thrown aside his native timidity, and found the strength to display his
patriotism with an ardor and enthusiasm worthy of the cause. Thousands
quitted the Ghettos, and gathered around the tricolored flag. Among the
warm-hearted soldiers was Simcha Kalimann. He followed Kossuth as a
simple honved (volunteer), and fought at Kapolna, Vaitzen, and Temesvar.
High hopes and golden dreams were succeeded by despondency and
disillusion; then supervened years of impatient waiting,--a standing
with folded arms when so much remained to be done, a time of despair,
of restless suffering. But the Jew had acquired his franchise, and
gratefully he remembered those to whom he owed this priceless blessing.
When the Austro-Hungarian Convention gave Hungary her king and
constitution, the hearts of the people of the Ghetto beat high. This
time, however, liberty did not make her entry with clang of arms and
beat of drum,--peace and reconciliation were her handmaidens, and
progress followed in her footsteps.
It was at this epoch in Hungary's history that Israelites began to
speak the language of the country, and to accept Hungarian names. To
her credit be it said that no such shameful sale was made as disgraced
the time of Joseph II., when surnames were sold, according to their
attractiveness or desirability, to the highest bidder.
Consequently, as a high-sounding name cost no more than a simple one,
Kalimann chose the most imposing he could find, and, his country's hero
in mind, called himself Sandor Hunyadi. This historic title revived, as
it were, his latent patriotism, and, digging his gun and cartridge-box
from their hiding-place in the garden where he had carefully buried
them after the capitulation of Vilagos, he proudly hung these trophies
of his prowess over his bed, and rejoiced in the memories of his
martial exploits.
Liberty and religious peace held equal sway. Reciprocal kindliness and
toleration spread light where darkness had been, and scattered the
shadows of prejudice.
Hunyadi, or Kalimann, was regarded in Hort as a freethinker. This was
scarcely just; he was pious, and strictly discharged his religious
observances, emancipating himself at the same time from those
distinctions in dress and customs which he deemed neither in accordance
with Mosaic law nor with his ideas of progress.
He followed the observance of wearing his hat while at synagogue, but
during no other religious ceremony; troubled himself but little
regarding the dietary laws; dressed as his Christian neighbor did; and
strictly prohibited any superstitious practices in his house. He even
permitted his wife to let her hair grow,--a bold innovation.
His appearance was by no means suggestive of the hero. Short, thin, and
insignificant-looking, with hair that frizzled beyond all thought of
disentanglement, a tanned and freckled skin, flaxen moustache, and gray
eyes that blinked continuously, Kalimann had truly no cause for vanity.
Besides, he was excessively near-sighted, and as his large spectacles
were taken from their red case only when he read or worked, it not
unfrequently happened that when he took his walk abroad he would
mistake a tall post for the chief magistrate of the county, and salute
it with his most respectful bow; or, with a composure born of
self-complacency, it would be his misfortune to pass by Madame Barkany,
his best customer, with a vacant stare, under the impression that the
fair apparition was linen hung to bleach in the sun.
Kalimann worked alone with a little apprentice named Hersch, whom he
had indentured far more from charity than necessity, since the worthy
bookbinder felt within him that love for his art which would have
enabled him to bind the entire literature of Europe with no greater aid
than his good right arm. He was a conscientious, faithful workman, and,
as a rule, his entire days were spent in his shop; when necessity
demanded he would toil on late into the night by the light of a tallow
candle, or an ill-smelling lamp.
His work was his pride; reading his delight. If a single dark spot
clouded the surface of this simple honest life, that shadow fell from
the portly form of Mrs. Rachel Kalimann, or Rose Hunyadi, as it was
that lady's pleasure now to be called. It would be unjust, however, to
the handsome woman, whose buxom proportions served, as it were, to give
weight to the establishment, to say that her faults were of a serious
nature; she was, at the most, insensible to her husband's intellectual
aspirations, which she termed, with more vigor than the occasion
demanded, "stuff and nonsense."
Quotations from the Talmud and the Scriptures were equally impotent to
quell the torrent of the worthy woman's eloquence when she felt that
the occasion demanded her timely interference; in vain Kalimann
supported his side of the question by citing from the book of Job: "The
gold and the crystal cannot equal it, and the exchange of it shall not
be for jewels of fine gold. No mention shall be made of coral or of
pearls; for the price of wisdom is above rubies." [Footnote: See Job
xxviii. 17, 18.]
Rose would retort curtly: "What can I buy with your wisdom? Will it
give me wherewith to eat and to drink, and to clothe myself? No! Very
well then, what is the good of it?"
The learned bookbinder would, as a rule, sigh and silently abandon the
argument when it had reached this stage, but at times his composure
would break down under the strain imposed on it. Disputes and quarrels
would ensue, but in the end Kalimann would capitulate, his conjugal
love overcoming his anger and resentment.
Occasionally, however, he would endeavor to escape his wife's
vigilance, and take refuge in a remote corner with one of his treasured
volumes. On one of these "secret" evenings she surprised him in the
poultry house, at his side a small lantern shedding a doubtful light
upon a fine edition of "Hamlet" on his lap. Rose read him a long
lecture, and commanded him to retire at once. The good man obeyed, but
carried "Hamlet" to bed with him, turning once more to his Shakespeare
for refreshment and sweet content. He had scarcely read half a page,
when his spouse rose in all her majesty and blew out the candle.
Kalimann was desperate, and yet resistance would have been unwise.
Sadly resigned, he turned his head upon the pillow, and soon snored in
unison with Hersch. A half-hour of profound silence, then the culprit
rose, and making sure that his wife was sleeping the sleep of the just,
he cautiously took his book and spectacles, glided out of doors, and
sitting upon the old moss-grown bench in front of the house, continued
the tragedy of the Danish prince by the light of the moon.
Yes, he loved his books with passion and tenderness; but not having
means wherewith to buy them, he read every book that was entrusted to
him to bind. Not being the collector of the volumes in his workshop,
chance alone being responsible for the heterogeneous display,--to-day a
sentimental love-tale, to-morrow a medical treatise, the next day a
theological work,--it followed that the poor little bookbinder's head
was filled with as confused a mass of lore, religious and profane, as
ever cast in its lot in the sum of human knowledge. The more a book
pleased him, the longer did the owner have to wait for it; and it was
only after repeated insistence that the coveted volume was placed in
the rightful possessor's hands.
Naturally, Kalimann's prices varied according to the work required, or
the cost of material; but when it came to the question of ornamental
finishing or decorative impressions, his customer's orders were totally
ignored, and he it was who decided upon the finishing according to the
subject or the value of the work.
When he carried the books back to his customers, he would always tie
them up carefully in a large colored handkerchief, and, while
unwrapping them, would embrace the opportunity of expressing his views
upon their contents; at times, however, he regarded the open assertion
of his opinion as dangerous, and could not be induced to pass judgment.
On these occasions he never failed to say with a sorrowful shake of the
head, "While we are living we may not speak, when we are dead it is too
late!"
There lived in Hort at this time a wealthy and pretty widow, Mrs. Zoe
Barkany by name, originally Sarah Samuel. From her, Kalimann would get
his novels and classical literature; these he bound in pale blues and
greens and brilliant scarlets, ornamenting them with a golden lyre,
surmounted with an arrow-pierced heart. He worked upon these bindings
con amore, and, transported by his love of the aesthetic, would
occasionally give vent to his enthusiasm, and venture observations
bordering upon the chivalrous. In each and every heroine of the plays
and romances he devoured, he could see the captivating face and figure
of Mrs. Barkany.
Entering the fair widow's garden one morning, and discovering her
seated on a rustic bench, dressed in white, a guitar in her hand, he
exclaimed, with a reverential bow: "Ah, mon Dieu, there sits Princess
Eboli!" (the heroine in "Don Carlos"). Another time seeing her in a.
morning gown of Turkish stuff, he declared she must be sitting for the
picture of Rebecca in "Ivanhoe." In short, Mrs. Barkany very soon
learned to anticipate her bookbinder's speeches, and would say, with a
pretty smile: "Well, am I Esmeralda to-day?" or, "I wager that I am
reminding you of the Duchess; tell me, am I right or not?"
Binding works on jurisprudence for the notary, he developed his
philosophy of law; returning some volumes to the village doctor, he
surprised that worthy by launching forth with enthusiasm into a
disquisition on medicine; and dropping in one fine day at Professor
Gambert's,--the pensioned schoolmaster,--he proved himself no mean
adversary in a discussion upon natural history. He invariably
approached a subject with a refreshing originality, and on one occasion
maintained with an obstinacy born of conviction that the reason Moses
had prohibited the Jews from eating pork was because he had discovered
the trichina.
Simcha Kalimann had taken upon himself the office of censor in his
village, as may be seen by the following incident. The widow had given
him a richly illustrated German edition of "Nana" to bind. At dusk one
evening he discovered his apprentice crouched in a corner by the
window, evidently intensely amused over the illustrations. He quietly
seized the culprit by the hair, shook him as he would a puppy, and
then, putting on his spectacles, began inspecting the volume himself.
At first he shook his head, then took off his glasses and rubbed them
as though they were playing him some prank, and finally closed the book
with an expression of profound disgust.
Mrs. Barkany awaited the return of her "Nana" with unruffled patience;
finally she despatched her cook Gutel with an order for the book.
Kalimann was ready with his excuses, and after a fortnight's delay the
widow found her way into the workshop, and began suing for the book in
person.
"I want my copy of 'Nana,'" she began.
"Nana?" Kalimann went on with his work.
"You have not bound it yet?"
"No, madame."
"But when am I to have it?" "You are not to have that book at all."
"What! You talk absurdly."
"We merit trust, the Count will own;
For nothing's left of flesh or bone,"
quoted Kalimann from Schiller's ballad "The Forge." "As for 'Nana,'
I've simply pushed it in the stove."
"Kalimann, this is going too far."
"It is not a book for a Jewish woman to own."
The widow flushed indignantly, but would not yield the victory to her
adversary.
"If you have burned my book you must give me an equivalent."
"With pleasure," replied the bookbinder, and taking down a picture from
the wall, he begged her acceptance of it. It represented a scene from
Schiller's "Song of the Bell," a fair young woman, surrounded by her
children, seated on the balcony of her house. As title to the picture
were printed these lines:
"The house spreadeth out,
And in it presides
The chaste gentle housewife,
The mother of children;
And ruleth metely
The household discreetly."
Our bookbinder had a reverential admiration for all scholars, poets, or
artists, irrespective of race or creed. Awaiting the widow in her
library one day, his attention was attracted by an engraving
representing Schiller at Carlsbad seated upon an ass. His eyes filled
with tears at the sight. "A man like that," he exclaimed, "riding upon
an ass! While ordinary people like Baron Fay or Mr. de Mariassy ride
about proudly on horses."
Later on it occurred to him that Balaam too was mounted on an ass, and
he derived a measure of consolation from the thought that Schiller was
a prophet as well. Would it be venturesome to say that in Kalimann
there was the stuff for poet or prophet?
In addition to his trade, our bookbinder carried on another pursuit
which was quite lucrative in its way, and one universally well
established among all Jewish communities of Eastern Europe. Kalimann
was Cupid's secretary: in other words, he wrote love-letters for those
who could neither read nor write. The opportunity thus vouchsafed his
native tendency toward sentiment helped not only to swell the hearts of
his clients with gratitude, but also to swell his own slender income.
Thus it was that the fire of his poetic genius was enkindled, and thus
it was he became the Petrarch of Hort.
One day Gutel Wolfner, Mrs. Barkany's cook, came to him with the
request that he would write a letter for her to a friend at Gyongos.
"Well, well, little one," said the scribe, "so Love's arrow has reached
you at last!"
"Heaven preserve me!" cried the girl, "he is not named Love, but Mendel
Sucher, and he has never drawn a bow in his life."
Gutel now gave the bookbinder a general idea of the letter she wished
written, and inquired the price.
"That will not depend upon the length of the epistle," he replied, "but
upon its quality." Thereupon he read aloud to her his tariff.
1st. A friendly letter ................... 10 kreutzers
2d. A kind and well-intentioned letter ... 15 "
3d. A tender letter ...................... 20 "
4th. A touching letter ................... 30 "
5th. A letter that goes straight to the
heart ................................ 1/2 florin
"Very good; a friendly letter will do well enough this time," said the
girl, as she deposited her ten kreutzers on the table.
"I will write a kind and well-intentioned letter for you for the same
price as a friendly one," said Kalimann, gallantly.
Mendel Sucher received the missive the following day, and as his
scholarship was as limited as Gutel's, he forthwith sought out Saul
Wahl, a lawyer's clerk at Gyongos, likewise a member of the same erotic
profession as the bookbinder of Hort. Wahl read Kalimann's letter to
the smiling recipient with such pathos that Mendel was completely
overcome. Placing twenty kreutzers on the table, the happy swain begged
the clerk to write as finely turned a letter to Gutel as the one she
had sent him.
Saul, who had at a glance recognized Kalimann's calligraphy, said to
himself: "It will go hard with me but I will show the bookbinder that
they know how to write letters at Gyongos, and can also quote from the
classic authors."
He at once wrote Gutel a missive so thickly interlarded with quotations
from the Song of Solomon, from Goethe, Petofi, Heine, and
Chateaubriand, that when Kalimann read the billet-doux to the blushing
girl her head was quite turned.
The bookbinder himself scratched his head and muttered: "This Saul is a
man of letters; his style is vigorous! Who would have thought it?"
The correspondence between Gutel and Mendel, or rather between Kalimann
and Saul, flourished for some time. If Kalimann addressed Mendel as "my
cherished friend," "my turtle dove," Saul on his side would intersperse
throughout his letters such expressions as "your gazelle-like eyes,"
"your fairy form," "your crimson lips," "your voice rivalling the music
of the celestial spheres."
Kalimann's "friendly" letter was followed by those of the tender and
touching variety, and finally Gutel decided upon sacrificing her half
florin and sending one that "would go straight to the heart." To make
assurance doubly sure she supplemented her silver piece by a bottle of
wine. Her amanuensis poured out a glass, emptied it at a draught,
smacked his lips, and began to write. Suddenly, however, he stopped,
and turning to the girl, said: "Do you know, Gutel, that wine of yours
was a happy inspiration, but the great poet Hafiz was not alone
inspired by the spirit of wine, he placed a great virtue upon the
crimson lips of pretty girls."
Gutel was not slow to understand.
"As I have given you a half florin and a bottle of wine," she said, in
a shamefaced way, wiping her mouth with the corner of her apron the
while, "I see no reason why I should not add a touch of my lips as
well." So saying she gave the happy bookbinder a hearty kiss. The
consequence of all this was that the pen flew over the paper, and when
Kalimann read the letter for Gutel's approval the tender-hearted girl
burst into tears of emotion.
As for Mendel, when Saul read him this letter going "straight to the
heart," he could contain himself no longer; rushing from the house he
flew to the factory where he worked, and asked his employer, Mr.
Schonberg, to permit him to quit his service.
"What is the matter with you?" cried Schonberg. "Why do you wish to
leave? Do you want more wages?"
"No, no, Mr. Schonberg, that is not the reason. But--but I can stay no
longer here at Gyongos, I must go to Hort."
"To Hort? What is the reason of that?"
For reply the dazed fellow held out the letter for him to read.
Schonberg glanced over it, and smiled. "This Kalimann," he murmured,
"is a deuce of a fellow. The world has lost a novelist in him. But let
me see how I can arrange matters. Mendel," he continued, turning to the
open-mouthed lover, "you shall stay here, and you shall marry your
Gutel. I will give you two or three rooms in the factory for your
housekeeping, and Mrs. Barkany will give the girl her trousseau. How
does that strike you?"
Mendel beamed. He would have thrown himself on his employer's neck, but
resisted the impulse, and, instead, brushed the back of his hand across
his eyes. Schonberg gave him a day's holiday, and the happy fellow lost
no time in making his way to Hort, and subsequently into the arms of
his inamorata. Mrs. Barkany gave Gutel the trousseau, and the marriage
took place at harvest-time.
At one end of the table, in the seat of honor next to the rabbi, sat
the bookbinder of Hort. All had been his work, and, truth to tell, this
was not the first happy couple he had been the means of bringing
together.
When it was his turn to deliver a toast in honor of the bride and
groom, he rose, filled his glass, and holding it in his hand, declaimed
from his favorite poet Schiller, and with an enthusiasm worthy the
occasion:
"Honor to women! round Life they are wreathing
Roses, the fragrance of Heaven sweet-breathing!"
THE EGYPTIAN FIRE-EATER
BY
RUDOLPH BAUMBACH
From "Summer Legends," translated by Helen B. Dole. Published by T. Y.
Crowell & Co.
Copyright, 1888, by T.Y. Crowell & Co
Next Easter he must go to N--to school.--Fact.--It is high time; he is
eleven years old, and here he is running wild with the
street-boys.--That's what I say."
He, that is, I, hung my head, and I felt more like crying than
laughing. I had passed eleven sunny boyhood years in the little country
town, I stood in high esteem among my playmates, and would rather be
the first in the ranks of my birthplace than second in the metropolis.
Through the gray mist, which surrounded my near future like a thick
fog, gleamed only one light, but a bright, attractive light; that was
the theatre, the splendor of which I had already learned to know. The
white priests in the "Magic Flute," Sarastro's lions, the fire-spitting
serpents, and the gay, merry Papageno,--such things could not be seen
at home; and when my parents promised me occasional visits to the
theatre, as a reward for diligence in study and exemplary conduct, I
left the Eden of my childhood, half consoled.
Young trees, transplanted at the proper time, soon take root. After a
tearful farewell to my friends and a slight attack of home-sickness, I
was quite content. I was received into the second class at the
gymnasium, and drank eagerly of the fountain of knowledge; a certain
Frau Eberlein, with whom I found board and lodging, cared for my bodily
welfare.
She was a widow, and kept a little store, in which, with the assistance
of a shop-girl, she served customers, who called from morning to night.
She dealt principally in groceries and vegetables, but besides these,
every conceivable thing was found piled up in her shop: knitting-yarn,
sheets of pictures, slate-pencils, cheese, pen-knives, balls of twine,
herring, soap, buttons, writing-paper, glue, hairpins, cigar-holders,
oranges, fly-poison, brushes, varnish, gingerbread, tin soldiers,
corks, tallow candles, tobacco-pouches, thimbles, gum-balls, and
torpedoes. Besides, she prepared, by means of essences, peach brandy,
maraschino, ros solis, and other liqueurs, as well as an excellent ink,
in the manufacture of which I used to help her. She rejoiced in
considerable prosperity, lived well, and did not let me want for
anything.
My passion for the theatre was a source of great anxiety to good Frau
Eberlein. She did not have a very good opinion of the art in general,
but the comedy she despised from the bottom of her heart. Therefore she
made my visiting the theatre as difficult as possible, and it was only
after long discussions, and after the shop-girl had added her voice,
that she would hand over the necessary amount for purchasing a ticket.
The shop-girl was an oldish person, as thin as a giraffe which had
fasted for a long time, and was very well read. She subscribed
regularly to a popular periodical with the motto, "Culture is freedom,"
and Frau Eberlein was influenced somewhat by her judgment. This
kind-hearted woman was friendly towards me, and as often as her
employer asked, "Is the play a proper one for young people?" she would
answer, "Yes," and Frau Eberlein would have to let me go.
Those were glorious evenings. Long before it was time for the play to
begin, I was in my seat in the gallery, looking down from my dizzy
height, into the house, still unlighted. Now a servant comes and lights
the lamps in the orchestra. The parquet and the upper seats fill, but
the reserved seats and the boxes are still empty. Now it suddenly grows
light; the chandelier comes down from an opening in the ceiling. The
musicians appear and tune their instruments. It makes a horrible
discord, but still it is beautiful. The doors slam; handsomely dressed
ladies, in white cloaks, gay officers, and civilians in stiff black and
white evening dress take their seats in the boxes. The conductor mounts
his elevated seat and now it begins. The overture is terribly long, but
it comes to an end. Ting-aling-aling,--the curtain rises. Ah!--
I soon decided in my own mind that it should be my destiny, some time,
to delight the audience from the stage, but I was still undecided
whether I would devote myself to the drama or the opera, for it seemed
to me an equally desirable lot to shoot charmed bullets in "Der
Freischutz," or, hidden behind elderberry bushes, to shoot at
tyrannical Geslers in "William Tell." In the meantime I learned Tell's
monologue, "Along this narrow path the man must come," by heart, and
practised the aria, "Through the forest, through the meadows."
Providence seemed to favor my plan, for it led me into an acquaintance
with a certain Lipp, who, on account of his connections, was in a
position to pave my way to the stage.
Lipp was a tall, slender youth, about sixteen years old, with terribly
large feet and hands. He usually wore a very faded, light-blue coat,
the sleeves of which hardly came below his elbows, and a red vest. He
had a rather stooping gait, and a beaming smile continually played
about his mouth. Besides, the poor fellow was always hungry, and it was
this peculiarity which brought about our acquaintance.