Part 6

In the garret of a usually uninhabited dilapidated three-storied house in the Hahnpass a woman was sitting at a rickety table and embroidering by the light of an oil-lamp a curtain for the holy tabernacle. It was already late; a rude wind howled through the walls of the poor dwelling, a corner house, far over-topping all the others. All was dark in the vicinity, only the windows of the distant lecture-room which was visited by a succession of students emitted a dull light. The woman, though no longer in the first bloom of youth, presented a perfect picture of the most faultless oriental beauty. She might have numbered six or eight and twenty years. Her wonderfully well-formed face, pale as a lily, but suffused from time to time with the softest roseate flush, contrasted superbly with the shining black hair, the rich waving curls of which issued from under a turban-like head-dress and fell in waves on her snowy neck. Her eyes were brighter and blacker than coal, her eyelids fringed with long silky lashes, and her half-opened fresh lips disclosed two rows of pearly teeth.--She worked assiduously, only interrupting herself now and then to go to the open door of a second chamber and listen to the breathing of her sleeping mother--or when she lent with an expression of the deepest motherly love over a cradle, in which a baby, the perfect image of its mother was sleeping quietly.

"Blume, my child," now cried the mother from the adjacent room, "are you still up? Go to bed, spare your eyes, I pray you do so.--When a person has lived as I have done for more than fifteen years in darkness, she learns for the first time to set a right value on eyesight, take my advice, child, go to bed!"

"Only go thou to sleep, dear mother," answered Blume in a loud voice, almost screaming, and leaving off her work for a few moments. "It is not so late as you think, it wants two hours yet to midnight."

"If only your husband would return from his journey," sighed the mother, "he would surely bring money with him, and you would no longer consider it necessary to make a sacrifice of your sweet precious sight.--Lord of the world! that a Rottenberg should be reduced to travel over the country as a scribe in order to earn a livelihood, that my daughter, my graceful Blume, must work at embroidery to save herself from beggary, that grieves me--but Lord, Thou art just, and what Thou doest, is well done, I do not murmur! I only make my supplication before Thee out of the profoundest depths of my heart, not for myself, not for myself, who am tottering on the verge of the grave, but for my children--have mercy upon them!"

"Sleep, dear mother, sleep," cried Blume, and large tears fell like pearls over her cheeks, "all will come right, believe me, God never forsakes his own."

Blume shut the door. "Yes, if only my husband were at home again," said she then, with a shiver; "sometimes I become so sad when I am alone with my mother and child, alone, forsaken, in a strange and unknown city! and my husband wanders over the country to earn bread; God preserve him."

She folded her hands almost involuntarily and began the evening prayer with fervent devotion. The little slumberer in the cradle awoke and cried after its mother. Without interrupting her prayer she suckled it.--She was just saying the words, "May the Everlasting bless and guard thee! May he let the light of His countenance shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee, may the Everlasting turn His face to thee and give thee peace for evermore," as she pressed the child to her bosom, and falling tears bedewed the babe's lovely face.--Suddenly it seemed to her as if the house-door was opened--could it be her husband returned from his journey? that was inconceivable--a man's step sounded upon the contiguous staircase, she heard a noise, as if some one was groping for the latch and could not find it.... Who could be seeking the stranger and friendless woman? a nameless pang for a moment seized her heart,--she was at the conclusion of the evening prayer, and the last words of the same filled her again with the confidence of faith, she said them, perhaps unconsciously, aloud, "Into thy hands I commend my spirit, sleeping or waking, my soul and body.... God is with me, therefore, I cannot fear!" She kept her eyes fixed fast upon the entrance. As a weak wooden bolt fastened the door on the inside, she expected, that the comer would first knock; but it happened otherwise, and a single push from a strong hand made the door come open.

"Gabriel," cried Blume, the colour forsaking her lips, with a suppressed cry of the most hopeless despair; she tore the child from her breast, which she hurriedly covered, pressed it tight in her arms, and got up as though she feared that Gabriel would tear it away from her.

He stood speechless and as one rooted to the ground before her--his whole body trembled, a strange and wonderful quivering passed over his pale corpse-like face, his eyes flashed lightning, the fiery mark on his forehead glowed, his broad breast rose and sank stormily, an unchained passion seemed to rage within him--for some moments he vainly strove to speak.

"I am he," he said at length in a hollow voice, and each word sounded in the ear of the terrified woman like the roar of thunder; "I am Gabriel Suess--whom ye all expelled and trampled upon.--Thou too.--Thou! whom I had once so deeply and ardently loved."

A long pause again ensued, Blume's bosom heaved impetuously, she stared at Gabriel, as if he were some horrible spectre; she held her child still tightly pressed to her; at length she broke the painful silence and spoke in a soft imploring voice: "That is past and gone, Gabriel.... What do you want of me now?"

"Thee!"

The poor tortured woman sank upon her chair. Gabriel paced the chamber several times.

"Do not waken my blind mother, Gabriel," prayed Blume, at length timidly and in a voice scarce audible; "age and sickness have weakened her sense of hearing, but you speak so loudly, so impetuously...."

"Shut the door closer, I must speak with thee alone, no third person shall hear us...."

Blume shut the door. "Gabriel," she said with trembling voice, "I am alone with you, I am a weak woman, you are a giant in strength--but never forget--a third person does hear us, does see us--the spirit of the Lord is over all--he is near to them which are afflicted, he helps the oppressed."

Gabriel did not interrupt her; but an incredulous smile so horribly disfigured his once beautiful features, the fiery mark on his forehead blazed out so strangely from under his dark hair that the word died away on her lips..... she felt that an hatred nourished for years in all its force held irresistible dominion in Gabriel's breast, and that he was now vainly striving to find an expression for that wild consuming ardour of vengeance that drove his hot blood to the height of madness! The baby had again dropped fast asleep, Blume did not know what to do, she dared not lay the child in its cradle.

"Is that.... thy only child?" Gabriel recommenced after a profound silence with that singular inexplicable aberration of thoughts which sometimes seems to come over a man at the very moment when the overpowering sensations of the moment should in fullest measure occupy his mental activity.

"It is my only dear innocent child," cried Blume in mortal terror and bursting into tears--"let me take it to my mother that we may not awake it."--

"Blume!" shouted Gabriel, seizing her arm and detaining her, "there are two words that I will never hear from your mouth 'mother' and 'innocent child', do not utter them in my presence, or you may make me forget resolves that have been ripening for years, and take once for all a fearful vengeance on thee and thy child.... 'Mother'" repeated Gabriel in a voice so sad and piercing that even Blume pitied him, "'mother' that beautiful sweet heavenly word, which everyone utters and hears so gladly--that word, which finds its way into the depths of the heart, and evokes in everyone an inexpressible feeling of bliss. 'Mother' that word, which ringing through the spheres awakes a magic harmony in the soul--that word is to me an empty hollow meaningless sound! Every man, as far as the blue vault of heaven overarches the earth, even though he were the wretchedest slave, that shakes his chain in maniacal fury, every living being, all, all, all have or have had a mother----only I not! only I not, I alone since men have walked the earth! The woman, the abandoned creature, the demon.... that thrust me into this existence.... she was no mother! Fye, fye, call her not mother! apply not the beautiful glorious name to her!--a mother--though it were the spotted hyena that destroys in mere wantonness, a mother defends her offspring.... a mother does not pile the whole weight of the sins which she has committed upon her child's innocent head, while it stands wringing its hands, in despair at her deathbed--a mother...."

"Gabriel, hush! for God's sake, say no more.... speak no more so of thy mother, my mother's sister. In spite of all she is thy mother, thou art her son! she is dead, be not hard upon her--a day will come, when thou too wilt stand before the judgment seat of the most High, when thou too wilt implore the mercy, the grace of God. Oh, think of that! The moments of each mortal existence are numbered.... think on the last hours of thy life!... hadst thou in thy storm-tossed life never sinned, hadst thou never committed a fault, never--save to speak thus of thy mother, of thy mother that carried thee in her womb, bore thee in pain, nourished, nursed, loved.... hadst thou committed no fault but in speaking thus of thy mother.... Gabriel, thou must tremble at the thought of the world to come."

Blume spoke these words with noble indignation, with the impulsive enthusiasm of a prophetess, her cheeks glowed, her eyes sparkled, she resembled a supernatural being.

"Woman!" replied Gabriel, with flashing glance, "I do not tremble!... I have looked death in the face thousands of times in the whirl of battle and did not tremble, thousands have fallen beside me mutilated by the enemies' cannon, their scattered brains have sprinkled my face, and I did not tremble--I was surrounded by bands of foes, all pointed their swords at my breast, I was wounded, seemed lost--I slew them all but did not tremble."

"But you are alive, it was not your last moment," interposed Blume hastily,--"but by the Almighty God of Israel, who made the worlds above, and will hereafter awaken those who slumber below," she pointed up to the blue dome of heaven, down to the graves of the snow-covered burial-ground seen from her window--"by his holy name--_when thy last hour strikes, in the last moment of thy life thou wilt tremble, repentance will break thy proud unbending heart_."

Gabriel was silent, "let us quit the vain contention of priests, of Rabbis," he said at length, involuntarily in a milder tone: "Thou hast never troubled thyself about my life--leave to me the care of my hour of death--what signifies it to thee? Wilt thou be near me in my last hour? wilt thou close my wearied eyes? wilt thou scare the ravens from my bloody corpse, when I lie on the field of battle trampled under the hoofs of horses? What carest thou for me and my soul's salvation? What carest thou for the stranger, the outcast? Long, long is it vanished, the beautiful golden time when it would have been otherwise...."

Gabriel spoke again with measureless impetuosity, but yet in his last words a deeply agitated expression of sorrow had wonderfully mingled itself with the wild rage, and even Blume, the noble loyal wife, was much touched, she perceived how this stony man had once loved her, how fruitful in misery his past life must have been!

"You are alone? Your husband is absent? Do you know where he is?" asked Gabriel after a pause, apparently calm.

Blume was convulsed again with a fearful terror and answered humbly: "He travels about as a scribe to earn us bread. I do not know where he is, I have no news of him--have compassion upon us, Gabriel, the Rottenbergs are no longer rich, we are poor and wretched."

Gabriel gazed awhile darkly before him, then suddenly, as if embracing a violent resolution, stood before Blume and pressed her down on a chair.

"Woman," he said, "for ten years have I sought thee, ten years have I panted to see thee, to speak with thee, to be avenged on thee, as the wounded, exhausted hart for fresh water.--When I saw at a distance the towers of Prague, where I knew that I should find thee, when I entered the Ghetto whose gates enclosed thee--then my heart bounded with a wild joy, I assumed the dress of a student, I visited all the houses of prayer, the lecture-rooms, the libraries, in order to meet your husband. I dwelt with those to whom I bear a deadly hate, all this only--to find thee.... I despised not to associate with a mad beggar, because I believed he would put me upon your track--when I recognised you yesterday evening, I was so happy in my hate, so superabundantly happy, to have found thee, to have revenge in my power--happy! as I have never been since that fateful hour when all the hope of my life was quenched and now, now that I stand before thee, that my hands clasp thy beautiful rounded arm, now, at this moment words fail me to tell thee, how fervently I hate thee, how fervently I hate ye all...."

Gabriel again paced up and down in the highest excitement. "I will tell you a story, Blume," he said at length, pushing a chair by her side, "a very notable story, most of it you already know, but it matters not, it is long since the history has crossed my lips, and I will once more bring my comfortless past before my soul, perchance in so doing I shall find the true expression for that emotion which agitates my breast.--Once upon a time there lived in Cologne a man named Baruch Suess. He was physician to the Archbishop, rich, powerful, and respected at court. But he was prouder of the possession of two daughters, Miriam and Perl, than of his wealth and influence. On the death of two hopeful boys he had transferred to them his whole love. They were the most beauteous maidens in Germany, and suitors soon approached them from all corners of the world. Miriam could with difficulty make up her mind, and only after the younger, Perl, your mother, had intermarried with a branch of the celebrated Rottenberg family, did her father succeed in fixing her choice upon his brother's son, his nephew, Joseph Suess, who lived at Spires.--Their marriage was for three years a childless one, in the fourth she announced to her enraptured husband that she was a mother.--Miriam Suess was brought to bed of a wonderfully beautiful boy, they named him Gabriel. The happy husband rejoiced, the poor were bountifully endowed, a rich foundation established. Baruch of Cologne, the grandfather, who before had feared that he would remain without posterity, undertook the fatiguing journey to Spires for the express purpose of seeing his first grandchild, and in the first intoxication settled his property upon him after his death. Shortly after me, you, Blume, were born, and the grandfather and his two sons-in-law agreed, that the children should some day be united in the bond of wedlock. The years of my childhood and of my youth flew happily by. Idolised by a father whose rich love I could not, though with the best intentions, adequately return, I clave with an infelt warm and holy love to my mother, who guarded me as the apple of her eye. Both because I remained an only child, and on account of my intended union with you, Blume, who wast also the only child of thy parents, my grandfather heaped all his tenderness upon my head. I remember but dimly my earliest childhood, and only one circumstance presents itself to my soul, but so mistily, so confusedly, that even to this day I am in doubt, whether it was not a dream, a deceitful phantom, that my glowing fancy at a later period created and then referred back to an earlier time. I was once walking outside the gate, accompanied as usual by a maidservant, when suddenly a tall, pale, thin man threw himself upon me, pressed me to his heart, and dropped two large tears upon my face. My nursemaid, as surprised as I, would have screamed, but he pressed a piece of gold into her hand and speedily made off with a heavy sigh.--If it was not a dream, that man was my father!"

Gabriel stopped exhausted. Blume was acquainted with her kinsman's early history, she followed his narrative with the most strained attention, anxiously awaiting the moment when he should come to the most fearful catastrophe of his life.

"You know," continued Gabriel, "that from my ninth year I passed one half of the year with my grandfather, the other in my parents' house. My education was a perfect one. In Spires I was thoroughly instructed in religious and Talmudic knowledge; my grandfather, loved and respected at the Court of the Archbishop of Cologne, and owing to his situation, for a Jew a peculiar one, in constant intercourse with the Rhenish nobility, caused me to be indoctrinated with all those sciences, that are ordinarily less accessible to German Jews. I even dared devote myself to knightly arts and exercises, forbidden them in the largest portion of Germany either by law or arbitrarily. I was well made, strong, gifted with a keen and penetrating spirit. I was nineteen years old, and once, it was on the feast of the dedication, on my return home from the high-school at Frankfurt, I found my grandfather there. It had with wise foresight--not to arouse my opposition before hand--been kept secret from me that they intended to marry me to you whom I had never seen before, and even then when it was announced that we were all to go and visit uncle Joel in Worms, it never in the least occurred to me, that the journey was to be a bridal one for me. We arrived at Worms. I saw you, Blume! resplendent with all the lustre of your youthful beauty, and the deepest love that ever seized man's heart blazed suddenly high in my bosom. To my mother's husband who called himself my father I had only devoted a feeling of gratitude, not of inclination, and it was my, your grandfather, to whom I openly declared my ardent affection, and that I believed it to be returned. 'My glorious, my dear child,' exclaimed the old man and tears streamed from his eyes, 'by thee all the wishes of my heart are fulfilled; yes, Gabriel! Blume, thy mother's sister's daughter, is the bride that was destined for thee. God bless the union, that your fathers concluded upon in your earliest years, and that you have sealed by the feelings of your heart.' Holding my grandfather's hand I stood before you, and dared to kiss your forehead white as alabaster. We were bride and bridegroom...."

Gabriel made another pause. Blume's face revealed the fearful anguish of her soul, she knew, what would follow, and cold clear drops of perspiration trickled down her face, which even the bitterest mental torture could not rob of its miraculous attractiveness. Her heart beat audibly.

"I was the happiest man on earth," continued Gabriel in a voice, the unsteadiness of which was a sign of the infinite sorrow that consumed his soul, "I was filled with my faith to which I clave with all the strength of my mind and spirit. It made me happy, it exalted me. I had a mother, and I loved my mother with that unutterable superhuman intenseness, for which we vainly seek an expression, which can only exist to such a pitch in the heart of a grateful child. I had thee, and how I loved thee, how I loved thee, Blume! That thou hast never had an idea of, that thou couldst never have had an idea of!..."

Gabriel stopped short, his voice, that in the whirl of battle could be heard above the thunder of the cannon, sounded feeble and tremulous; his gleaming eyes were wet. He passed his hand over his forehead, and went on: "It was doomed to be otherwise. Ten months had elapsed since our betrothal, I was at Worms, on a visit to you, and full of hope was looking towards a future close at hand, in which you were to be wedded to me; when an unexpected message arrived, that my mother had been suddenly attacked by a mortal sickness, that I was to make haste, if I would see her again alive. A maddening grief thrilled through my breast. I flew along the road to Spires, like one hunted by evil shadows; I arrived late on the evening of the new year. The servants were waiting for me in the entrance-hall, they wished to delay me, to prepare me; I paid no heed to their officiousness, and flew breathless and swift as an arrow up the stairs and into my mother's sick-room. She was still living, but lay at her last gasp. The darkness was broken: many men had already assembled to say the prayers for a departing soul,--the chamber was lit by a pendant lamp of eight branches in the centre of it. Joseph Suess stood by her bed and held her hands in his. The sorrowful consolation of finding her still alive struggled in me with the bitterest grief 'Here am I, dear Mother,' I cried in a voice choked by tears, throwing myself on my knees before her, and covering her beautiful cold hand with hot kisses, 'here am I, good sweet mother! I was sure that thou wouldst tarry for thine own true son.... I could not believe, dear true-hearted mother, that thou wouldest soar away from me before I arrived.... here I am, here I kneel before thee in deep inexpressible sorrow. Why do you not speak to me?... Look at me once again, only once again, with thy mild loved eye, speak to me I implore you! only one word, but one, a last farewell ... lay thine hand in blessing on the head of thy only child, whom thou forsakest, who is dying of deep and infinite grief!..."