It was three weeks later; a mild, bright October day. The landscape is
scantily blessed with that beauty which in more favored countries
delights the heart of man. Limitless plains surround us on all sides,
from which gently swelling billows of earth occasionally elevate
themselves above the dead level, only to sink back into it again.
Brooks and rivers roll their muddy, sluggish waters between miry banks,
from their birthplace in the distant mountains to the lower and
drearier steppe country, while here and there a streamlet is sucked up
by the thick turf, or dammed into a pond, whose broad, turbid mirror
reflects the reed of the small boggy islands and the pale, misty blue
of the firmament.
The small towns, where the Jews, the outcast chosen people (chosen, it
would seem, for unspeakable miseries), live huddled together in crowded
groups of wretched huts, are poor and dirty. More pitiful still are the
villages, where the Ruthene, sullen and fierce, ploughs the land under
the lash of the Pole.
Here and there are tiny plantations of birch-trees; but one may wander
over heath for miles and miles, where little grows but the juniper and
nothing blooms but the heather.
The winter is fearful, when the storms from the north drive the snow
across the vast plains. Short and scanty is the spring, and parching
the heat of summer; but the autumn, gentle and bright, revives the
hearts of the poor and refreshes the barren land. The heath takes on a
vivid crimson blush, the woods a darker tinge; the deep blue of the sky
is intensified by the greater purity of the atmosphere; and even
the stubble-field becomes a thing of beauty, with the transparent
spider-webs floating over it like a bridal veil.
The soothing calm of the autumnal day had its influence upon Count
Agenor, as he rode slowly homeward over the steppe, the air vibrating
with the music of the noonday bells. He started off early in the
morning, after a sleepless night, during which he had been tossed and
shaken as by spirits of evil.
That had come to pass which was inevitable after he had yielded to the
tempter and gone to the Wiliszenski recital. Since then, thanks to the
ingenuity of the magistrate, he had often met the beautiful Jewess
alone, and knew now he had no need to ask her whether she comprehended
that sensation which Christians call love.
Since yesterday, too, he felt he no longer required the medium so
obnoxious to him; for Judith had been in the park alone, had fallen on
his breast; his arm had clasped her youthful form, his lips had dared
to touch hers. And she had promised to go again, and he knew she would
keep her word.
True, he did not expect to attain his desire to-day; weeks might elapse
before he wakened the passion in her which raged in his veins. But the
hour must come when she would be his. Yet this certainly did not make
him happy. Quite the contrary. Never before had he felt so sad.
For, as she had said, he was an honest man. The handsome Uhlan officer
had enjoyed almost everything that the beauty of woman could offer him.
But on one point his conscience was clear. He had enticed no wife from
her husband's side; he had brought no girl to misery. This was to be
partly attributed to his exquisite sense of the requirements of his
noble birth, partly to the subjection he was still under to his late
father's wishes.
This clever and good man had early recognized that, in spite of many
noble qualities, his son was lacking in that which was most important
for the head of an impoverished branch of a noble house; that is,
energy of character and the power to say "no." So, with the best of
motives, he had striven to maintain and increase his influence over
him. It was principally owing to this that Agenor had always so
scrupulously held himself above reproach, until the death of his father
made him the head of the family. Never had a lie passed his lips. But
now he had lied and cheated, and if he wished to attain his desires he
must continue to do so.
The young count had won Judith because she thought him noble and
knightly, and free from prejudices against her nation. She trusted
entirely in his love and honor. One word about the gulf that divided
them, one intimation of the impossibility of making her his wife, and
she was lost to him forever. As yet she had said nothing to him about
the future--but if she did? And even if she did not, and he kept
silence, or was only ambiguous in his speech, would it rest any less
lightly on his conscience?
But, aside from all this, Agenor did not merely lust after the Jewess,
but loved her with his whole heart. He often questioned himself as to
how it happened, but never found an answer. Certainly her beauty had at
first inflamed his senses; but that was not all. She was so pure, so
noble in her pride, so touching in her submission, so pitiable in the
way she felt her position.
But this could not explain the mystery which had taken possession of
his heart. "Perhaps," he sometimes thought, "it is only pity, or horror
of the fate towards which I am leading her, if I continue so weak."
This fate seemed gloomy enough to him. "She is not a girl who would
accommodate herself to the position of a kept mistress, or would be
shrewd enough to save her reputation by marriage with another man."
Through the anxious nights he thought, with horror, "She cannot survive
it! You will be her murderer!" With feverish pulses he paced up and
down his bedroom till, quite worn out, he sank again into his chair.
But the voice of his conscience kept repeating, through the stillness
of the night, "Her murderer! if your weakness is not overcome."
Could he give her up? It seemed impossible; more impossible than ever,
now when every nerve of his body tingled with feverish, almost painful
desire. Could he make her his wife? "Rather die!" he said to himself;
and, as he sat there brooding over it, there seemed but one thing equal
to the disgrace of placing Judith Trachtenberg's name in the line of
his pedigree, and that was the committing a base action.
The dawn found him absorbed in these confused, antagonistic ideas. He
had his horse saddled, and galloped away across the heath, without
rest, without aim; then dropped the reins, and, as he rode slowly back
over the plain, from which the morning mists were rising, he became
more composed in body and mind. He had viewed things too gloomily in
the silence of this painful night, and he tried to strengthen himself
in this opinion by a thousand subterfuges. But there was one idea that
he could not coax himself to tolerate--that of a nobleman taking to his
arms a girl of inferior birth, and she, after years of separation,
meeting with a new love and a husband.
Still, though Agenor could not make her his wife, he could make this
proud, beautiful creature the companion of his life; and was this such
a disgraceful position that she would reject it with scorn? She would
not, if she loved him as the old chroniclers said Esther did the king.
He would be perfectly frank, and tell her she could count on his love
and fidelity, but not on his hand. He resolved upon this as he rode
home across the glowing heather. He would neither commit a crime
against her nor violate his conscience; and should she tear herself
away from him, he must find strength to endure it. If any one doubts
the possibility of renunciation, let him go to the moorlands in autumn
to learn it.
With a pacified conscience and filled with good resolves, he reached
home. As he entered the courtyard he frowned angrily. The magistrate's
britzska stood before the door. His interviews with this man were
growing more and more painful; each time Wroblewski became more
insolent and more familiar, and, in his present frame of mind, nothing
could be more unpleasant than a meeting with his "faithful aid."
He met his unwelcome guest in the breakfast-room. "You see," shouted
the latter, "I make myself quite at home; I have even ordered Jan to
put a plate for me."
Agenor nodded, sat down, and invited him by a wave of the hand to help
himself. "And to what am I indebted for this pleasure?" he asked,
abruptly.
"You don't appear to consider it much of a pleasure," the official
said, playfully, filling his plate. "And wrongly, too! You really ought
to be satisfied with me, or do you fancy you would have secured a
meeting in the park without my assistance?"
"Don't speak in such a tone," said the young man. "So you know of that
already."
"Oh, I know much more. My congratulations on the first kiss. Why, I was
in the garden myself, 'pon my honor; and, 'pon my honor, quite
accidentally, though it is not necessary to say that, for I am a
chevalier and will keep quiet about it." The repetition of the word
"honor" was not to be wondered at, as the whole story was a
fabrication. He had not seen the couple himself, but his wife, impelled
by curiosity and envy, had followed Judith, and had not only confided
the result of her observations to him, but also to the wife of the
burgomaster, a lady who filled a vacuum in the little town with rare
zeal, as she took upon herself the functions of a local newspaper, in
so far as her breath permitted. In this way it happened that every
individual in the town above the age of ten years knew of it.
"Is this all you have to tell me?" inquired the count.
The magistrate grew pathetic. "I don't deserve that. I came with the
very best intentions, and because I thought it necessary. I thought it
possible you might wish to utilize the absence of old Trachtenberg, and
so have appointed a rendezvous for to-day. I came to warn you.
Yesterday I saw two Jewish girls wandering about who might have
observed something. Don't forget the board has been taken down. It was
noble of you and very like King Casimir, who opened all gates to the
Jews at Esther's request. But take care! Her father has only gone to
Tarnopol and will return to-day. Of course, I have no idea what
progress you have made, but I should imagine an interference on the
part of the father might spoil your little game."
The count felt himself blushing with shame. He was about to use some
violent language, but had he not forfeited his right to do this?
"And now, my dear fellow," continued the magistrate, "I have a favor to
ask for myself."
He hesitated. The count drew out his purse. "How much?"
"No, no, I do not mean that. It will only cost a kind word to a man who
is dependent on you. I have got into a damnable fix, through pure good
nature, 'pon my honor."
Agenor glanced at the clock. It was one, and in a half-hour he had an
appointment with Judith in the park. "Well, tell me, and in as few
words as possible."
"I suppose you remember the farmer on your estate at Syczkow. An
Armenian, Bagdan Afanasiewicz? He was here when you came."
"Certainly; a stout man, with a long black beard. He was spoken of as a
very good and pious man, but avaricious."
"Quite right. His avarice and piety have been my misfortune. About four
months since--it was in June--a young priest, representing himself as
on his way to a new cure, came to Syczkow, and asked for a night's
lodging. The pious Bagdan received him hospitably, and when they were
at supper mentioned the distress he was in because of the excessive
drought, which nothing could relieve except a solemn procession. The
vicar of Syczkow was ill, and the vicar of the adjacent village
demanded twelve gulden for this service. The young priest offered to do
it for five. The vicar loaned his cope, the procession took place, and
rain fell the following day. As the stranger seemed to understand his
business, Bagdan had his new barn blessed for another five gulden, and
the peasants took the opportunity to have their children baptized at
cheaper rates. After a week the young priest continued his journey, and
if he had stayed away all parties would have been satisfied, and I
should have kept out of a row."
"Well?" asked Agenor, impatiently, looking at the clock.
"You shall hear. He returned, and this aroused the suspicions of even
Bagdan, for he remembered the priest had said he was to take charge of
a parish. Besides, the vicar of Syczkow was well again, and had no
inclination for having a competitor in his field. Inquiries were made,
and they found he was a scamp, born in the district of Zolkier, of good
family, to whom he had caused much trouble. He had acquired a certain
amount of clerical hocus-pocus by having been a novice in a monastery,
whence he was kicked out for sacrilege. Bagdan told me and several
others upon whom he had tried the same game, and I had him arrested.
But his brothers have sent a friend to me whose talents I esteem
greatly, and who has much influence over me, the poet Wiliszenski; and
he has prevailed upon me to give him his liberty because of his
innocent family, they pledging themselves to send him to Russia. I was
very loath to say yes, but it is so difficult to refuse anything to the
amiable poet. The Armenian then said I had been bribed to release the
fellow, who had not only cheated, but committed sacrilege into the
bargain. I!--bribed! Then he sent an appeal to the government at
Lemberg."
"But that can do you no harm," said the count, "your wife's uncle--"
"Has done his duty," broke in the magistrate, "and Bagdan received
the reply he deserved. But his piety and avarice will not let him rest.
The loss of his ten gulden and the blasphemy, as he calls it, grieve
him, so that he is having an appeal drawn up by some pettifogger
here to present to the archbishop of Lemberg. That I heard this
morning. Now you know the state of things in Austria. An official can
do much--but a cleric can do everything. If the archbishop receives
this communication, there will be an investigation, and though my
conscience is clear, yet--"
"I understand--I am to request Bagdan to let the matter drop. But how
can I interfere? The man is quite right."
"A friend is asking your help," said the magistrate, energetically. "In
such a case, one does not consider right and wrong. I have not in your
case. The man's name is Ignatius Tondka. Please make a note of it and
write to your farmer to-day."
Agenor turned his back, then walked hastily up and down the room. At
last he drew out his note-book and wrote the name.
"My best thanks," exclaimed the magistrate. "Your letter will go off
to-day, will it not? _Au revoir_."