Chapter 2

“Then Sarah, our mother, approached the Throne... When God beheld her, He covered His face, and wept. 'Go,' said He, 'I cannot listen to thee.'... But she exclaimed... 'Dost Thou no longer remember the tears I shed before I gave birth to my Joseph and Benjamin... and dost Thou not remember the day when they buried me yonder, on the borders of the Promised Land... and now, must mine eyes behold the slaughter of my children, their disgrace, and their captivity?'... Then God cried: 'For _thy_ sake will I remember thy children and spare them.'...”

“Would you like to know,” Gudule suddenly cried, with uplifted voice, “what this _Sechûs_ is like? It has the form of an angel, and it stands near the Throne of the Almighty.... But, since the days of Rachel, our mother, it is the _Sechûs_ of a mother that finds most favor in God's eyes. When a mother dies, her soul straightway soars heavenward, and there it takes its place amid the others.

“'Who art thou?' asks God, 'I am the _Sechûs_ of a mother,' is the answer, 'of a mother who has left children behind her on earth.' 'Then do thou stand here and keep guard over them!' says God. And when it is well with the children, it is the _Sechûs_ of a mother which has caused them to prosper, and when evil days befall them... it is again the Angel who stands before God and pleads: 'Dost Thou forget that these children no longer have a mother?'... and the evil is averted....”

Gudule's voice had sunk to a mere whisper. Her eyes closed, her head fell back, her breathing became slower and more labored. “Are you still there, children?” she softly whispered.

Anxiously they bent over her. Then once again she opened her eyes, “I see you still”--the words came with difficulty from her blanched lips--“you, Ephraim, and you, my little Viola.... I am sure my _Sechûs_ will plead for you... for you and your father.” They were Gudule's last words. When her children, whose eyes had never as yet been confronted with Death, called her by her name, covering her icy hands with burning kisses, their mother was no more....

Who can tell what influence causes the downtrodden blade to raise itself once more! Is it the vivifying breath of the west wind, or a mysterious power sent forth from the bosom of Mother Earth? It was a touching sight to see how those two children, crushed as they were beneath the weight of a twofold blow, raised their heads again, and in their very desolation found new-born strength. And it filled the Ghetto with wonder. For what were they but the offspring of a gambler? Or was it the spirit of Gudule, their mother, that lived in them?

After Gudule's death, her eldest brother, the then owner of the grange, came over to discuss the future of his sister's children. He wished Ephraim and Viola to go with him to his home in Lower Bohemia, where he could find them occupation. The children, however, were opposed to the idea. They had taken no previous counsel together, yet, upon this point, both were in perfect accord,--they would prefer to be left in their old home.

“When father comes back again,” said Eph-raim, “he must know where to find us. But to you, Uncle Gabriel, he would never come.”

The uncle then insisted that Viola at least should accompany him, for he had daughters at home whom she could assist in their duties in the house and on the farm. But the child clung to Ephraim, and with flaming eyes, and in a voice of proud disdain, which filled the simple farmer with something like terror, she cried:

“Uncle, you have enough to do to provide for your own daughters; don't let _me_ be an additional burden upon you; besides, sooner would I wander destitute through the world than be separated from my brother.”

“And what do you propose to do then?” exclaimed the uncle, after he had somewhat recovered from his astonishment at Viola's vehemence.

“You see, Uncle Gabriel,” said Ephraim, a sudden flush overspreading his grief-stricken features, “you see I have thought about it, and I have come to the conclusion that this is the best plan. Viola shall keep house, and I... I 'll start a business.”

“_You_ start a business?” cried the uncle with a loud laugh. “Perhaps you can tell me what price I 'll get for my oats next market day? A business!... and _what_ business, my lad?”

“Uncle,” said Ephraim, “if I dispose of all that is left us, I shall have enough money to buy a small business. Others in our position have done the same... and then...”

“Well, and then?” the uncle cried, eagerly anticipating his answer.

“Then the _Sechûs_ of our mother will come to our aid,” Ephraim said softly.

The farmer's eyes grew dim with moisture; his sister had been very dear to him.

“As I live!” he cried, brushing his hand across his eyes, “you are true children of my sister Gudule. That's all _I_ can say.”

Then, as though moved by a sudden impulse, he quickly produced, from the depths of his overcoat, a heavy pocketbook. “There!”... he cried, well-nigh out of breath, “there are a hundred gulden for you, Ephraim. With that you can, at all events, make a start; and then you need n't sell the few things you still have. There... put the money away... oats have n't fetched any price at all to-day, 't is true; but for the sake of Gudule's children, I don't mind what I do... Come, put it away, Ephraim... and may God bless you, and make you prosper.”

“Uncle!” cried Ephraim, as he raised the farmer's hand to his lips, “is all this to be mine? All this?”

“Yes, my boy, yes; it _is_ a deal of money is n't it?”... said Gudule's brother, accompanying his words with a sounding slap on his massive thigh. “I should rather think it is. With that you can do something, at all events... and shall I tell you something? In Bohemia the oat crop is, unfortunately, very bad this season. But in Moravia it's splendid, and is two groats cheaper.... So there's your chance, Ephraim, my child; you 've got the money, buy!” All at once a dark cloud overspread his smiling face.

“It's a lot of money, Ephraim, that I am giving you... many a merchant can't lay his hands on it,” he said, hesitatingly; “but if... you were to... gam--”

The word remained unfinished, for upon his arm he suddenly felt a sensation as of a sharp, pricking needle.

“Uncle Gabriel!” cried Viola--for it was she who had gripped his arm--and the child's cheeks were flaming, whilst her lips curled with scorn, and her white teeth gleamed like those of a beast of prey. “Uncle Gabriel!” she almost shrieked, “if you don't trust Ephraim, then take your money back again... it's only because you are our mother's brother that we accept it from you at all.... Ephraim shall repay you to the last farthing.... Ephraim doesn't gamble... you sha 'n't lose a single penny of it.”

With a shake of his head the farmer regarded the strange child. He felt something like annoyance rise within him; an angry word rose to the lips of the usually good tempered man. But it remained unsaid; he was unable to remove his eyes from the child's face.

“As I live,” he muttered, “she has Gudule's very eyes.”

And with another thumping slap on his leg, he merrily exclaimed:

“All right, we'll leave it so then.... If Ephraim does n't repay me, I 'll take _you_, you wild thing... for you've stood surety for your brother, and then I 'll take you away, and keep you with me at home. Do you agree... you little spit-fire, eh?”

“Yes, uncle!” cried Viola.

“Then give me a kiss, Viola.”

The child hesitated for a moment, then she laid her cheek upon her uncle's face.

“Ah, now I 've got you, you little spit-fire,” he cried, kissing her again and again. “Are n't you ashamed now to have snapped your uncle up like that?”

Then after giving Ephraim some further information about the present price of oats, and the future prospects of the crops, with a side-shot at the chances of wool, skins, and other merchandise, he took his leave.

There was great surprise in the Ghetto when the barely fifteen-year-old lad made his first start in business. Many made merry over “the great merchant,” but before the year was ended, the sharp-seeing eyes of the Ghetto saw that Ephraim had “a lucky hand.” Whatever he undertook he followed up with a calmness and tact which often baffled the restless activity of many a big dealer, with all his cuteness and trickery. Whenever Ephraim, with his pale, sad face, made his appearance at a farmstead, to negotiate for the purchase of wool, or some such matter, it seemed as though some invisible messenger had gone before him to soften the hearts of the farmers. “No one ever gets things as cheap as you do,” he was assured by many a farmer's wife, who had been won by the unconscious eloquence of his dark eyes. No longer did people laugh at “the little merchant,” for nothing so quickly kills ridicule as success.

When, two years later, his Uncle Gabriel came again to see how the children were getting on, Ephraim was enabled to repay, in hard cash, the money he had lent him.

“Oho!” cried Gudule's brother, with big staring eyes, as he clutched his legs with both hands, “how have you managed in so short a time to save so much? D' ye know that that 's a great deal of money?”

“I 've had good luck, uncle,” said Ephraim, modestly.

“You 've been... playing, perhaps?”

The words fell bluntly from the rough countryman, but hardly had they been uttered, when Viola sprang from her chair, as though an adder had stung her. “Uncle,” she cried, and a small fist hovered before Gabriel's eyes in such a threatening manner that he involuntarily closed them. But the child, whose features reminded him so strongly of his dead sister, could not make him angry.

“Ephraim,” he exclaimed, in a jocund tone, warding off Viola with his hands, “you take my advice. Take this little spit-fire with you into the village one day... they may want a young she-wolf there.” Then he pocketed the money.

“Well, Ephraim,” said he, “may God bless you, and grant you further luck. But you won't blame me if I take the money,--I can do with it, and in oats, as you know, there's some chance of good business just now. But I am glad to see that you 're so prompt at paying. Never give too much credit! That 's always my motto; trust means ruin, and eats up a man's business, as rats devour the contents of a corn-barn.”

There was but one thing that constantly threw its dark shadow across these two budding lives,--it was the dark figure in a distant prison. This it was that saddened the souls of the two children with a gloom which no sunshine could dispel. When on Fridays Ephraim returned, fatigued and weary from his work, to the home over which Viola presided with such pathetic housewifely care, no smile of welcome was on her face, no greeting on his. Ephraim, 't is true, told his sister where he had been, and what he had done, but in the simplest words there vibrated that tone of unutterable sadness which has its constant dwelling-place in such sorely-tried hearts.

Meanwhile, a great change had come over Viola. Nature continues her processes of growth and development 'mid the tempests of human grief, and often the fiercer the storm the more beautiful the after effects. Viola was no longer the pale child, “the little spit-fire,” by whom her Uncle Gabriel's arm had been seized in such a violent grip. A womanly gentleness had come over her whole being, and already voices were heard in the _Ghetto_ praising her grace and beauty, which surpassed even the loveliness of her dead mother in her happiest days. Many an admiring eye dwelt upon the beautiful girl, many a longing glance was cast in the direction of the little house, where she dwelt with her brother. But the daughter of a “gambler,” the child of a man who was undergoing imprisonment for the indulgence of his shameful vice! That was a picture from which many an admirer shrank with horror!

One day Ephraim brought home a young canary for his sister. When he handed her the bird in its little gilt cage, her joy knew no bounds, and showering kisses by turns upon her brother, and on the wire-work of the cage, her eyes sparkling with animation:

“You shall see, Ephraim, how I 'll teach the little bird to speak,” she cried.

The softening influence which had, during the last few months, come over his sister's nature was truly a matter of wonder to Ephraim. Humbly and submissively she accepted the slightest suggestion on his part, as though it were a command. He was to her a father and mother, and never were parents more implicitly obeyed by a child than this brother by a sister but three years his junior.

There was one subject, however, upon which Ephraim found his sister implacable and firm--their absent father, the mere mention of whose name made her tremble. Then there returned that haughty curl of the lips, and all the other symptoms of a proud, inflexible spirit It was evident that Viola hated the man to whom she owed her existence.

Thus had it come about that Ephraim was almost afraid to pronounce his father's name. Neither did he care to allude to their mother before Viola, for the memory of her death was too closely bound up with that dark form behind the distant prison walls.

Let us now return to the night on which Ephraim opened the door to his father. How had it come about? A thousand times Ephraim had thought about his father's return--and now he durst not even kindle a light, to look upon the long-estranged face. As silent as when he had come, Ascher remained during the rest of the night; he had seated himself at the window, and his arm was resting upon the very spot where formerly the cage had stood. The bird had obtained its freedom, and was, no doubt, by this time asleep, nestling amid the breeze-swept foliage of some wooded glen. _He_ too had regained his liberty, but no sleep closed his eyes, and yet he was in safe shelter, in the house of his children.

At length the day began to break. The sun was still hiding behind the mountain-tops, but its earliest rays were already reflected upon the window-panes. In the _Ghetto_ footsteps became audible; here and there the grating noise of an opening street-door was heard, while from round the corner resounded, ever and anon, the hammer of the watchman, calling the people to morning service; for it was a Fast-day, which commenced at sunrise.

At that moment Ascher raised himself from his chair, and quickly turned away from the window. Ephraim was already by his side. “Father, dear father!” he cried from the inmost depths of his heart, as he tried to grasp the hand of the convict.

“Don't make such a noise,” said the latter, casting a furtive glance in the direction of the window, and speaking in the same mysterious whisper in which he had asked for admittance into the house.

What a strange awakening it was to his son, when, in the gray twilight of the breaking day, he looked at Ascher more closely. In his imagination Ephraim had pictured a wan, grief-worn figure, and now he saw before him a strong, well-built man, who certainly did not present the appearance of a person who had just emerged from the dank atmosphere of a prison! On the contrary, he seemed stronger and more vigorous than he had appeared in his best days.

“Has he had such a good time of it...?” Ephraim felt compelled to ask himself... “how different our poor mother looked!”

With a violent effort he repressed the feelings which swelled his bosom. “Dear father,” he said, with tears in his eyes, “make yourself quite comfortable; you have n't closed your eyes the whole night, you must be worn out. You are at home, remember... father!”

“It's all right,” said Ascher, with a deprecating gesture, “_we_ fellows know other ways of spending the night.”

“_We fellows!_” The words cut Ephraim to the heart.

“But you may be taken ill, father,” he timidly observed.

“I taken ill! What do you take me for?” Ascher laughed, boisterously. “I have n't the slightest intention of failing ill.”

At that moment the watchman was heard hammering at the door of the next house. The reverberating blows seemed to have a strangely disquieting effect upon the strong man; a violent tremor seized him; he cast one of the frightened glances which Ephraim had noticed before in the direction of the window, then with one bound he was at the door, and swiftly turned the knob.

“Father, what 's the matter?” Ephraim cried, much alarmed.

“Does the watchman look into the room when he passes by?” asked Ascher, while his eyes almost burst from their sockets, with the intent-ness of their gaze.

“Never,” Ephraim assured him.

“Let me see, wait...” whispered Ascher.

The three well-known knocks now resounded upon their own door, then the shadow of a passing figure was thrown upon the opposite wall. With a sigh of relief, the words escaped Ascher's bosom:

“He did not look inside...” he muttered to himself.

Then he removed his hand from the door-knob, came back into the centre of the room, and approaching the table, rested his hand upon it.

“Ephraim...” he said after a while, in that suppressed tone which seemed to be peculiar to him, “are n't you going to synagogue?”

“No, father,” replied Ephraim, “I 'm not going to-day.”

“But they 'll want to know,” Ascher observed, and at the words an ugly sneer curled the corners of his lip; “they 'll want to know who your guest is. Why don't you go and tell them?”

“Father!” cried Ephraim.

“Then be good enough to draw down the blinds.... What business is it of theirs who your guest is? Let them attend to their own affairs.... But they would n't be of 'the chosen race' if they did n't want to know what was taking place in the furthermost corner of your brain. You can't be too careful with them... you 're never secure against their far-scenting noses and their sharp, searching eyes.”

It was now broad daylight. Ephraim drew down the blinds.

“The blinds are too white...” Ascher muttered, and moving a chair forward, he sat down upon it with his back to the window.

Ephraim proceeded to wind the phylacteries round his arm, and commenced to say his prayers softly.

His devotions over, he hurriedly took the phylacteries from his head and hand.

Ascher was still sitting immovable, his back to the window, his eyes fixed upon the door.

“Why don't you ask me where I 've left my luggage?” he suddenly cried.

“I 'll fetch it myself if you 'll tell me where it is,” Ephraim remarked, in all simplicity.

“Upon my word, you make me laugh,” cried Ascher, and a laugh like that of delirium burst from his lips. “All I can say, Ephraim, is, the most powerful giant upon earth would break his back beneath the weight of my luggage!”

Then only did Ephraim grasp his father's meaning.

“Don't worry yourself, father...” he said lovingly.

“Would you like to support me, perhaps!” Ascher shouted, with cutting disdain.

Ephraim's heart almost ceased to beat. Then movements were heard in the adjoining room.

“Have you any one with you?” cried Ascher, springing up. His sharp ears had instantly caught the sounds, and again the strong man was seized with violent trembling.

“Father, it's only dear Viola,” said Ephraim.

A nameless terror seemed to have over-powered Ascher. With one hand convulsively clenched upon the arm of the chair, and the other pressed to his temple, he sat breathing heavily. Ephraim observed with alarm what a terrible change had come over his father's features during the last few seconds: his face had become ashen white, his eyes had lost their lustre, he seemed to have aged ten years.

The door opened, and Viola entered.

“Viola!” cried Ephraim, “here is our--”

“Welcome!” said the girl, in a low voice, as she approached a few steps nearer. She extended her hand towards him, but her eyes were cast down. She stood still for a moment, then, with a hurried movement, turned away.

“Gudule!” cried Ascher, horror-stricken, as he fell back almost senseless in his chair.

Was it the glamour of her maiden beauty that had so overpowered this unhappy father? Or was it the extraordinary resemblance she bore to the woman who had so loved him, and whose heart he had broken? The utterance of her name, the terror that accompanied the exclamation, denoted the effect which the girl's sudden appearance had produced upon that sadly unhinged mind.

“Viola!” Ephraim cried, in a sorrow-stricken voice, “why don't you come here?”

“I _can't_, Ephraim, I _can't_...” she moaned, as, with halting steps, she walked towards the door.

“Come, speak to him, do,” Ephraim entreated, taking her hand in his.

“Let me go!” she cried, trying to release herself.... “I am thinking of mother!”

Suddenly Ascher rose.

“Where's my stick?” he cried. “I want the stick which I brought with me.... Where is it? I must go.”

“Father, you won't...” cried Ephraim.

Then Viola turned round.

“Father,” she said, with twitching lips... “you'll want something to eat before you go.”

“Yes, yes, let me have something to eat,” he shouted, as he brought his fist down upon the table. “Bring me wine... and let it be good... I am thirsty enough to drink the river dry.... Wine, and beer, and anything else you can find, bring all here, and then, when I 've had my fill, I 'll go.”

“Go, Viola,” Ephraim whispered in his sister's ear, “and bring him all he asks for.”

When Viola had left the room, Ascher appeared to grow calmer. He sat down again leaning his arms upon the table.

“Yes,” he muttered to himself: “I 'll taste food with my children, before I take up my stick and go.... They say it's lucky to have the first drink of the day served by one's own child... and luck I _will_ have again, at any price... What good children! While I 've been anything but a good father to them, they run hither and thither and take the trouble to get me food and drink, and I, I 've brought them home nothing but a wooden stick. But I 'll repay them, so help me God, I 'll make them rich yet, but I 've got nothing but a wooden stick, and I want money, no play without money, and no luck either....”

Gradually a certain thoughtfulness overspread Ascher's agitated features, his lips were tightly compressed, deep furrows lined his forehead, while his eyes were fixed in a stony glare, as if upon some distant object. In the meantime Ephraim had remained standing almost motionless, and it was evident that his presence in the room had quite escaped his father's observation. With a chilling shudder running through his frame, his hair on end with horror, he listened to the strange soliloquy!... Then he saw his father's eyes travelling slowly in the direction of the old bureau in the corner, and there they remained fixed. “Why does he leave the key in the door, I wonder,” he heard him mutter between his teeth, “just as Gudule used to do; I must tell him when he comes back, keys should n't be left in doors, never, under any circumstances.” The entrance of Viola interrupted the old gambler's audible train of thought.

Ephraim gave a gasp of relief.

“Ah, what have you brought me?” cried Ascher, and his eyes sparkled with animation, as Viola produced some bottles from under her apron, and placed them and some glasses upon the table.

“Now then, fill up the glass,” he shouted, in a commanding voice, “and take care that you don't spill any, or you 'll spoil my luck.”

With trembling hand Viola did as she was bidden, without spilling a single drop. Then he took up the glass and drained it at one draught. His face flushed a bright crimson: he poured himself out another glass.

“Are n't you drinking, Ephraim?” he exclaimed, after he had finished that glass also.

“I don't drink to-day, father,” Ephraim faltered, “it's a fast.”

“A fast? What fast? I have been fasting too,” he continued, with a coarse laugh, “twice a week, on bread and water; an excellent thing for the stomach. Fancy, a fast-day in midsummer. On such a long day, when the sun is up at three already, and at eight o'clock at night is still hesitating whether he 'll go to bed or not... what have I got to do with your Fast-day?”