Raphael returned from his sad walk as he had started, pale, rigid, and
upright. There was not only pity, but even admiration for him in the
minds of all, for he gave no heed to his own sorrow and fatigue; he
thought only of the wants of others. He called together all the poor to
whom his father had been a benefactor, and told them only the giver was
changed, not the gift. And to none of those humble and afflicted ones
was he more friendly and pitiful than to the old woman who had entered
his presence with a fainting heart, Miriam Gold, whose daughter had
become a Christian. "Do not tremble, Miriam!" he said. "Such disgrace
may be incurred innocently."
This was his own consolation in the first hours of terrible suffering
which he had to undergo after his filial duties were ended. He would
crouch down in a corner of the death-chamber and keep vigil for the
dead, staring into the dim light of the "soul-lamp," and think of the
way in which his presentiments had been realized, and the warnings he
had vainly given.
"Were we ourselves free from blame?" Nothing hurt him more than this
doubt. But he discharged the thought when he remembered the depth of
the disgrace his sister had brought upon herself and him. The commonest
wench of the Ghetto, he thought, grinding his teeth, would die rather
than surrender her honor, and yet the daughter of the best man in the
place could defile herself. She deserved his contempt, and he awaited
the reading of the will with fear, lest the dying man should have
exhorted him to clemency.
His anxiety proved groundless. In the document, written to express
Nathaniel's last wishes, Judith was mentioned only in the assignment to
her of her portion. He left his blessing to Raphael, with the option of
taking up the business or of continuing his studies, but particularly
urging him not to allow the action which Rosenberg, the lawyer, had
undertaken to fall through. Neither Judith nor the count was involved
in it, only Wroblewski. "Such a man should not be a law-giver."
Raphael's mind was soon made up. He assured his guardian he would
remain in Galicia, continue the business, and pattern his life after
his father's. When the first week of mourning was past, he undertook
the management of the factory. What he lacked in years he made up in
zeal and diligence.
The government appointed the burgomaster as guardian to Judith. This
gave little inconvenience to the good man after he had sent her a copy
of the will, to the count's address, and he had put out the money
advantageously.
Time passed, but no answer came from her. This surprised no one. They
knew she was somewhere on the Continent with the count--where, no one
knew exactly, not even Raphael. He was the only man in the town who
never mentioned her name.
Week after week slipped by. Winter came and buried moor and town in
snow, and people spoke less and less of the beautiful sinner who had
broken her father's heart, and was now living with her lover under
Southern skies, amid a thousand delights.
Another topic of conversation cropped up. It was the downfall of the
magistrate. It was first rumored that he was less firmly seated in his
position than formerly, then that Rosenberg had secured an
investigation; and then came a day in February when all, young and old,
were on the street to catch a glimpse of the commission--a district
judge and his secretary. Every one found it most natural. "It was bound
to come!" they declared, and all rejoiced.
But they were mistaken. The result was what could hardly be expected.
The first weak step leading to this result was the suppression of any
display of ill-feeling against Wroblewski by members of the
congregation, at Raphael's request, and by command of the elders. It is
true, proofs which the deceased as well as Raphael had collected
effected a good deal. But although the Lemberg government did at last
become attentive and read these accusations more carefully than
previous ones, yet Lady Anna's uncle was a prominent member, and he
assured his coadjutors that they were all lies, and any contradiction
on the part of the other gentlemen would have been rude. And these high
officials were exceedingly polite to each other in Austria before
March, 1848!
At times even Rosenberg was inclined to give it up, and to Raphael's
despairing cry, "How can a government exist where such things are
possible?" would answer: "It exists only in proportion to these
circumstances." But suddenly the uncle became ill, and had to take a
holiday. This would not have availed much had not the doctors said he
would never be able to return to his official duties. Then it was
decided that such a disgrace was no longer to be borne, and an
investigation was ordered. The result was known beforehand--deposition
and punishment. An official who deserved deposing merely was never
tried in Austria. The machinery of the courts would otherwise have
become clogged, and there would have been too many vacant offices.
Herr von Wroblewski knew all that. For the first three months he was
kept in continual suspense between fear and hope--fear of the dead, and
of the pale, gloomy youth who glanced so contemptuously at him whenever
they passed each other that he clenched his fists without daring to
raise them--and hope in the politeness of the Lemberg officials. There
came a time when he was again able to enjoy the monthly checks brought
him by the count's bailiff. The larger proportion he kept, the balance
he sent to Russia, to the address of "Herr Antonius Brodski, in
Mohilev." Inside the cover was written: "Here, Herr Tondka, is the
money the count has sent for you. I hope you are satisfied; but if you
are not, it will do you no good. We are not afraid of you." All the
notes were in the same strain, some more, some less rude, according to
the amount enclosed. As to the other matter, he could rejoice. "The
stupid Jews laughed before their time." But when news of the impending
investigation reached him, he gave up hope. It was fully determined
upon, and there was no use in fighting. He had known for twenty years
the way in which these investigations ended. His office was lost, and
he must make an effort to escape punishment.
With the air of a man of injured honor, he stepped up to the judge and
handed in his resignation. "The investigation will establish my
innocence, but I will not remain after these insulting suspicions. I
owe this to my dignity, the dignity of my position and of my
colleagues, who have acted with the same zeal. I can affirm this with
confidence, for I know their manner of conducting business," and he
named a number of officials, each of whom had a worse reputation than
the other.
The judge listened. A tremendous scandal was threatened. He commenced
the inquiry, but reported this at Lemberg. The government reflected,
the scamp was out of harm's way, and it mattered little to the state
whether he got a pension or some years' imprisonment; besides, the cost
would be the same, for he would be certain to drag a number of
companions down with him, and his patron was still alive. So the
investigation was stopped after two months, and Herr von Wroblewski was
pensioned off.
The result was unsatisfactory to all parties, but chiefly to Raphael.
Though displaced from office, the magistrate had escaped his
well-earned punishment, "because he sinned mostly against Jews,"
thought Raphael, and the reflection made him more bitter than ever.
On the other hand, after Wroblewski was over his first annoyance, he
was well satisfied with his lot. The dignitaries of the town and the
nobles in the neighborhood were cold towards him, it is true; but a
little philosophy made that endurable, especially when there were
always some amiable people to be met who would appreciate his and his
wife's social talents. He was free from the tiresome duties of office,
and could stand the reduction in pay, since a brief note to the count
was always effectual in producing any sum, he chose to ask for.
Agenor never wrote. In all this time Wroblewski had not received a line
from him, and consequently knew as little as others where the lovers
were staying. The bailiff, Herr Michael Stiegle, a silent, grumpy
Swabian, forwarded the letters punctually, and brought the replies in a
form which delighted the heart of the ex-magistrate more than the
tenderest epistle could have done.
True, Herr Stiegle made sour faces; and when Herr von Wroblewski, after
he had been turned out by Raphael, desired a wing of the castle to be
prepared for him, the bailiff threatened even to be rude. But a letter
from the count caused him to carry out this wish too. In short,
Wroblewski lived as pleasantly as formerly, and much more free from
care.
The letters from Russia did not disturb his equanimity, and the more
threatening they became the more amusement they afforded. "What fools
try to be scamps nowadays!" he said, contemptuously. "Such a stupid
fellow, and yet he wishes to be a scamp!"
What did Ignatius Tondka want? Of the three hundred gulden the count
promised him monthly, he received one hundred, a sum upon which he
could live very comfortably in Mohilev. It was impertinent for him to
demand the entire amount and to recall Agenor's promise. "The count
refuses to give more," Wroblewski had written repeatedly. "He knows
you. You would not dare to betray him, or to return to Austria, for
your own sake."
The impudent fellow, however, was not content with this, but kept on
writing. "I will ruin you both, though I perish myself." It was too
comical!
So the days sped by, pleasant days of leisure for the former official;
and as neither the Rittmeister nor the prior belonged to those
narrow-minded men who had given them the cut because of the court of
inquiry and its results, Lady Anna was also content.
The couple did not envy their successors, who had hired their apartment
at Trachtenberg's, the magistrate Graze and his wife, vulgar people and
poor creatures. The new judge actually lived, with wife and children,
on his salary. A Puritan--he even paid his rent.
Certainly, living in the castle was not only pleasanter, but cheaper.
There was the splendid park before their windows, in which no Jew could
be seen again. For the first act of Wroblewski, after his
transmigration, had been the resurrection of the "notice board."
Stiegle, the boor, had striven against it, and had even asked the count
about it, but had been forced to give in. The flowers seemed to smell
sweeter in spring, and the arbors afforded a cooler shade in summer to
Herr von Wroblewski, since the board was in its old place.
The summer passed, and the anniversary of the count's introduction to
his inherited estates came, and was celebrated by a mass in the parish
church. Herr Stiegle distributed alms by request of the count, but the
donor's whereabouts none knew. A nobleman in the neighborhood reported
that he had seen the young couple in Verona, in the garden which
contains the grave of Juliet; that they looked very happy, and that the
servant addressed her as Madame la Comtesse. But the man had the
reputation of being a liar; so that even if he spoke the truth
accidentally this time, it was valueless without further confirmation,
for no one believed that Agenor could marry the Jewess.
Towards the end of November another anniversary occurred, the
particulars of which were firmly cemented in the memories of the
people. The old synagogue could scarcely contain the worshippers who
had assembled to attend the first celebration of Nathaniel's death. The
services over, young and old went to the cemetery and listened with
deep emotion to the prayer which Raphael delivered at the grave. "Amen!
Amen!" was echoed from all sides. Afterwards the throng viewed the
beautiful memorial stone erected there, and repeated the words carved
upon it, better than any eulogy--"The remembrance of the righteous
never faileth."
Between this grave and that of Nathaniel's wife was an empty place.
Weeds covered the narrow space, and thorn-bushes spread out their ugly
branches. Very few besides the elders and members of the burial guild
knew that this ground, too, had been dug up a year before, and
something buried there. Others suspected it, but no one asked, and of
the hundreds present not one mentioned Judith's name as long as they
were in the "Good Place."
"The name of the righteous never dies; but whoso dies in sin, that name
shall never be mentioned." Only when they had passed that gate which
separates the world of peace from that of battle did they curse the
outcast.
But one was silent. He paced by the side of the elders, his form erect,
his face set. Since his return, no one had seen a smile on his lips or
a tear in his eye. It was only when the procession passed the
Baranowski castle that his mouth quivered; and by the glance which he
gave towards the white building, which stood in the midst of the
leafless park, one could see his implacable hatred.
Perhaps it would have comforted him in his anguish had he known what
was transpiring in one of those rooms where the manager was sitting.
There Herr Michael Stiegle had sat at his writing-table since morning,
and had reckoned, shaken his head, reckoned again, and then growled. He
stared at the ceiling a long time, and at last plucked up courage and
wrote a short, plain letter to the count, saying that when he became
bailiff his intention had been to get rid of the debts with which the
late lord had burdened the estate; that after the interest on the debts
had been paid, twelve thousand gulden had been netted, but he had
expended at least ten times that amount, while the new loans had been
negotiated under very hard conditions. Would the count not lessen his
expenses, and, if possible, look after his affairs a little more?
Otherwise he, Stiegle, would be obliged to relinquish his position. He
understood agriculture, but not the mode of dealing with usurers. The
letter bore the address of "The Bank of M. L. Biedermann, Vienna, for
Count Agenor Baranowski," for neither did he know of the count's
whereabouts. This oppressed Herr Stiegle's mind, like some other
mysterious circumstances.
Possibly it was owing to that state of mind that the announcement of a
servant that a Capuchin monk was outside, who refused to leave, made
him more brusque than usual, so that he fairly shouted at the bent old
man, with long white beard, who entered the room with hesitating step.
The monk's inquiry also annoyed him, for it was for the address of
Count Baranowski.
"It is none of your business," he growled.
The monk stepped near. "It is very important," he urged, with shaking
voice; "by God and all the saints, it is very important!"
"Write a letter, then, and I will forward it."
The monk shook his head. "Perhaps the good director would aid him. It
was concerning his cousin in Russia, a poor fellow, Ignatius Tondka by
name, whom the count had allowanced three hundred gulden a month, in
consideration of important services; but Herr von Wroblewski only paid
him one third of the amount, and that very irregularly. Could the Herr
Director not pay it now?"
As he said this he glanced at the papers on the desk, and noted the
address of the letter which was there.
"No!" said Herr Stiegle, "I know nothing of the affair. You must go to
Wroblewski. Adieu!"
The monk stood doubtfully for a moment, and then quitted the room, with
a pious salutation. In the corridor he drew out his breviary, and
hastily wrote the address. He then went to Wroblewski. There he seemed
to have suddenly shaken off the infirmities of old age. His figure was
straight, and his voice firm. "You need not start, Wroblewski; I have
only come to arrange matters by word of mouth, it seems so difficult to
do it by correspondence."
Herr von Wroblewski grew pale, but quickly regained his composure. "Why
should I start?" he asked, with a smile. "You are only risking your own
neck. I am not in your debt. All the count has sent I have forwarded.
Nothing has been as yet received for November."
"Every word is a he. My money, or I will write to the count."
"Why don't you? I have not the address or I would give it you. Herr
Stiegle forwards the letters. But consider which the count is most
likely to believe, you or me. Will you send him my letters? And if you
do, is there any sum specified in them?"
The monk was still. Then he burst out into violent invectives,
declaring he would confess all; that it would be more pleasant to have
enough in prison than to starve in Mohilev, and the good company he
would have would compensate for his loss of liberty.
Wroblewski heard him with a smile. "Good!" he answered. "Of course, if
you must, you must. But hearken to my last word. Here," drawing out his
purse, "are two hundred gulden. I place them in this envelope. On the
envelope I write--do you see, my dear Tondka--'Herr Anton Brodski, in
Mohilev.' My servant will now take the letter to the post and you will
accompany him. Here are twenty gulden besides for your journey home. I
shall ring the bell for the servant, and he will either go with you to
the post, or he will kick you out of the house!"
When Wroblewski saw the monk walking peacefully by the side of the
servant, a few seconds after, he laughed aloud. "He hurries towards
Mohilev on the wings of desire!" Perhaps, however, he would have been
less merry had he known the workings of the rogue's brain.