. It is not by chance that

your family is famous in all intellectual pursuits, while the rest of

us, who bear on our escutcheon the rabbit skins and bags of wool carried

about by our ancestors, cannot get to be more than mere Geheimer

Kommerzienrat."

He liked to refer occasionally to his humble descent from simple

merchants; especially when he felt his superiority as a quiet,

self-contained man of the world, who could afford to laugh at the

irritability and sensitiveness of others. That always put him in a good

humor; and Mrs. Benas, well aware of this, fell in with his mood.

"Naturally, Joshua! Geheimer Kommerzienrat, that's nothing! You know you

don't believe that. I think we may well be satisfied with one another.

Friedlaender, Friedheim, and Benas! That's an imposing triple alliance. I

think we may be well content."

"And with all that belong to it."

"Even though they quarrel the moment they come together, at the bottom

of their hearts they swear by one another and are proud of one another."

"Besides, a bit of argument is entertaining, and brings life into the

shindig."

His wife looked at him reproachfully.

"I beg your pardon! I withdraw 'shindig.'"

"Indeed, you ought to be careful, Joe. One's language is bound to

deteriorate when one indulges in such vulgar expressions."

"But they're so distinctive and expressive, almost as good as the Jewish

intonation."

"Leave them to others."

"Hold on, Fanny. Do you see how I have caught you? Who is exclusive? Who

are the others? Who are the others? Pity that Hugo is not here."

He was delighted and amused, and laughed at the embarrassment of his

wife. She quickly recovered herself, and answered:

"The others are the vulgar ones, the uncultured, the mob, with whom we

have nothing in common, and don't want to have anything in common."

"And the rest say the same of us. Let us have nothing to do with those

aliens, those interlopers, those parasites, that ferment, which

decomposes the healthy vigorous elements of the Aryan race. That's the

gracious, charitable refrain."

"Here we are again at the Jewish question," said Mrs. Benas, somewhat

displeased, "we three, here alone."

"Papa, mamma, and the baby," laughed Mr. Benas.

"It's really not funny, Joshua," said Mrs. Benas, earnestly and

thoughtfully. "It actually seems as if we could never get rid of it, as

if it followed us everywhere. Mr. Friedheim is right. It sits at our

table, it accompanies us to social gatherings, to the theatre, and to

concert halls; it stands next to us wherever we go in the world, meets

us on our travels, and forces itself into our dreams and our prayers."

"You exaggerate, Fannsherl. The imagination and the eloquence of the

Friedlaenders are awakening in you. We know how they think and speak,

always in superlatives," he teased good-humoredly, in order to calm her

excitement.

"But you see how it is yourself, Joshua. We get here together cozily, in

order to chat a bit, to rest ourselves after the strain of

entertaining, we have no sinister intentions, in fact, we are ready to

reproach our relatives with indiscretion, and before we know it, we are

in the thick of it."

"In the soup, _I_ should have said," he added, trying to give the talk a

jesting turn.

"Joshua, please, don't joke. I am in earnest. Isn't it very sad that all

our thoughts should be dominated by this one subject? That we can't free

ourselves from it any more? That we can't rise superior to it? That it

intimidates us, makes us anxious, petty, serious, and embittered?"

"Yes, dearest, since you ask me to be in earnest, I must agree, that

conditions are, indeed, very sad, even though great concessions are

still made, have to be made, to us merchants who are in the world of

commerce and finance. But for how long? Who knows? A festering wound

spreads, despite morphine injections, as Freudenthal says. He could tell

tales! One of the most talented of architects, full of spirit and

taste, with artistic skill and training seldom met with in his

profession, especially here in Berlin, and although he has been a royal

Government architect since the year '78, he has been so completely

pushed aside that he has been forced to put all his energies into land

and suburban speculations out there on the Kurfuerstendamm, in the

Grunewald suburb, and in the elaborate business-houses on the

Leipzigerstrasse. Naturally this brings him a large income, and that is

one more reason why his work becomes a reproach."

Mrs. Benas sighed.

"And Friedheim? His capabilities, his thoroughness, and his valuable

achievements entitle him to a place in the ministry. Instead of that he

has actually reached the exalted point of being Justizrat, a title of

seniority like Sanitaetsrat among physicians. What difference does it

make that as an attorney he has a practice worth one hundred thousand

marks? He is ambitious, has aspirations, like all prominent

professional men, and finds himself set aside in the prime of his

powers. Lesser, too, told me recently that he is going to resign. He has

exhausted the last possibility in his career, he cannot hope for further

advancement, so he is going to give up official life, devote himself to

his scientific researches, and indulge in travel. As soon as Hedwig is

married, he and Betty can get away easily. They can leave the boys

behind, they have enough money for that."

"That is and will always remain the only thing that gives us

independence, and dignity, too," she said bitterly. "We have the

money--and then the world is surprised that we strive so persistently to

obtain it, hold on to it with such tenacity, and enlarge our fortunes

once we have them."

"Nobody wonders at that nowadays. Only the envious and spiteful who have

no money themselves. But we may as well admit it; what is true of our

own small circle is true everywhere. Well-deserving persons are

trammelled in their activities. So far and no farther! Wherever we look,

we see them chained to the lowest stages. 'Not beyond the boundary we

have mapped out for you,' says the Government. 'You want to climb, you

are equipped to be brave mountaineers, you lack nothing you need to

reach the summit, neither courage, nor endurance, nor strength. Yet

remain below, remain below!' The foot-hills reached at the first spurt,

mere child's play for their abilities, are the only heights they are

allowed to scale. The way is barred, the natural course of their

energies repressed. It is frightful that restrictions other than

considerations of capacity should hold back the aspirants; that

ostracism should be decreed because of a mere chance adherence to a

certain faith."

"Then Hugo and his friends are not so greatly in the wrong as you

sometimes declare?" she asked with tense expectancy in her voice.

"No, not in principle, but in their aims. Those are phantoms, fantasies!

A dream which foolish boys dream,--and clever women."

Rita had followed her parents' conversation, partly in absent revery,

partly with alert interest. "No, you can't get rid of it," she said in a

soft, reflective voice. "I myself experienced it this evening, when I

was speaking with Dr. Weilen. Suddenly we, too, had arrived at the

fateful subject."

"Well, that settles it. You, too--and he!"

Her father kissed her tenderly on her forehead, and added jestingly,

"Pray, don't tell Hugo or Henry of this. Good-night, Rita."

"Good-night, papa. Good-night, mamma." She respectfully kissed her

parents' hands.

"Sleep well, dear child," her mother said, also kissing her upon her

forehead.

* * * * *

On the twenty-third of December a company of young men gathered at the

house of Hugo Benas, in his roomy, comfortable study on the second

floor. They were in the midst of an exciting debate, when Dr. Henry

Rosenfeld entered.

"Why so late, Henry?" one of the young men called to him.

He glanced around at the bright, clear-cut faces. Two decidedly showed

the racial type, but in the others the keenest eye could not detect even

a slight indication of their origin; they were blonde and blue-eyed, and

crowned broad-shouldered figures. Dr. Rosenfeld himself answered this

description, and no one would have suspected him to be a Jew.

"We have been expecting you this last half-hour. Magnus told us that you

would be here at eight o'clock," said Hugo as he drew out his watch. "It

is half-past eight now."

"I was detained by Professor Lisotakis, in the Oriental Seminar." He

placed his note-books and volumes on the table and accepted the ready

courtesy of one of his companions, who helped him to remove his

overcoat.

"Have you been working until now?" Tender solicitude was expressed in

Hugo's voice. "Come, sit here," he pointed to a comfortable arm-chair,

near the fire-place. "It is very cold this evening, and I am sure you

are half-frozen without having noticed it."

They all laughed, but the smile that played about Rosenfeld's lips was a

bit forced.

"Perhaps you are right, Hugo. I have been walking fast, lost in thought;

and when you think hard, you forget the weather."

"I wager Henry was wandering under cedars and palms on his way here,

when in reality he was passing under snow-laden trees along the Linden,

through the Tiergarten," laughingly cried out a young man of dark

complexion, as he twisted his black moustache, and pushed his

gold-rimmed eyeglasses closer to his near-sighted eyes.

He caught a curious glance from Rosenfeld; his deep blue eyes, fixed

upon an imaginary point in the far distance, seemed to carry the

suggestion of energy and fanaticism.

"That's possible, Sternberg," he answered, "why not?"

"I cannot understand, Sternberg, how you can profane and make a joke of

a matter that is sacred to us, the memory of the history of our race,"

said Hugo.

"Never mind, Hugo, why shouldn't dreams become realities?" said

Rosenfeld, with sadness and longing in his voice.

"Not in wanton jests, however."

"A fellow might be allowed a joke now and then," muttered the culprit.

"Hardly! Everything that belongs to our past is too beautiful; and now

that it is a departed glory, a lost sanctuary, it is too sad to make

mock of. I find it quite out of place to assuage the irritating wounds

of the soul with scorn. It is a sign of degeneracy in us to banter and

to scoff, and cynically to vulgarize the ridicule and the contempt

heaped upon us by others. It is undignified, and makes for

disintegration. That's the reason I object to the type of drama in which

Jewish manners and peculiarities of the most degenerate and pitiable of

our race are exposed on the pillory. They are considered as typical, and

people say: 'Look you, such they are!' If I had the authority, I should

prohibit them. And then, too, I hate those wretched money jokes, those

translations of words from the noble language of our race, which give

them a distorted, ambiguous meaning. We are not raised so high out of

the mire as to allow ourselves such privileges. We are in the midst of

it, in the midst of sorrow and enmity, struggle and defense, and we are

far from victory, and we alone are at fault. This lukewarmness, this

indifference, this hushing-up, this self-ridicule, they are our

misfortune. The tactics of an ostrich! Keep your eyes tight shut! Don't

peep! Imagine others are blind! But they are only too well aware of our

helplessness, our weakness, our cowardice, our lack of courage. Where

could they find a more suitable object on which to let out their bad

humor? I tell you, I would do the same thing. He who grovels on the

ground, must expect to be spat upon, and he mustn't complain."

His words poured forth in a torrent. He breathed hard, and his face

turned ghastly white. Deep silence followed his speech. Sternberg,

embarrassed, fingered a book lying before him. His eyeglasses slipped

down on his nose, and his near-sighted eyes roved with searching glances

from one to the other of the company. At last a young man spoke:

"There's a good deal of truth in what Benas says. We dare not deceive

ourselves; indeed, we are the very last to do it, even if one of us

does occasionally make a poor joke about it. Every one of us feels the

same passionate pain in his soul as Hugo does, and every one is

possessed by the same pride and the same enthusiastic desire for a

different order of things."

These soothing words made a good impression. Dr. Eric Magnus, a young

physician, the scion of a very prominent and wealthy family, always

found favor as a peacemaker when differences arose among his comrades.

It was he who always did the reconciling, and eased the jars inevitable

among young men of such various dispositions. They called him the "Olive

Branch," and he was proud of the nickname. "Little Olive Branch is right

as usual," said Hugo, and extended his hand to Sternberg across the

table.

"I meant no harm, Siegfried; and besides it was quite impersonal, you

know that. The subject made me forget myself."

Sternberg was ready to give in; he clasped Hugo's hand heartily. The

"Olive Branch" raised his glass, and turning to the two disputants and

then to the others, drank to their health:

"_Prosit._"

"_Prosit_," they cried as they all touched glasses. And the little

unpleasantness that had seemed imminent was averted.

Thereupon Dr. Rosenfeld took a letter from his portfolio, and said: "I

have brought a most curious note that I received to-day from Francis

Rakenius of Frankfort-on-the-Main. He is visiting his relatives there

for a few days, before starting for East Africa. You know that he is a

faithful Protestant, the son of a pastor, and belongs to a very pious

family. His grandfather was school superintendent, his uncle was the

celebrated professor of canonical law at Halle, and the opinion of such

a family concerning our status seems to me of some value."

He had spoken in a low voice while unfolding the letter. Then he looked

at the assembled company. Interest and expectancy were depicted on the

faces of all. They knew that years ago, during the first semesters of

their college life, an intimacy had existed between Rosenfeld and

Rakenius. They had attended the same lectures, prepared for the same

examinations, and received their degree of doctor of philosophy on the

same day. Rakenius then went to Halle to continue his special study of

theology, and Rosenfeld remained in Berlin. Even as a student Rosenfeld

had been much interested in the various schemes to improve the shameful

conditions which a continually increasing anti-Semitism had brought

about. He attended meetings, joined various societies, at one time was a

Zionist, and finally accepted with enthusiasm the idea of providing

places of refuge for the persecuted Jews by the foundation of

agricultural colonies in Palestine. No one knew whether he harbored

greater ideas; but at all events, he changed his views and he gathered

about him a considerable following, not only from among the poor,

downtrodden sons of the Orient, who, while studying in Berlin, suffered

hunger and torment and the scorn and contempt of their Aryan

fellow-students, but also from among the young men of the most

prominent, wealthy, and respectable families.

There was something winning in Rosenfeld's nature. Everyone who came in

contact with him was devoted to him. His very appearance, which

suggested endless sweetness despite the strength of his physique, won

him immediate sympathy. And his appearance did not belie his

disposition,--honest, simple, and modest. But one felt that his amiable

manners concealed the energy and the fearlessness of a true demagogue,

and, if need be, he would give clear, vigorous, and absolutely truthful

expression to his convictions. Of late he had become entirely occupied

with questions concerning the Jews. All political and social events he

interpreted only in their bearing upon what was dearest to his heart. In

this way he had obtained a strong influence over his companions, and he

became their leader. Hugo Benas, Eric Magnus, and Siegfried Sternberg

were devotedly attached to him; and they formed a circle within their

circle, which zealously served the general interest. At meetings they

were the spokesmen, peculiarly fitted by education and circumstances,

for each one of them, by birth, wealth, and station, could have laid

claim to and achieved a good social position, such as is ordinarily open

to young physicians, lawyers, and scholars. Yet they had but one

aim,--to devote themselves to the cause of their unfortunate, persecuted

race. And they spoke of nothing else whenever, as on the present

occasion, they met for confidential, friendly intercourse. With some

impatience, therefore, they awaited Rosenfeld's communication.

"Let us hear what Rakenius writes," demanded Sternberg. Henry read aloud

to them:

"I can perfectly understand your sense of uneasiness, and I sympathize

with you. It requires a degree of self-renunciation that cannot be

expected, and in my view should never be demanded, of men with proud

natures, men of intellect and spirit, men of marked individuality, to

suffer what is put upon the Jews. Yet such is the situation, and whether

it is justified or not, is a point upon which at this time I do not care

to express an opinion. You know how truly devoted I always have been and

still am to you. I have never had a better friend, a dearer companion

than you. Our friendship was secured by our agreement on the philosophic

questions that used to occupy us, by the similarity of our views in

regard to things in general, and by our wholly concordant attitude

toward the various problems of social life. I need give you no further

assurances in regard to that; and whether I separate the personal from

the more general view, I am unable to say.

"Ever since you wrote that the Jewish question occupies you to the

exclusion of all else, I have been concerning myself with it. In fact it

is an insistent issue. It forces itself upon me in my profession, in the

world in which I live. You know that I am devoted, body and soul, to my

priestly calling, and my attachment grows stronger the more I steep

myself in the spirit of the Protestant doctrine. How it is to be

deplored that the best among you cannot partake of its blessings; for

whoever has had the fortune to call you friend, knows how to value you;

and I am just enough to recognize that there must be many other Jews

like yourself. But whether it is that you cannot, or that we do not wish

it, the result remains the same; and this result cannot be gainsaid. A

few days ago, I came across an expression of Feuerbach's, which perhaps

gives an explanation of the reproach, often brought against the Jew, of

pushing aggressiveness. 'To do away with the meaninglessness of our

individual existence,' he says, 'is the purpose of our lives, the motive

of our enterprises, the source of our virtues as of our faults and

shortcomings. Man has and should have the desire to be individual. He

properly desires to attain significance, to achieve a qualitative value.

As a mere individual, he is lost like a single drop of water,

indistinguishable in the wearisome stream of a meaningless aggregate. If

a person loses the interests that express his individuality, if he

becomes conscious of the insignificance of his bare personality, he

loses the distinction between existence and non-existence, life becomes

loathsome, and he ends it in suicide; that is, he annihilates his

non-entity. It is natural that this striving for individual distinction

comes out most clearly in a class of society socially subordinated, as a

foreign race or a religious sect, subject to the persecution of the

majority. Everybody wishes to stand for something; and to this end

grasps at the best means to secure position or distinction in the domain

of science. It is on this account that the Jews form so large a

contingent to the student class, and they do not shrink from mediocrity,

the consequence of a lack of talent.'

"Ah, my dear Rosenfeld, if each of you could only carry Feuerbach's

analysis with you and let it plead for you on your way through life! But

even then the world would cry out with Conrad Bolz: 'It is an excuse,

but not a good one;' and above all, we do not wish to accept it. For it

interferes with us, it restricts us. We do not wish to grant so large a

field to others for the development of their individuality, we need the

room ourselves. The result would be that the aliens would have to

renounce the development of their individuality, their striving for the

distinctiveness that raises them above the level of general mediocrity.

To this you would not submit; why should you? There is so much talent,

so much spirit, so much vigor among your co-religionists. It would be

suicide committed by individuals of your race, if they passively

submitted to absorption by the mass, instead of saving themselves for

the welfare of their own people.

"Whether this end can be attained, I cannot judge. It may be difficult!

Exceedingly difficult! But at one time there was One among you who

accomplished the most difficult of all things--the salvation of the

world.

"If this scheme should prove impracticable, then I can see only one

solution: Acknowledge yourselves as disciples of Him who went forth from

your midst. Your best, your greatest, your most distinguished men would

have to take the lead. Generations may pass before the traces are wiped

out, before the recruits are recognized as veterans; but time will

bring maturity. If ever you should think otherwise than you do now, then

come to me...."

"That is pure proselytizing," Sternberg burst forth.

"You do not know Rakenius," answered Rosenfeld, sadly. "It merely shows

how the very best, the most unprejudiced, and the clearest minds among

them think."

"And I cannot say that I find the letter remarkably unprejudiced," said

Hugo, impatiently.

"But that's the way they think and feel. It crops out even in those that

are anxious to understand our peculiarities. Rakenius never gave me the

least occasion to mistrust him. He was the one who made the approaches

in our friendship, because, as is natural, we are always the ones to

hold back for fear of being misunderstood, of being considered

aggressive. What he writes is his honest conviction. They know no other

solution for our difficulty. But his letter has shown me anew that at

least he tries to understand the other man."

"It is always the same story; even our defenders are our accusers," said

Magnus, sadly.

"While on the one hand Feuerbach shows our course to be justifiable, he

on the other hand admits our inferiority, our mediocrity."

"Among the masses."

"But the masses among the others do not study at all, and so we come

back to the same point. Despite mediocrity and weakness we push forward;

and that is just what as aliens is not our right."

After further discussion of the topic, Magnus and Sternberg left. Henry

and Hugo were alone. Occupied, each with his own thoughts, they remained

in silence for some moments. Then Hugo asked his friend with concern in

his voice: "Are you tired?"

"O no, just a bit unstrung."

"May I speak to you of another matter this evening?"

"Certainly."

"I am uneasy about Dr. Weilen's intrusion in our family circle. What

does he want? What does his interest mean, his familiarity? He comes

often, as if he belonged here, like a cousin,--and they like him. All of

them--except myself. And I'm afraid--afraid for Rita!"

Henry turned white, he bit his lips, rested his head on his hand, and

did not answer.

"What do you think, Henry? You know my sister well. During the lessons

in philosophy that you give her, you surely have an opportunity to probe

the girl's soul. What do you think?"

"Who dares say he knows another's soul,--especially that of such a

sensitive nature as Rita?" he responded hesitatingly. "But do you know,

Hugo, I am more tired than I thought I was; I think I'd better go."

"Shall I go with you?"

"No, I thank you. It is late, and there is no reason for your going out

into the cold."

"Well, then, until to-morrow."

"Good-night, Hugo."

He went slowly down the stairs. The corridors were still brilliantly

lighted. As he reached the hall of the main floor, a servant was holding

the door open for Dr. Weilen.

"O, good evening, Dr. Rosenfeld," he greeted him good-humoredly.

"Good evening, Dr. Weilen."

"Hospitality seems to be exercised on all the floors of this house. You

have just been with Hugo?"

He nodded in answer, and the two men left the house together.

* * * * *

It was about eleven o'clock when Dr. Rosenfeld left his friend, and Hugo

was surprised when scarcely a quarter of an hour later, some one rapped

at his door. Elkish, the old clerk of the firm of Joshua Benas, stepped

in. His bachelor dwelling was in a wing of the house. Here his unmarried

sister kept house for him according to the strictest Jewish observances.

Certain privileges were extended to him as the confidant of the family.

The assured devotion of the whimsical old man was the excuse for

allowing him to do as he wished. In business he was all

conscientiousness, faithfulness, and capability. The younger clerks knew

that their weal or their woe lay in his hands, for the Geheimrat took no

step in business matters without Elkish's advice. He therefore imagined

he had a right to concern himself about family matters as well, and he

was good-naturedly allowed his way. The Benases were confident that he

held the welfare of their house dearer than his own, and though it was

not always possible to yield to his peculiar wishes, his interference

was tolerated without great opposition. Jewish homes often harbor such

characters, to whom loyalty gives privileges justified by long service,

though their manners are not in harmony with the present order of

things. Even in the old days in Lissa, Elkish had been a confidant of

Benas senior; and this had endeared him to the son, and later to the

children of the third generation. To Rita and Hugo he used the language

of the most familiar intercourse, and both of them felt a peculiar

attachment to him. As children they had spent many an hour daily in his

rooms. He and his sister were most ingenious in preparing surprises and

pleasures for them, and it was there that they had learnt to know the

charm of the old Jewish life. The services of the coming in and the

going out of the Sabbath, of the Seder evenings, and of the high

festivals, were strictly observed. A lost world was thus brought back to

the bright and eager children. In their parents' home the old life was

shown sacred respect, but without adherence to ceremonies. In Rita the

ceremonies appealed to the imagination, in Hugo to the intellect. To the

girl the peculiar customs had been sources of pleasure, but to Hugo of

earnest reflection. Rita had frolicked and laughed when Uncle Elkish on

such occasions went through the consecrated forms with solemnity and

dignity; Hugo, even as a boy, had experienced a feeling of awe for the

noble past from which these customs came. So the children had lived in

two worlds. Their parents' household was entirely "modern." While Rita

and Hugo were quite young children they had discarded--as many others of

the Jewish faith had done at the same time--the observances that

differentiated them from those of other faiths. When, however, the time

came which forced them back upon their own resources, the son and

daughter, now grown up, did not find the changed circumstances as

strange as they would have, had they not come under Elkish's influence.

They appreciated why sacrifices were demanded, and why they should not

desert from the ranks of a religion whose principles, founded in a

glorious past, formed the bond that held the race together though

scattered through all countries. Elkish's importance thus increased in

their eyes. Hadn't he been right in holding aloof from the stranger? As

a result, he did not feel the repulses under which they suffered so

intensely. Hugo was particularly affected, because as a student,

soldier, and lawyer, he was brought in constant contact with a

Jew-hating world, and exposed to continual mortifications and secret and

open attacks. All this embittered him; and he drew closer than ever to

the old man, who was inspired alike with great hate for the oppressor

and with zeal for the faith. And so Hugo greeted his visitor with

sincere pleasure.

"Why so late, Elkish?" he called to him cheerily. "What brings you here?

Pity you did not come sooner. You should have heard Dr. Rosenfeld this

evening; it would have warmed the cockles of your heart."

"My heart in this old body cries and laments. Hugo, what will it all

come to? I'll never laugh again, Hugo, never. With Tzores I shall go to

the grave."

"What are you talking about, Elkish? Before that happens, you still have

a lot to do; and you really would have been pleased to see our friends

here this evening--Dr. Rosenfeld, Dr. Magnus, and Sternberg."

"What do I care about doctors and lawyers when, God forbid, danger

threatens us?"

"What danger?"

"Are you blind, Hugoleben, and deaf? Don't you want to see and hear, or

don't you really see and hear? On this floor, you form Jewish societies,

you and your friends. Rosenfeld talks, and Sternberg scolds, and the

'Olive Branch' hopes, and you think,--but you don't think of what's

nearest to you, of what is going on below. Day after day that _Posheh

Yisroel_, the aristocratic Herr Regierungsrat, comes and makes himself

agreeable, and poses as being one of the Mishpocheh and _Chavrusseh_,

and Rita is there, my Ritaleben, and listens to the Chochmes and the

brilliant conversation, and gazes at the handsome, noble gentleman ....

and .... and...."

"But, Elkish, don't get excited. What's gotten into your head? Papa and

mamma are there, and I, too, and very often the other relatives."

"Just because of that! I am not afraid that he will seduce her the way a

_Baal-Milchomoh_ seduces a _Shicksel_. Such a thing, thank God, does not

happen with us Jews. But he will lead her astray with his fine thoughts

and noble manners, and his great position, and heaven knows what else,

and he will make her forsake her religion, become an apostate as he

himself is."

Hugo, himself suspicious of the friendly intercourse growing up between

Dr. Weilen and his own family, was alarmed at the old man's outburst.

"You see things too sombrely, Elkish. There have always been people of

high position, even Christians, that have visited us."

"Those were original Goyim, dyed in the wool, not such as he, and not

related, God forgive me that I must admit it. And when they came, it was

for the good dinners, and the fine champagne direct from France. I ought

to know, for I paid the bills. Those real Cognacs, and the cigars with

fancy bands! A small matter! Herr Geheimrat can well afford it. Why

object? We merely shrug our shoulders--and despise them. When they came

and made genuflexions, and were never too tired to find us, then they

wanted money--much money--for charity, and for monuments, and for

foundations, and for all sorts of things--even for churches. Why not?

The Jew has always been good enough for that. I never dissuaded your

father from such gifts. He still takes my advice occasionally; and when

he says, 'I am well advised, Elkish,' then he merely means, 'What is

your opinion of the matter, Elkish?' And I have always thought, there is

no harm in giving, and surely not in taking. And when those other

fellows, the artists, came and told your mother of their paintings and

their busts, and invited her to their studios; and made music to the

tune of one thousand marks an evening, and some concert tickets besides,

I never protested, but I did some thinking, and I wondered what Mr.

Mendel Benas of Lissa would have said, had he seen where our good money

goes to. But we've grown so great, why should we not give? The time came

when they paid us back more than we need. That's all right. Perhaps not

for the individual, for he grieved, like your father or like Friedheim

or Freudenthal, or all the great folk among the Jews; but it was good

for the rest. The Christians began to think that they have a right to be

considered, and _we_ began to feel we were what we are--Jews."

When Elkish flew into a passion, it was not so easy to calm him. Hugo

therefore did not interrupt his harangue, a mixture of indignation,

scorn, and disappointment. With most of it he himself agreed, and even

though he viewed events from a more modern standpoint, yet at bottom he

held the same opinions as the embittered old man. It did not seem

strange to Hugo that Elkish had dropped into his native jargon, for the

sake of emphasis. He always did so when excited.

"And therefore I always said," he continued, after a short pause, "'Mr.

Benas,' I said, 'as you like.' But now I do not say 'as you like.' For

this fellow wants not only our money, but our child, too,--our darling

Rita."

His voice turned hoarse, and the last words sounded like a plaint.

"Elkish!"

"Yes, yes, Hugo, that's what it is! Why did he never come before? He has

been in Berlin a long time, and he's always known who Joshua Benas was,

and in what relation he stood to him."

"But a special occasion brought him to us, Uncle Leopold's birthday--"

"Nonsense! That is a pretext! He had to say something. He had it all

planned. _He_ wishes to celebrate Reb Loebl's birthday! _Oser!_ not a

word of truth."

"There was no necessity for an excuse to visit us; he knew quite well

that my parents would have received him, even if he had only said that

he wished to become acquainted with his mother's relatives."

"But the other story sounds better, more romantic. That attracts a young

girl like Rita. You may believe me, Hugo. I know her. She has not said

a word about him, and she goes about as if in a dream. She used to tell

Rosalie and me about everything, about Jedlitzka, with whom she plays,

about Skarbina, with whom she paints, about the theatre and the

concerts, and the lessons in philosophy with Rosenfeld, and whether

'Olive Branch' dances better than Cohnheim of Bellevue Street. My sister

and myself got all our entertainment through her, on Shabbes afternoons,

when she came to us, just as when she was a little girl. But she's never

spoken a word about him, not a syllable; as if he did not exist. And yet

he comes every afternoon to tea, and evenings, and noon; and they meet

at the Opera House, by chance, of course, and by chance, too, in the

skating rink, on the Rousseau Island. Mlle. Tallieu is always present,

and she told my nephew Redlich, who studies French with her. She even

told it to him in French."

Hugo listened thoughtfully.

"But, my dear Elkish, there is nothing to be done about it. Papa and

mamma have begged me expressly to treat him with the utmost courtesy,

even though I found it hard from the very beginning. So I withdraw as

far as possible when he comes; because it goes without saying that a man

of his station must be met with consideration. There really is something

very simple and engaging about him."

"There you have it, there you have it!" wailed Elkish. "It would be much

better if you did not withdraw, but remained, and took care that she did

not fall in love."

"It wouldn't do any good."

"Why not?"

"Do you believe, Elkish, that a girl like Rita becomes enamored of

externals? Because some one pays her compliments, or casts languishing

looks at her, which the presence of a third person might hinder?"

"Well, then, with what do girls fall in love?"

"They fall in love with the personality of a man; with his spiritual

nature and his appearance, when the two are united in a congenial

individuality--in a man who appeals to or supplements their own

character, or charms them."

"I do not understand such stuff, Hugo. Thank God, I am not meshugge. But

it is enough to make you crazy to think that a good Jewish girl cannot

be kept from falling in love with a Posheh Yisroel. I always advised

your father to arrange the match with Reinbach of Mannheim. If he had

followed my advice, she would have been married long ago; and I am

curious, very curious, to know whether in such circumstances it would

have occurred to the Regierungsrat to wish to celebrate the birthday of

Reb Loeb Friedlaender."

"But Rita did not care for young Reinbach; and I am sure no one can

blame her. Such an arrogant upstart, without any ideals."

"There are some with ideals and some without. Reinbach is so rich that I

cannot see why he needs ideals."

"Well, to be sure, Elkish, he cannot buy them. But we need not complain

of our financial position, either, and yet we are moved by ideals in our

demands and hopes. Or look at Magnus. His father is a millionaire, and

yet he thinks of nothing but the fulfilment of our plans. And look at

Sternberg, and Rosenfeld, and myself, and others who might pass their

lives seeking pleasures of all kinds, instead of worrying over the

sorrows of our nation. And here comes a South German dandy, a man about

town _a la mode de Paris_, a Jew, the type that is now being persecuted

and maligned as never before, and whenever we come to the subject that

absorbs us all so much, he curtly remarks, 'Judaism is a misfortune.'"

"That is a phrase, nothing more."

"It seems to me this is not the time for empty phrases," he answered

gloomily. "The man that uses them, and uses them with such an air of

superiority, is a fool. And that Rita should not accept such a fellow,

you should find quite proper."

"I prefer a Jewish fool to a baptized philosopher."

"There are also Jewish philosophers." Henry's fine, pale face suddenly

came to his mind. He arose and paced up and down the room lost in

thought. Then he said:

"It is very late, Elkish."

"A Jewish philosopher, however, is no good match," he persevered.

"Rita must decide that, not we. So let us go to bed now."

"But, Hugo, you must promise me one thing. Be on your guard,--be on your

guard."

He shook the old clerk's hand: "Rest easy, Elkish. I share your fears,

and also your dislikes."

"I knew it. That's why I came to you. Good night, Hugo, with God's help

all will come out right."

"Let us hope so."

When the door had closed upon the old man, Hugo fetched a deep sigh. It

occurred to him how suddenly and apparently for no reason Rosenfeld had

left, when the conversation had turned upon Dr. Weilen's intercourse

with his family.

"Is it possible that he, too...." He stared fixedly into the burning

embers for some time before he put out his lamp, and went to sleep.

* * * * *

It was the first of January. Rita sat reading in the small, cozy

drawing-room. A bright wood fire crackled upon the hearth, lit for cheer

only; for the house was well heated otherwise. Rita could not bear a

cold and desolate fire-place, especially on a day like this, when the

cold out of doors was severe. On such days only a flood of light and

warmth could bring comfort indoors. It was hardly four o'clock, but the

lamps were lit, and the electric light, shaded by bright bell-shaped

glass globes, produced a pleasant effect.

Through the windows draped with costly lace curtains the waning daylight

peeped and the flurries of large snow-flakes. Rita put her book aside,

and gazed thoughtfully at the falling snow. How beautiful the flakes

were!--the white floating crystals, that played at tag, and chased each

other, and then fell so silently and so calmly. The snug comfort of a

warm room was peculiarly attractive in contrast to the scene outside.

Suddenly she thought of those who might be out in the cold. She glanced

at the clock; it was almost four o'clock. "Mother must be just arriving

now," she said to herself.

"I hope the snowdrifts will not cause delays." She looked worried and

arose to go to the window.

At this moment a rap came at the door, and the servant handed her a

card, and announced Dr. Weilen.

"Ask him in."

And then he stood before her, and grasped her hand, and pressed it to

his lips.

"May I personally repeat the good wishes I sent in writing this

morning?"

Early in the day he had sent beautiful flowers with the compliments of

the season.

"That is very kind of you," she answered, trying to overcome a slight

embarrassment. "I am glad to have the opportunity to return your kind

wishes and to thank you. But you must be satisfied with my company

to-day. Yesterday my mother decided to take a short journey on which she

started this morning, and my father and my brother are not likely to

return until dinner time, at six o'clock."

He gazed at her without speaking, and the delicate blush that suffused

her face assured him that his unspoken answer was understood.

She knew that he longed to be alone with her, and she also knew that it

was for her sake that he came as often as the conventions of polite

society allowed. Since he had first appeared among them, several weeks

ago, he had called repeatedly, and it was obvious that he felt at home

with them. Mr. and Mrs. Benas enjoyed his company. With the ease of the

man of the world, and with his confiding manner he had readily made a

place for himself. Without overstepping the barriers that his long

estrangement from his family had unconsciously raised, he was able to

assume a happy mean between the position of a guest and that of a

relative. Rita, too, he had been able to win over to his side. She liked

to see him, such as he was, partly as one of them, and partly as the

formal guest. He had overcome her shyness to such an extent that she

accepted him, now as a cousin and again as a visitor. It lent an

especial charm to their intercourse, this mingling of intimacy and

formality. It attracted him, and even more captivated her. On his

arrival it was always the Government official whom she greeted; but when

she became interested in the conversation, following his lead, she

called him cousin. It was a source of unending delight to him, when,

carried away by the excitement of the conversation, she, of her own

accord, called him cousin.

"To what happy circumstances do I owe the pleasure of finding you alone

on this New Year's Day, so that I may express to you my sincere,

heartfelt wishes for your happiness, my dear, dear Rita?"

She sat down at the hearth again, and he placed himself opposite. He

looked at her face which, brightened by the reflections from the

hearth-fire, and illuminated by her inner excitement, seemed

particularly charming.

"Mamma left this morning for Rawitsch, to visit Uncle Leopold; and papa

and Hugo are visiting Uncle Friedheim who has been unwell for several

days."

He looked at her in astonishment, then he smiled knowingly. "Your mother

has gone to Rawitsch, to Uncle Leopold? So unexpectedly? She mentioned

nothing of her intention on the day before Christmas, when I was here,

although we spoke even more than usual about Uncle Leopold and his

birthday."

"Mother decided only yesterday,--there were several things she wished

to.... She believed...." She tried in vain to conceal her hesitation.

"In this cold and stormy weather? It must have been quite an important

matter."

"O, not at all, Dr. Weilen." Her embarrassment grew. "Mamma has had the

intention of going for some time, and the snow came only after her

departure. Papa and myself accompanied her to the station, and I am

sure that nowadays one travels comfortably and agreeably. The coupe was

well-heated, and mamma and her maid had it all to themselves. So few

people travel on the holidays. I should have loved to go with her, and

by this time she is already at her destination. The train arrives there

at 3.28."

At first she spoke with uncertainty, as if searching for an unequivocal

purpose for this trip; then her utterance became faster and faster; at

the last words she looked at the clock on the mantel. A shepherd and

shepherdess of old Dresden china, looking at each other tenderly, held

the dial between them.

"Yes, at 3.28," she repeated.

"Rita!" he caught her hand and held it firmly. "Your mother has taken

this trip in order to plead for me. She has granted my wish! Quite as a

diplomatic ambassador! She wished to intercede for me personally, to be

my spokesman, to brush aside scruples and prejudices; to place the

strange and unexpected in a proper light; to express her conviction that

this desire of mine is not a whim, but a pious longing that has lain

dormant in a secret corner of my heart. All this she is going to put

forward in my behalf. The confidence that all have in her she will use

in my favor. She is going to say to them: 'From frequent intercourse

with Victor Weilen, the son of our aunt Goldine, who died at an early

age, your youngest sister, Uncle Leopold, the sister of my mother,--from

frequent intercourse with him we have the impression that honest feeling

leads him to us; that the secret voice of blood-relationship called him,

when he discovered that one of the family, the one whose quiet piety,

whose honest belief make him appear doubly worthy of honor to those whom

life has driven away from their native soil, had attained his ninetieth

birthday, and like a patriarch was going to gather his own about him.

And on this occasion Victor Weilen, too, wishes to be present.'"

She looked at him in timid bewilderment. She had slowly disengaged her

hand from his.

"O yes! But mamma also found it necessary to supervise the arrangements

for the celebration personally. There will be so many people to come to

the small town. Our relatives there are, of course, helpless; they are

not used to such matters. Arrangements will have to be made in advance

for the housing and entertainment of the guests.... You see, it is a

special festival that is to be celebrated."

"Do you wish to rob me of the delight of my interpretation, Miss Rita?"

There was a pained expression in his voice. "All that might have been

done by correspondence, but your kind mother in person had to justify

and advocate the wish of a stranger to be one of the guests, a stranger,

yet one of their own blood. For this the winter's journey, to-day, on

New Year's Day, which people like to celebrate together at home. Am I

right, Rita?"

"Yes," she answered simply.

It seemed impossible to her to plead further excuses after he had

discovered the honest truth.

Neither spoke for some time. He gazed at her bowed head. The silence was

eloquent of inner sympathy between them. The intense quiet of the room

was disturbed only by the crackling of the wood fire. It cast red,

quivering reflections across the light carpet covering the floor, and

glanced brightly adown the girl's dress.

After a few moments during which they were sunk in thought, he said: "I

know your mother will succeed in realizing my wish. She is a good

spokesman. And I will be near you on that day, Rita--near you!"

And as though unable any longer to control his tumultuous feelings he

jumped up, took her in his arms, and whispered softly in her ears, "My

Rita!"

She rested upon his bosom, as if stunned, quivering with blissful joy.

The uncertainty and misgiving that had troubled her heart throughout

these many weeks was now converted into a happy reality. He loved her!

He! He raised her bowed head and read the confession of her love in the

eyes that looked at him in pure radiance. Deep emotion took possession

of him. She loved him with the love that springs up in the sweet, secret

longings, in the pure maidenly fervor, in the rare, modest timidity of

the daughters of that people from which he had at one time turned away.

As if his thoughts had been transferred to her, she slowly disengaged

herself from his arms, hid her face in her hands, and relieved the

oppression of her soul in tears. He led her back to the place from which

he had so impetuously drawn her, seated her, then kneeled before her,

and embraced her softly, tenderly. "Rita, dear sweet Rita, my precious

child. Why do you cry? What makes you sad? What frightens you?"

"Happiness."

He drew her to him again passionately, and said: "You shall learn to

know this happiness in all its joy. It will exalt you, not sadden you."

"You forget what separates us," she stammered, suddenly alarmed, and

tried to free herself from his arms.

He started violently. Then he threw his head back with a proud,

victorious gesture, and, caressing her, he said in a firm voice: "That

which separated us, draws us together, my love, my sweet love!" She

clung to his neck, and without resistance she gave herself up to his

kisses.

* * * * *

At dinner, Rita, to conceal from her father and Hugo the cause of her

quiet and reserve, pleaded a headache. She merely mentioned the visit

of Dr. Weilen; he had come to pay his New Year's call. Hugo looked at

her so searchingly that she blushed, and turned away from his gaze.

"Did you explain to him that we no longer keep open house, since we have

plainly been given to understand that we, citizens of a lower estate,

have no right to and no part in the holidays of the others?" Deep

resentment lay in his words.

She looked at him as though her thoughts were of another world, while

her father said in irritation: "Can't you grant us a moment's respite

from your indignation and your scorn? You display your malice at every

opportunity. It is really ridiculous for you to ask Rita whether she met

the politeness of a visitor with such an unpleasant reception."

Rita cast a grateful glance at her father; her eyes shone with the

brightness of suppressed tears.

"It is enough that we conduct ourselves as our injured pride demands,

but always to throw it up to others is improper and stupid. I tell you

those were pleasanter and happier times when we used to celebrate the

New Year's eve with a ball, and then the next morning received

congratulations, and in the evening, instead of sitting sadly alone as

we three are, there was a gathering of gay friends for a dinner."

"They may have been gayer times," said Hugo, nettled, "more amusing,

too, and more comfortable, but they were only transient. They were in a

condescending mood, and because of an amiable caprice on their part we

were allowed to celebrate their feast days with them, and to take part,

humbly, in certain civic and public holidays. But religion, despite all,

raised an impassable wall between us and them. We were allowed to enjoy

pageants, illuminations, parades, patriotic celebrations of all kinds,

and then Christmas and New Year, when you're called upon to give in

charity. How tolerant! O, how liberal! O, how I hate that word.

Sufferance I call it. Sufferance! To be tolerated! You're kindly

tolerated, partly as a participant, partly as an observer. And you're

perfectly aware that you may be pushed aside at any moment when found

_de trop_ or too forward. It surely is a thousand times better to be as

we are now; without the loud gayety of people to whom at bottom we are

strange, and must always remain so. I remember, during my upper class

days, the last formal New Year's dinner at this house, how Herr von

Knesebeck proposed a toast to the Emperor coupled with the toast for the

New Year. And how jovially and with what amiable condescension the

attorney-general, Herr von Uckermarck, proposed a toast to mother. What

an honor! And the way in which you welcomed the guests, the honored

friends of the house--strangers then, to-day, and forever! What led them

to us was not our company, but the choice pleasures and the agreeable

times our money afforded. And to-day they dispense with all that. It

would be impossible to get the best of them to come to us now; but the

best of us are those who gratefully reject the honor."

His father was visibly annoyed, and Rita looked anxiously at her

brother, who seemed particularly harsh and relentless. If he suspected!

A dread possessed her, and pallor overspread her face. The dinner passed

off in no very pleasant mood. The three missed the conciliating

gentleness of the mother, who shared the son's views without his rancor,

and who had opened her husband's eyes to the altered social conditions,

while yet appreciating and sympathizing with his regret over the sad

changes.

Everyone was glad to have the meal over. Rita excused herself at once.

Hugo and his father could find no congenial topic for conversation; and

so the first day of the new year drew to an unhappy end.

* * * * *

The next morning Rita received a letter. She was at breakfast with Mlle.

Tallieu and could with difficulty conceal the excitement into which the

reception of the letter had thrown her. Fortunately her companion was

absorbed in the "Figaro," and paid no attention to Rita, who was thus

able to hide the letter in her pocket without its being noticed.

"_De maman?_" she asked, without looking up from her journal.

"_Ceca!_" Rita answered in a low voice.

"_Oh! ce pauvre Henry .... pauvre! Il est mort .... mon dieu! Quel malheur

pour ma grande patrie .... cette canaille de D .... C'est vraiment ...

cette blamage irreparable._"

Rita arose. She was accustomed to hear Mlle. Tallieu grow enthusiastic,

one day over Zola's "_J'accuse_," and the next day equally so for

_l'armee_. One of the uncultured or rather half-cultured, she was swayed

by the force of pathos, and was ever of the opinion of others, if they

were forcibly expressed.

At all events Mademoiselle was at this moment fully occupied and well

provided. There was an abundance of sliced meat on the table, plenty of

marmalade, and other good things; the tea-pot was bubbling; and Rita

could hope to remain undisturbed for a long time. She stepped into her

mother's room, and, with a timid glance at the "family tree," she sat

down to read her letter. Her heart was beating violently, and the sheets

rustled in her trembling hands. Several minutes passed before she could

gain sufficient self-possession to look at the writing. The words swam

before her sight:

"My dear, precious girl, my Rita, my bride! This word fills me with

delight, and I know it awakens an echo in your heart; you say it softly

to yourself, and you are filled with bride-like thoughts, thoughts that

belong to me. Whatever might interfere with the union of our hearts from

without, within us reigns love, joy, hope. I know I want to win and

possess you, and I know you are willing to belong to me.

"Need I beg your pardon for giving in to the impulsive joy of my heart,

to the violent longing of my soul, for not waiting to sue for you

soberly and sensibly, as is proper for a man so much older than you are,

but stormed you with a youth's love of conquest, throwing prudence to

the winds, and scorning careful consideration? I was young again when I

saw you before me yesterday in the sweet loveliness of your youth, and I

shall be young so long as your love remains the fountain of youth in my

soul.

"Do you want to know how it came about? I might answer you, 'Do not ask,

be sensible only of the strong, exulting love that arose within us as a

marvellous, convincing, dominant fact, as a law of nature.' But I see

your earnest, wise eyes, which in the past weeks have rested searchingly

upon me so often,--I see them before me in all their sincerity, their

sweetness, their purity; and it seems to me that I must explain to the

little interrogator all about myself and how it happened.

"You know, my love, how I was left alone in the world at an early age.

Without father or mother, having no connections or relatives--quite

orphaned; but healthy, full of vigor, happy and independent in every

way. And all at an age in which one is in need of love, in need of wise

guidance, of intimate intercourse with congenial spirits and the home

feeling of a large family, the feeling inborn in the sons and daughters

of our race, because it is their only home. But I was quite homeless!

With the fearless courage of youth I decided to found a home for myself.

It was not difficult for me; my independence, my large income, and

perhaps, too, my personal abilities, admitted me to the best society. At

the University, among my fellow-students, in the homes of my teachers, I

was considered, and I felt myself to be as one of them. Nothing stood

between us, nothing tangible, nothing out-spoken. Neither my external

appearance, nor my interests distinguished me from them,--so entirely

had I become a part of their world. There never came a word from the

other world within to recall me to my true self. I knew nothing of my

former life; no recollection flitted through my mind, because nothing

happened to awaken me; and the soft voices that may have made themselves

heard occasionally in the early years, were entirely quieted as the new

life attracted me and seemed to wipe out the past. I had entirely

forgotten at that time to what faith I belonged, and my friends surely

never thought of it. One of them especially attracted me. He was two

years older than myself--a talented and refined man. Like myself he was

alone in the world and independent. That was the circumstance that led

us to a sincere friendship. He was a devout Catholic, and after my

examinations we journeyed together to Rome. There, under the

overpowering impressions of his art-inspiring belief, we were drawn

still closer together. Finally the wish was born in me to share with him

the faith that was the basis of his inner life, and which he, I know not

whether consciously or unconsciously, had nurtured in me, and had

brought to fruitage.

"Think of it, my wise, good girl, how young I was then, how

enthusiastic, how entirely I had dedicated myself to friendship, and how

easy it was for me to succumb to the magic and mystery of a cult whose

splendors and associations, there in Rome itself, possessed us heart and

soul. Think of it and you will understand me. The reasons that brought

me to the momentous decision were not of a practical kind. I took the

step in a state of ecstatic excitement and romantic enthusiasm. I had

nothing to forsake, for I possessed nothing that had to be sacrificed

for the new faith--neither father, nor mother, nor family,--nothing

except my own self, and that belonged to the forces that were then

mightiest in me: friendship and imagination. The recollection of an

incident of those days comes to me with such remarkable clearness that I

will tell you of it. It was the only thing that reminded me of my youth,

passed under such wholly unlike circumstances. A few days after the

fateful step we were in the galleries of the Vatican. I had again become

entranced by the glories of Raphael. Suddenly my eye was caught by a

portrait in an adjoining corridor. It was the tall, lean figure of a man

who was resting his head in his hand, and looked up thoughtfully from an

open book lying before him. In the deeply furrowed countenance a

meditative, mild seriousness. Eyes expressing endless goodness. A

questioning look in them, questioning about the thousand riddles of the

universe. The hand resting upon the book was especially remarkable. It

spoke a language of its own. Its lines and shape expressed tenderness,

gentleness, kindness, as if it could dispense only blessings.

"I was spell-bound, and could not tear myself away from the picture.

There was something familiar in it, as if it were a greeting, a reminder

from my youth. Suddenly the thing was clear to me. This man, whose

characteristic features unmistakably showed him to be an old Jew looking

up from his Talmud, and pondering its enigmatic wisdom, reminded me of

my uncle Leopold Friedlaender. In a flash the whole scene came before me:

how he pored over his Talmud when, led by my mother, I came before him

with childlike awe; and how he looked up from his volume and regarded me

so kindly, so meditatively, exactly like the man before me in the

picture. And while I reeled off what I knew of Hebrew lore, he leaned

his head upon his left hand, and his right was placed on his book; then

he raised his hand and laid it in blessing upon my head, and the tender

lips spoke the Hebrew words of the benediction. It seemed to me as if I

heard again the soft, insistent voice; and as if the high-vaulted

corridors of the Vatican were transformed into the low, simple room of

the Jew's house at Rawitsch. I was as one in a dream. It made a strong

impression upon me. Like one possessed I gazed at the picture, and I

believe my lips mumbled half-aloud '_Yevorechecho Adonay

ve-yishmerecho_.' Never since that day have the words left my memory.

They remain like a faint echo in my soul. Suddenly I felt a hand upon my

shoulder. 'A fine picture, is it not,' said Francis to me, 'this Hebrew

of the sixteenth century? I believe he was a Portuguese Jew, who was

exiled to some Italian Ghetto, to Trastevere or the Ghetto Vecchio of

Venice. Somewhere or other the artist came upon this fine,

characteristic head, whose portrait places him amongst the immortals,

although his very name is uncertain. He belongs to the Florentine

school, possibly a pupil of Del Sarto. The realistic expression of the

hand suggests Master Andrea himself; or it may have been Pontormo, or

Puligo; at all events, a masterly painter.' While my friend gave these

explanations, I had time to recover myself, but it was with difficulty

that I threw off the spell of my imagination. So it was a Portuguese

Rabbi of the sixteenth century, not my uncle Leopold! And yet he.... I

knew it positively. Perhaps there was a talisman bequeathed from one to

the other that made these Talmudic scholars of all times so much alike;

or was it the Law, to which they devoted themselves with like zeal? Or

the similarity of their attitude toward life? Or the tradition that

remained unaltered through the centuries? When we left the Vatican soon

after I could not dismiss the thought that my uncle Leopold Friedlaender

had a place among the portraits of the Vatican Gallery.

"Years passed. The incidents of those days had long been forgotten. I

was drawn into the great and mighty currents of life. I enjoyed it to

the full. After the completion of my examinations for the assessorship,

my friends at Bonn advised me to enter the service of the Government.

There was nothing to prevent me, and the position offered me was quite

to my liking, and satisfied the ambitions then mastering me. With the

death of Francis Siebert a great void had come into my life; he had died

of typhoid fever on a journey of investigation. In the stormy come and

go of life, in the restless haste of existence, such things happen

daily; and although painfully shocked by his death, I continued my way.

It came at a time in my life when I was battling with a great inner

struggle that made me wholly self-centered. I prefer not to speak of

this to you, at least not to-day. But one thing I may tell you, the

experience did not make me unworthy of you. Conflict and suffering do

not degrade a man, and whatever fails to overcome us, makes us all the

stronger. But I became more and more lonely, and I fell into the habit

of thinking that it was my lot in life to be lonely. I tried to be

content alone. It seemed the easier for me since my career was a happy

one and gave me contentment; and so did the kind of life it brought with

it. I resigned myself to remaining a bachelor. So much of the married

life of my friends as had come under my observation did not make me

regret that I had renounced it. My calling, my books, my journeys, gave

me sufficient satisfaction. I avoided social gatherings as far as my

position allowed me to. In this way, time passed in work and recreation,

and the even tenor of my days brought me comfort and satisfaction. There

were many hours in which this exclusiveness seemed very pleasant to me;

and the longing for intimate fellowship with others grew ever weaker.

"Then, a few weeks ago, I happened upon the notice of Rabbi

Friedlaender's ninetieth birthday. The rest you know. What you do not

know, is that on my desk, where I had found the journal containing the

notice, I seemed suddenly to see the portrait of the Vatican before me;

and an unaccountable association of ideas made me see myself standing

before it, not as I was in Rome, but as a small boy before the old man,

whom I thought I had found anew in the portrait--in the presence of the

devout, kindly man, as he sat poring over his book in his humble room.

And then I heard the words of the blessing again--I felt them in my

heart, the heart of an experienced, mature man,--and all in the language

of my childhood, the language of the childhood of my race. And suddenly

the world vanished from before me, the modern world that claimed me, and

the old arose in the clear light of holy recollections. Father, mother,

the whole family came back to life within me! Then I sought your

family, sought you! And how I found all of you--how I found you--

"The subtle charm of true family happiness, the aristocratic security of

a settled life, entranced me, mingled though they were with secret

anguish over the unjust, the foolish prejudices under which the Jewish

community suffers. Such depth of feeling underlies the splendor of your

life. There is something so cheerful, so intimate among you. On the very

first evening I felt at home with you. Your wise, able father, your

noble, sensitive mother, your brother with his splendid vindictiveness,

and his proud ideals, all interested me as something new, strange, and

yet familiar.

"I had never known a Jewish home of refinement and respectability; I did

not realize how such home-life had developed in spite of the

unfriendliness and the slights that beset it, and in the midst of

hostility that seeks its very destruction. Your friends are of the same

admirable type. The men serious, capable, intellectually distinguished,

and prominent in their various callings; the women bright, artistically

gifted, beautiful; the young people ambitious, well-educated,

impressionable, enthusiastic. So I learned to know you and your kin,--my

kin. May many be like you, I say to myself. Among the Jews are all too

many who under oppression and necessity cannot develop. But how could it

be otherwise? By the side of the few, one always finds the masses; by

the side of the elect, the average.

"And now you, my girl, my precious Rita, you have seen how your sweet

disposition has influenced me, how it awakened within me new and happy

feelings, how my very soul goes out in longing to you. I have regained

my youth, and it calls to me exultantly: 'Return to your own!'

"These are my confessions. It does me a world of good to be allowed to

speak to you in this way; and now you will comprehend why it was that I

could not restrain myself, but had to take you in my arms, in the happy

assurance that you were willing to be mine.

"Have courage! I will never give you up, and we shall surmount all the

difficulties they may put in our way. I shall see you again when your

mother returns, and I may be allowed to come. Have faith in me!