That same evening Raphael's neighbors heard the news. The following
morning it passed from mouth to mouth, exciting universal horror and
surprise. God had avenged the sin against his holy name, and hurled the
sinner in the dust.
Judith Trachtenberg had come home a beggar, and sick unto death; and if
she died, as those who had seen her thought she must, the account would
be squared. There was no further occasion for pity or persecution. And
because God himself had judged her, they praised Raphael for not having
stayed his avenging arm, and blamed Miriam for showing compassion. "She
will spoil her chance of future salvation." The milder ones said:
"Besides the responsibility she has in regard to her own child, she is
now assuming this." But the rougher Jews who, impelled by curiosity,
had surrounded the little house in Roskowska since early morning, in
the chance of catching a glimpse of the victim of God's wrath, judged
differently. And when the old woman came out and entreated them either
to go away or to make less noise, only a few complied with the modest
request, the majority crying, "Shame upon you, to bring disgrace on the
congregation!"
But the little old woman, who crept about generally under the
overwhelming consciousness of her misfortune and bowed in humility
before the humblest, gave way now not one step. She stood there, drawn
up to her full height, with that sort of glorified expression on her
withered face as had been there the previous evening when it dawned
upon her that God had thus shown her a way of atonement. "Shame upon
you!" she cried. "What do you know of God, and of what is disgrace in
his sight? Go back, I say!" and there was something in her face and
voice which awed them into obedience.
But only for a second. Then some one cried, "Have you found a Christian
to marry you?" and these insulting words loosed the ban. However, help
came to Miriam. One of the elders of the congregation, old Simeon
Tragmann, came up, and, standing in front of the woman, said to the
crowd, authoritatively, "Go! When God speaks, let man keep silence. Go!
I command it in the name of your dead benefactor. If it was his wish
that the sinner should be buried at his side, it was also his wish that
she should be allowed to die in peace."
Sullenly they left the house, but they gathered together in knots in
the street, clenching their fists and speaking with bated breath.
Curiosity chained them to the spot, though they could not have said for
what they were waiting. It was only the feeling that such an unheard-of
circumstance must have some result.
For a time they waited in vain. Only the doctor, who had already been
there at break of day, entered again. But while he was paying his
second visit a carriage drove up in which the burgomaster was seated.
When he saw the gathering of people, he felt greatly tempted to make a
speech; but he remembered in time that he had come to see his ward, and
so passed into the sick-room.
There he gave Miriam a large sum of money for Judith's use, inquiring
of Dr. Reiser as to her condition. The doctor had no definite answer to
give; he could only say she was suffering from a severe attack of
nervous fever, and he did not know how it might end.
The burgomaster felt moved to give expression to his sympathy in some
eloquent words, and, having once heard his own mellifluous tones, he
passed into an oration in praise of Miriam and her generosity. But the
old woman interrupted him curtly with a request that he should not
excite the invalid, which request the doctor emphasized still more
energetically by taking the Demosthenes by the arm and leading him to
the door.
Then there was a sight which rewarded the on-lookers for their waiting.
An equipage came in full speed from the castle, and stopped in front of
the house. Count Agenor alighted, and, hastening to the two men, seized
the doctor's hand, asking, "How is she?"
Dr. Reiser gave a cautious answer, nor was his manner the most affable
in the world.
"I must see her. She must be brought to the castle at once, both she
and my boy. I cannot leave her here."
The doctor cleared his throat dubiously: "We must first consider that.
The sight of you would affect her seriously."
Just then Miriam rushed into the passage, placing herself in front of
the count. "Go away!" she screamed. "Go away!" she repeated, with
determination. "Judith and her child shall remain here."
"My good woman," said the count, soothingly, "I am very grateful to you
for your kindness, but she will have better air and better attention at
the castle."
"I do not require your thanks," returned Miriam, almost in a whisper,
and evidently controlling herself with great difficulty. "It is not
every one who can be so merciful to Judith as you have been. But Judith
shall stay here with me, and so shall her baby. No one can care for her
better than I; and as for the air--there is no good air in your castle,
Monsieur le Comte; it kills--"
"I demand my rights!" replied Agenor. "I want my family."
"Hush!" and Miriam went close to him, and whimpered in his ear: "You
want your wife, were you going to say? Do not force me--"
He drew back, and was silent. "Doctor!" he said, imploringly. But the
old gentleman shook his head. "I fear I cannot help you. Come,
gentlemen, the woman is needed inside."
A few hours later the rumor of Judith's death spread through the town.
Hundreds went to Roskowska to find out for a certainty. But the report
was false. Perhaps it originated with the thought in the minds of the
people that she could not recover. God had judged her; her grave was in
readiness; it was in order for her to die.
But as she did not, and the doctor reported her to be gradually
recovering, the people, both Jews and Christians, became restless. How
were they to judge her? In what light should they regard her? Yet, for
all that, there was but one individual in the whole town who wished for
her death with his entire heart.
That was Herr Ludwig von Wroblewski. Her recovery threatened his
safety. He had nothing to fear from the count; but if she lived, and
informed against him, his pleasant, comfortable life was ended.
He would have to exchange his palatial residence for a lowlier
dwelling-place; and that the count would have to share this with him
proved a poor consolation.
The more favorable the bulletins, the more sleepless his nights; and
when, three weeks after Judith's return, he heard she was able to be
about, he begged Agenor for an audience. Although the count permitted
him to occupy rooms in his house, and had not dared refuse his most
insolent requests, yet he had had but one short conversation with him
since his return, early in January.
Agenor had avoided him assiduously, and Wroblewski had been obliged to
deal with the lawyer. "He is a coward," thought the ex-magistrate, "and
for that reason he dare not refuse to see me."
But Agenor did refuse, and Wroblewski had to resort to his pen. He
described in vivid colors the reports that had been afloat in
aristocratic circles regarding the sham-marriage, and were now well
known for miles around. No one doubted them, and it was a mystery why
Groze had not taken the case up. How would it be if Judith made a
declaration? Even then there would be no danger for him. It was his
friendship for the count which induced his anxiety.
Even this touching letter was left unanswered; and when Wroblewski
inquired of the lawyer regarding it, the latter replied that the count
had nothing to fear from the mother of his child, and that if she made
an affidavit, the consequences would be disagreeable to Herr von
Wroblewski principally, since the testimony of Ignatius Tondka would
prove that it was he who bore the lion's share of the responsibility in
this dirty matter. Tondka had already placed himself at the lawyer's
disposal for that purpose.
It was an evil hour for the ex-magistrate when he received this
information, for as he had not had any letters from Mohilev lately, he
had sent no money, but used the funds for himself. Now, suddenly, his
guilty confederate appears again on the scene. "Bah!" he thought, "if
the count is not afraid, I need not be. For he has his reputation to
lose, and I nothing," Nevertheless, he was not quite at his ease.
Perhaps he overestimated the count's position. Perhaps Baranowski, too,
had little to lose in the estimation of people. Judith's return had
accentuated the reports circulated about him; and whether his old
friends disapproved of so much fuss on account of a Jewess, or whether
they really disapproved of his actions, they all agreed in condemning
him.
The contempt with which they regarded him had caused him much
discomfort during the first weeks of his return, but it was trifling
now in comparison with this new affliction which burdened his soul--his
repentance and his terror of the law. All the good and evil in his
nature seemed to have united to sharpen his agony. His love for his
victim, his longing to make expiation for his crime, his desire to
regain his old self-respect, and again that false idea of honor that
made him think his sin a lesser evil than marriage with a Jewess.
"She must not die!" he cried, in mad fear, to the old doctor, whom he
visited almost daily, and in the same breath, with vehement
earnestness, "she must not accuse me!" It did not seem clear which evil
he dreaded most.
Dr. Reiser, who at first was very hard on him, grew at last to pity the
tortured man, and at his request promised to make an attempt to act as
mediator. But careful though he was, at the first intimation the pale
cheeks of the convalescent flushed, and she raised her hand in protest.
"Do not speak of him to me, please. I am not strong enough to bear it.
When I regain my strength I will remember him."
"So as to ruin him?"
"So as to do my duty to myself, my child, and my brother. You do not
know how he has misused me. He even tried to rob me of my inheritance."
"No! surely not that."
"I mean my grave, the best that remained to me. Ah! it was more than I
dared to hope. You look at me curiously, doctor, but my brain is
perfectly clear, and I see everything now as it really was, his
cowardice and baseness! How great they were--how great!"
"Let us drop the subject," said the doctor, taking her by the hand. "I
see you hate him, and I have nothing more to say."
"Yes, I hate him," she replied, sullenly, "but I would not wrong him. I
can understand, and in a certain measure forgive, his deception. How
could he know a Jewess is a human being and has honor and a heart?
Besides, I know that scoundrel urged him on and arranged matters for
him--even his conscience. In his way he loved me. I can even understand
that mean trick, the sham marriage, to which he was led by Wroblewski.
He, a Baranowski! It seemed his only way of escape. He robbed me of my
honor; he gave me in exchange his protection and his fidelity. But he
robbed me of something still more sacred without giving an equivalent.
He stole my faith, and gave me in its place--some drops of water from
the hand of a swindler! This crime could not seem to him as grave as
the first, and he feared I might be suspicious. But can that excuse
him? May a man rob another of his most precious possession in order to
hide another crime? And it might have been so different. Had he known
how blindly I trusted him, the most stupid excuse as to baptism would
have sufficed, and this mockery might have been avoided. But of that he
had no thought. Has a Jewess a soul? does she need a creed? And when I
told him I did, and he saw that, shut out in overwhelming darkness, I
was perishing for warmth and light, his only sensation was annoyance
because he was reminded of his crime."
"Suppose he had felt otherwise, what could he have done? Ought he to
have had you baptized afterwards, or converted to his faith without
this formality? Would this have been a lesser offence?"
"As I view it, yes! If I were a Catholic I should think of it as a
terrible misfortune, but his guilt would not be so great. Furthermore:
when I heard of my father's death, and I looked upon myself as a
murderess, when I writhed in anguish, I implored the man I loved to
allow me to bewail my father's death in the way of our people, and to
tell me the truth that I might not go mad, he lied! Have you an excuse
for that?"
"No excuse, but an expiation. I suppose Miriam has told you what the
count is prepared to do. He had hardly heard of your arrival when he
came here to take his wife and child home. How white you are! Has this
been kept from you?"
The blood had left her cheeks and her head sank back on the chair. "It
is nothing," she murmured, as he anxiously felt her pulse. She breathed
with difficulty. "Miriam told me, but I interpreted it otherwise."
"And what will you do, now that you know the real interpretation? The
very hour you become a Christian, the count is ready to marry you. That
is the message I bring you."
She lay back, her eyes shut, her mouth quivering, panting for breath.
He rose. "You are unprepared. I will come for the answer to-morrow."
She was silent. But as he looked at her he saw her face grow more fixed
and set. Two large tears forced their way from under the closed eyelids
and rolled down her cheeks, but her brows contracted, and she made
reply by a shake of the head.
"What is it? Do you decline?"
"What else can I do? It is as if he would bring the dead to life. When
I thought of the happiness it might have brought, had it been a
voluntary action, tears came to my eyes. But when he does it from fear
of the law--"
"Have a talk with him and see how sincere is his repentance. Think,
too, of your child, and you cannot say no. Is your boy to go through
the world as heir of the Baranowskis or as a bastard? Pardon me, but
that must be considered."
She seemed to have forgotten that, for involuntarily her glance turned
towards the cradle of her baby. Again tears filled her eyes.
"I will not torture you more," said the doctor, taking up his hat; "but
ask your conscience and then decide. I will come again to-morrow." And
he left the room.
"I believe you will have your 'yes' to-morrow," said the doctor to the
count, as he reported the conversation, "and, both of you being young,
all will yet end well."
Agenor looked down moodily.
"I hope you are not mistaken in thinking her love for her child
outweighs her hatred for me."
"I am sure of it. She is a Jewess, and what is there a Jewess would not
do for her child? It is upon that I place my hope. For those things
which would influence a meaner nature, such as prudence, personal
advantage, rank, she will not for a moment take into consideration; and
if she did, they would not move her."
The doctor was much surprised when Miriam appeared the next morning,
saying Judith begged he should not call, as, since she was allowed to
go out, she was going to her father's grave.
"That will excite her too much," he said. "Say I beg her to postpone it
for some days."
"She will not hear of it; nor do I think it will hurt her. It will
injure her more if she wishes to go and is not allowed. If I had
yielded to her entreaties I should have taken her there in a carriage
long ago. She will not be kept back to-day. She did not sleep last
night for excitement. I believe," said the old woman, as calmly as if
she spoke of visiting some living friend--"I believe she has something
to say to her father!"
The doctor entered Judith's room next day with anxious forebodings,
which were not diminished when he saw her face. It wore an expression
of gloomy calm, which had become habitual during her convalescence.
"That is not the face of one who wishes for reconciliation," he
thought, and he had scarcely taken his seat before she began:
"I cannot do it, doctor. I must say no."
"And your boy--have you considered that also!"
"That also. No doubt it would be better for him. It is a sad misfortune
to have been born a Jew, and I am leaving him a heritage worse than
that even, one which rarely falls to a Jewish child--the shame of
birth. But whatever a mother may do to better the status of her child,
one thing she must not do--become a criminal. And if I were baptized
to-day, it would be a crime against God."
He was astonished. "I did not expect that. Once you were willing, and
it was not your fault that it was not done."
"What did I know of God then? What does any young, happy, innocent
thing know of him? And I was so happy. I believed in him, of course;
and although I should have preferred to be a Christian, yet I was
fairly contented with my creed, and when I wished for anything in
addition to my abundance, I prayed for it. My faith was a cloak, and
why should I not change it, especially as my lover wished it? It was
hard for me only because it parted me from my relations. But they
provided me with no new cloak; and when I felt guilty and miserable,
then I found what faith was. It was no cloak, but one's very soul. I
know what you are going to say," she continued, impatiently; "I have
heard it often enough. We have all one Father in heaven! I believed
that, too, and when I was in the deepest misery it was a consolation to
hope it. But now when I consider my fate and that of those about me, I
do not believe it. Why should we have suffered so much for our creed,
if it were unnecessary? Is he indifferent as to whether we hold to our
Jewish faith or not? Why were we born Jews? No, he must know his own
wishes. Our blood, our tears, do not flow in vain, else he would not be
the all-merciful, the all-just. Therefore I yield to his will in this,
and will not burden my soul with fresh guilt. I have enough to answer
for already."
"To your God, the God of the Jews," said the old man, sorrowfully. "I
understand you have returned to him. Nevertheless it is true--he is not
the God of Jews or of Christians only. You know little of our creed.
Learn it."
"I know enough," she exclaimed, wildly. "It is a creed of love, of
humanity. It ordains that doors should be opened to the pretty, wealthy
Jewess, especially if the owner of the doors is in debt to her father;
that young gentleman may talk more unrestrainedly with her than with
ladies who are Christians. She, indeed, may feel no strangeness in that
society, for she looks upon them as fellow-creatures. But her father
and brother do not count as men with them: they are only Jews--of whom
the men are born to make money which Christians may borrow, and the
women to cater to your enjoyment by their beauty. If a Jewess loses her
heart to a Christian and forsakes all to follow him, his religion
teaches men never to forget her creed. And then you call your religion
one of love!"
She sobbed bitterly, and, loosening a lock of hair, through whose
auburn brightness ran a band of silver, she held it up for him to see.
"I am twenty-two years old, doctor; need I say more?"
"Have not the Jews done their share in increasing those gray hairs?
Even you have the commandment, 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' It is
one of the most important of your creed, as it is of ours. Do your
people act up to it? Remember your reception here."
"I deserved the treatment I received. What did they know? what do they
know to-day, except that I am a dishonored woman and my father's
murderess? But if you were right, and we had the same laws and sinned
against them, still peace and springtide might some day visit the
earth; but now it is winter, and we are at war. In winter we stay at
home, and in wartime we do not desert to the enemy's camp. If you are
correct in saying your altar is a sanctuary of God, then I must not
desecrate it. What would be my thoughts when I bent over the font? Of
what would I think during the marriage ceremony? After all that has
passed, it would be my worst sin. And I fear God. I remember how my
father thought of it, and for his sake it is now impossible. When I
stood by his grave yesterday, it was clear to me that he was a
God-fearing man, and would not have counselled me to lie in sacred
matters."
"He was a kind man, too, and knew how much God could forgive. He
himself forgave much."
"Yes, misdeeds against himself, but not against God. He thought: 'My
child has broken my heart. God will punish her, but I will forgive her.
As she will suffer much, let her rest by my side; and when at the last
day the trumpet sounds, let her go before the Judge with her hand in
mine.' This is what he meant, and it would be hard to surrender this
privilege. Yet for my child's sake I would make the sacrifice, only I
cannot sin again, even for him."
He looked at her white, inflexible face, and ventured no further
remark. He arose silently, pressed her hand, and turned to go. A slight
exclamation detained him; it sounded like a sigh. He looked around
inquiringly.
She stood, her head slightly inclined, her face scarlet. "One thing
more. If he could resolve to--"
"What?" he said, encouragingly.
But she sighed deeply, and dropped her arms. "No," she said. "He will
not do that. He cannot, and according to our laws it is out of the
question. He would only deride me for thinking of it. Pardon me, I have
no more to say."
He asked again, but she answered decidedly, "It is nothing," and he
went away.
He now had the unpleasant duty of conveying her answer to Agenor. But
the latter was more collected than he had feared. He turned pale and
said, "I told you so," and during the doctor's recital betrayed his
excitement only by the nervous drumming of his fingers on the table.
"As God wills," he said, when the doctor had concluded. "I have at
least the comfort of knowing I have done what I could. If she bring an
accusation against me, you will not refuse to testify to my desire to
grant all she could demand."
"No, but unwillingly," said the old gentleman, brusquely. This question
of the count's annoyed him, but only for a moment, for he knew it was
quite in keeping with a weak character, which was impelled by fear as
well as by penitence; and then, to feel he had done his whole duty, he
told the count her last words.
They had a startling effect. He leaped from his seat, with flaming
cheeks, and, holding out his hands in protestation, he exclaimed: "That
cannot be. Better the prison. How can she imagine such a thing?"
"She does not. She did not even tell me what it was, and I should
prefer not to know."
"He is not so bad, after all," thought the doctor, as he went
down-stairs. "He is in a bad position, and is pitiably weak. I'll wager
he comes to me asking me to make another attempt before three days are
over."
In this he was mistaken, for Agenor came to him the same evening. "Do
have a talk with Raphael. He is the only one to influence her, and it
cannot be a matter of indifference to him whether his sister lives here
as my wife or as she is at present."
The doctor refused point-blank. "It would be useless. To him she is
dead." And in this he was firm, despite prayers and entreaties.
Yet the good old man did go to Raphael the next day. What the count
could not effect, Miriam Gold did. Shortly after Agenor's visit, she
went in cautiously with a thousand apologies for disturbing him at such
an hour. "But I had to come. My heart cries out, 'Tell Dr. Reiser,' and
so I am here."
"Say what you wish, Miriam. But I cannot make any further effort for
reconciliation between Judith and the count."
"Who speaks of that? Praise to the Father Everlasting that it has
failed! While you were with her, I prayed to God so to confuse your
words that they might not persuade her to become a renegade. I know God
better than most people about here. My heart says he was merciful to
Leah, and he will also be merciful to Judith." Her voice sank to a
whisper. "Doctor, her soul is in a bad way! It is like a poor little
bird that is longing to fly away, but is held back by a few slender
threads. She must care for her child, justify herself in the sight of
the people, and fulfil God's will. As long as she has to undergo
disgrace and persecution she will stay, because she takes that as a
punishment from God. But if she married the count, she would be
justified, her child would be safe, and persecution cease. Then the
threads would be severed, and the poor little bird would fly away."
"I fear that in any case. Has she ever hinted at it to you?"
"No. But when one lives with her, and hears her sigh! Thank God, you
have not succeeded. Yet I should like to have another thread to bind
her to earth. Her heart bleeds over Raphael's anger. If they could only
be reconciled! It is true the thread of persecution would then be
loosened," and the old woman gesticulated as if the network of threads
were really there. "Yet not completely. I know our people too well.
Doctor, because you have a good heart, and she is so miserable, will
you not speak to Raphael?"
"It will be useless," he said, and yet he gave his promise.
When he was with Raphael, and beheld the stern face of a morose
man of mature years, instead of the bright look of a young man of
twenty-three, his heart failed, and he had only hinted at his errand
when he arose.
"Dr. Reiser," said a cool, collected voice. "That name must never be
mentioned in my house. A few days ago the elders of the congregation
called to ask me to see that the boy was received into the covenant of
Israel. To them I made answer that I had no right or duty in the
matter. And yet a sacred question was therein involved."
"No holier than that which brought me here. If you listened to the
elders, you should listen to me also." He then talked of Judith plainly
and to the point, as was his wont; and he thought to himself, no heart
could be so hard as to listen unmoved.
Raphael gave no sign of impatience, but when he turned his face to the
doctor, the latter knew he had spoken in vain. It was the face of one
who had forgotten to be merciful.
"You have told me nothing new. It is a hard fate, which you say is
undeserved. I say it is deserved. For my part, I will neither add to
nor take away from its misery. 'Vengeance is mine,' saith the Lord. For
me, she is dead. You say she made no sacrifice of her honor, that she
was tricked out of it. Let her accuse her betrayer. It is enough
for me to know the well-guarded child of the best of fathers is a lost
woman--the first of her faith in this town for centuries. She will not
become a Christian? There is no merit in that. It is her duty, and her
repentance cannot recall my father to life or wash the stain from our
name."
"Herr Trachtenberg, this is exceptional severity."
"Perhaps not as exceptional," and here there was a break in his voice
for the first time, "as my former love for her."
At the door the doctor found the count's carriage. The count was with
the magistrate Groze, Fedko said. Had he been asked to call? the doctor
queried; and then he had time to think again of Miriam's curious words.
He did not believe in them, and yet they depressed him. The thread
could not be tied; it had been cut for all time.
On his return home that afternoon from a round of visits, Dr. Reiser
was informed that Count Baranowski and old Miriam had called, and that
the latter had begged to know when he returned. "Go and tell her!" was
the order.
Wearied out, he had scarcely seated himself, when the count entered.
The latter looked wretched, and his eye was restless. "Forgive me, but
I could not rest. Fedko told me you had been to Raphael, after all.
What did he say?"
The doctor told him.
"Then, I have no occasion to repent the step I have taken to-day. I was
afraid I had been in too much of a hurry."
His tone contradicted his words, for it was very shaky. He sighed
profoundly. "I have been to Groze's, and, following my lawyer's advice,
have confessed all."
"How did he receive you?"
"Worse than I expected. He said nothing offensive, but he looked very
angry, and refused my hand when I took leave. He also said he would
expect me at his office to-morrow morning at eleven. Well, as God will!
Anyhow, it was not--"
Suddenly the old gentleman, who had been staring into the street,
jumped up, took him by the arm, and led him into the adjoining room. He
had seen Judith, her child in her arms, and Miriam, following his
servant to the house. "You may listen," he whispered to Agenor, leaving
the door ajar as he re-entered the other room.
Judith's cheeks were bright and her eyes flashed. "You are my only
friend and will not take it amiss if I ask for advice. This paper was
served upon me at noon to-day."
He opened the document. "The magistrate Groze summons you as witness
to-morrow morning at eleven. You can imagine in what case you are
called, I suppose; and if not, I can inform you. The count has
surrendered himself to the law."
"Ah!" she exclaimed, "to mitigate his punishment."
"Even if that were the case, can you blame him? He has shown his
penitence conclusively enough, but you remain irreconcilable. You will
meet him tomorrow in the presence of the judge, for he has been
summoned also."
"I will not meet him."
He looked at her. As she stood there, her clear-cut features faintly
flushed, her slender form upright, a reflection of her former beauty
seemed to surround her. But sorrow had cut its marks deep in her
features, and the gray hair was in sad contrast with the delicate oval
of her face. The doctor had much difficulty in keeping up his assumed
tone.
"Why will you not see him?" he asked. "I think it very possible that
Groze will summon you at the same time. It will expedite proceedings
and mitigate his penalty. You do not require to take your boy when you
appear against his father to-morrow, an act which will probably hand
him over to a jailer--"
"Dr. Reiser, are you deserting me? I cannot become a Christian. What
can I do?"
"He will tell you that himself," said the doctor, opening the door. She
gave a faint scream when she saw Agenor.
"Judith," he sobbed, falling at her feet. "Forgive, forgive! You shall
not become a Christian. We will go to Weimar and be married. I swear
it."
Her eyes closed, the doctor ran and seized the child, and allowed her
to sink gently into a chair.
"It is only a swoon," he said.