It was a clear, warm Sunday in September, four months later. It had
been stormy the whole week, to the delight of many, as it furnished a
sufficient excuse for not hanging out flags and otherwise decorating
their houses.
But Friday the clouds passed away, and Saturday the sun shone warm and
dried up streets and walls, so that the Christians hurried to make up
for lost time, and the Jews, who dared not raise their hands till
evening, had to work late in the night.
Herr Stiegle had ordered it, and had also stated that the count would
forget none of those whose houses remained as usual. Never had garlands
and festoons been prepared with such unwillingness or muttered curses,
or such hopes for a downpour on Sunday morning.
But the sun shone as in June. "She succeeds in everything, even in
this," they groaned. So they put on their festive garments, and went
into the street to witness the entry of Count Baranowski and his wife,
Judith Trachtenberg, who had been married two months before by the
burgomaster of Weimar.
A stranger would have observed little difference between this reception
and the one two years previously. Even the triumphal arch was not
lacking, and the crowd in the street was greater, for numbers had come
from far and wide to see the miracle. There would have been nothing
very terrible to the minds of the sight-seers had the first version of
the romance been correct--that the representative of one of the noblest
names of Podolia had married a baptized Jewess. But that a Christian
should marry a Jewess, without priest or altar, and that there was a
country in the world where this could happen, without fear of an
avenging thunderbolt! Yet the thunderbolt had not fallen, nor the earth
quaked on that day; for, hard as it was to believe, much as it
contradicted the traditions of the people, the marriage had taken
place. It was not unlike a legend. Perhaps it was in one of those
countries where there were yellow people and black, inky-black, people.
The count and the Jewess might be married according to the laws of that
strange land, but they would surely stay there; they would not dare to
breathe the same air as those who believed in God.
The fable became a miracle, hard to understand, but true, nevertheless,
when the report went abroad that they were coming back. The emperor
allowed it! Nothing could astonish any more, not even the order for a
public reception. And why not? They had lost all sense of shame and
reverence for God. They were trying how long-suffering was the patience
of the Lord and of their fellow-countrymen.
It was warmly debated as to whether piety would permit them to
witness the spectacle. Still, when the sun rose that eventful morning,
hundreds were to be seen flocking in, in carriages, on horseback, on
foot--burghers, peasants, and Jews. Only the clergy and the nobility
were absent.
Besides these voluntary spectators, others were here, by order of Herr
Stiegle--three hundred peasants and laborers from the count's estate,
middle-aged, sober men, who were to form an escort. "You are to keep
order," he had said. "Our master and his bride shall be worthily
received." He had said only this, but he knew they understood, and
would do their duty if necessary.
No one could foretell whether or not it would be necessary, not even
this cool, calculating man, who knew the townspeople so well. He
comforted himself with the thought that, if painful scenes occurred, it
would not be his fault. Weeks before, he had received by special
messenger a note from the count, saying that Prince Metternich had
notified the government that the marriage was valid. The boy had been
baptized and legitimatized, and therefore he desired a public
reception.
The faithful Swabian had sent his protest, founded on public opinion;
but it was fruitless, for another messenger renewed the order, as the
countess wished it particularly. "The countess!" Even Herr Stiegle,
whose only antipathies were the contracting of debts and the
disagreeing of accounts, could not repress a mocking smile at the
title. But he did his duty.
His orders were obeyed, and as he looked at the decorations he could
not but be content. The Dominican monastery and the rabbi's house alone
remained unornamented. Stiegle had not dared to speak to the prior, and
the rabbi told him he feared God more than the count.
Herr Groze's house, too, wore its ordinary appearance; the windows were
closed, and some of the blinds down. "I did not appear as his judge in
the spring, because there was no plaintiff, and I was obliged to regard
the count's confession as private. But I do not intend to show him
respect I do not feel."
This was quite within the scope of Stiegle's understanding; but that
the countess's brother should make no demonstration was unpardonable.
He knew how many letters had passed between them, and therefore
believed that there must have been a reconciliation.
There were other cares which pressed upon Herr Stiegle, as he arranged
his peasant guard. These honest fellows could be trusted, and the mob
was too cowardly for violent deeds; but what if there should be
insulting words? Whichever way he looked he saw sullen or sneering
faces.
"Herr Twanicki," he said to the little deformed cobbler, who had great
influence over his equals, "I count upon you."
"Certainly, certainly; if we only knew what to shout. What is the
Hebrew for 'hurrah'?"
Herr Stiegle spoke to Simeon Tragmann, the chief elder, at the
triumphal arch, who answered, "We are in our places by your command.
But if our people let their indignation master them, what can we do?"
"Indignation! Why, it is such a triumph for you as has never before
occurred."
Old Simeon shook his head. "That which is contrary to God's law cannot
be pleasing to us. It is the will of God that Jewesses should marry
Jews, and that their sons should be Jews."
The only really pleasant face was that of the burgomaster. He had
prepared a speech in which he proposed to explain the two creeds and to
demonstrate the equalizing force of love. So even his pleasure was
spoiled by Stiegle informing him that the count requested that the
address should be as brief as possible.
This accomplished, Herr Stiegle placed his guards in line of march,
took his stand, and waited anxiously for the shouts of the crowd. Nor
were they lacking. The wags took care of that. The cobbler and his
friends invented new words for hurrah, and amused themselves by making
proposals of marriage to the Jewish women in the crowd. The women
screamed, their friends interfered; here and there fists were clenched
and a few blows exchanged; but just as the row threatened to become
serious, the band of peasants lifted their axes and restored order.
Stupid as they might seem to be, they all knew what was expected from
them. Before the Trachtenberg house the public peace was threatened.
The Christians made loud complaint for having been forced to hang out
banners, while Raphael had been required to make no sign, to which the
Jews made answer by averring that he was right, for the disgrace had
fallen most heavily on him. "No," retorted the Christians, "the
disgrace is for us--the honor for you!"
Again sticks were raised, when a would-be wit called for three cheers
for Wroblewski, which, causing a laugh, restored good-humor. It was
known to all that Wroblewski had found refuge with a farmer of
ill-repute since he had been turned out of the castle, and that he was
maintained by his wife's shame.
There were two happy hearts in the town. They both blessed God, in whom
they believed; and yet what a wide, impassable gulf was there in their
belief!
In Roskowska, Miriam Gold had been waiting for many hours. She had
awakened her servant at early dawn, and had herself dressed in her
Sabbath clothes. The servant was a girl from the Ghetto, who lived with
the eccentric old woman because of the excellent wages she received;
for since Judith had cared for Miriam the former beggar had been
enabled to act the part of a benefactress to others.
The servant obeyed, for she knew contradiction would be useless.
"Miriam's mind as well as her body is waning," she thought. The old
woman, whose vitality under persecution and want had seemed
indestructible, had been restored, as it were, from the day when she
met Judith and her boy, to her youthful energy.
But since Judith had returned to the count her strength had steadily
declined. Yet she uttered no word of complaint; on the contrary, a
proud smile played about her withered lips as she said, "He knows what
he is doing. My work on earth is ended."
When the news of the marriage at Weimar was spread abroad, and the
inmates of the Ghetto were loud in condemnation and curses, the old
woman held her head still higher. "I knew it," she said to her servant.
"But I did not dare hope He would let me see it. How my Lea will
rejoice when she knows of it! for surely they will hear of it _there_?"
The girl reported these words, and there were many zealots who visited
the small house in the suburb, to reprove the old woman for her laxity.
But when they stood by her couch they could not find it in their hearts
to say anything to hurt the poor creature, who would only be with them
a few days longer.
But Miriam lived on. Even the doctor was surprised. She was always glad
to see him, but she would not touch his prescriptions. "He will not let
me die yet," she said. "I hope, in His mercy, He will grant me this
short span of time."
When the doctor asked what she meant, she replied, with a peculiar
smile, "You will soon hear; and when it happens, I shall go to the
synagogue for the last time."
He did not press his inquiry, but told her Judith had requested him to
look after her "benefactress."
"Nonsense!" cried the old woman. "She saved my life; and what I said to
you about the little bird that wished to fly away, that is nonsense,
too. Judith will not do that now. She must see that God has chosen her
to demonstrate his will to poor, blind humanity, and this knowledge is
a thread that will not be easily severed."
The doctor listened with emotion. How many great intellects would have
raised themselves to such an ideal height of humanity as this simple
Jewess had through her own misery? A few days passed, and then he
discovered for what Miriam had been waiting.
When the news came of the imperial decision and the public reception,
Miriam sent for him for the first time since her illness. "Forgive me,
doctor; but I should like to share my thankfulness for God's goodness
and greatness with one person at least."
The next Sabbath she dressed herself in her best, and, leaning on the
arm of her servant, dragged herself to the synagogue. Many times she
thought she would have fallen by the way, but she managed to reach the
house of God.
The people gazed at her in surprise. For years she had crept in shyly
and humbly, and taken her seat in the most retired corner in the
women's gallery. Now she cried, imperiously, "Make room! Make room for
the mother of Lea!" when some one stood in her way; and although
people thought it wrong, they did it, moved by the shining eyes and
pale, haggard face.
"She is mad," whispered some. "She is dying," said others; and they let
her alone. Like a victor she moved in the midst of the worshippers;
like a victor she returned to her home.
"This has been my last walk," she said. "I shall wear this dress but
once more."
The day had come, and although it was early, she hurried the servant
till everything was as she wished. She had her windows opened wide, so
she could hear the volley which was to announce the count's arrival;
then she opened her psalm-book, and sent the servant away. "Shall I not
stay outside, Aunt Miriam? If you should want anything--"
"Silly girl," said the old woman, with a smile. "What can I want
to-day?"
One other person waited the hour of their approach with impatience. He,
too, thanked the Lord he had lived to see this day; but it was another
God than Miriam's to whom his thoughts ascended. It was the God of
vengeance--the God who punishes the sinner for his sins, and dashes the
proud in the mire.
As Raphael paced nervously up and down his room, his pale face was
lifted proudly, and one thought predominated all others. The shame with
which the haughty Christian, in the consciousness of his power, had
stained the Jewish house was expiated, and was to-day to be completely
wiped out.
The count had made the Jewess his wife without her having abjured her
faith. What he felt about it was his own concern; if he suffered, he
deserved it. Praise and thanks to the Lord, who had ordained it should
be so! And if Agenor was willing to give a satisfaction which even
Raphael had not dared to demand, as Judith had written--that is, to
stop at the house and ask formally for her brother's sanction to the
union--it would be the most trying hour of the count's life. Yet it was
just, and Judith had asked only because she knew what befitted her and
hers.
Yes, God had greatly prospered them; and the more piercing the voices
of the mob, the more proudly and defiantly Raphael held his head. He
stamped his foot passionately. "Though they kill me the next moment,
with my last breath will I give thanks for having seen this expiation."
His ideas became confused and struggling when he thought of Judith, of
what she must feel when she bent her husband's neck so low--he, whose
honor was now her honor--of how her life was to be fashioned after all
that had transpired, and in an atmosphere saturated with hatred against
her and her class.
He scarcely realized this; and when he remembered how he had prophesied
her present misery in former times, the feelings which had been his
support for the two fearful years which were passed now helped him. She
had prepared her own couch. God above kept strict accounts.
But she was his sister, the being he had loved more than himself. There
were moments when his anger and bitterness melted into warm, trembling
tenderness. What had not this beautiful girl suffered, she who was
worthy of any fortune! If she had erred, was it not from a noble
impulse? And how she had paid for it!
The hour when she sank at his feet a penitent came into his mind. O
God! how emaciated she was! how burdened by a sorrow which no human
voice could dispel!
The cheering for Wroblewski aroused him from his musings; then from a
great distance the first faint roar of a cannon, answered by volleys in
the marketplace. The count had reached the boundary-line of the town,
where the _banderium_ was waiting for him. Another half-hour and the
procession would be before the door.
But it was not so long. When the count, in an open landau with his
wife, and a closed vehicle which contained Hamia, Jan, and the boy, who
had been christened Ludwig, reached "The Three lindens," at the limits
of the town, he scarcely gave the leader of the _banderium_ time to
hand him the bread and salt before he ordered the closed carriage to
drive to the castle by a circuitous way, and told Fedko to "hurry up."
The landau was driven at a furious pace, and was enveloped in a cloud
of dust as it reached the town.
Every moment the count's cheeks grew more colorless, and the quivering
of his lips more pronounced. He never looked up, and several times he
covered his face with his hands. For weeks, for months, he had
anticipated this hour; it seemed life could have nothing more painful
in store, and must it be?
Day by day he had asked himself this question; and now he was carried
away with indignation at his wife's severity, and with shame at his
weakness in yielding to her. What he had undergone the past four months
he considered as undeserved; for though his sin had been great, his had
been an unheard-of penance.
He had married her in Weimar; what more could she ask? Yet she did. She
allowed him to do as he wished with the boy--indeed, it was as if it
were her own desire; but when he said they must keep from home until
the excitement was over, she urged him to go to Vienna, that they might
bring about the recognition of their marriage. He resisted, but she
said: "My whole soul hangs on this one thing. Grant this request, and I
will reward you well."
"With what?" he thought. "With love and fidelity!" He had earned that
before God and men by a greater sacrifice than any man of his position
had ever made. Ought she not to be faithful to him, she for whose sake
his best friends had been faithless, she for whom he had incurred so
many slights? But his resistance grew weaker. His character was not
adapted to resist a feeble will, much less this one of iron.
Finally he yielded, because he thought she would see for herself, when
in Vienna, the impracticability of her desire. "If you do not succeed,
we will go to Italy for two years," he said, and to this she agreed.
Convinced of the futility of her attempt, and annoyed at the gossip she
was inciting, he watched her curiously. It was during the _regime_ of
Metternich--a _regime_ which bowed only to the church, and therefore
the more impossible. Whenever she spoke of it, he assured her that her
object was unattainable.
But she never tired of devising new ways and means, and when these
proved useless, she set herself to work to gain the aid of the church
itself. A young prelate of an impoverished noble family was the first
won over.
Soon her apartments in the "Wilder Mann" swarmed with soutanes and
hoods, and one morning she exclaimed: "Congratulate me, Agenor; I am
going to Metternich." They had been in Vienna six weeks, and only the
banker who had charge of her funds knew how costly all this had been.
Agenor looked at her in astonishment. As she stood before him in her
dark, flowing robe, her grayish hair wrapped in a black mantilla, her
clearly cut features pale and fixed, only her lips showing her
excitement, she inspired him with an emotion curiously compounded of
respect and fear. The love he had now and then faintly felt of late was
wanting. Never had he realized it as now.
"Are you certain he will receive you?" he asked, hesitatingly. She
showed him a card admitting to an audience.
"Have you considered it well?" he continued, dubiously. She gave him no
answer, but shook his hand by way of farewell. When she returned two
hours later, he saw by her face she had gained her point. He sprang
from his seat and gazed at her; but no word of triumph issued from her
lips.
"We shall receive the papers this week," she said, abruptly; and when
he besieged her with questions as to the methods by which she had
accomplished her purpose, she said: "By telling the truth! One succeeds
better that way with clever people, and he is clever. He saw at once I
had no wish to overthrow either Austria or the church, or even the
walls of the Ghetto. He did not make the concession to the Jews, but to
the woman. I have concealed but one thing from him."
"What is that?"
She shook her head. "You shall know, and soon, but not to-day. I would
have told him that, too, had it been necessary, but it was not," she
continued, as if soliloquizing. "He is better than they allow; he is
too clever to be entirely base."
He listened without thinking much of what she was saying, until she
said: "As soon as we have the papers we will go home, of course."
To that he gave a vehement negative; and when she promised to reward
him well, he asked her, indignantly, what she thought of him.
"You do not know what I mean," she said, quietly, with a peculiar
smile; "but I do--I will do it in the best way possible." However, that
had not so much effect as her promise to remain in town but one week.
"After that, you shall decide as to the future."
But it was the word of a high official, a confidant of the premier,
which made him quite subservient to her will. "The prince is greatly
impressed by your wife, and thinks it a thousand pities such a splendid
creature should have been rendered such a miserable woman. If he were
the count, he would never forget who it was had done this."
So Judith had her way--even the public procession, with all the
humiliation it entailed upon Baranowski, and all the train of evils
which would probably follow.
The count straightened himself: "Drive faster, faster! and drive
through the town as rapidly as possible!"
Judith had been reclining in a corner of the carriage. A dress of heavy
black silk draped her slender form, a splendid lace shawl enveloped her
head, and upon her forehead was the diamond diadem, the heirloom of the
Baranowskis. But her face was set, and only an occasional sigh
indicated the near approach of the hour she had been working for with
almost superhuman energy. She laid her hand on her husband's arm:
"Agenor, an honest man keeps his word at any cost."
"But it is for your good. You know what Stiegle--"
"No more words. Let us drive slowly now." Unwillingly he gave the
order. The _banderium_, who had been left behind, collected again, and
surrounded the carriage. The custom-house was in sight. "Hurrah!"
shouted the peasants on guard. "Hurrah!" responded the _banderium_.
Volleys crashed, the band played, but the confused shouting of the
crowd overpowered all. Little could be understood, but that little was
unpleasant. Some of the guard raised their axes and clubs
threateningly. The _banderium_ gathered closer about the carriage. The
count sank back in his seat, deathly pale, but Judith sat erect,
looking quietly from right to left. And thus they passed the
custom-house.
From thence the street widened, and the crowd became greater. But,
strange to say, when the music ceased the noise of the onlookers also
ended. Had the shouts been provoked by this ovation, or were the people
awed by the imperious glance of this pale woman?
There are some still living in the town who remember the _entree_ of
the Countess Judith Baranowski, and if you ask regarding it they
answer: "It is impossible to describe her appearance, or our emotions
when we met her eyes. It was as if she were dying, and yet she had the
air of a queen. Those who met her glance were hushed into silence; and
when the peasants removed their caps, we did the same."
There was no particular ovation at the triumphal arch. Even the
burgomaster felt it would be imprudent to risk breaking the spell which
held the multitude in check; so his address was very brief, and the
countess's thanks equally so.
Agenor turned to Judith: "I entreat you not to stop at your brother's
door. It means certain destruction."
"It must be," she replied; and when he hesitated she herself gave Fedko
the command.
And, indeed, it looked as if the count were right. A burst of rage and
indignation filled the air when their destination became apparent.
"What an insult! what a disgrace!" yelled a thousand throats. "Down
with her! down with her!" The guards were pushed aside, axes were
lifted, and the fight began. The carriage stopped, its only protection
being a few of the mounted men who kept close to it.
The instinct of the cavalier was roused in the count. Drawing a pistol
from the girdle of his fur cloak, he leaped out, when suddenly Judith,
who as yet had sat still, staring rigidly at the mob, rose to her full
height, so that the diamonds on her brow flashed like sunlight. "Away!"
she cried to the mounted guards, so authoritatively that they instantly
obeyed. "Away!" she said to Agenor, who stood in front of her.
The mob were dumfounded. The fight ceased, and all became suddenly
still.
"What do you wish?" and her clear voice was like a silver trumpet. "Do
you want to kill me? Here I am. No one shall protect me! No blood shall
flow on my account. I have already enough on my soul. Come! I am
ready."
No one moved; no sound was heard until a voice said: "She has to fulfil
the work of the Lord; and the count is doing his share. Do not
interfere with the will of God."
There was a murmur and a push, and the crowd gave way. The count sprang
into the carriage, and Fedko drove towards the Trachtenberg house. In
profound silence the count and Judith entered its door; and when they
reappeared, a few minutes after, accompanied by Raphael, no voice was
heard. The count shook his hand, and Judith embraced her brother.
"To-day, at four, in the 'Good Place,'" she whispered.
They re-entered the carriage, and again something unexpected
transpired. Raphael seized her hand, and, with streaming eyes, covered
it with kisses. The next instant some one shouted: "She has suffered
much; let her be happy now."
"Hurrah!" vociferated the crowd, with hundred-fold repetition. "Hurrah!
Peace and joy go with her!"
So they drove to the castle, but Judith no longer sat upright. Nearly
fainting, she lay back, the tears streaming down her cheeks.
The tenantry had assembled at the castle, and Dr. Reiser was there
also. Judith inquired for old Miriam: "I will go to her as soon as I
can leave the table."
"Do so," said the doctor, "for she will not be visible to-morrow. She
died two hours ago. Her servant came for me just as I was coming here,
and I went to her for a moment. I never saw so happy a face."
Dinner was served in the traditional wedding-dinner style of the
Baranowskis, and on the same antique plate. But the feeling was not the
same, and the guests left early.
Judith drove with the doctor to the little house in Roskowska to take a
last look at her old friend. They had not yet placed her in the coffin.
She sat, in her Sabbath clothes, in her arm-chair. Speechlessly Judith
gazed on the face, which wore an expression of pure, unalloyed
happiness.
"Do you know why Miriam smiled as she died?" asked Dr. Reiser. "She
heard the guns which announced your approach;" and then he told Judith
of their last conversation. "She died as a conqueror. She took it as an
omen that her child had been forgiven, and that she would meet her soon
in Paradise."
Judith knelt and kissed the dead hand. "You are right," she said. "She
was happy, dying as a victor."
"And you are happy in living as a victor," he added.
"Do not speak so," she protested. "Only the innocent have a right to
live after such a fight. The guilty do not survive their victories. But
excuse me, I must go; my brother will be waiting."
"What an enigma she is!" thought the doctor, as he watched her drive
away. After that he gave no more thought to her.
Raphael was at the grave punctually; and here, at the most sacred spot
on earth for them, the long-estranged brother and sister sank into each
other's arms in a close embrace.
"This is my place, is it not?" said Judith, pointing to the vacancy
between her parents' graves. "No one can deprive me of this--because I
am the wife of a Christian, and the pious might say-- But you will not
allow them--will you, Raphael?"
"If I survive you, you shall be buried there. But we can speak of this
in thirty years from now."
"But swear it--by the memory of our father. You know how excited I am
to-day."
"If it will soothe you, I swear it."
"And you will put up the epitaph I leave behind?"
"If I survive you, yes."
They talked a little of his plans for the future, they embraced again
and again, and she drove back to the castle.
The count was in his study with Stiegle and some of his tenants. She
went to her boudoir, where she wrote two short notes--one to Agenor,
another to Raphael. By this time it was twilight, but she had her boy
brought to her, although he was already in his cot for the night, and
she kept him with her for about an hour. When at last the servant came
without being called, it was quite dark. She could not see the face of
her mistress, for it was bent over the child. But she could tell by her
voice she was weeping, as she said, "It is better for you too--for you
too!"
She handed the baby to the nurse, with the remark that the evening was
so mild she would take a turn in the garden.
She did so, walking past the spot where Agenor had first kissed her,
towards the lake. On her way she met Fedko, the coachman, who said,
"Good-evening," receiving from her a pleasant reply. He watched her as
she went towards the pond, upon which the moon was shedding its silver
light. "When I think," said the good fellow, "of that morning in Borky
when I saw her rushing to the pond! How different her feelings must be
to-day!"
He was mistaken.
When nine o'clock came, and Judith was still out, the count went to
look for her. Unsuccessful in his search, he was about to send the
servants, when Hamia brought him the letter she had found on Judith's
table. The letter was short, but loving. She commended the boy to his
care, and begged he should not torture himself with the thought that he
had caused her death. She died that she might not make him miserable or
herself more so. She died because, after all she had undergone, she had
neither strength nor courage to live. It was no one's fault, certainly
not his.
Her face was in no wise disfigured when they lifted her from the water.
It was solemn and inflexible, as had been its expression for a long
time before.
Two days after, she was buried by her co-religionists in the spot
belonging to her in the "Good Place." As they dug the grave, they found
the remains of a large bush. Only a few knew that it was once a
rose-bush, which had been used in a very solemn ceremony connected with
the deceased.
On her gravestone is this inscription:
---------------------------------------------------
| Judith, Countess Baranowski, |
| |
| DAUGHTER OF NATHANIEL BEN-MANASSES, |
| OF THE TRIBE OF ISRAEL. |
| |
| She died in darkness, but the day will dawn. |
---------------------------------------------------
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's Judith Trachtenberg, by Karl Emil Franzos