The next day people were talking everywhere of the kiss and its
consequences. In the drawing-room of the magistrate, in the cafe of
Aaron Siebenschlaefer, where the Christian dignitaries assembled, and in
the court of the synagogue, where the public opinion of the Ghetto
originated.
"That is the result," complained the Jews, "of allowing a Jewish child
to frequent Christian balls. Why need she have been so irritable when
the young gentleman made a joke about her father? But the innocent must
expiate the sins committed by the guilty. Wladko and the count will
have a duel, and if one is killed, or (may God forbid!) both of them,
on whom will this blood rest? On us all; for a Jewish child was the
cause!"
"The impudent thing!" said the Christians. "She certainly is beautiful,
and her beauty has bewitched the count. That is his only excuse. What
had he to do with it? He ought to have kissed her, too. But, in the
first place, she ought not to have been invited."
Lady Anna had her excuse ready, and, when this was said to her, made
answer: "She was invited at his express request. The little coquette
attracted his attention at his _entree_, and he immediately asked my
husband her name, saying, when they parted, 'I shall be pleased to meet
_all_ those pretty ladies again to-night.' Tell me what else I could
do? Now I suppose the little upstart is proud of what she has done."
There she made a mistake. The poor little beauty felt as if she could
never show her face again to the world. Sorrow gnawed her heart, and
tears poured over her pale cheeks. She had only left her own room once,
early in the dawn, when the carriage drove up which was to carry her
brother away.
Then she fell on his neck, and covered his face, clothes, and hand with
her tears and kisses, until he, too, wept with her. "Pardon me!" she
stammered again and again. "You meant it for the best; you are always
right; you were right last night, and I will remember it my life long."
He had no knowledge of the painful scene of the preceding evening, nor
had his father, who stood gazing affectionately on them. So they
started on their journey with a light heart. Nathaniel was to accompany
his son the first day, and would not be home until the next evening.
Till then Judith kept in her room; even Lady Anna knocked in vain. She
had come to have a sensible talk with the girl before Nathaniel's
return. The old Jew was clever, but one could not tell how he would
take the affair; and this was of great importance, as Herr von
Wroblewski was thinking of applying for a considerable loan.
She went away uneasily after hearing no sound behind the door, but she
lost little in not having had a conversation. For, had Judith's own
father told her she had been wrong in repaying insult with insult, she
would not have believed him. She was convinced she had done what was
right, and was also convinced she had hitherto been tolerated only by
the people in whose society she had found such pleasure and delight.
How humiliating the recollection of their friendliness, even more so
than the remembrance of the insult! For while she thirsted passionately
for revenge, it angered her to think of one even of that set with
gratitude and respect. She recalled his glance in the morning; her face
had led him on, or perhaps he wished to earn her regard. But again came
the thought of his noble interposition in her behalf, of the deep
respect he showed when leading her from the room, and his face rose
before her--the pale, noble, commanding face with the sad eyes.
"No," she sobbed, "he is no better than the others." Yet this decision
brought no consolation to the poor heart but fresh grief.
Another child of man was weeping inconsolably over the same event, but
he was not beautiful as was the golden-haired Jewess. It was Herr
Wladko von Wolczinski. And with him sobbed his father, mother, and four
sisters, so that the whole house re-echoed with their lamentations.
His cousin Jan was the only one who remained unmoved. "Howl away," he
growled. "If you did not wish to fight a duel, you should not have
allowed us to persuade you into sending a challenge. It's only
twenty-five paces, and only once firing. Baby, do be a man! Shoot him
down! You can hit a deer at twenty-five paces."
"Jan," cried Wladko, "how can you be so heartless? Has a deer a pistol
in its hand, aimed at me? It's a horrible thought!" Then, as the ladies
kept up their quintet of sobs, old Herr Wolczinski determined to see if
anything could be done to avert the calamity, and went to the
magistrate.
"I have no desire to reproach you," he began, gloomily and
energetically, "but it is your duty to prevent bloodshed. Count Agenor
is the last of his line; he ought not fall by the hand of a Wolczinski.
Let him only write a brief apology, which we can insert in the _Lemberg
Gazette_, and the duel will be stopped."
Herr von Wroblewski had hard work to restrain his merriment, and indeed
he did not entirely succeed.
"I scarcely think that possible," he replied. "Count Agenor was a Uhlan
officer before he succeeded to his estates, and left the service in
high repute."
"Indeed!" exclaimed the baron, affecting astonishment. "I did not know
it. In that case we would only be giving him a choice between moral and
physical death, which would be hard. Then we will only require a
written apology, which we shall not publish."
Herr von Wroblewski cleared his throat. "Well, then, we shall give no
one occasion to say we are revengeful. An oral apology will suffice. We
will invite a few gentlemen. Count Agenor can come to us, and--" The
baron came to a stop. Herr von Wroblewski cleared his throat louder
than ever.
"Or--h'm--! We won't invite any one--or we could meet here! You,
Wladko, the count, and myself, quite informally. He could just mutter
something, as, 'I did not intend to give offence, etc.' They would
shake hands, and--"
Herr von Wroblewski was seized with a severe fit of coughing.
"D---- it all!" swore the old gentleman, wiping the perspiration from
his face. "We cannot make it easier. We couldn't go to him, so that he
could say the few words. Or--h'm!--do you think we could?"
"It would be very unusual," said the magistrate again, sober as the
grave.
"Unusual! That does not matter! _Mon Dieu!_ Everything must be done for
the first time. My dear friend, I beg of you, I implore you to--"
"I will do my best," promised Wroblewski, and he kept his word. He went
to the count the very next day, and laughingly laid the proposition
before him. Agenor laughed aloud.
"It is impossible. I am an officer. No matter what I said to the boy,
it would be regarded as an apology."
"But you don't thirst for his blood. Just consider--a young fellow
excited by champagne, and she a Jewess!"
"He met her as your guest."
"Yes, certainly! I do not intend to excuse Wladko. But be honest, my
dear count. Would you have said anything if she had been ugly?"
"Yes," said Agenor, seriously. "I do not love the Jews, as you know;
quite the contrary; and not because of my experience with them as a
young officer. But I find it quite natural that all creatures on earth
should protect themselves with their own weapons. Theirs are trickery
and money. I have frequently asked myself whose fault it is that they
use such weapons. They are often men with splendid abilities, and in
many ways more moral than we. I acknowledge it is very largely our own
fault. We are antagonistic; we knock them down; they bite us in the
heels. So, without pondering over whose fault it is, I place myself in
the ranks of those to whom I belong, by blood and position."
"But, my dear count!" interrupted the official. "As if it required any
words! Do you fancy I like the Jews?"
"Your position is not mine," responded Agenor, curtly. "As judge, you
cannot be a party man; but I, as a private individual, may, and, as the
head of an old family, must be one. For in the contest my class is
being ruined. It cuts me to the heart to know this, for I think much of
this class, its necessities and its obligations. We aristocrats--I mean
we true, pure-blooded, wealthy old families--are the only firm pillars
of the state, as, indeed, we Polish aristocrats are the only hope of
our nation. There is no other besides us--the middle class scarcely
exists, and the peasantry are against us. Look over the country; one
man after another, one family after another, falls and sinks into
oblivion--through foolishness, idleness, and bad management, I allow.
But could we incur debts so readily if there were no Jews in the
country? Who is the inheritor? The Jew! Who has possession of the
estates of the Wolczinskis, which a hundred years ago were enormous?
Armenians, who hold them for the Jews, since they are prohibited from
owning real estate themselves."
"Very true," responded Wroblewski. "And for this very reason you should
not shoot the last of the Wolczinskis!"
"I do not propose to," said the count, with a smile; "although it might
prove the best thing for him, and others like him. For what will become
of them? Only a few can straighten out their affairs by marriage with
the _bourgeoisie_, and this is a misfortune--a humiliation. We have not
yet gone as far as they have in the Western provinces, where Count
Wagenspergh recently married an Eskeles. Is that to happen with us?
The first rule in this contest should be, no social intercourse with
Jews--no pulling-down of barriers."
"Is that a reproach?" inquired the magistrate, in a hurt tone. "You
yourself wished it;" and he told how he had interpreted the count's
words.
"Well, yes, you understood me so," said the count, in confusion. "True,
you told me the girl often came to your house. But it was foolish of
me, and my folly has been severely avenged. Do you think it pleasant
for me to fight a duel on account of a Jewess? But it is always the
way. We turn from the beaten path for one step, and it proves to be a
mile in the end. It was the first time I had met a Jewess in society;
but being there, she was to be considered a lady like the rest. When
the insult was offered, she was in my vicinity, and, therefore, under
my protection; and such would have been the case, no matter how plain
she might have been. However, this supposition does not count, as
Judith is beautiful--very beautiful, unfortunately."
"Unfortunately?"
"Yes." The count looked down sadly, even gloomily. "My dear Wroblewski,
if I were not aware that you knew me to be the reverse of a saint, I
would be ashamed, of the confession, that since my first sight of that
face I--but words cannot express it. In short, that it is a great pity
that she is a Jewess, and a--"
"And?"
"And a virtuous girl." The count drew a long breath, and colored to the
roots of his hair, while his fingers closed upon the ivory paper-knife
with which he had been playing, with such a firm grip that it snapped
in two.
The magistrate's eyes were wide open now; he winked slyly, and
puckered his mouth as if to whistle. He then said softly: "One
must be loyal. You have an old friend here on whom you can rely
unconditionally--unconditionally, and in everything, my dear count."
The young aristocrat turned suddenly; his face was still red, and his
lips trembled.
"What do you mean?" he inquired, brusquely. Wroblewski looked straight
at him and smiled, but made no answer.
The count cast down his eyes. "We had better not say any more about it,
at least not to-day. As regards your protege, young Wolczinski, I
cannot oblige him."
He arose, and the magistrate took up his hat. "Farewell, my dear
friend," he said, offering his right hand.
But the count kept both hands in the pockets of his short riding-coat.
"Adieu, Herr von Wroblewski!"
The magistrate smiled more deprecatingly than ever; but he stopped in
the corridor, and soliloquized: "I did not think you were so young, my
noble patron. But you shall pay dearly for that shake of the hand you
gave me."
Proceeding to the Wolczinski house, his communication again started the
fountains flowing. Only Herr Jan retained his composure. "Heaven will
not allow two young noblemen to murder each other for the sake of a
Jewess. Rest assured, God will work some miracle."
The pious confidence of the old man was not deceived. The miracle was
wrought.
Nathaniel returned the same evening. He was much frightened when Judith
went to meet him in great excitement. He listened to her confession,
and walked up and down the room with long, nervous strides.
"Keep calm, my child," he said at last, stroking her ruffled hair
tenderly. "It would have been more dignified, perhaps, to have passed
over the first innuendo of the cad in silence. But it is past now, and
pay no heed to the gossip; all will soon quiet down. I am only grieved
for the result upon your own heart. How unhappy and how lonely you will
be if you retain your present opinion of Christians! But you will not,
for your present bad opinion is as erroneous as your former good
opinion was. Now go away and lie down, my poor child, and sleep off
your headache."
He himself kept awake a long time. "Poor child!" he mused. "Even your
loveliness and brightness could not disarm hatred. How hard you will
yet have to feel that hour! If you were a Pole, you would be the more
sought after; and if both were killed, a hundred admirers would spring
about you. But you are a daughter of that nation in which any whispered
blemish on her reputation is fatal. Lost and damned, in her own country
at least."
He did not paint it a whit too black, for he knew his own countrymen.
It seemed strange enough to them that he should have allowed her to
reach her twentieth year without marrying, and now how they would judge
her! It became of vital importance for Bergheimer to secure a suitable
_parti_ for Judith from abroad, for at home she would have no chance.
Even should he pile up mountains of gold, it would be impossible, duel
or no duel. But in case it took place, the news would spread abroad,
and the coming bridegroom would probably hear of it at the first
Galician town in which he rested.
This supposition sank into the old man's soul with terrible force.
"Am I blameless?" he asked himself. "Have I given my child the
education best conducive to her own good? Was I right in rejecting
Raphael's warning?"
The following morning, instead of going to his _comptoir_, he went
where he would meet his acquaintances--on the street, and to the
_Weinstube_ of Aaron Siebenschlaefer. He turned the conversation in the
direction of the proposed duel, treating it quite as a joke. Every one
was surprised--the Christians wondering how they could have made so
much of it, while the Jews shook their heads dubiously.
At noon Nathaniel paid a visit to his lodger. He curtly interrupted
Wroblewski's flow of words. "I know you could not help it. But you must
do me a favor now. The duel must not take place."
"How can I help it? Both the count and Wladko are foaming with rage."
Nathaniel was a polite man, but he could speak plainly on occasions.
"You are mistaken," he said, quietly. "Wladko is dying of fear, and the
count told you yesterday how painful to his feelings a duel would be on
account of a Jewess. Your mistake arises from your desire to demand
from me a large recompense for your services, and you wish to justify
it by magnifying the difficulty of the negotiation. But that is not to
be. You know I am willing you should earn money, but in this case I
will not advance one penny. I will not have it said I preserved my
daughter's good fame with money. If, however, you will do it for the
sake of old friendship--"
Herr von Wroblewski made a gesture as if he had been the recipient of a
token of Trachtenberg's deepest respect.
"There is no need of many words between us. Say on, my old friend."
"The difficulty is in the way alone. The count is unable to tender an
apology. Wladko cannot withdraw without one. This can be circumvented
in the following manner: Wladko can come with his father to-morrow
morning about eleven o'clock, and beg my pardon. The count can hear of
it and declare that, much as he disapproved of Wladko's conduct that
evening, so now he approves of his chivalry in making a voluntary
expiation."
"Splendid!" ejaculated the official. "But suppose Wladko--"
"Kef uses? He will be only too glad. At most, Jan will make it an
occasion for renewing his request for a loan. But I trust you will make
it clear to him."
"That this is not a time for a man of honor to ask for money?
Certainly! Then to-morrow at eleven. The more formal the affair the
better?"
"No. Only what is necessary."
"Shall I not invite the count, and his second, the Rittmeister? He can
hear Wladko's explanation, say what he wishes, and all will be
straight."
Nathaniel considered a moment, then nodded. "Yes, if the count will do
me the honor."
"Then I may invite him in your name and Judith's?"
"Only in mine. Jewish girls do not send invitations to cavaliers."
"Of course," assented the magistrate. "You are always so full of tact.
But she will be present, I suppose?"
"I hardly think so."
"But Nathaniel, that is absurd," said Wroblewski, energetically. "You
demand satisfaction for your daughter, not because she is a Jewess, but
because she is a lady of unsullied character. Accordingly, you must
adapt yourself to the manner one would choose if she were a Christian."
Nathaniel paused. "Very well, I don't mind," he said, abruptly.
Herr von Wroblewski heaved a sigh of relief. "You shall now see that I
am your friend. This evening you shall have news."
Two hours later he was able to announce the success of his mission. The
report of the reconciliation spread through the town. Christians were
annoyed, and Jews delighted; but both asked, "How much did it cost
Nathaniel?"
When Judith entered the sitting-room the next morning shortly before
eleven, she heard, in spite of the closed blinds, a muffled noise in
the street. There stood the inquisitive crowd, shoulder to shoulder.
Turning pale, she stepped back.
"Why are you astonished?" Nathaniel asked, smiling. "The sight to-day
will be more wonderful than that of five days ago. It has many times
happened that a new lord has entered the town, but never before that a
Schlachzig has come to beg pardon of a Jewess. I would give a good deal
if--"
He stopped, for when he saw her before him, so pale, serious, and
melancholy, his heart seemed bursting with pity, and the gentle reproof
died on his lips.
"My poor child!" he murmured.
Perhaps it was the black woollen dress, unrelieved, contrary to her
usual custom, by flowers or ornaments of any kind, but she seemed quite
a different creature. The gay, beautiful child had suddenly developed
into a staid woman with sad, wise eyes. Her form seemed more slender,
and her features sharper.
"Did you sleep last night?" he asked, stroking her pale cheek tenderly.
"Certainly," she replied, nervously. She glanced at the clock. It was
still five minutes to eleven. "Wanda was here just now," she continued.
"Wiliszenski will give a recitation of his poems up-stairs to-morrow,
and she invited me to attend, but I declined."
"You were wrong. Prudence alone should have advised you to act
differently. Not as one who has committed an unpardonable sin; you
cannot become a nun all at once. To please--"
"Father," she said, beseechingly. "If you only knew--"
"I do know. But you will please accept, Judith."
She was silent; it was a command, against which there was no appeal. A
carriage stopped, and some "hurrahs" were heard outside. Judith's
cheeks flushed purple.
"It is the count," said Nathaniel. He hastened to meet the young man,
and bowed his gray head as if welcoming a prince.
"May God bless your entrance!" he said, pathetically, yet cordially.
"May he reward your generosity. I cannot express myself in words,
but--"
"But, Herr Trachtenberg," Agenor said, remonstratingly. His glance
rested on Judith, who stood near, pale and trembling.
"I hope you, are not ill?" he cried.
"No--"
"I was afraid--the result of that excitement."
She was embarrassed, and he felt awkward, very much because this pale
girl was such a contrast to the vision which had been present to his
imagination.
Her father took her hand.
"Are you not going to thank our most gracious count?" he asked. "Please
excuse the child," he added--"the recollection of this most painful
episode. She can generally find an answer."
"Herr von Wolczinski has learned that. But thanks are unnecessary in
this case. Any one would have acted as I did. It is a duty I must have
fulfilled towards any lady."
Judith's face brightened. "Any lady?" she repeated, hastily.
"Assuredly." Then he comprehended her meaning. "I knew you were--"
"A Jewess--yes!" she broke in. "But would you have done as much for any
Jewess? I mean, if I had been old and ugly--"
"Judith!" exclaimed Nathaniel. "What are you saying?" He seemed beside
himself. The count, too, was taken aback. "What coarse flirting!" he
thought. But the painful quivering of her lips contradicted that.
Her father's ejaculation showed her how her question might be
misinterpreted. She blushed painfully. "No, no!" she cried, her eyes
filling with tears. "_Mon Dieu!_ I only mean--"
She could not finish. Herr von Wroblewski and the Rittmeister entered,
followed closely by Herr Severin, his son, and cousin Jan.
The comedy was enacted as prescribed in the programme. Wladko stammered
the words written for him by Herr von Wroblewski. The count gave his
explanation. Jan expressed the opinion that Wladko had no longer an
occasion for hurt feelings, and the gentlemen shook hands. It lasted
but three minutes.
Judith stood motionless. "No wonder," said Herr Severin, as he left the
room with his following to the Rittmeister. "She is quite stupefied
with the honor." She pulled herself together when the count made
preparations to leave.
"Most gracious count," she began, with shaking voice, clasping her
hands involuntarily. "Do not think, when I began before--no, you would
be doing me injustice. But--I do not know if you understand me--but
that you, the principal gentleman here, whose society every one regards
as an honor, should--" Her voice was stifled in tears.
He felt as if dreaming--seeing the poor, beautiful girl trembling
before him, with upraised hands, and the emotions wakened in his heart
made him understand this tangled stammering.
"It would console you," he asked, "if I should answer your former
question quite candidly? You would then see that this prejudice is not
shared--" He was silent--"by us all," he was about to add; but, as an
honest man, he could not say it, for he had that prejudice.
"Yes, yes," she cried.
"Well, then, I would have done the same for anybody of your creed, as
Herr von Wroblewski can bear witness. He asked me the same question the
day before yesterday, and received the same answer."
The magistrate had been listening breathlessly. "It is so, 'pon my
honor."
"Thanks! thanks!" Judith murmured, and before the count could hinder
she had seized his hand and kissed it.
As Agenor was about to enter his carriage the next minute, the
magistrate said, "Will you do me a great favor, my dear count?
Wiliszenski, the poet, whom perhaps you know by reputation, is to read
us his latest verses quite _en famille_. As yet there are only five of
us, for my wife always invites Judith, though the girl does not seem to
care for the poet, preferring to spend the evening alone with the
albums, in the next room. May we hope to see you?"
He looked inquiringly into the count's face. The contemptuous glance
which he encountered did not disturb him. In fact, he smiled.
The count dropped his eyes. There he stood, his hand on the carriage
door, a picture of indecision.
"I regret," he said, finally, "I am engaged for tomorrow evening."
"What a pity!" exclaimed Wroblewski.
The carriage rolled away; he watched it smilingly, and the same smile
was on his lips when he went to his wife, and said, "Six guests
to-morrow evening."