Nina's misery as she went home was almost complete. She had not,
indeed, quarrelled with her lover, who had again caressed her as she
left him, and assured her of his absolute confidence, but she had
undertaken a task against which her very soul revolted. It gave her
no comfort to say to herself that she had undertaken to look for that
which she knew she would not find, and that therefore her search could
do no harm. She had, in truth, consented to become a spy upon her
father, and was so to do in furtherance of the views of one who
suspected her father of fraud, and who had not scrupled to tell her
that her father was dishonest. Now again she thought of St Nicholas, as
she heard the dull chime of the clock from the saint's tower, and found
herself forced to acknowledge that she was doing very wickedly in
loving a Jew. Of course troubles would come upon her. What else could
she expect? Had she not endeavoured to throw behind her and to trample
under foot all that she had learned from her infancy under the guidance
of St Nicholas? Of course the saint would desert her. The very sound
of the chime told her that he was angry with her. How could she hope
again that St John would be good to her? Was it not to be expected
that the black-flowing river over which she understood him to preside
would become her enemy and would swallow her up--as Lotta Luxa had
predicted? Before she returned home, when she was quite sure that Anton
Trendellsohn had already passed over, she went down upon the bridge,
and far enough along the causeway to find herself over the river, and
there, crouching down, she looked at the rapid-running silent black
stream beneath her. The waters were very silent and very black, but
she could still see or feel that they were running rapidly. And they
were cold, too. She herself at the present moment was very cold. She
shuddered as she looked down, pressing her face against the stone-work,
with her two hands resting on two of the pillars of the parapet. It
would be very terrible. She did not think that she much cared for
death. The world had been so hard to her, and was growing so much
harder, that it would be a good thing to get away from it. If she could
become ill and die, with a good kind nun standing by her bedside, and
with the cross pressed to her bosom, and with her eyes fixed on the
sweet face of the Virgin Mother as it was painted in the little picture
in her room--in that way she thought that death might even be grateful.
But to be carried away she knew not whither in the cold, silent,
black-flowing Moldau! And yet she half believed the prophecy of Lotta.
Such a quiet death as that she had pictured to herself could not be
given to her! What nun would come to her bedside--to the bed of a girl
who had declared to all Prague that she intended to marry a Jew? For
weeks past she had feared even to look at the picture of the Virgin.
"I'm afraid you'll think I am very late, father," she said, as soon as
she reached home.
Her father muttered something, but not angrily, and she soon busied
herself about him, doing some little thing for his comfort, as was
her wont. But as she did so she could not but remember that she had
undertaken to be a spy upon him, to secrete his key, and to search
surreptitiously for that which he was supposed to be keeping
fraudulently. As she sat by him empty-handed--for it was Sunday night,
and as a Christian she never worked with a needle upon the Sunday--she
told herself that she could not do it. Could there be any harm done
were she to ask him now, openly, what papers he kept in that desk? But
she desired to obey her lover where obedience was possible, and he had
expressly forbidden her to ask any such question. She sat, therefore,
and said no word that could tend to ease her suffering; and then, when
the time came, she went suffering to her bed.
On the next day there seemed to come to her no opportunity for doing
that which she had to do. Souchey was in and out of the house all the
morning, explaining to her that they had almost come to the end of the
flour and of the potatoes which he had bought, that he himself had
swallowed on the previous evening the last tip of the great sausage--
for, as he had alleged, it was no use a fellow dying of starvation
outright--and that there was hardly enough of chocolate left to make
three cups. Nina had brought out her necklace and had asked Souchey to
take it to the shop and do the best with it he could; but Souchey had
declined the commission, alleging that he would be accused of having
stolen it; and Nina had then prepared to go herself, but her father had
called her, and he had come out into the sitting-room and had remained
there during the afternoon, so that both the sale of the trinket and
the search in the desk had been postponed. The latter she might have
done at night, but when the night came the deed seemed to be more
horrid than it would be even in the day.
She observed also, more accurately than she had ever done before, that
he always carried the key of his desk with him. He did not, indeed, put
it under his pillow, or conceal it in bed, but he placed it with an old
spectacle-case which he always carried, and a little worn pocket-book
which Nina knew to be empty, on a low table which stood at his
bed-head; and now during the whole of the afternoon he had the key on
the table beside him. Nina did not doubt but that she could take the
key while he was asleep; for when he was even half asleep--which was
perhaps his most customary state--he would not stir when she entered
the room. But if she took it at all, she would do so in the day. She
could not bring herself to creep into the room in the night, and to
steal the key in the dark. As she lay in bed she still thought of it.
She had promised her lover that she would do this thing. Should she
resolve not to do it, in spite of that promise, she must at any rate
tell Anton of her resolution. She must tell him, and then there would
be an end of everything. Would it be possible for her to live without
her love?
On the following morning it occurred to her that she might perhaps be
able to induce her father to speak of the houses, and of those horrid
documents of which she had heard so much, without disobeying any of
Trendellsohn's behests. There could, she thought, be no harm in her
asking her father some question as to the ownership of the houses,
and as to the Jew's right to the property. Her father had very often
declared in her presence that old Trendellsohn could turn him into the
street at any moment. There had been no secrets between her and her
father as to their poverty, and there could be no reason why her tongue
should now be silenced, so long as she refrained from any positive
disobedience to her lover's commands. That he must be obeyed she still
recognised as the strongest rule of all--obeyed, that is, till she
should go to him and lay down her love at his feet, and give back to
him the troth which he had given her.
"Father," she said to the old man about noon that day, "I suppose this
house does belong to the Trendellsohns?"
"Of course it does," said he, crossly.
"Belongs to them altogether, I mean?" she said.
"I don't know what you call altogether. It does belong to them, and
there's an end of it. What's the good of talking about it?"
"Only if so, they ought to have those deeds they are so anxious about.
Everybody ought to have what is his own. Don't you think so, father?"
"I am keeping nothing from them," said he; "you don't suppose that I
want to rob them?"
"Of course you do not." Then Nina paused again. She was drawing
perilously near to forbidden ground, if she were not standing on it
already; and yet she was very anxious that the subject should not be
dropped between her and her father.
"I'm sure you do not want to rob anyone, father. But--"
"But what? I suppose young Trendellsohn has been talking to you again
about it. I suppose he suspects me; if so, no doubt, you will suspect
me too."
"Oh, father! how can you be so cruel?"
"If he thinks the papers are here, it is his own house; let him come
and search for them."
"He will not do that, I am sure."
"What is it he wants, then? I can't go out to your uncle and make him
give them up."
"They are, then, with uncle?"
"I suppose so; but how am I to know? You see how they treat me. I
cannot go to them, and they never come to me--except when that woman
comes to scold."
"But they can't belong to uncle."
"Of course they don't."
"Then why should he keep them? What good can they do him? When I spoke
to Ziska, Ziska said they should be kept, because Trendellsohn is a
Jew; but surely a Jew has a right to his own. We at any rate ought to
do what we can for him, Jew as he is, since he lets us live in his
house."
The slight touch of irony which Nina had thrown into her voice when she
spoke of what was due to her lover even though he was a Jew was not
lost upon her father. "Of course you would take his part against a
Christian," he said.
"I take no one's part against anyone," said she, "except so far as
right is concerned. If we take a Jew's money, I think we should give
him the thing which he purchases."
"Who is keeping him from it?" said Balatka, angrily.
"Well--I suppose it is my uncle," replied Nina.
"Why cannot you let me be at peace then?"
Having so said he turned himself round to the wall, and Nina felt
herself to be in a worse position than ever. There was nothing now for
her but to take the key, or else to tell her lover that she would not
obey him. There could be no further hope in diplomacy. She had just
resolved that she could not take the key--that in spite of her promise
she could not bring herself to treat her father after such fashion as
that--when the old man turned suddenly round upon her again, and went
back to the subject.
"I have got a letter somewhere from Karil Zamenoy," said he, "telling
me that the deed is in his own chest."
"Have you, father?" said she, anxiously, but struggling to repress her
anxiety.
"I had it, I know. It was written ever so long ago--before I had
settled with the Trendellsohns; but I have seen it often since. Take
the key and unlock the desk, and bring me the bundle of papers that
are tied with an old tape; or--stop--bring me all the papers." With
trembling hand Nina took the key. She was now desired by her father to
do exactly that which her lover wished her to have done; or, better
still, her father was about to do the thing himself. She would at any
rate have positive proof that the paper was not in her father's desk.
He had desired her to bring all the papers, so that there would be no
doubt left. She took the key very gently, as softly as was possible to
her, and went slowly into the other room. When there she unlocked the
desk and took out the bundle of letters tied with an old tape which lay
at the top ready to her hand. Then she collected together the other
papers, which were not many, and without looking at them carried them
to her father. She studiously avoided any scrutiny of what there might
be, even by so much as a glance of her eye. "This seems to be all there
is, father, except one or two old account-books."
He took the bundle, and with feeble hands untied the tape and moved
the documents, one by one. Nina felt that she was fully warranted in
looking at them now, as her father was in fact showing them to her.
In this way she would be able to give evidence in his favour without
having had recourse to any ignoble practice. The old man moved every
paper in the bundle, and she could see that they were all letters. She
had understood that the deed for which Trendellsohn had desired her to
search was written on a larger paper than any she now saw, and that she
might thus know it at once. There was, certainly, no such deed among
the papers which her father slowly turned over, and which he slowly
proceeded to tie up again with the old tape. "I am sure I saw it the
other day," he said, fingering among the loose papers while Nina looked
on with anxious eyes. Then at last he found the letter from Karil
Zamenoy, and having read it himself, gave it her to read. It was dated
seven or eight years back, at a time when Balatka was only on his way
to ruin--not absolutely ruined, as was the case with him now--and
contained an offer on Zamenoy's part to give safe custody to certain
documents which were named, and among which the deed now sought for
stood first.
"And has he got all those other papers?" Nina asked.
"No! he has none of them, unless he has this. There is nothing left but
this one that the Jew wants."
"And uncle Karil has never given that back?"
"Never."
"And it should belong to Stephen Trendellsohn?"
"Yes, I suppose it should."
"Who can wonder, then, that they should be anxious and inquire after
it, and make a noise about it? Will not the law make uncle Karil give
it up?"
"How can the law prove that he has got it? I know nothing about the
law. Put them all back again." Then Nina replaced the papers and locked
the desk. She had, at any rate, been absolutely and entirely successful
in her diplomacy, and would be able to assure Anton Trendellsohn, of
her knowledge, that that which he sought was not in her father's
keeping.
On the same day she went out to sell her necklace. She waited till
it was nearly dark--till the first dusk of evening had come upon the
street--and then she crossed the bridge and hurried to a jeweller's
shop in the Grosser Ring which she had observed, and at which she knew
such trinkets as hers were customarily purchased. The Grosser Ring
is an open space--such as we call a square--in the oldest part of the
town, and in it stand the Town Hall and the Theinkirche, which may be
regarded as the most special church in Prague, as there for many years
were taught the doctrines of Huss, the great Reformer of Bohemia.
Here, in the Grosser Ring, there was generally a crowd of an evening,
as Nina knew, and she thought that she could go in and out of the
jeweller's shop without observation. She believed that she might be
able to borrow money on her treasure, leaving it as a deposit; and
this, if possible, she would do. There were regular pawnbrokers in the
town, by whom no questions would be made, who, of course, would lend
her money in the ordinary way of their trade; but she believed that
such people would advance to her but a very small portion of the value
of her necklace; and then, if, as would be too probable, she could not
redeem it, the necklace would be gone, and gone without a price!
"Yes, it is my own, altogether my own--my very own." She had to explain
all the circumstances to the jeweller, and at last, with a view of
quelling any suspicion, she told the jeweler what was her name, and
explained how poor were the circumstances of her house. "But you must
be the niece of Madame Zamenoy, in the Windberg-gasse," said the
jeweller. And then, when Nina with hesitation acknowledged that such
was the case, the man asked her why she did not go to her rich aunt,
instead of selling a trinket which must be so valuable.
"No!" said Nina, "I cannot do that. If you will lend me something of
its value, I shall be so much obliged to you."
"But Madame Zamenoy would surely help you?"
"We would not take it from her. But we will not speak of that, sir.
Can I have the money?" Then the jeweller gave her a receipt for the
necklace and took her receipt for the sum he lent her. It was more than
Nina had expected, and she rejoiced that she had so well completed her
business. Nevertheless she wished that the jeweller had known nothing
of her aunt. She was hardly out of the shop before she met her cousin
Ziska, and she so met him that she could not escape him. She heard his
voice, indeed, almost as soon as she recognised him, and had stopped at
his summons before she had calculated whether it might not be better to
run away. "What, Nina! is that you?" said Ziska, taking her hand before
she knew how to refuse it to him.
"Yes; it is I," said Nina.
"What are you doing here?"
"Why should I not be in the Grosser Ring as well as another? It is open
to rich and poor."
"So is Rapinsky's shop; but poor people do not generally have much to
do there." Rapinsky was the name of the jeweller who had advanced the
money to Nina.
"No, not much," said Nina. "What little they have to sell is soon
sold."
"And have you been selling anything?"
"Nothing of yours, Ziska."
"But have you been selling anything?"
"Why do you ask me? What business is it of yours?"
"They say that Anton Trendellsohn, the Jew, gives you all that you
want," said Ziska.
"Then they say lies," said Nina, her eyes flashing fire upon her
Christian lover through the gloom of the evening. "Who says so? You say
so. No one else would be mean enough to be so false."
"All Prague says so."
"All Prague! I know what that means. And did all Prague go to the Jews'
quarter last Saturday, to tell Anton Trendellsohn that the paper which
he wants, and which is his own, was in father's keeping? Was it all
Prague told that falsehood also?" There was a scorn in her face as she
spoke which distressed Ziska greatly, but which he did not know how to
meet or how to answer. He wanted to be brave before her; and he wanted
also to show his affection for her, if only he knew how to do so,
without making himself humble in her presence.
"Shall I tell you, Nina, why I went to the Jews' quarter on Saturday?"
"No; tell me nothing. I wish to hear nothing from you. I know enough
without your telling me."
"I wish to save you if it be possible, because--because I love you."
"And I--I never wish to see you again, because I hate you. I hate you,
because you have been cruel. But let me tell you this; poor as we are,
I have never taken a farthing of Anton's money. When I am his wife, as
I hope to be--as I hope to be--I will take what he gives me as though
it came from heaven. From you!--I would sooner die in the street
than take a crust of bread from you." Then she darted from him, and
succeeded in escaping without hearing the words with which he replied
to her angry taunts. She was woman enough to understand that her
keenest weapon for wounding him would be an expression of unbounded
love and confidence as to the man who was his rival; and therefore,
though she was compelled to deny that she had lived on the charity of
her lover, she had coupled her denial with an assurance of her faith
and affection, which was, no doubt, bitter enough in Ziska's ears. "I
do believe that she is witched," he said, as he turned away towards his
own house. And then he reflected wisely on the backward tendency of the
world in general, and regretted much that there was no longer given to
priests in Bohemia the power of treating with salutary ecclesiastical
severity patients suffering in the way in which his cousin Nina was
afflicted.
Nina had hardly got out of the Grosser Ring into the narrow street
which leads from thence towards the bridge, when she encountered her
other lover. He was walking slowly down the centre of the street when
she passed him, or would have passed him, had not she recognized his
figure through the gloom. "Anton," she said, coming up to him and
touching his arm as lightly as was possible. "I am so glad to meet
you here."
"Nina?"
"Yes; Nina."
"And what have you been doing?"
"I don't know that I want to tell you; only that I like to tell you
everything."
"If so, you can tell me this." Nina, however, hesitated. "If you have
secrets, I do not want to inquire into them," said the Jew.
"I would rather have no secrets from you, only--"
"Only what?"
"Well; I will tell you. I had a necklace; and we are not very rich, you
know, at home; and I wanted to get something for father, and--"
"You have sold it?"
"No; I have not sold it. The man was very civil, indeed quite kind, and
he lent me some money."
"But the kind man kept the necklace, I suppose."
"Of course he kept the necklace. You would not have me borrow money
from a stranger, and leave him nothing?"
"No; I would not have you do that. But why not borrow from one who is
no stranger?"
"I do not want to borrow at all," said Nina, in her lowest tone.
"Are you ashamed to come to me in your trouble?"
"Yes," said Nina. "I should be ashamed to come to you for money. I
would not take it from you."
He did not answer her at once, but walked on slowly while she kept
close to his side.
"Give me the jeweller's docket," he said at last. Nina hesitated for a
moment, and then he repeated his demand in a sterner voice. "Nina, give
me the jeweller's docket." Then she put her hand in her pocket and gave
it him. She was very averse to doing so, but she was more averse to
refusing him aught that he asked of her.
"I have got something to tell you, Anton," she said, as soon as he had
put the jeweller's paper into his purse.
"Well--what is it?"
"I have seen every paper and every morsel of everything that is in
father's desk, and there is no sign of the deed you want."
"And how did you see them?"
"He showed them to me."
"You told him, then, what I had said to you?"
"No; I told him nothing about it. He gave me the key, and desired me to
fetch him all the papers. He wanted to find a letter which uncle Karil
wrote him ever so long ago. In that letter uncle Karil acknowledges
that he has the deed."
"I do not doubt that in the least."
"And what is it you do doubt, Anton?"
"I do not say I doubt anything."
"Do you doubt me, Anton?"
There was a little pause before he answered her--the slightest moment
of hesitation. But had it been but half as much, Nina's ear and Nina's
heart would have detected it. "No," said Anton, "I am not saying that I
doubt any one."
"If you doubt me, you will kill me. I am at any rate true to you. What
is it you want? What is it you think?"
"They tell me that the document is in the house in the Kleinseite."
"Who are they? Who is it that tells you?"
"More than one. Your uncle and aunt said so--and Ziska Zamenoy came to
me on purpose to repeat the same."
"And would you believe what Ziska says? I have hardly thought it worth
my while to tell you that Ziska--"
"To tell me what of Ziska?"
"That Ziska pretends to--to want that I should be his wife. I would not
look at him if there were not another man in Prague. I hate him. He is
a liar. Would you believe Ziska?"
"And another has told me."
"Another?" said Nina, considering.
"Yes, another."
"Lotta Luxa, I suppose."
"Never mind. They say indeed that it is you who have the deed."
"And you believe them?"
"No, I do not believe them. But why do they say so?"
"Must I explain that? How can I tell? Anton, do you not believe that
the woman who loves you will be true to you?"
Then he paused again--"Nina, sometimes I think that I have been mad to
love a Christian."
"What have I been then? But I do love you, Anton--I love you better
than all the world. I care nothing for Jew or Christian. When I think
of you, I care nothing for heaven or earth. You are everything to me,
because I love you. How could I deceive you?"
"Nina, Nina, my own one!" he said.
"And as I love you, so do you love me? Say that you love me also."
"I do," said he--"I love you as I love my own soul."
Then they parted; and Nina, as she went home, tried to make herself
happy with the assurance which had been given to her by the last words
her lover had spoken; but still there remained with her that suspicion
of a doubt which, if it really existed, would be so cruel an injury to
her love.