Four weeks had passed away. It was a dull, dirty November day. The gray
snow-clouds were lowering, and now and then the lazy flakes fell,
turning to water in the air and to mud on the ground. Between the
slippery ploughed land and the low strata of clouds, the mists lay
thick and motionless. The mild west wind that blew at times in the
upper regions of the atmosphere did not reach them, and there they lay,
as if wedged in, the gray ocean of vapor absorbing every tone and
color. Even the sharpest eye could see but a few steps in advance.
The heath was quite deserted. A man who came from the west, driving
towards the town in a light wagonette, met no one of whom he could ask
the way. The wagonette was empty, and the fiery steeds, when he
slackened the reins, galloped along at such a pace that the mud flew up
in waves; yet the driver urged them along in the gray twilight.
It was now nearly midday, but no lighter than when he started in the
early morning. "Drive on, Fedko; it is a case of life and death," the
butler had said when he was told to go, and indeed he knew it himself.
So again he allowed the reins to slacken, when suddenly the carriage
stood still. The horses reared, but in vain. The tough bog in which
they had sunk to the knees held them fast. The man jumped out, but he,
too, stuck fast; they must have driven on the ploughed land at the turn
of the road.
There he stood helpless--what was he to do--where was he to turn?
"_Jesu, Marie!_" he cried, "perhaps in the meantime she will die!"
Suddenly he heard a distant sound. He listened. It was the bell from
the tower of the Dominican convent chiming the hour of noon.
He seized the reins and lashed the horses; they plunged madly.
Following the sound, he succeeded in getting back to the road, where he
could see through the mist the red cross at the entrance of the town.
Five minutes more and the magistrate would have the letter.
But it was destined to be much longer than that. He had only reached
the first detached houses when he met a crowd of people. "Make way!" he
shouted; but he was obliged to drive at walking pace, and when he came
into the built-up street his horses were brought to an entire
standstill. The thoroughfare was filled with a compact body of people.
It was as if the entire population were wedged together. Christians and
Jews, men and women, now pushing forward, now backward, but without
noise or tumult.
They whispered to one another, and when Tedko made an effort to push
his way through they only said, under their breath, "Don't you see it's
a funeral?" With this he had to be content; so he drove up close under
the monastery wall. He did not ask who was dead--that was no concern of
his. And perhaps it was well that he did not ask, and well that he did
not wear the livery of his master, Count Agenor Baranowski.
They were the poorest of the people who waited to join the funeral
procession--grooms, day laborers, and beggars, a rough lot, who
generally eke out a cheerless existence, without any particular
pleasure or pain, unless it be the care for their daily bread.
There must have been a close tie between them and the deceased, for if
one of them raised his voice or pushed forward at all noisily he was
instantly hushed into silence.
There was not one of the Jews who had not a deep rent in his garment.
As this mode of grief is seldom observable except in the case of
relations, the dead man seemed a connection of all. So, too, it was
easy to read in the excited faces, and in the murmurs which now and
then ran through the crowd, that their sorrow was strongly mingled with
indignation.
Weeping and wailing came from the house of mourning. "It is his sister
and her children from Tarnopol," whispered the crowd. "His son has not
come yet."
Suddenly a weird sound arose, increased in volume, and ceased. It was
the short prayer said by the burial guild before they enter the house
to carry out the corpse.
"Make way!" resounded through the ranks, and the people pressed
together to leave the middle of the street free. Some climbed on the
count's carriage. The coachman made no objections. He sprang from his
seat, and busied himself about the horses. Poor, rude serf as he was,
he was no more in fault than the horses he drove, the same with which,
four weeks before, he had driven his master and Judith to the retired
lodge in the Carpathians; but he could not feel comfortable on his
raised seat, for he now knew who was about to be borne to his last
home.
But before this, another incident was to intensify the excitement. A
piercing shriek was heard and a cry, "Raphael has come!"
When this news reached the house of mourning a prayer, just commenced,
was suddenly stopped. The good order was for a time disturbed, and
inquiries arose as to whether the report was true and where he was, to
which no answer could at first be obtained. Finally some one told those
in front, who passed the tidings on, that Raphael, hearing he was too
late, had swooned away, but that, recovering quickly, he had gone into
the house by the rear door, that he might take leave of his father.
"Stand back!" came the order. "The procession will start directly." The
crowd obeyed, but their grief and anger became more apparent. The
wailing of the women increased, and they cursed Judith and the count
with loud voice and clenched fists.
Fedko drew his cap farther over his face. "If they knew what has
happened this morning!" he thought. Verily, he did not care to change
places with his master.
A minute later the prayers recommenced. The gutturals of the Hebrew
ritual, solemn and impressive, penetrated the murky atmosphere. The
procession was in order. In front, led by their teachers, came the boys
of the congregation, the smallest first, all clad in long black
garments. They walked two by two in silence, until, at a given signal,
they burst into a prayer. It was short--so short that it was as though
the hundred clear, childish voices had given vent to one simultaneous
cry of grief. To this versicle, entreating for the peaceful repose of
the dead, the crowd responded, "Amen! Amen!"
The youths followed, and then the men, all in their best attire, the
caftan of cloth or silk being torn open on the breast. Some prayed
silently, but the greater proportion walked along with bowed heads and
lowering faces.
Between times was heard the shrill cry, "Save the soul!" from the
watchers of the dead, as they held the alms-bags to the spectators.
The burial guild came next, shrouded in white linen blouses, their
heads covered with a white praying-cloth. On a bier, carried by six
men, was the corpse, the feet foremost, wrapped in a white cloth, not
in a coffin, so that the outlines of the form were distinctly visible.
The women sobbed aloud, the men beat their breasts, imploring, "Peace,
peace!"
After the other part of the fraternity, that alone has the right to
surround the dead, had passed by, and the mourners became visible, a
still stronger emotion stirred the multitude. Raphael, still in his
mud-bespattered travelling-clothes, walked alone. He must have rent his
garments so violently as to tear the flesh, for fresh blood-stains were
on the edges. His face was gray as ashes, and his hair was doubly black
by contrast; his features seemed petrified. He walked erect, his eyes
fixed on the bier and his dead father's head. He declined the support
of his uncle, who was near him, and only the deeply drawn corners of
his mouth and the half-closed lips betrayed the agony he was enduring.
He was not so much a mourner as an avenger.
"Poor fellow!" a woman would sob occasionally, but the men watched him
with bated breath, and when one shouted, "Avenge him! we will help
you!" they all joined in as if waiting for the call. The town doctor
and overseers, who walked behind Raphael, looked around frightened, for
the Christian dignitaries followed them, the burgomaster at their head.
Herr von Bariassy was there also, with his subordinates. The magistrate
alone was missing.
The procession moved slowly into the sea of fog over the dripping
heather to the "Good Place," as the Eastern Jew calls the graveyard.
All who could joined the procession. Fedko had a free road now, yet it
seemed to him the right thing to drive to the back door, as if his
errand were one which could not bear even this dismal daylight.
The staircase to the first floor was locked, and when he knocked one of
the two Hussars who were walking, apparently idly, up and down, came
and asked his business. After the soldier was satisfied, he knocked
twice, and another Hussar opened the door, while a fourth stood at the
head of the stairs. Finally the cook appeared. "Our master is ill; ill
with terror," she whispered to Fedko. "He is so afraid of Jews! That is
the reason these soldiers are here. But he will be certain to see you,"
and a few minutes after the coachman was requested to step in.
The magistrate sat in an arm-chair, looking very ill. His face grew
paler and more agitated as he glanced over the letter. It contained but
two lines: "As misfortune has occurred and I am helpless, come quickly,
and bring the doctor with you."
He sprang to his feet. "What has happened?" he asked, tremblingly.
"If it isn't in the letter, I--" Fedko began, hesitatingly.
"Speak out! I am to go to Borky, and take the doctor with me; so it
surely cannot remain secret from me. The Jewess appears to be ill."
The coachman nodded, "Yes, very ill."
"Has she injured herself?"
The man was silent.
"Speak! how did this calamity take place? The doctor must take his
necessary instruments."
"She fell into the lake."
"When?"
"This morning, early. The count was still asleep."
"Who saved her?"
"The butler and myself. It was a hard piece of work. She struggled so.
We only got her to land when she became unconscious."
The magistrate walked nervously up and down. "And this in addition!
Surely the scandal was great enough. But what am I to do? You can fetch
the doctor yourself. But not the town doctor. He is a Jew himself. The
only good thing in the affair is that they do not know where she is. I
will give you a line to the regimental doctor in Roskowska."
He went to his desk, and began to write. After a few words he dropped
his pen. "Fedko, it is a puzzle. The Jew died yesterday at noon, and
this happened this morning. Who the devil told it to the girl so
quickly?"
"Nonsense, sir!" answered the coachman. "No stranger has been in the
castle. She has not heard it yet."
"But what other reason could she have, the silly fool? She is there
enjoying a thousand pleasures with her lov--"
He paused in the middle of the word. This Ruthene boor was staring at
him in such a curious way. "This is very bad," he thought, "and he may
repeat it. It cannot be allowed. This scandal on top of the other, and
I am undone. They must leave, both of them."
He got up from his desk. "I will drive with you." He went to the
window, and peered into the street, which was quite deserted. "Where is
the carriage--at the court-yard gate? Very good. Then we can reach
Roskowska unobserved. These stupid Jews threatened me last night."
He sent Fedko into the anteroom, and dressed rapidly. Lady Anna came
in, and he told her the purport of his journey. The pair exchanged
brief but hearty farewells. She summed up his activity in the affair in
one word, while he thanked her with a delicate reference to the prior
and the Rittmeister. He then went down-stairs, glancing timorously into
the open door of the death-chamber as he passed. The windows were
shrouded, and the numerous pictures turned to the wall. A small oil-lamp,
the "soul-lamp," was burning in one corner of the darkened room, while
the boards creaked as if drawing a breath of relief, because freed from
their ghastly burden.
The official shivered as he hastened through the court-yard and jumped
into the carriage. One of the Hussars took his place by the side of the
coachman, and away they drove through the deserted street and along the
riverside to the suburb Roskowska, where were the Hussar barracks and
the residence of the regimental physician.
He was at home, ready to start, and willingly promised silence. But
when the magistrate told him who needed his services, and requested him
to take the necessary remedies with him, the rough old gentleman was
deeply moved.
"Trachtenberg's daughter!" he said; and his bristly white moustache
quivered. "Yesterday I attended the death-bed of her father, to-day the
daughter's; and two months since how happily and peaceably these people
lived! Oh, my dear sir, a terrible crime has been committed!"
"A good deal could be said on that subject," equivocated Von
Wroblewski, helping the doctor to pack what was required. He dismissed
the Hussar, but ordered the coachman to drive around the town, so they
would not meet the returning procession. He then gave his version of
the story to the doctor. "You see," he concluded, "how the mob wrong
me. Nor is the count as guilty as he seems. The fanaticism of the old
man is really to blame. 'I would rather see my child a corpse than that
she should become Countess Baranowski.' Those were his words, 'pon my
honor. Otherwise Agenor would not have proceeded to violence."
"All the better," rejoined the doctor. "He can marry her now. The dead
make no objections."
"Hm--" The magistrate cleared his throat, but he had no answer ready.
The idea kept running in his mind, "Anyhow, it would be an escape." He
begrudged the Jews a triumph; but if Agenor did this, he would escape
an unpleasant investigation. Yet it was not to be thought of. Though
the young man might be as wax in other matters, in this he was iron.
His lineage, his purse, his blood, were ever in his mind. How did he
once express himself? "Only if I had to choose between a Jewess and a
jail would I stop to consider which would be the greatest insult to my
ancestors." But if he did not wish to marry, and if this was the only
way to keep Judith alive and quiet the scandal, what then?
The magistrate closed his eyes involuntarily. He was a hard,
unscrupulous man, and his entire life had been one long lie, but even
he shuddered at the thought that just now occurred to him. It would be
too base, and dangerous besides. He offered the doctor a cigar, and
began to talk about the bad weather; and, indeed, it was a rough
journey over the miry road and through the gray, dripping solitude.
The conversation soon dropped. Too dangerous? The idea recurred again.
But it might not be. The interested parties would be silent, and, as it
was, Judith and the count must leave the country. It would satisfy the
girl. She would be provided for, and the supposititious scoundrel could
probably be found, for, in spite of his assumed oaths, it was not
likely that he had gone to Russia. If the count was willing, that would
be the best way of escape.
By this time he was able to comfortably elaborate the plan in all its
details. A queer sensation took possession of him, but in his heart of
hearts he was afraid of himself; and yet he experienced a certain
delight in thinking what an inventive genius he was. This must have
been pictured on his face, for the doctor asked, in astonishment,
"What makes you so cheerful?"
Wroblewski became sober instantly. "I thought--well, what did I think?
I believe it will end well, after all. As regards the girl, I trust to
your skill. It would be sad if the pretty creature perished so
miserably."
"Yes," was the answer, "it would be sad, and also very disagreeable for
you."
"For me? But, my dearest doctor, you surely do not think I am afraid of
the complaint made by the girl's father to the government. Little can
be done to the count, and nothing to me. _Mon Dieu!_ we are living in a
country where the law is respected. The government will surely act
according to law and order, and hand over the document to be examined
by--"
"Yourself?"
"Not by myself, but by the magistracy here. That is a great difference.
Just see," he continued, pathetically, "what a revengeful people these
Jews are. Instead of making his peace with God, the old man used his
last span of life in elaborating and carrying out a plan of revenge on
those he supposed were his enemies."
"Although they treated him like Christians!" said the doctor, and his
white moustache worked again. "But I believe the case to be otherwise.
Nathaniel Trachtenberg would have died sooner if he had not felt
compelled to fulfil this last mandate of conscience. That is also the
conviction of my colleague, the town doctor. We watched with surprise
and emotion the power of mind over matter; the feeble body sustained by
the iron will. I was the first physician with him the morning of his
daughter's flight, as my colleague was absent. He got up, it seemed,
after the old servant told him her knocking at Judith's door had been
useless, and, going to her room, he broke the oaken planks with the
weight of his body as if they had been straw. He read the note he found
on her table, and fell to the floor. It was a stroke which affected the
brain partially, and the whole of the left side. When, an hour after
the seizure, I went to the bedside to open a vein, I said to myself,
'You are tormenting a dying man. He won't survive the evening,' he
looked inquiringly at me, and babbled something with his paralyzed
tongue. As I could not understand, he wrote, 'How long have I?' I was
on the point of lying; but when I looked at him I could not, but
answered that it rested in God's hands. He wrote again: 'Have mercy,
and give me three weeks;' and the look he gave me I shall never forget.
By that time the elders of the congregation had assembled, and he began
to write his wishes, which were immediately obeyed. One messenger was
sent to his relatives, another to his lawyer, and another to Dr.
Romberg, a solicitor in Lemberg. I objected at first; but when I saw
how his eye grew brighter and brighter and his writing more and more
distinct, I felt, so to say, queer, and allowed it to go on. Then came
the most serious difficulty. He longed for his son in Heidelberg, and
they calculated it would take five weeks to reach him, if summoned by
letter. But in less than ten minutes a young fellow was found who was
willing to travel night and day. So, you see, my dear sir, though much
can be said against the Jews, they have at least a great regard for the
dying and the dead."
"Too great, alas!" ejaculated Herr von Wroblewski. "I don't wish to
throw a stone at the dead man, for he was blinded by hate. But how is
it these people, usually so prudent, allow themselves to be incited
against me? It will be their own destruction. I know for certain that
this Jewish scribbler from Lemberg, the most clever quibbler in
Galicia, has drawn up quite an accusation against me; and these people,
who generally hardly dare to breathe in my presence, crowded up to sign
it. Of course, it was lies, nothing but lies, 'pon my honor! You must
acknowledge, doctor, a Christian would never have spent his last breath
in hatching plans of revenge."
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Possibly it was not merely a desire
for revenge that urged him on. My colleague and myself witnessed these
exciting daily scenes, of course, at the bedside of the deceased, most
unwillingly, and protested against them. But he always replied--" The
old gentleman paused.
"Well?" said Wroblewski, "one whose conscience is as clear as mine can
listen to anything."
"His answer was: 'It is this duty which keeps me alive. It cries to
heaven that such a man should be a judge. I will not go before God's
throne until I have done my utmost to purify the earth from him.'
Pardon me, Herr von Wroblewski!"
In spite of himself, the magistrate had grown pale. "Please, don't
mention it. It does not matter in the least. It is too unjust, too
foolish! The count elopes with his daughter, and he wishes to punish
me. If it grieved him so terribly, he might have employed his last
energies in getting her back again. The Jews are such a clever race
that it would have been easy for them to have discovered the count's
hiding-place."
"Castle Borky?" said the doctor. "Nathaniel and the elders knew that
the evening after the elopement. It was superfluous trouble on your
part to bind me to secrecy. There were a number of men who wished to
bring Judith back by main force, that she might be judged by the
congregation, but Nathaniel forbade it. 'No,' he said, 'some one will
lose his life, perhaps, or you will be heavily punished by the courts.
It is not worth while to incur danger on account of such an outcast.
And why judge her? God will do that. For you and me she is a corpse.'
Yet in the secret depths of his heart he must have had some feeling for
the unhappy girl, for he fought long against the fearful ceremony
customary in such cases, though it is very rarely carried out. It is
said this is the first time in two hundred years that a Jewess of this
congregation has eloped with a Christian. When he finally agreed, he
made one stipulation, which certainly would not have been granted to
any one else. But they could not refuse him, their head, her father."
"I don't understand. What ceremony?"
"The funeral!"
"What!" exclaimed the magistrate, in surprise, "have they buried
Judith?" He was on the point of laughing, but the expression on his
companion's face sobered him.
"It was so ghastly that I shall never forget it. My colleague and I had
so arranged it that the last few days one of us was always with him. We
relieved each other every six hours. But we knew very well we could not
detain the escaping life much longer. He had weakened considerably
after the lawyer's visit. There was no fresh stroke, but the tissues
were being fast consumed. He lay there as if asleep, stammering his
son's name now and then; and, indeed, had he not longed so greatly
to see his son he would probably have died sooner. As I entered the
room about eleven o'clock, day before yesterday, to relieve my
colleague, he whispered to me: 'The end is fast approaching. Stay with
him, but do not interfere, no matter what occurs.' Shortly after, the
elders entered the room, and with them the rabbi, all clad in their
praying-garments. They bowed to him, and asked if they had his consent.
He nodded, the door opened and twelve men belonging to the burial guild
came in, wearing white shrouds, carrying a curious burden. It was a
large, handsome rose-tree in full bloom, the damp earth still clinging
to its roots. Goodness knows where they got it. Perhaps from Count
Baranowski's conservatory. They took the bush to the bed, and Nathaniel
put out his hand and touched its crown. His lips moved. It may have
been a blessing, or it may have been a farewell greeting. While this
was being done, the others hid their faces with their praying-cloths,
and some sobbed aloud. The bush was then taken into the middle of the
room, the rabbi stepped forward--I have never seen a more malignant
face--and spoke a few words loud and rough: I think it was a curse. He
then seized the bush with both hands, broke it, and threw the pieces on
the floor before him. One after another the men went up, snatched a
blossom and scattered the leaves, until the bush stood bare as well as
broken. I went to the foot of the bed. The old man kept his eyes
closed, but he knew what was going on. A feeble groan burst from his
lips, and tears coursed down his cheeks. He remained in the same
position when the 'soul-lamp' was lighted for her who was from
henceforth to be considered dead. Nor did he move when they made the
cut in his shirt, which is emblematical of the rent made in the life of
the mourner. At last the bier was brought in; the broken bush was
placed on it, with the leaves which had been carefully gathered up; a
white pall was spread over all, and then they departed. The elders
followed, and I was again alone with Nathaniel for about two hours. I
held his hand in mine, for I could not speak. At the end of that time
the rabbi and elders returned, and the former, stepping up to the
couch, said: 'It is finished, and because thou wast a just man all the
days of thy life, may the Almighty prolong it! We have done according
to thy will--thy daughter's grave is between that of thy wife (may she
rest in peace!) and that which thou hast chosen for thyself. And when
the Lord shall call her to judgment, and she dies in our own faith,
that grave shall be open for her. We swear it to thee!' Nathaniel
nodded. His breathing became more and more quiet, but he lasted ten
hours, until yesterday noon, when he fell asleep--"
The doctor drew a long breath. "Excuse me, but not just now," he
exclaimed, abruptly, as he saw the magistrate about to speak; "when I
think of that empty grave and of her to whom I am going--" He pulled
the carriage window down and leaned out, as if to breathe more freely,
until the rain beat upon his hot forehead.
"Another sentimental fool!" thought the magistrate. "Curious, but most
people are sentimental." But he dared not speak. So they drove slowly
along. The twilight has given place to night, and as they were nearing
the mountains, and the ground was ascending, the tired horses dragged
the carriage through the mud at walking pace. At last they came to a
standstill.
"What is the matter?" the magistrate asked, leaning out of the window.
"I don't know," was the answer. "Two horsemen with torches, followed by
a carriage, are coming to meet us. I must stop so they can pass on this
narrow road."
They proved to be servants of the count. The butler was in the
carriage. He opened the door. "At last, sir! Have you brought the
doctor with you? Our master is nearly mad, and has sent me out to look
for you."
"Is she worse?" inquired the doctor.
"I don't know," said the butler, anxiously; "it was bad enough from the
beginning. She is in the most violent fever. Two maids can hardly hold
the poor thing on her couch. If the gentlemen would step into my
carriage, we should reach the castle in half an hour, the horses being
fresher."
Castle Borky was originally only a shooting-box of the Baranowskis, but
the last occupant had been a misanthropic bachelor who had added
considerably to the building, converting it into a residence. Situated
on the lower slope of the mountains, it commanded a splendid view over
the plain. This outlook, in fact, was its only attraction, for the
garden, though large, was not ornamental. The pond, on whose shore that
desperate struggle had taken place, had been artificially excavated in
the plateau behind the house.
Beaching the house, they were met by the count. "Dr. Reiser," he cried,
taking his hand, "come quickly!"
He led him up the stairs and through a suite of rooms until they stood
in the sick-room. There was Judith, her haggard face deathly white, her
forehead so covered with perspiration that her auburn hair clung to her
temples in disordered locks. Her eyes were shut, and her limbs shook
with fever. Two servants, common wenches, with coarse faces, cowered at
the foot of the bed.
"She is asleep," whispered the count.
The doctor shook his head, went softly to her, and looked at the
emaciated features of the girl he had known a few weeks before as a
blooming beauty. His heart beat hard as he remembered the rose-bush.
She opened her eyes; the mad light of fever shone in them. "Agenor,"
she whispered. Baranowski bent over her tenderly, answering, "Here I
am! What is it?"
"Agenor!" she shrieked, "have pity on me and let me die!"
She attempted to rise, but he pushed her gently back on the pillows.
"Mercy!" she repeated, resisting violently. "You must know I cannot
live so any longer. I will not curse you. I will bless you, but let me
die. There is the pond."
The count was again obliged to hold her till the paroxysms were past.
"It has been like this for fourteen hours," he whispered to the doctor.
"Chills and fever alternating; and she never ceases repeating those
same words. It is heart-breaking."
"Yes, it is heart-breaking," was the reply, quietly given, but the
words were as cold and sharp as the stab of a dagger.
Again the doctor bent over the couch. With the exception of some
bruises on her hands and a cut on the right cheek, caused probably by
the sharp leaf of a water-flag, there were no injuries perceptible. He
took the measure of her temperature and felt her pulse. At his touch
she opened her eyes and stared at him.
"Dr. Reiser!" she suddenly exclaimed. "You are good. Let me go to the
pond. You are a friend of my father, and I must preserve my father from
this disgrace."
The doctor covered her up carefully and went into the dressing-room.
Agenor followed.
"What do you think of her?" he inquired, anxiously.
"As a medical man, I have little to say," said the old gentleman,
roughly. "The external injuries are not worth mentioning. There seem no
indications of any inflammatory condition of the lungs or brain. The
fever is violent, but not excessive, and is quite explained by the
occurrence this morning. If her mind were at rest, or she had fallen
into the water accidentally, she would be able to leave her bed in a
day or two."
"But as it is at present?" said the count, nervously.
"It will have a bad ending. I could not swear to it, but it is my
conviction. I will put her to sleep with an opiate, and will try to
check the fever. I hope by to-morrow her mind will be clear. But what
good will that do, since her wish for death has not been created by the
fever? She will beg neither you nor me for death to-morrow, but she
will find it for herself."
Agenor wrung his hands, saying:
"I will do anything to quiet her. She looks at everything in too black
a light--perhaps I may prove it to her. I shall never desert her, never
leave her to her fate, never! I shall watch her carefully, and have her
watched."
The doctor shook his head.
"Nonsense!" he said, harshly; "if and how you can convince her is your
own affair; but don't attempt supervision. I have my own experiences of
that sort of thing. And if it succeeded, it would only be verifying the
manner of her death. For if she did not die in the pond, she would in
her bed. There is no such thing, my dear sir, as a broken heart; it is
only to be found in novels. But there is such a thing as consumptive
fever. I saw Judith six weeks ago, and now again, and I can assure you
she is in a fair way for it. As affects my conscience, the difference
in the manner of death would not be considerable, but I must leave to
you which you prefer to adopt."
He opened his medicine-chest, and began to prepare a drink.
The count sighed profoundly.
"Dear Dr. Reiser, you judge me severely. A man like you ought to know
life. These affairs rarely end tragically. I assure you I look at my
duties to Judith very seriously. But a marriage would be a moral
suicide. That you must acknowledge."
The doctor turned around sharply and looked into the count's face. It
was very gloomy.
"I admit it. But can one commit a physical murder to save one's self
from moral suicide?"
"What am I to do?" groaned the young man.
Dr. Reiser shrugged his shoulders. "Choose that which seems easiest.
Consider the case--you look ill--go and have a sleep. I will be
guarantee for tonight. Good-night."
He passed into the sick-room. Agenor gazed after him, sighing deeply,
and then went into his bedroom, where he threw himself on a sofa, in
the dark. There he remained for an hour, racking his brain--murder or
suicide--was there, indeed, no third alternative?
A knock on the door aroused him thoroughly. It was the butler.
"Herr von Wroblewski wishes to know if you will speak to him to-day. If
not, he will go to bed."
In his trouble he had forgotten this man--a scoundrel who had always
given him evil counsel, yet who was in the matter his only confidant,
and for this reason he had turned to him this morning in his
helplessness. "I will come," he hastily answered.
He found his guest in the dining-room on the ground-floor. The latter
had enjoyed the meal which had been served, and was now comfortably
stretched out, with wine and cigars. "Excuse me," the count began.
"Pray, pray don't mention it. You have heavy cares just now. I only
sent for you because I am really somewhat tired. Just sit down and let
me know how I can help you. You must surely see that I am your friend.
'Pon my honor, it was not easy to leave my office and family to come
here. But have courage, and tell me."
"Thanks. What happened here this morning--"
"I already know," said Wroblewski, "though I do not quite comprehend
it. I do not wish to blame you, but you do not seem to have acted quite
prudently. When you suggested, the evening before the elopement, that
Judith might take it tragically, and therefore your conscience would
not allow it, what did I say? 'Your conscience? That is your affair.
Consider it well.' Now, thought I, 'the count knows Judith better than
I, and his position to her; either he will not consider his scruples
justified and will come, or they will, after consideration, seem well
founded; and then, out of pure friendship, I will catch cold at the
open window.' You came, consequently your conscience was clear, and
that sufficed for me."
"Dare yon speak so to me?" cried the count.
The magistrate evidently thought it more politic to misconstrue this
insulting ejaculation. He said, innocently, "Of course! Who else than
I, your only faithful friend? But it is not intended as a complaint; as
I have once before said, you made a mistake. You ought to have
disillusionized the girl carefully and delicately. Everything has its
way, and much depends on that. You ought never to have permitted such a
brutal affair as that fight in the water to have occurred. You have
found maids to-day. Why didn't you yesterday?"
"We will not speak of that," said the count. "Nor will we argue as to
whether you aroused my conscience or not, or whether you always did as
I wished. Your conduct does not lessen my guilt; at least, not in my
sight. I have acted basely and cruelly and carelessly. The first few
weeks we passed in a delirium. I thought of nothing in the world but
her, and she only of me. Then came the wakening. She asked and urged,
never dreaming I would refuse to marry her. She only wondered why the
priest was so long in coming to baptize her and to marry us. You can
believe I expiated a large portion of my sin in the three days I tried
to kiss away her fears while I dissembled and lied. It was in vain.
Yesterday she remained in her room a long time; and when she at last
appeared, I read in her face that she no longer believed me. Then,
while she listened quietly, I confessed all, and swore I would never
forsake her, and I really thought she would get over it in a few days.
So, at her request, I left her quite alone. That evening, when I saw
her again, I was startled--such tearless, inexpressible sorrow was in
every line of her face. She begged and implored: 'Make me your wife,
for only three days, and then I will commit suicide, and you shall be
free again.' It was frightful."
He was silent.
"Cheer up!" said Wroblewski, encouragingly. "Of course, you tried to
pacify her."
The count shook his head. "I said to her: 'I can die with you, but I
cannot make you my wife. If you like, this shall be our last hour. But
if you decline this, and commit suicide, I will follow you.' I meant it
seriously."
"I do not doubt it. And then you let her alone."
"I watched by her bedside till break of day. She was so still, I
thought she had gone to sleep, and I gave way to my fatigue. It was the
shouting of the servants in the court-yard that woke me. Fedko had
observed her, and, following, staved off this calamity."
"Pray God forever!" ejaculated the magistrate, solemnly. "What does the
doctor think?"
The count repeated the doctor's opinion. "It is frightful!" he groaned,
clasping his hands.
"Hm! then she does not know her father is dead?"
"Dead!" repeated Agenor, starting up.
The magistrate told the particulars indifferently. "But we need not
take that into account just now, for she must not hear of it. You must
take her away to Paris or Italy, though I do not suppose it will avail
much. Consumptive fever! suicide! why, it gives one cold shivers down
the back. That is, if we credit the doctor. But need we? For, I can
tell you, he is a sentimentalist--a philanthropist"--here his face wore
a contemptuous sneer--"and perhaps a friend of the Jews."
"I believe him; and if you had seen the poor thing you would not have
doubted, either."
"That's bad. But now we must be sensible. What you said yesterday,
excuse me, was sheer nonsense. That is the way a counter-jumper would
talk if he could not marry a seamstress. But a Baranowski has
obligations. What good would it do you, or the girl, or the world in
general, if you committed suicide together? There are two courses open
to you. Either let things remain as they are--"
"No, no!" cried the count.
"You need not shout! I am not a barbarian myself. I only meant for you
to go South with a physician who would watch her carefully. But, of
course, if you believe in a catastrophe notwithstanding, we will not
speak of it again."
"No, not of that."
"Well, there is nothing else for us to talk about, for you can find the
way to the nearest priest without my help."
The count stood still, with averted face. "You know of no other way?"
"No. I am sorry it must be so, but here are my heartiest congratu--"
He stopped, frightened at the gloom and pallor which overspread the
count's face.
"Of course," he murmured, "how could there be an alternative? Pardon
me, I only asked because, when one is in a fix like this--I will do it.
Please arrange with the nearest priest. It can take place to-morrow."
Here Von Wroblewski looked at him sharply. A shudder passed through
him.
"After the wedding you will kill yourself?"
The count was silent.
"He will do it," thought the magistrate, "certainly, or very probably.
That cannot be allowed. Since the Jews have become insubordinate, he is
my only reliance, and, besides, it is my duty to save him."
"Hm! my dear count, I am no friend of the Jews, but I do not consider
the disgrace such that you cannot survive it."
Agenor shook his head. "It is hard to reason with sentiment. My family
pride, my name and race--that was the backbone of my life. It was
taught me by my father, and I have clung to it with body and soul. I
cannot live a cripple with a broken back. That is all!"
"That is all," repeated Wroblewski, mechanically. He had delayed the
suggestion of his plan, but it had to come at last. "Ahem! Listen, my
dear friend; you can always have recourse to that. But if I--you
mentioned just now that the doctor had produced an artificial sleep for
to-night--if you could induce such a sleep for her soul, to last one,
two, or three years, or as long as you liked? It would depend on
yourself when she was to be wakened."
"What do you mean?"
"As I have said, it would depend on yourself. Of course you would not
do it until you felt convinced she would take it more quietly than she
has to-day. That will be sure to come with time. The first outburst
over, she will remember her duties; there may be children to be cared
for. Of course you would have to leave the country immediately."
"What the devil do you mean?"
"It has only just passed through my brain. I have only mentioned it out
of friendship, but you can make your own decision. The poor devil will
do it for you gladly, for he was saved by your aid, and will hold his
tongue in his own interests."
"Who?"
"You remember the affair with your farmer, Afanasiewicz? Well, that
Ignatius Tondka--"
The count winced. He trembled in every limb.
"Silence!" he shouted.
"Pardon me. It was only a suggestion. But it is late." He looked at the
clock. "Really, it is past midnight."
"It would be criminal."
"Yes, but murder and suicide are also not agreeable matters. Think of
it until to-morrow. Good-night, my dear count," and without looking
around he left the room, and was shown to his bedchamber. "To the devil
with all this sentimentality!" he thought; and yet, though he was far
from being sentimental, it was a good long time before he got to sleep.
The sun was high in the heavens when he awoke. The clock indicated ten.
He dressed quickly, and rang for the servant, who told him the count
had inquired for him repeatedly. The doctor had left, and the invalid
was still asleep.
A few minutes after, and the magistrate stood before his host. Agenor
looked ill and suddenly old. "I wish to expedite this affair as much as
possible. When can the man be here?"
"Have you considered it thoroughly?"
"No hypocrisy! It fits your plans; you will be safe for life. You knew
perfectly well that a drowning man would clutch at the blade of a
sword. Your carriage is waiting. How much do you want, and when can the
man be here?"
Herr von Wroblewski could be laconic when occasion required. "Ten
thousand gulden! To-morrow!"
The count wrote a check, and handed it to the magistrate. He read it
carefully, nodded, put it into his pocket, and left the room without
bow or farewell word.