Thaddeus von Wiliszenski was, with some exceptions, a Polish Walter von
der Vogelweide. He, too, gained less by his learning than by his
genius; he, too, wandered from castle to castle, exhorting the nobles
to justice--rejoicing when he received a new coat or negotiated a loan,
for I doubt if any one ever borrowed so much.
Like Walter, he was a political poet, though not a one-sided one, like
the German singer. He read stirring war-songs against Austria to the
nobles, and then, by order of the magistracy, composed odes for the
emperor's birthday. For the burghers he wrote lampoons against the
nobles; for the nobles, skits against the _bourgeoisie_.
He, too, belonged to the later nobility, for though a "von" was under
his poems and a coat-of-arms on his writing-paper, it was difficult to
trace his genealogy. Some, indeed, said he was the son of a shoemaker,
and had failed in the gymnasium; others, that he had been a barber's
apprentice.
It was equally difficult to ascertain his birthplace. Several provinces
strove about declining the honor. He was in the habit of saying he was
the son of that neighborhood in which he happened to be collecting
subscriptions, just at the time, for his poems. If the book had ever
appeared, a large edition would have been required, for one could
scarcely count the numbers from whom he had collected its price of
three gulden. But, like the Minnesaenger, he contented himself with
leaving it oral.
Uninvited, and suddenly as if dropped from the skies, he would appear
at the farm-houses. Sometimes he was kicked out after three, sometimes
after eight days' sojourn, for he never departed of his own volition.
But as one cannot live by poetry alone, he also acted as mediator when
bribery or some equally dirty business was on hand, which accounted for
his friendship with Von Wroblewski.
It was, then, in honor of this son of the muse that Lady Anna had made
this little party. There sat Wiliszenski, his long, tangled, sandy
curls in greater confusion than usual, while he declaimed poems in
honor of the great ones of the land. It had been long since he had
reckoned a count among his hearers, and he concluded that Agenor having
come, notwithstanding he had at first declined the invitation, it was
because of his interest in the poet. How gratifying, then, the close
attention which this wealthy man accorded him!
He was reading an historical ballad--"The Bloody Day;" the hero was a
Poniatowski, but the poet read it Baranowski, since it scanned equally
well. His breast was overflowing with a strong current of poetical
inspiration. "May the devil fetch me, if that is not worth fifty gulden
to me!"
When he had finished, all were silent. He was unable to see the faces
of his auditors, for Lady Anna had so placed the lamp-shade that the
light fell only on the manuscript. But deep silence was the highest of
all praise.
"Wonderful!" ejaculated the lady of the house. The jingle of the verses
had swept her ear without conveying a meaning. She had been watching
the count as he sat there motionless and awkward as a boy. A sigh
heaved her ample bosom. "What a magnificent fellow! And all this for
that Jewish girl!"
"Yes, very good indeed," said the count, rousing himself from his brown
study.
"Especially the descriptions of the landscape," remarked the
magistrate.
"What landscape?" inquired Judith, in surprise. She alone had followed
the poem, hoping thereby to regain her self-possession and quiet her
wildly beating heart. She had come in obedience to her father's wishes
when she heard the count had refused to come, but when he walked in so
unexpectedly she felt as though she must fly--fly from herself.
Herr von Wroblewski pretended not to have heard the gentle
interruption. "And these people!" he exclaimed, enthusiastically. "One
can really see them! And the feeling!" he added, cautiously. "There
must have been some such stupid rubbish," he thought. Then he gave his
daughter a signal, and she slipped out of the room unperceived.
"Our Thaddeus is a master mind," he exclaimed. "Some of his ballads
rival Mickowicz, _parole d'honneur!_ And he is so versatile! After what
he has just read, you would class him among sentimental poets. But now,
Thaddeus, give us those songs--'Venus in her Night-gown!'"
It was a collection of very ambiguous poems, which, at the last
recitation, had driven Judith into another room. She could not
understand what had so amused the rest of the company, but her instinct
had warned her that they were unfit for her ears.
"Perhaps later on," said the poet; "but now I should like to read the
'Ballad of King Casimir and the Beautiful Esther.'"
"What are you thinking of?" cried Wroblewski, anxiously, for he knew it
was a ribald poem against the Jews.
"Let it be!" said Thaddeus. "You have not heard the new version." For,
since several Jewish farmers in Eastern Galicia had proven their
interest in Polish literature by showing him hospitality for a few
days, he had transformed entirely the story of Casimir the Great and
his Jewish mistress. "That will fit in splendidly to-day," he thought,
"and I may perhaps receive one hundred gulden!" For he had heard of the
scene in the ballroom, and the character of his host was a guarantee
that Judith and the count had not been brought together on this
occasion by accident.
He began to read; the first verses quieted the apprehensions of the
head of the house. The former version had shown what a pestilence the
Jewish element had been in Poland, but this showed how the chosen
people of the Old Testament had found a sanctuary in the poet's native
land; and how Casimir, for love of the beautiful Esther, had granted
charters to the Jews, and finally made a queen of his beloved. The poem
closed with an ardent appeal to charity and fraternity.
Again all was still. "Excellent!" murmured the host, glancing at the
count. Entranced, he gazed at the excited face of the beautiful girl
opposite him. Judith did not notice him. Breathing deeply, she sat with
eyes half closed, buried in thought, carried away by the emotions
aroused by the poem. She had never before heard of the beautiful
Esther. It was a revelation that the boundaries which she had felt so
bitterly the past few days had not been set by nature; that there had
been a time when they had not existed; that there had been a queen of
Poland who had been a Jewess, and that it had been neither forbidden by
God nor hindered by man. And then again she experienced that not
inscrutable emotion which had stirred within her since the event of the
ballroom; though, to be sure, a count was not a king, but-- She aroused
herself as if to shake off these thoughts, and met the fixed fiery gaze
of the count. She started, and, blushing deeply, arose as if to take
flight.
"Admirable!" Wroblewski repeated, with sincerity. "But now I must
manage to arrange a private chat," he added to himself.
"Now, my dear poet, please let us have the Venus songs." He grinned
like a faun. "They are splendid count, I assure you."
The poet put out his hand for the dilapidated manuscript, for these
poems were the ones most in demand; but the count interfered. "I
think," he said, decidedly, "we had better ask Herr von Wiliszenski for
something else better fitted for the ears of ladies."
There was nothing more to be said; so a ghastly but insignificant
ballad was read, after which supper was announced, which passed off
very quietly. Judith and the count were silent, and the poet also; for,
to his idea, conversation at such a supper was a sinful waste of time,
and of opportunity which did not present itself every day. Wroblewski
had therefore to carry on the entire conversation himself; for his wife
was in a bad humor, as she did not approve of her husband's plans in
the slightest, but quite the contrary.
As she looked at the dreamy young girl, an idea, and a good one, so it
seemed, struck her. "Judith," she said, laughingly, "you are not
eating! Has it touched you so deeply that Wiliszenski made the
beautiful Esther a queen?"
The probe went deeper than she expected. The girl started, and changed
color. "Did she not become one?" she asked, almost under her breath.
Lady Anna laughed aloud. "Did you really believe it?"
"Why not?" exclaimed her husband, with an angry glance. "I believe it.
It was so, was it not, my dear Wiliszenski?"
The poet's mouth was so full just then that it was impossible to
respond immediately. An equivocal answer seemed wisest. He swallowed
hastily. "Some chroniclers say so."
"The most reliable," affirmed Wroblewski, energetically.
"Do come to my aid," said Lady Anna to the count. "I have always read
that she was only the king's mistress."
The count hesitated, but only for a second. "So she was," he said. "Our
poet knows the old chroniclers better than I do, no doubt; but his poem
would scarcely hold its own against the facts brought to light in
modern research. It has been proven that Casimir the Great opened his
land to the Jews for precisely the same reason as he did to the
Germans--that the middle class, which was lacking, might be created. It
is certain that the beautiful Esther fascinated him for a longer period
than did his other _amies_, but history has never allowed her much
influence over his actions."
"With due respect to your information," said the magistrate, "I must
say I have often read the contrary, 'pon my honor, very often! You
will, at least, allow that Casimir loved the Jewess better than he did
any Christian?"
"Certainly, they all assert that," Agenor answered.
They rose from the table and retired to the drawing-room. Wanda and
Judith sat down to look at some albums. Lady Anna entangled the count
in a conversation, while the poet took possession of the host. But the
latter listened abstractedly, though Wiliszenski was unfolding a
business scheme.
The magistrate had caused the arrest of a scoundrel of good family for
cheating. Thaddeus portrayed eloquently the grief of his relatives, on
account of his having disgraced the Franciscan monastery, where he had
been serving his novitiate. They now proposed to send him to Russia,
and wished to avoid public sentence of guilt; it would hurt them so
keenly.
"All right," responded the magistrate. "I am not a monster; but we will
talk of it after a while. Now go into the smoking-room."
The poet obeyed. Wanda vanished at her father's nod; and Lady Anna, who
did not dare to cross his plans for a second time that day, also
withdrew, though unwillingly.
"Now, my dear count," said the magistrate, with a glance at Judith, "I
must beg you to excuse me, too."
"But, Herr von Wroblewski--" Agenor began.
"What is it you wish?"
"I must say I do not approve of the way in which--" He paused, although
his host stood before him, with drooping eyes, like a penitent sinner.
"Don't scold me," Wroblewski said. "Do not spoil my pleasure in seeing
you here, although so unexpectedly." He bowed, and left the room.
The count bit his lips, and looked hesitatingly, first after him and
then at Judith. She stared at the book which lay before her. The
lamp-light shone on her auburn hair and delicate rosy face. He drew a
deep breath, and stepped up to her.
She glanced up at his approach, and when she saw they were alone she
seemed ready to run.
"What is interesting you so?" he asked, as unconcernedly as he could,
looking at the engraving open before her. "Heidelberg? A splendid town!
My regiment was in Mayence for some time, and I often ran over to
Heidelberg."
"My brother is going there to stay," said Judith.
The count inquired why Raphael had not attended an Austrian
high-school, to which she replied that it was Bergheimer's advice, who
had so strongly recommended the law schools of Heidelberg; that her
father had the greatest confidence in Bergheimer, and had intrusted to
him the education of both her brother and herself. The count then asked
in what subjects she had been taught, and the methods of instruction,
so that, if the magistrate had been eavesdropping, the conversation
would not have interested him much.
But after a time it took a more important turn. She told him Bergheimer
was a zealous botanist, and had made a good herbarium of plants,
special to Eastern Galicia.
"Then I suppose the gardens of the castle interested him?" said Agenor.
"Certainly. Though he was never there."
"Why not?"
"He was not allowed. Admission is forbidden to Jews, as you will see on
the board at the entrance. But do not think this embittered him. He
always said: 'It is not the fault of the count; such a board stands on
the park-gates of every castle in Podolia. If they should be removed,
it would create great gossip.' Bergheimer is such a noble, gentle
creature. He never dreamed of an exception being made in his favor,
although he is so fond of flowers. 'Perhaps the gardener would allow
it,' he used to say, 'but I do not wish for any advantages above my
brethren.' And he was right."
"Then you, too, have never been in the garden?"
"Yes," she answered, blushing deeply. "I have often been there with
Wanda and the burgomaster's daughters, and occasionally alone. The
custodians know me, but they said nothing, and I was weak enough to be
glad of it. I fancied I was superior to the others. But I have atoned!
How I felt when I recognized--"
"By that scene in this house," he said, interrupting her. "I have only
known since yesterday what an impression it must have made upon you,
and a wrong one. Fraeulein Judith! Believe me, this gulf--"
She listened intently, but he came to a stand. No, he could not, he
ought not, lie.
"Well, the gulf?"
"Is not so deep, after all. But why talk about it? Your brother, then,
is in Heidelberg!"
A sad smile played around her lips. "You are an honest man, Count
Baranowski. Once before this evening you alone had the courage to speak
the truth. Now I understand why I never heard of the beautiful Esther
from either my father or Raphael or Bergheimer."
"And why not?"
Her face glowed. "She was an outcast."
"A hard judgment! Just think how Casimir loved her."
"I do not believe it. Perhaps I ought not to talk about it. It does not
seem quite proper. But yet why should I be silent? If he had really
loved her, he would have made her his wife; or if this was not
possible, since he was a king and she a Jewess, then he should have
kept away from her, and not brought her to shame--the worst of fates.
For if her name is ever spoken among us Jews, it would be as
disgraced."
"I do not know about that," he answered. "Any one with human feelings
ought not to condemn her so mercilessly, even had Casimir not been a
king. Suppose she loved him with all her heart?"
Judith shook her head.
"You do not believe it?
"I don't know;" she was confused, but conquered herself, and continued
bravely: "At least I have never heard of such love among ourselves. My
parents, for instance; no one could have found a happier pair, yet they
were introduced to each other at their betrothal. And this is generally
the case. I think we must be different in this regard from other
races."
"Do you really believe so?" he exclaimed. "For then nature herself has
formed the gulf. But I think you are mistaking cause for effect.
Isolation and the clinging to ancient usages have brought your people
to it. When I see you standing before me, I think--"
"Please do not talk of me," she implored, in such a piteous tone that
he became silent instantly.
"How quiet!" said a laughing voice during the unpleasant pause. It was
Lady Anna.
The following day, as Judith entered the dining-room at the
dinner-hour, her father came to meet her. "A letter from our dear
ones!" he exclaimed, "from Breslau. They have journeyed that far
without pausing, but they propose to remain there a week before
crossing Saxony and Bavaria to the Neckar. Only think, Bergheimer has
found our old pupil from Mayence in Breslau. He is a banker, named
Berthold Wertheimer, and Bergheimer cannot laud him enough. I have
written to Raphael, and told him of the generous conduct of our count.
How much he and the others of our co-religionists have misjudged the
man!"
"What conduct?" inquired Judith.
"Have you not heard of it yet? The whole town is talking of it. The
sign-board at the entrance of the castle gardens has been removed, and
he has notified the heads of the congregation in a very pleasant
letter. I suppose you will wish to add something to this letter to
Raphael. He sends you his love, and says: 'Judith's promise at our
parting to remember our last conversation makes me very happy.' What
does he mean by that?"
"Nothing," she murmured. "Only childishness!"
"I thought so; but you are surely not well, my child? You are so pale!"