did. We therefore renewed our acquaintance in some measure, and

gradually even became friends--that is to say, as far as it was possible for students of such different standing (he was in his fourth year, I only in my first), and for characters so dissimilar as ours, to be friends.

As regards his character, one saw in him a clear proof of the truth of the old saying, that "the impressions of childhood are the most deeply rooted of all." Adolf Lieblinger, student of medicine, was the same in character as black Aaron. The metamorphosis of the reserved ugly boy, into the able, worldly, interesting young man, had left the basis of his character untouched: he still possessed the same defiant spirit and the same consciousness of his own powers, and the same hatred as of old was hidden away at the bottom of his heart. Besides that, he was unchanged in his gratitude for every kindness, however small, and in his thirst after knowledge. When he first left Barnow, he had had a hard struggle for existence, and yet he had passed his examination at the gymnasium in an incredibly short space of time. He made his way both there, and afterward at the University of Vienna. And so he still regarded the old proverb, "Where there's a will there's a way," as essentially true.

He was only changed in one respect; his ideas of God and religion were fundamentally altered. In the old days, partly because he was so proud, he had clung all the more tenaciously to the religious teaching of his childhood that he had been persecuted for holding it, and his God had been more or less the God of his own vengeance; for he had never tired of imploring Him to send down a flash of lightning to destroy the Christian boys who bullied him, and our stupid, rough-mannered teachers. But now he was indifferent to God, and hated the Jewish faith with a bitter hatred. He always spoke of Jews and Judaism with passionate virulence. Herr Thaddaeus Wiliszewski, who had written some verses for his friends, and not for the "Ladies' Journal" this time, which he called a "Poem against the Jews," was mild as a dove in comparison. But still he remained in appearance a member of the old faith. "My coat is uncomfortable," he used to say, "and doesn't fit me well, but I can't find any other on the face of the earth that would fit me better; and, as you know, one can't go about coatless--people would stare so!"

I grew very fond of Adolf--as fond as I used to be of Aaron when I was a boy; so when the vacation approached, I invited him to accompany me to my eastern home, and was heartily glad when he accepted my invitation.

During this journey our conversation chanced to turn on Rachel as we speeded through the night in the railway toward Barnow. Her name had never been mentioned by either of us since the day on which we had first met in Vienna.

"Take care of yourself," I said jestingly; "old love never rusts out."

He laughed. "I," he said, "what have _I_ to do with love? You know that love is soft and tender, and I--am a hard man." He laughed again, and then added gravely and almost tenderly: "Look here--I will avoid seeing Rachel. The memory of her is the only pleasurable one of my boyhood, and shall I do well to destroy it by going to see her? for doubtless she is now a shy and dirty girl who would address me in Jewish-German."

He opened the carriage-window and stared out into the dark night for many minutes.

* * * * *

We arrived at Barnow at the end of July. "Black Aaron's" coming awakened great excitement, and it was both ludicrous and sad to see the way in which the orthodox Jews received him. He, "black Aaron," Aaron Leiblinger, son of Chane Leiblinger, who used to live in the cottage by the river, actually dared to wear "Christian" clothes, to eat "Christian" food, to smoke on the Sabbath; and had even gone so far as to study! Deadly sins all of these in the eyes of the orthodox,--sins that should meet with condign punishment! No one spoke to him, and any one he addressed turned away from him in scorn. The little boys ran after him in the street, shouting, _Meschumed!_ (apostate). The young man laughed at the children, and repaid the scorn of their elders in the same coin. We did not often put ourselves in the way of these people, however, but used to make long expeditions into the country, and visited the Christian officials of the town. We were heartily welcomed by the latter. Herr Thaddaeus Wiliszewski was kind enough to read his poems to us, and the sallow daughters of the Steueramts-Vorsteher[4] allowed us to flirt with them a little. Adolf was outwardly full of laughter and fun, and I alone guessed how bitterly he felt the reception he had met with from his own people. He kept true to his determination not to see Rachel.

[Footnote 4: Head of the office for the assessment of taxes.]

One day--it was on a fearfully hot Sunday afternoon in August, the second we had spent in the little town--the tempter came to him at last, or rather, came to me in the first instance. I was alone at home that afternoon, when the door opened, and a little manikin, with a very red nose and very thin legs, trotted into the room. It was Herr Isaak Tuerkischgelb, the "Marschallik" of Barnow, which, being interpreted, means the merrymaker, or marshal of weddings at Barnow. A dignitary of this kind, besides a thousand other duties, is intrusted with that of inviting the guests to a marriage. It was in this capacity that he honored me with a visit. He had been sent by Frau Sprinze Klein to invite Adolf and me to the wedding-party, to be given on the following Tuesday in honor of the marriage of her daughter, Jutta Klein, to Herr Isidor Spitz (_vulgo_, "Red Itzigel").

"Thank you," I said. "But shall we see any pretty girls there? Is Esterka Regina to be one of the guests?"

"Who?" asked the little man in amazement, putting his hand up to his ear and bending forward the better to hear my answer.

"Well, I mean Rachel Welt, the fat butcher's daughter."

"Do you ask if she is to be there?" cried the Marschallik, pathetically. "Is it reasonable to suppose that any one would invite all the ugly girls in Barnow and leave out the most beautiful? Take my word for it, young sir, Sprinze Klein and I know how to act on such occasions; and it is an acknowledged thing that when you invite young men to a party, you ought to have some pretty girls to meet them. Besides that, we know that we needn't deck out a room with flowers when Rachel is there, for she is the loveliest flower I ever saw; and that's as true as that God blesses my undertakings!

"The loveliest flower," he repeated; "and so you will come, won't you?--you and your friend Aaronleben--pardon me for calling him that; for how can I call him Adolf, when I often had him in my arms when he was a little child, and his mother, Chane, was my own sister's daughter? You'll come now, and prevent the people in Barnow saying of the old Marschallik--'He's only fit to invite common Jews, the uneducated folk of the town; he's no good at all where young gentlemen are concerned!'"

I could not help laughing. "All right," I said, "make your mind easy as regards me. But whether Adolf will go or not is a different question; I don't think he will. However, you'd better come back to-morrow and hear what he says."

The little man once more raised his hands in the air, bowing low at the same time; after which, he trotted out of the room with a broad smile upon his face.

I was convinced that I should have to go alone. And, indeed, when I told Adolf of the invitation, he answered testily: "Say no more. I'll follow you to hell if you like, but not to these people!"

"What a pity!" I said. "It would have been such a good opportunity for you to have made an interesting study of the character of--our hostess, Frau Sprinze Klein. You don't know her. She was born at Brzezan, and is now a very rich widow. She keeps a haberdasher's shop."

"Very interesting," he replied, scornfully.

"More so than you imagine. A very grave psychological process is going on in that woman. She is struggling with all her might to free herself from the oppressive bonds of orthodoxy, and to gain a more enlarged view of life; but it must be confessed that her efforts to attain this end are very comical, to say the least of it. Frau Klein lives like every other Jewess. She does not venture to wear her own hair, and can not bring herself to disobey the Levitical laws regarding food in the smallest particular. But as she once spent six months in Lemberg when she was a girl, she has a sort of Platonic love for 'culture' and 'enlightenment.' She begins nearly every sentence with, 'When I was in Lemberg.' She shows her Platonic love of enlightenment in strange ways. For instance, she delights in speaking High-German, and whenever she manages to pick up a foreign word, she continually drags it into her conversation by hook or by crook for the next week. You may easily imagine how the unfortunate foreign word suffers at her hands; or rather, I should say, you can't imagine it, for it far exceeds the bounds of the wildest imagination. Here is another example: Frau Sprinze can't read a word of German, and yet she bought three second-hand books at a sale--these are, Schiller's 'Robbers,' a story by Caroline Pichler, and a volume of 'Casanova.' She is in the habit of keeping one of these books lying open before her on the counter, and whenever she thinks that any one is looking at her, she stares at the mysterious characters printed on the page as attentively as though she understood what they meant. If any pious Jew tells her that reading a German book is a deadly sin, she invariably answers: 'When I was in Lemberg, I noticed that the daughters of the chief rabbi were in the habit of reading German books.' At the same she secretly comforts herself by the thought: 'If reading these books is really a sin, I am innocent of committing it....' As a last example of her large-mindedness, we have the invitation to her daughter's marriage-feast. You must know that she has arranged that the dancing at her party shall not be conducted after the 'Jewish fashion'--the men with men and the women with women--but after that of the Christians, which allows men and women to dance with each other. We probably owe the heartiness of our invitation to the fact that very few of the young men who are to be there know how to dance properly."

"How flattering!"

"Pooh! What does that matter? It'll be capital fun, I expect! Even if they only have slow country-dances, I think that the chance of having such a pretty girl as Esterka Regina as a partner would make up for anything. Don't you?"

"No, I don't," answered Adolf, shortly.

But he looked thoughtful when he heard her name, and next day when the Marschallik came to invite him to Frau Klein's party, he at once consented to go, very much to my surprise and to that of the old man.

... On the following Tuesday evening he went to the rich widow's house, which we found grandly decorated for the evening's entertainment. The marriage ceremony had been performed, so that every one was waiting for the dancing to begin. Our hostess met us at the ball-room door and received us more than graciously. She wore a dress of heavy yellow silk, and above that a pale-green velvet mantle; and the well-assorted jeweler's shop (for that is the only way to describe it) that she had hung about her, rattled with every movement she made.

"You will find everything arranged as it is done at Lemberg," she said to us, with a beaming smile; "for when I was at Lemberg, I learned the proper way to do _les horreurs_ as hostess!"

We went into the dancing-room. The men did not look enchanted to see us, but the girls seemed to witness our arrival with more satisfaction. We at once set to work to fulfill the duty for which we had come, and danced diligently.

Soon afterward, an old man came into the room accompanied by a young girl. It was Hirsch Welt and his daughter. It was the first time that we had seen her since our return, and, as though with one breath, we ejaculated, "How very beautiful she is!" But I will not even now attempt to describe her.

"Does seeing the girl really destroy the pleasurable memories of your boyhood?" I asked Adolf, with a smile.

But he did not answer. For one moment he turned very pale. Immediately recovering himself, he went up to her and asked her to dance with him.

She also turned pale, looked at him with a startled expression, and answered in a low voice--"No!"

His cheek flushed. "You--you don't dance?"

"I do dance," she replied slowly, and still with the same look in her face, "but not with you."

He forced himself to smile, but with a great effort. "And what have I done to deserve such a punishment?"

"You hate us all, and make game of us--of us, our ways, and our language. And what good does it do you, after all, to act thus? It does not make you the less a Jew."

His face darkened. "Oh, if you only knew," he began hastily, but stopped himself there. After a short pause, he continued, with a smile: "You are mistaken. The people of Barnow have done me no wrong, nor I them. How could it be otherwise? I was born and brought up here among them."

"Oh, I know," she said, quickly; "you used to live in the garret-room in our house, you and your old mother; peace be with her!..."

His face lighted up with pleasure. "You remember those old days? I should hardly have expected it--it's eleven years ago!"

"Yes, I remember it all distinctly. We used to be great friends, you and I. And had you forgotten me?"

"Certainly not!" he said, emphatically.

Then they began to talk in a low voice, and I could hear no more of their conversation. He was probably reminding Rachel of a number of little incidents of their childhood, for a happy smile played upon her lips every now and then.

Neither of them remembered what a strange thing it must have seemed to every one present that they should have so much to say to each other in private. People began to whisper, and I heard the Platonic lover of progress say to one of her gossips, 'I saw many curious things when I was in Lemberg; but I never knew before that any girl who was engaged to be married would venture to talk so long to a stranger--I really never did!'

But at this moment they separated.

"I am so glad that you haven't forgotten old times," said the girl aloud; "it's a sign that you aren't wicked, though many people say that you are.... But now--I must say good-by."

And in another moment she was gone. He gazed after her retreating figure as though in a dream.

I went up to him.

"You've given the unfortunate bridegroom rather a bad half hour," I said, laughingly.

"What!" he asked, quickly, "is she engaged?"

"I heard some one say so just now."

"To whom?"

"I don't know. Didn't she tell you about it?"

"No," he answered, and then begged me to go home--he had had enough of the party.

That was their first meeting.

* * * * *

Two months later. The mild autumn sunshine was gilding the landscape, and the heath was brightly tinted with deep russet hues. Adolf and I were once more sitting opposite each other in the railway-carriage, but this time we were going northward, and were leaving Barnow behind us.

Adolf's manner had been rather strange of late. He had sometimes been unreasonably full of high spirits, and again absolutely silent, not a word to be got out of him on any subject; sometimes confident, and again sentimental. Any one could see that the poor fellow was over head and ears in love, and therefore in a very unsettled frame of mind. I did not know how matters stood between him and the girl he loved, and did not care to ask; but I rejoiced in silence that the spring-time of joy had at last come to the sad solitary heart of my old friend.

He was very gentle during the whole of that day, and did not give utterance to a single sarcastic speech. His face looked softer and brighter than I could have imagined it possible for those sharply-cut features to look.

At last he addressed me suddenly.

"I've got something to tell you that you'll be glad to hear."

"Go on."

But he grew silent again. After a long pause he burst out all at once: "I love her; she loves me. I can not bear to keep it to myself any longer, so I will tell you how it all happened...."

I shook him warmly by the hand, and then he went on:

"You remember that marriage. I am not a poet, nor do I find it easy to put my impressions into words, therefore I simply can not tell you what effect seeing that girl had upon me, for it was unspeakable, indescribable. Still, although her dear face was continually before me in imagination, I could not make up my mind to visit her in her father's house, for that house was haunted by the ghosts of my miserable childhood--ghosts I dared not waken without pressing necessity. Besides that, Hirsch Welt is one of the most narrow-minded of the pious sect in the community, and I felt no desire to receive any more proofs of the affection of that lot than I have already had.

"So I left our next meeting to be brought about by chance; and, as chance would have it, I met Rachel again before another week had passed. It was in a curious place--the very last that I should have thought of.

"You know the old ruined castle on the left bank of the Lered; you know it better than I do. I never had any liking for the place, for a love of romantic scenery has no part in my composition; but somehow or other I was that day impelled to climb the hillock on which the ruins lie, after having wandered aimlessly about the heath for hours. I felt--laugh at me if you like--that I must go to the top of some eminence and get a good view of the country round.

"Well, as I said before, I climbed the little hill, and there I found Rachel sitting on a stone in the ruined court, right under the great red wooden cross, the presence of which makes the Jews so averse to visiting the place. She was sewing diligently, and a book was lying on the grass at her side.

"On hearing the sound of my footsteps, she looked up, and returned my greeting quietly.

"'Here you are at last,' she said.

"I stared at her in astonishment. 'Did you know that I was coming? I only came up here by chance.'

"'No one told me that you were coming,' she answered, blushing deeply as she spoke, 'but I was quite sure that you would come. Yes; I brought that book to show you.' She put it in my hand. 'Do you remember it?'

"I remembered it well. A strange feeling came over me as I gazed at the dog's-eared discolored pages. It was a prayer-book, written in Jewish-German for the use of women, and was one of the few things that I had inherited from my mother. In spite of all my hardness, I was profoundly moved--I scarcely knew why.

"My eyes were dim, and I returned the book in silence.

"'You gave it to me,' she said, 'when you went away out into the wide world to seek your fortune on that beautiful summer morning long ago. We cried a great deal when you left us, fair-haired Chaim and I. It is to him that I am engaged, you know....'

"'To him!' I repeated, as calmly as I could. 'You said nothing about your engagement the other evening.'

"'Because we were talking of other things,' she answered; and then added, 'Nor did you tell me about the girl that you're engaged to, and yet they say that she is very beautiful and grand.'

"I could not help laughing. 'No, Fraeulein[5] Rachel,' I said, 'I'm not engaged.'

[Footnote 5: I have made use of the word "Fraeulein" in order to avoid the discussion as to "thou" and "you."--_Translator's note._]

"She looked at me questioningly. 'Aren't you? It's another lie, then. Our people say that you're engaged to a very rich and beautiful Christian girl; but,' she continued, speaking quickly and eagerly, 'it's your own fault that they tell so many false and wicked tales about you. You are proud and reserved to all our people, and turn us into ridicule whenever you can. That was the reason why I was so angry with you when I first saw you at the marriage. I soon saw that you weren't wicked, and told you so; but you're proud--even to me.'

"I would have spoken, but she interrupted me.

"'You are; you needn't say no, for it's quite true. Why do you address me so stiffly, and not as you used to do?'

"'Because little Rachel is now a grown-up young lady--'

"'There you are--sarcastic again,' she interrupted, passionately. 'I'm not a young lady--I am only a Jewish girl; so let me beg of you to call me simply by my name, as an old friend should do.'

"'Willingly,' I replied; 'but you must do the same by me.'

"'No,' she said, blushing, but with great decision; 'that wouldn't do at all. You are a learned man, and will soon be a doctor, while I--I am only Rachel Welt. You must not ask that of me.'

"We talked," continued Adolf, "for a long time and about many things--not only on that morning, but on many mornings for a number of weeks. Rachel took her work to the ruined castle every day. 'It's so airless down below,' she said; 'and here one can see the sunshine, and the birds that are singing all around. I like plenty of light.' You know how poverty, oppression, and sorrow have stifled almost all sense of the picturesque in the Podolian Jews, but that simple girlish spirit is full of it.

"I was quite as punctual as Rachel in arriving at our meeting-place. Even if I wished, I couldn't tell you all the things we talked about--the smallest matters were weighty enough to us to become the theme of endless conversation. Neither of us knew what it was that drew us to meet so often. It was a happy time we spent together, ignorant of the cause of our joy; perhaps, when I look back at it, it seems almost the brightest part of those bright days...."

Adolf paused abruptly, and again that look of softened happiness that I had before remarked passed over his face.

"You are right," I said; "the happiest time of first love is when neither of the lovers has as yet awakened to the cause that makes the most wonderful event seem simple, and the simplest a wonder. It is generally to some external influence that the lovers owe the discovery of how deep this feeling has grown."

Adolf laughed. "You speak like a book," he answered. "But--you're right all the same. The 'external influence,' as you call it, was not wanting in our case."

Then he continued:

"One morning I went to the ruins as usual, but she did not come. Hour after hour I paced the courtyard impatiently, every now and then going to look down the pathway leading to the town. All in vain. Rachel did not come. My disappointment opened my eyes to the fact that she had grown very dear to me.

"She did not appear on the next day or the next. A week passed, and she did not come. I was in despair.

"At last I found her seated in the old place one morning when I went to the castle. I hastened to her and took her hand in mine. 'Thank God! you've come back,' I cried, joyfully. 'Rachel, Rachel, you don't know how anxious I have been about you.'

"She smiled sadly; her face was pale, and her eyelids reddened with weeping. 'I could not come,' she said softly, 'I was ill.'

"'Ill!' I exclaimed. 'And I not with you! I had then good reason to be anxious about you.'

"'It wasn't much,' she returned. 'And you came here often?'

"'Every day--and waited and waited!'

"'Thank you,' she said in a low voice, and held out her hand once more to me.

"As we stood there silent, looking at each other and finding no word to say, we all at once became clearly conscious of our love for each other. We both trembled.

"'I must go,' she said at length, withdrawing her hand from mine. 'My mother will be anxious--good-by.'

"'Till to-morrow,' I answered. 'You will come?'

"'I will come,' she said in a low voice....

"I had not long to wait for her on the following day: she was very punctual.

"I went to meet her shyly, and rather ill at ease,--not joyously, as on the previous day.

"She was still very pale, and showed her weakness by the tremulousness of her walk.

"'You are worse than you'd have me believe,' I said.

"'No,' she replied, 'I am not ill, and'--she hesitated, and then resumed in a firmer voice--'I haven't been ill. I lied to you yesterday.'

"I stared at her in amazement.

"'Yes,' she repeated, 'I lied, because I had not courage to tell the truth. I am pale, and my eyes are red, because I wept so much, and was so miserable during the last week. I've a great deal to say to you, and entreat of you to listen to me quietly.'

"We seated ourselves on the great stone at the foot of the red cross.

"'I don't know,' she began in a clear firm voice, 'who told my parents that I was in the habit of meeting you here every day, and it doesn't much matter who it was. I should have been certain to have told them myself some time, for I saw no harm in what I had done. But one day lately, when I went home, my father received me with vehement reproaches, and with words ... with words.... I will not repeat them, for they were very cruel and unjust. He said that I had forgotten my honor and my duty; he reminded me of the man to whom I am betrothed, and besought me to beware of you, for you were an unbeliever, and would tempt me to evil. His anger did not frighten me, but that did; for something all at once seemed to tell me why I had gone so regularly to the ruins, and why your words and looks made me so happy. Now--I know the truth. And when my father entreated me not to shame him, and to swear a holy oath that I would neither see nor speak to you again, I could not do it. If God and all the angels in heaven had commanded me to take that oath, I couldn't have done it--it would have seemed desecration. I bore my father's anger and my mother's tears, because I knew that I ... that I loved you....'

"I would have spoken, but she raised her hand to stay me, and continued:

"'When I first knew the truth I was filled with horror--I could not understand myself; and yet in spite of all that I felt happy. I saw the grief and despair that my conduct brought upon my parents, but, even to please them, I could not remain engaged to Chaim. The world still believes that I am, but I really belong to you. That is the reason why I could not help coming to see you yesterday in secret. Then I saw both in your words and looks that you loved me as really as I loved you. And now I ask you what is to be done? what is to be the end of all this?'

"I did not hear the sadness of every tone of her voice, because I would not hear it--my heart was so full of joy unspeakable.

"'Child,' I cried, 'you love me; then all is well!'

"But she only looked at me gravely and sadly, and after a short pause went on:

"'No--all is lost!... You feel happy, and so do I; but while you're contented with that, I look to the future. And there is no comfort, no light to be found there for me. I can not be your wife--the life I have hitherto led has unfitted me for that. I have had no education, no teaching. God knows that I am nothing, know nothing, and can do nothing. Woe is me, I can not even speak 'German.' What should you, who are going to be a doctor, do with a wife who is utterly ignorant of the life you lead and its ways? Oh, I fear your world with a deadly fear. Were I to marry you and then bring you to shame before others, because of my ignorance and mistakes, you would say in your heart that your love for me had been your bane....'

"'Rachel,' I cried, 'don't say that; you only make both yourself and me miserable by giving way to such idle fears.'

"'I am only saying what is true,' she answered, with trembling lips. 'And then--can I buy my own happiness at the expense of my parents' sorrow?--as our people would regard it--shame? Were I to do so they would die of grief. Often in my misery I felt that I must entreat you to go away--at once. To forget me--would not bring happiness, but safety.'

"'And do you really think that I could forget you?' I asked, gravely. 'Could you forget me?'

"'No,' she said, 'I could not. But tell me--can you see a way out of all this misery?'

"'Yes,' I answered, with determination, for the spirit of defiance was roused within me, and I felt more than ever convinced of the truth of the proverb, 'Where there's a will there's a way.' 'I will go and speak to your father, and prove to him how foolish the prejudice he feels toward me really is. I will entreat him not to make his only child unhappy, and ask him to give you to me. If he will not consent, I will win you by my own labor; but when I have done that, you must leave your parents for your husband. We should have to wait and work for two years. But you will not tire any more than I shall. And then you will be my dear wife, and will be able to look back at your cares and anxieties of to-day with a smile. I swear that you shall be my wife--or else, I shall never marry.'

"'I will be true to you,' she said, in a low voice, but so earnestly that it almost seemed like a sacred oath.

"So we parted...."

Adolf was silent for a time. We stared out into the dusk without speaking, and gazed at the shadowy outlines of the vast plain of Western Galicia.

It was not until the silence had lasted a long time that I asked, "Did you go to Hirsch Welt?"

"Yes," he answered.

"And were you successful?"

"He turned me out of the house," returned Adolf calmly; "but what of that? Rachel shall be my wife. 'Where there's a will, there's a way!...'"

* * * * *

Fifteen months passed away after our conversation in the railway-carriage without any event worthy of record taking place. When we returned to Vienna we took up our abode in different parts of the town, and in consequence met but seldom. I only knew that Adolf was working very hard, and that he had good accounts of Rachel.

Early one morning in December, before the sun was well up, I heard a violent knocking at my door, and ere I could call out "Come in," the door opened, and my friend entered hurriedly, his face deadly pale and anxious-looking.

"What! it's you, Adolf!" I exclaimed. "But what's the matter?... Is anything wrong?"

He passed his hand across his forehead, and pushed back his hair to which a few snow-flakes were sticking. "I don't know what has happened," he said, "that is the reason I am so uneasy.... Don't question me, but get up and come with me...."

I obeyed, and dressed as quickly as I could, for something in his voice and manner made me feel very anxious. He went to the window, and throwing himself into my arm-chair with a weary sigh, stared out into the cold, gray, winter morning. His face was deadly pale, and his eyes shone with a feverish brightness.

"Adolf," I exclaimed, "you are ill."

"No, I'm not ill," he answered impatiently--"I mustn't be ill. But come, come--"

"Where?"

"I'll tell you."

I followed him out into the cold, stormy December morning with a feeling of anxiety that increased every moment.

"Where is the nearest telegraph-office?" he asked.

"A good way off; what are we to do there?"

"Come on--and don't ask so many questions."

Seeing how excited he was, I accompanied him in silence. When we at length reached the door of the telegraph-office, he said:

"And now, please, will you do something for me? Will you telegraph to your mother and ask her if it is true that--Rachel Welt is to be married next week--?"

"What? Did you hear that she was?"

"Never mind just now--I'll tell you all afterward; but now, pray, go at once and send off the telegram. Beg for an immediate answer--immediate, you understand. Have mercy on me, and go!"

His words, and the repressed pain in his voice, had all the more effect on me from their contrast with the habitual coldness and reserve of his manner. I went into the office and sent off the telegram. Somehow or other it never occurred to me until after I had dispatched the message, that my people would think it strange that I should be so much interested in the fate of Rachel Welt, and I almost smiled at the thought. But all desire to smile forsook me when I rejoined Adolf. His face was now flushed, his eyes were shining, and every now and then he shivered as though with ague....

"You _are_ ill," I once more exclaimed. "Come...." And, seizing him by the arm, I took him to the nearest _cafe_--the snow, meanwhile, had begun to fall thick and fast.

"It's nothing," he answered. "It's only a slight feverish attack--I must have had a chill--I have been wandering all night long in the streets. I know what you're going to say--it was foolish of me, I am quite aware of that, my medical studies have taught me how foolish it was; but I couldn't help it--I couldn't keep still.... When do you expect an answer to your telegram?" he added, suddenly and quickly.

"Late in the afternoon--perhaps not till nightfall."

"Not till then?"

"Remember that Barnow is a hundred and fifty miles[6] from here, that there is a dreadful snow-storm, and that--what is perhaps more to the purpose--Herr Michalski, the telegraph officer at home, is generally drunk, and is in the habit of keeping back telegrams till it suits him to deliver them. But you may trust me to bring you the answer as soon as it arrives."

[Footnote 6: An Austrian mile is equal to 4.714 English miles.]

"Thank you," he said. "You can not tell what I have suffered since I was startled by the sudden intelligence."

"Who told you?" I asked.

"I got to know by a strange accident," he replied. "I happened to go into one of the surgical wards of the infirmary yesterday evening; suddenly I heard some one call me by my name. I went to the bed from which the voice had come, and there I found a Jewish lad lying--it was Salomon Pinkus, brother of Chaim Pinkus, the cattle-dealer at Barnow. Salomon told me sadly that he had brought some cattle belonging to his brother to Vienna, had sold them well, and was preparing to return home, when he slipped on some ice in the street and broke his arm. 'I didn't want to go to Vienna,' he whined--'I was afraid; but I had to do it, as my brother could not leave home just then--he is to be married to Rachel, daughter of the butcher at Barnow, next week.'--'To whom did you say?' I cried, catching his sound arm in such a firm grip that he shrieked out that I wanted to break it too. Well, he afterward told me that his brother's bride was Rachel Welt--he was sure that I must know her--I think he chuckled when he said it--'she had refused to marry Chaim for a long time, but had suddenly come to her senses again, and was now quite willing to take him....'

"He told me a good deal more, and though I answered him, I can't remember what I said. I only know that I ran away from him in the end, and, rushing out-of-doors, paced the streets all night like a madman, unheeding the storm and the cold. What I felt I can never describe, nor would you understand if I were to attempt to do so...."

"Poor fellow!" I answered, compassionately.

"No," he cried, passionately, "you couldn't understand, nor would any one. It was not a mere boyish affair, you see--such a thing would have been impossible to me. It was the first great passion of my life, and it will be the last. I have poured out all the love my nature is capable of feeling at that girl's feet, and if she has deceived me, I shall go mad or die. Believe me, I am not exaggerating--I can read my own case as clearly as if it were physical illness from which I am suffering: as a proof of this, let me tell you that love never made me blind; I always saw the difficulties that would beset Rachel's path and mine. I know that no one could well imagine anything more opposite than our habits of mind and opinions on every subject. She and I have both to thank orthodox Judaism for this. But I also know that the barriers between us are not insuperable. If I have been man enough to make my own life and open a career for myself, I shall also be man enough to raise my wife to my own level. There is only one thing that could crush me--only one: if Rachel were untrue!..."

"And do you think that possible?" I asked.

"I am unwilling to believe it; no one yields at once to a belief that would make his life worthless in his eyes for evermore--and so I cling to a last hope. That was why I asked you to telegraph. Although it is very improbable that Salomon should have lied to me, yet it is possible that he may have done so;... still, I confess that I have very little hope, for she used to write to me every week regularly, and I haven't heard from her for the last fortnight...."

"But," I asked, "even supposing that the marriage is really fixed for next week, may you not suspect the girl unjustly? What if she were not faithless after all, but forced into this marriage by her relations, God knows how?"

"Impossible," said Adolf, firmly. "If I could have believed in the possibility of such a thing for a single moment, I should have been on my way to Barnow instead of sitting here. I know the girl far too well to entertain such an idea. Rachel is simple-hearted, clear-minded, and immovable. She could not be forced to do anything against her will. If the worst came to the worst, she would rather have run away from her parents and come to me, than have given way, even though she'd had to beg her bread from Barnow to Vienna. I know her...."

Adolf and I talked long together on that gloomy winter morning. At last I persuaded him to go to the hospital and do his usual work, promising at the same time to bring him the telegram, whatever it might contain, the very moment that it arrived.

It did not come until early on the following morning, so our worthy fellow-townsman, Herr Michalski, must have been celebrating some festival on the preceding evening. It ran as follows: "Yes; Rachel is going to marry Pinkus the cattle-dealer next Tuesday. But what does it matter to you?"

Alas! it mattered much more to me at that moment than my dear mother imagined. I immediately sent for a drosky, and drove to Mariengasse, where Adolf had taken a little room. My heart beat when I pulled the bell.

His old housekeeper came out to meet me.

"Thank God that you've come!" she exclaimed joyfully as soon as she saw me. "I've been so dreadfully anxious all night. Just think, another letter came from Poland yesterday for the Herr Doctor; I knew where it came from by the stamp; well, I put it carefully in his flat candlestick that he might find it the very moment he came home. If I had only guessed what was in that letter--I'm an honest woman, sir, and have never stolen anything in my life, but I should have destroyed it, God forgive me! and thought it a good deed. For, just listen, sir. He came home early yesterday evening and asked me breathlessly if you had been here. 'No,' said I--'but there's a letter for you from Poland.' 'Where?' said he, running into his room and snatching up his letter. There must have been something dreadful in that letter, sir, for the doctor turned as pale as death, and shivered all over. Then, suddenly, he threw the letter away and began to laugh aloud--it made my blood run cold to hear him, it was such a mad laugh. Then he looked about him like this"--the old woman tried to put on an insane stare--"and shouted to me to go away--and--God forgive me!--I was so frightened that I ran away as quickly as I could. All was silent for a time, but soon I heard the doctor walking up and down, up and down, very quickly, and then he threw himself on the sofa and moaned quite low. I can't describe it, it made me shiver with terror; for, you see, a dreadful thing happened in this very house about two years ago. My neighbor's lodger, a young apothecary, poisoned himself because his sweetheart was false to him. I heard him moan just like the doctor last night; and I couldn't help thinking that it was the same story over again. So at last I summoned courage and went into the room. He started up, and stared at me as if he didn't know who I was. 'It's only me,' I said; 'are you ill?'--'No,' said he, 'I only want to be alone,' so I went away again, but the whole night long...."

I left the old woman talking, and hastened to my friend's room.

Adolf was sitting motionless in his arm-chair, his face buried in his hands--it almost seemed as if he must be asleep, he was so very still. When he heard the sound of my steps, he let his hands fall to his side and got up. I never saw the stamp of grief more strongly marked on any human face than on his as he turned toward me.

"Read that," he said, hoarsely, at the same time pushing a letter nearer me that was lying on the table. I read as follows:

"HERR DOCTOR: Forgive me for not having written sooner to tell you that I had made a mistake. I find that I do not love you. I had mistaken friendship for love. I soon found out that this was the case, but was afraid to write to you sooner. That is why I only write now, the week before I am married to Chaim. Perhaps you may think that I am forced to marry him by my father, but that is not the case--I do it willingly. Forgive me, Herr Doctor--it was a mistake.

"RACHEL."

"It was a mistake!" cried Adolf in despair, and then sank fainting on the floor.

* * * * *

One spring morning, more than four years after that gloomy winter day when Adolf received the news of Rachel's treachery, I was seated in a large dull house in Vienna bending over a manuscript.

My servant came into the room and gave me a card, saying that the gentleman was waiting to see whether I could receive him.

I looked at the card, and on seeing the name of Dr. Adolf Leiblinger, rushed to the outer door and opened it.

I had not seen my friend for two years. We had never met since the day when he came to me and said very quietly and unconcernedly: "I have accepted a medical appointment under the Dutch Government, and am to start for Batavia immediately. Good-by!"

He was very little changed. His pale face, with its unalterable expression of calm defiance, had only grown browner and darker in the tropical climate where he had lived during the last year or two.

"So you've come back to Europe!" I exclaimed joyfully. "I am so glad. You remember how earnestly I tried to dissuade you from carrying out your project. Going to that murderous climate was neither more nor less than a sort of suicide on your part."

"Yes, it was so," he answered, calmly, "you're quite right."

"You'll remain here now that you've come back, won't you?"

"Yes. My life is not a happy one even now, but it is no longer miserable. I am, and always shall be, indifferent to death; but so long as I live it shall be my endeavor to make my life as useful as possible. I shall settle down either here or in some other university town, as assistant professor."

"I am very glad to hear it," I said. "I never lost hope that time would bring you healing."

"If you call this healing, it was not time that brought it, but--a letter."

"A letter!"

"Yes--from Barnow--from _her_. As soon as I got it I set out for Europe--and went straight to Barnow. I think that I traveled quicker than any one ever did before,--and yet I arrived too late."

"She is dead?" I asked in a low voice.

"Yes; she died four weeks ago."

"She called you to visit her on her deathbed then?"

"As you know the whole story, I will let you read her letter."

He put it in my hand.

It was written in trembling and scarcely legible characters, and ran as follows:

"Spring will soon be here, but I feel that I shall not live to see it, so I will write to you now when I have strength. I do so partly for my own sake, but far more for yours. For my sake, that you may not despise me after I am dead, and for yours, that you may no longer have the pain of feeling that the woman you loved was unworthy of you.

"I lied in that letter which I wrote to you four years ago. I loved you then, love you now, and shall love you till I die. And if God grants that we are the same in heaven as on earth, I shall love you even after death. And it was because I loved you that I parted from you.

"Do not shake your head in despair at these strange words.

"Happiness that I had purchased at the expense of my father's curse and my mother's despair would not have been pure and unsullied. But I should have lived that down.

"_One_ thing alone I could not have got over--you smiled at me for saying so long ago, and yet I was right: my ignorance unfitted me for the position your wife would have to hold.

"I had lived too long, in a little provincial town, a gray, still life passed in utter ignorance of the world and its ways; I could not have borne an active life and the full light of day. I should not have been able rightly to understand you either in sorrow or in joy, and that would have been terrible to me, and perhaps even more terrible to you. I should never have been at my ease with your friends or their wives; they would have laughed at my manners and mode of speaking, and I should have been hurt and you also. You would then perhaps have kept me shut out from society, and I could not have borne that. The thought that my husband was ashamed of me would have been agony to me--as well as to you. And so the time would have surely come of which I once warned you: you would have cursed the hour when I became your wife. You would not have separated from me--I know that. But we should have been unhappy, and you, perhaps, would have been even more unhappy than I.

"I saw all this clearly, and I loved you so dearly that I did not want you to be made miserable through me. So I determined that the sorrow should all be mine--told my parents that I would marry Chaim, and wrote that letter to you.

"Though I lied to you, I told Chaim the whole truth. I told him my story, and said that I could only be his faithful servant and helper. He answered that time would put all right. I knew that it would have no effect, but I had taken up my burden and would bear it.

"It was right, and I do not complain.

"But, alas! I must needs confess that I was too weak to bear my weight of sorrow. I have become pale and ill, and my heart beats so quickly at times that I often faint. I am growing so much weaker that I feel that death must be drawing very near. But I have no fear of death, and I thank God for His goodness in letting me suffer for so short a time, instead of for a long term of years. What good would a long life have been to me?

"Ever since the day I formed the resolution never to be your wife, I have looked forward to writing you one letter that should tell you the whole truth before I died. I never thought that the happiness would have come to me so soon of justifying my conduct in your eyes.

"My life is drawing to a close--our God is truly a merciful God. And now, let me thank you once more for all your love for me. You have been the light and joy of my poor dark life. You made me happy, and are innocent of causing my sorrow. Forgive all the pain that I have brought upon you. It is my last entreaty, and I am dying.

"Ah no!--I have something else to beg of you, and if you do not grant my request, I shall find no rest in the grave.

"Your friend, the doctor's son, told his people in one of his letters that you were now living in a distant land, where the sun is very hot, and where nearly all foreigners die of a malignant fever. He wrote that you had probably gone there because my marriage had caused you misery and despair. I can not tell you what I suffered when I heard that, and were I to attempt to do so you would hardly believe it. But I entreat of you, leave that deadly climate. My heart tells me that you are the greatest and best doctor that ever lived. Come home and help poor sick people.

"Your mother's old prayer-book, that you gave me long ago, shall be buried with me.

"Farewell! May your life be as long and happy as I wish it to be! I shall be dead when you read this letter.

"RACHEL."

I silently returned the letter to my friend.

He rose, and said as quietly as before: "Now you know why I am going to remain in Europe. Good-by for the present."

But when we had taken each other's hand in silence, the proud reserved man broke down utterly. With a low heart-broken sob, he ejaculated:

"Why couldn't it have been otherwise? Why?..."

I know not what answer to make to this question any more than he did, and so I do not venture to add another word to the story of Rachel Welt, who used to be known in Barnow by the name of "Esterka Regina."

"BARON SCHMULE."

(1874.)

When driving from Barnow toward the south, to Bukowina or Moldavia, a grand castle may be seen perched on the top of a hill at about three hours'[7] distance from Barnow. It is situated near Z----, at which place the highroad crosses the Dniester, and it stands so high that its white walls and shimmering windows may be seen from a great distance. It is surrounded by beautiful pleasure-grounds, which extend over the hill, and stretch far out into the plain below. It is, perhaps, the most beautiful place in Podolia, and is certainly better kept up than any other. Its owner is known far and wide as "Baron Schmule;" for although he is now the powerful Freiherr Sigismund von Ronnicki, he began life as Schmule Runnstein.

[Footnote 7: About fifteen English miles.]

His success was rapid and wonderful, for he went straight as an arrow toward his object, without wasting time by looking to the right hand or to the left. Very few people can do that. Most men resemble tops, for they are quite satisfied with making rapid and noisy gyrations, and do not perceive that they never leave the spot from which they started, but are only turning round and round upon their own axis; while the arrow, which Baron Schmule resembled, neither hastens nor lags in its flight, but makes straight for the mark. Putting metaphor aside, let me say that Baron Schmule knew what he wanted, and attained the object for which he strove as quickly and certainly as if he had had two eyes to guide him on his way instead of one.

Like every one else, he began life as a top; but something happened that changed his whole character, and with his character, his career. That something was a _blow with a riding-whip_. It is a strange story....

More than fifty years ago a poor widow lived in Z---- with her son. She strove to make enough to feed and clothe them both by the proceeds of her trade of confectioner--a poor one to follow in a place so small as Z----. She was called Miriam Runnstein. The little boy began to help his mother as soon as he could walk and count: he had to sell the sweetmeats that his mother made, and used to perambulate the streets, calling, "Who'll buy 'Fladen'? 'Fladen' and almond comfits! who'll buy? who'll buy?"

But very few people in the Ghetto make a practice of eating sweetmeats, and a marriage or circumcision feast, on which occasion a confectioner is hired for the day, is not of constant occurrence. Pennies came in very slowly, and poor little Schmule often cried with hunger, as he walked about trying to sell the sugar-plums in his basket.

His best customers lived at the castle, about half a mile[8] from the town. This castle belonged to Baron Wodnicki. Alfred Wodnicki was a very rich man--so rich that, although he was a great spendthrift, he could not manage to squander much more than the income accruing from his immense property. He lived very little at the castle, for he was soon bored by the quietness and dullness of country life, so he spent most of his time at Paris or Baden-Baden. He always went to Baden-Baden when his wife was in Paris, and to Paris when she was at Baden-Baden. The husband and wife got on very well together now that they had agreed to live separate lives. Their only child, young Baron Wladislaus, did not live at the castle either, but had been sent to a celebrated Jesuit seminary at Krakau.

[Footnote 8: A little more than two English miles.]

So the servants had the castle all to themselves. There is an old Polish proverb that runs very much to this effect: "Who is so idle and has so sweet a tooth as a lackey!" The proverb was true in this case at least. Little Schmule always found purchasers for his wares when he had succeeded in dragging his heavy basket up the hill, and so he used often to go there both in summer and winter, although it was a long way for such a little fellow to walk with his burden. It is true that he got as many boxes on the ear as pence, but what did he care for that?--a Jewish child was used to such treatment!

So time went on, till Schmule was thirteen years old. Who knows how long he might have gone on hawking his mother's "Fladen" and almond comfits about the country-side, if something had not happened that changed the whole course of his life.

One very hot day in August Schmule set out for the castle. The sun was blazing down upon him, and the great heat made him pant as he toiled up the steep ascent leading to the castle; but he almost ran, he was so eager to get to the top--and no wonder. It was between eleven and twelve on a Friday morning, and there was not a penny at home with which to buy the Sabbath dinner. If hunger is hard to bear on an ordinary day, it is much worse on the Sabbath, when there is more time to think of it.

As Schmule hastened along, he was far too busy thinking of what had to be bought on his return to Z----, to look about him, or to keep his ears open; and so he never heard a horse galloping up the drive, until it was so close to him that he only saved himself from being ridden over by a hasty spring on one side.

The rider was a pale-faced youth, with a fowling-piece at his side, and turned out to be young Baron Wladislaus Wodnicki, who had come home to spend his summer holidays. He laughed heartily when he saw what a fright he had given the Jewish boy, who was still trembling too much to remember to touch his cap. He then turned his horse and rode slowly up to Schmule, till he almost touched him. The latter meanwhile pressed as close as he could to the wall of rock that bordered the drive.

"Why didn't you touch your cap to me, you rascal?" asked the young Baron, raising his riding-whip.

"Because--I--was--so--frightened," stammered Schmule.

The young man lowered his riding-whip, and after a few moments' thought, burst into a loud laugh.

"You're afraid of the horse, are you?" he asked; "very well, then, go and stand there," pointing to the middle of the road. "Don't you hear me? _There!_" he repeated, angrily; and the boy obeyed with manifest terror. "Now, then," he continued, "don't move from there till I allow you--do you understand? It'll be the worse for you if you move," and snatching up his gun, he went on. "I swear, by all the saints, that I'll shoot you down like a mad dog if you move!"

After saying this he rode on, and then turned again, and galloped down the drive straight at the boy.

Schmule watched the horse approaching him with the fascination of terror--a mist came over his eyes--in another moment he jumped out of the way and--the horse, instead of hitting him, only knocked the basket of sweetmeats from his back, scattering its contents all over the dusty road. The boy also fell, but only from nervous fear.

"You did move, you scoundrel!" cried Baron Wladislaus, putting his gun to his shoulder. Suddenly he changed his mind, and restoring his fowling-piece to its place, rushed at the boy with his riding-whip. The latter, in order to avoid as much as possible the violent blows that were aimed at him, now with the end and now with the knob of the whip, threw himself at the young man's feet.

All at once Schmule uttered a heart-rending shriek, and fell senseless on the ground.

And then Baron Wladislaus rode away.

An hour later a kind-hearted peasant took the unconscious boy in his hay-cart to the little Jewish town, and gave him to his mother. It is unnecessary to say what the poor woman felt when she saw her boy's disfigured countenance and senseless state--such things are better not described.

The doctor came, restored Schmule to consciousness, and washed and bound up his wounds. He said that the boy would soon be quite well again, but that the sight of his right eye was gone for ever.

Schmule had an unexpected visitor on the first day that he was able to get out of bed. Fat Gregor, the young Baron's valet, came to see him. He brought the boy two ducats, and told him that his master was ready and willing to pay both the doctor and apothecary, if he would forbear making any complaint to the magistrate of his conduct.

"Go!" cried Schmule--that was all that he said--but his remaining eye glared so savagely at Gregor, that the latter thought discretion the better part of valor, and beat a hasty retreat. As soon as he got back to the castle, he went to his master, and said: "Beg your pardon, Herr Baron, you've sent the Jew stark-staring mad as well as knocked out his eye--he was more like a wild beast than anything else."

When Schmule was able to go out again, his first walk was to the court of justice. The leader of the synagogue offered to go with him, but he said he wanted to go alone. "Thank you," he said; "but it isn't necessary. I am no longer a child--that blow has made me ten years older. Besides that, I only want justice."

He went to the judge and made his complaint. The trial began, and was carried on as--well as all such trials were in those days. What chance had a poor Jewish boy against a Polish noble long ago? None! But the trial had one merit: it was short. The persons interested in it were not long kept in suspense as to what the verdict was to be. All was settled in the space of a month. Schmule was then cited to appear before the court, and the Herr Mandatar said to him very sternly: "Your story was a lie, Jew! You did not get out of the Herr Baron's way, but insisted on pressing close up to the horse, and so you were accidentally struck by the riding-whip. You may be thankful that Baron Wladislaus has been good enough to pardon you for making such a calumnious charge against him, otherwise you might have been tried for perjury! Now--go!"

Schmule went home.

When he entered his mother's kitchen, the good woman was so startled by the look on his face, that she exclaimed, in terror: "Child, child! what is the matter? Has anything worse happened?"

"Yes," he answered, "something much worse--justice has been denied me." His voice here died away into an indistinct murmur, but at last his mother heard him say: "I will do as the Herr Mandatar advised me--I will be grateful for Baron Wladislaus's kindness...."

"Son!" cried the old woman, in a voice of agony. "I know what you're going to do. I can read it in your face. You're going to steal into the castle and murder him in his sleep!..."

"No," replied Schmule, with a smile. "That wouldn't do at all, for they would hang me for murder, and who would take care of you then? No, my vengeance must be of another kind--I must become a rich man."

"God has darkened your understanding, my son," moaned the old woman. But she wept still more bitterly when Schmule told her that he had made up his mind to go to Barnow. He sold the only things that belonged to him, which would not be required now that he was going away--his bed and bedding. The sale of these articles brought him five gulden in all, because at the last moment he threw in some prayer-books that he did not want. As he was going away he promised to send his mother a share of his earnings.

He went to Barnow with his little store of five gulden, or about five florins in English money, in his pocket, and there set up a little pack, consisting of matches, soap, pomade, and feathers. He sold his merchandise at the inns and in the streets. And, as he was untiring in his labors, and spent very little on himself, he was able both to support his mother and to lay by a little money.

In two years' time he was so far beforehand with the world, that he gave up this mode of gaining his livelihood, and bought a large store of goods such as country people require. He then began to travel about the country-side as a peddler; and a very hard life he led. Like Nathan Bilkes, the father of Frau Christine, he wandered about, with a great pack on his back, from village to village, and from fair to fair. He was seldom paid in money for his goods, but received fruit and skins instead. This circumstance, however, was of advantage to him.

After having worked as a peddler for three years, he returned to Barnow, and set up a stall for small-wares in a corner of the market-place. His success was so great that he was soon able to rent a real shop, and to keep his mother more comfortably. But he remained as abstemious as before with regard to himself. His food consisted for the most part of dry bread, for he only allowed himself the luxury of a bit of meat upon the Sabbath.

His mother died when he was twenty-three--that is, ten years after he left Z----. She died in his arms. When he had buried her, and the eight days of mourning were over, he went to Czernowitz, which is a larger town than Barnow. As chance would have it, Baron Wladislaus Wodnicki, who had just taken the management of his estates into his own hands, drove past him in his phaeton, as he was leaving the little town of Z----. "I am glad to have seen him," said Schmule to his traveling companion; "for otherwise grief might have made me idle for some time to come."

Schmule was now alone in the world, but still he worked as hard as if he had had a large family to support, and so he gradually became well to do in the world. He was much respected as an honorable man, fair in all his dealings; and this, added to his wealth, enabled him to gain the hand in marriage of one of the richest heiresses in Czernowitz, in spite of his having only one eye. After his marriage he increased his business considerably, and became well known in the commercial world as Samuel Runnstein, the dry-salter. And again, as if this did not give him enough to do, he set up a large wine business, in addition to the other.

Schmule now showed for the first time to their full extent the marvelous powers of work and determination of character that he possessed. He traveled all over Germany and France, Russia and Moldavia, setting up agencies everywhere. Ten years later he was looked upon as the richest merchant in the whole district.

At length his wife died, leaving him a little daughter. Schmule now sold the good-will of both the wine and dry-salting businesses, and became a corn-merchant. He bought in Podolia, Bessarabia, and Moldavia, and sold in the Western markets. There was only one landowner from whom he would buy nothing, and that was Baron Wladislaus Wodnicki: although the bailiff offered him very good bargains, he was not to be tempted. The unfortunate bailiff had rather a hard time of it--he found it so difficult to provide his master with a large and constant supply of money. For Wladislaus succeeded in doing what the old Baron had never done: every month he spent as much as his estates brought in in the year. His wife, a French lady, did her part in squandering her husband's wealth. And so the bailiff came to Schmule and begged him to buy some corn, but he refused, saying with a strange smile: "I made a vow more than five-and-twenty years ago that I would only do _one_ stroke of business with your master; and the time for that has not come yet...."

Years passed, and Schmule grew richer and richer. He married again, and his wife brought him a large fortune. Then came the year 1848, with its revolutionary restlessness; and Schmule, who knew how to turn everything to his advantage, became a millionaire. He was now known as Herr Sigismund Runnstein, and the Russian Government employed him to provision their army in Hungary. By this means he made a great deal more money. After that he gave up business, and when any one wanted him to undertake some new project, he refused, alleging that he preferred to wait.

He had not long to wait. It is quite possible to squander even a colossal fortune if one has a mind to do it. Two years later, Baron Wladislaus and his wife were obliged to leave Paris. They returned to Z----, but even there they found it difficult to get enough money to live on; for their estates were so deeply mortgaged that not a blade of grass could really be said to belong to them, and their creditors became more and more troublesome every day. After a time, the Baroness went back to her own people in France, and the Baron, who had to remain at Z---- whether he would or not, sought comfort first in champagne, and afterward, when that became too expensive a luxury, in schnapps.

At length one day he found himself no longer beset by his creditors. Schmule had bought up all the claims against him, although they amounted to many thousand pounds sterling. "It's the first bad bargain that Schmule Runnstein ever made," said all his friends. But the general astonishment was much increased when it was discovered that he apparently let things alone after that, and took no steps to foreclose.

But in spite of appearances, he had not been idle. He sent a petition to the Emperor, begging for leave to buy an estate; for in those days the Galician Jews were legally incapacitated from holding land. He even went to Vienna, to support his cause in person. But all in vain. "If I had committed murder," said Schmule when he came home, "I might perhaps have persuaded the Government to let me off; but this request they will not grant."

He wandered about for many days, lost in deep and melancholy thought. At last, after a terrible struggle, he determined on the course he meant to pursue. He went to his wife, whom he loved dearly, and said to her: "I have made up my mind to be baptized and become a Christian. Don't look so frightened, and don't cry--listen to me quietly. I _must_ do it. My whole life would otherwise be a lie, a folly, a failure. I must become possessor of the Wodnicki estates. I have lived poorly and worked hard--harder perhaps than any other man on the face of the earth. And now it is not a reward that I demand, but my just right. This is the _only_ way that I can attain it, so it must be done. But you shall choose for yourself; I leave you free. How dearly I love you I need not say, but still I repeat--I will not oppose your decision, whatever it may be...."

She loved him too, but she could not give up her religion, and so they parted.

Schmule became a member of the Roman Catholic Church, and took the name of Sigismund Ronnicki. His daughter by his first marriage, who was nearly grown up, was baptized at the same time, and received the name of Maria.

The conversion of the rich Jew and his daughter was the theme of endless conversation in the neighborhood.

The day after he had been received into the Christian Church, Schmule foreclosed all the mortgages he held upon Wladislaus's estates, and, as was to be expected, the land went at a very low price. Schmule bought it. The Baron disappeared--no one knew where he had gone; and Schmule took up his abode at the castle of Z----, with his daughter Maria.

In the year 1854, when the army was so much increased that the state was greatly in want of money, Schmule bought himself the title of "Freiherr" for a large sum.

But still he used to say, "I haven't got all that I want yet--my full right."

But the time was fast approaching when this strange man's last wish was to be fulfilled.

One day an announcement was made in the Polish newspapers, to the effect that a comfortable home and suitable maintenance had been provided for that irredeemable vagabond and drunkard, Baron Wladislaus Wodnicki, by the kindness of a noble-minded benefactor.

And so it was. The "noble-minded benefactor" was Baron Sigismund Ronnicki, who had literally picked the "vagabond" out of the streets of Barnow, where he was wandering houseless and forlorn, and had taken him home to his castle at Z----. Wladislaus was given everything he wanted except--schnapps. And why was this, and this alone, denied him? "When he drinks schnapps," said Schmule, "he forgets everything that has happened. And I intend that he should remember. I will have my right."

But the "drunkard" was not to be long a source of satisfaction to the new lord of the castle. At midsummer, in the year following, a great feast was given by Schmule, in honor of his daughter's marriage to a Magyar noble. During the evening Wodnicki succeeded in getting some schnapps. He drank freely, and then staggered out of doors, and down the drive in which he had met the Jewish boy fifty years before.

He never returned to the castle.

Next morning he was found lying dead under the steep wall of rock that bounded one side of the drive. Whether he had fallen over the precipice in his drunken blindness, or had thrown himself over, no one ever knew.

This is one of the many strange stories that take place on this earth of ours.

THE PICTURE OF CHRIST.

(1868.)

... How distinctly I can see the little town even now, with its narrow, tortuous, and gloomy streets, its ruined castle on the top of the hill, and its stately monastery near the river! It is to this last that I wish to draw the reader's attention. The Dominican monastery is a huge pile of buildings surrounded by a wall in which one can still see the traces of the old Tartar attacks of long ago. Within the wall is a confused mass of chapels and dwelling-houses, separated from each other by damp, moss-grown courtyards, or by sparsely covered grass-plots. I often went there in my boyhood, and used to like playing among the graves in the little churchyard. I also delighted in listening to the echo of my footsteps in the great empty refectory; but I liked best of all to go to the "Abbot's Chapel," a small Byzantine building which was known by that name, and look up at a picture that had been hung there a short time before. It had been painted by the proud and beautiful Graefin Jadwiga Bortynska, lady of the manor of Barnow. It was a wonderful picture--breathing love and peace. Christ was represented standing on vaporous clouds, His hands stretched out in blessing over the earth. The pale face, which was, as it were, framed in black curls, had an expression of divine love and sublime goodness--perfect man and perfect God.

But I did not think of that when I first saw the picture, for I was then only a thoughtless boy of twelve years old. It was on a bright, warm autumn day that I saw it first. An hour after it was hung up in its place, little Wladik, the sexton's son, showed it to me. The sunshine was falling full upon it at the time, and I almost started as I saw the life-like figure in its dark frame.

"Do you know who it is?" I asked my school-fellow.

"How can you ask?" he exclaimed with boyish indignation. "It is our Lord Jesus Christ, whom the Jews crucified."

"No, Wladik," I answered with the utmost decision, "it isn't; it's Bocher David, who used to teach me until last spring."

Wladik was very angry, and scolded me well for saying such a dreadful thing, but he could not convince me that I was wrong: I knew what I knew. When I went home in the evening I told my father about the picture.

"Silly child," he said with a smile; "who could have painted it?"

"Our Frau Graefin," I replied.

My father looked grave. "Well, well," he said thoughtfully, "it is almost incredible...."

"What?" I asked quickly. But he told me to be quiet.

I should not then have understood what he meant; but I heard the story afterward when I was older--the sad story of that picture of Christ in the chapel at Barnow--and learned that it was also, as I had supposed, a portrait of my old teacher, Bocher David.

It is a strange story, reader, and will seem all the more extraordinary to you, if you have been brought up in a Western home, and have been accustomed from your infancy to civilization and tolerance of others. It is also sad, very sad. But do not blame me for that, for my heart bleeds when I remember this over-true tale, which must be regarded as one of the dark riddles of life, and as the doing of that eternal, inscrutable Power that deals out darkness or light, happiness or misery, to the weak human heart....

I will now tell you the story.

* * * * *

The small town of Barnow lies in the middle of an immense plain. Close to it is the only hill for several miles around, and on the top of this little hill are the ruins of a castle where the lords of Barnow, or Barecki Starosts, used to live. The last of this race, an old man, weak in mind as in body, now lives in his cheerless house by the river-side; while the new lord of the manor, Graf Bortynski, lives in a new and splendid castle in the plain, far away from the one-storied cottages, the rickety little houses, the narrow, airless streets of Barnow, and all the want and misery of the people who inhabit them.

But these inhabitants of Barnow are happy, their streets are light and airy, and their houses comfortable, in comparison with those who have to live in that part of the town which is built in the unhealthy marshes near the river. It is always dark and gloomy there, however brightly the sun may shine, and dark pestiferous vapors fill the air, although the meadows beyond may be full of flowers. And this wretched part of the town is the most thickly inhabited of all, for it is the Ghetto, the Jews' quarter, or, as they call it in Barnow, the "Gasse."

David was the strangest and most mysterious-looking figure in the "Gasse," which was anyhow only too full of such people--for when plants are kept in the dark they are apt to take eccentric forms. He was the son of the former rabbi of the town. Even in his boyhood he had been the pride and delight of his father, and indeed of the whole community. His bright young intelligence was early able to comprehend the secrets of the Talmud, its subtleties and riddles, and the boy was looked upon with wondering admiration by all. For, pale and delicate as he was, the Jews of Barnow believed that he would live to become a great scribe, learned in the Scriptures. So they forgave his hastiness and fits of passion.

In course of time the old rabbi died, and left his widow and only child nothing but his great library and the love of the whole congregation. The community did what they could for the widow and orphan, or rather did what they thought proper and necessary. David and his mother were allowed to remain in the small back rooms of their old house, and the front rooms were given to the new rabbi. It was right and fitting that it should be so, but it wounded the child's feelings. David no longer heard the words of praise that he had been accustomed to, although he deserved them more and more every day; so he became ever more defiant, and was consequently very much disliked. It happened one day that he excelled the rabbi in his interpretation of a passage of the Talmud, and afterward told different people that he had done so, and thus made an enemy in the community. He was now as much disliked as he had once been praised. His position grew unbearable. But as long as his mother lived, he remained at Barnow. She was the only person he obeyed, and she alone could sometimes bring a smile to the grave, sad face of her son. One morning soon after her death, which happened when he was fifteen, David disappeared. No one knew what had become of him. He was soon forgotten, and was only spoken of now and then as the late rabbi's son, a wise and learned youth, but wicked and wrong-headed to an extraordinary degree.

He remained away for twelve long years.

At length he returned unexpectedly, and rented one of the small rickety houses in the little Podolian town. On the following day he went to the elders of the synagogue, and to those men who were appointed to nurse the sick, and told them that he had determined to devote his life to the care of the sick and dying. He said that he knew many simples, and a good deal about the art of healing, and entreated them to grant his request, and not to spare him when he could be of any use. They were astonished at his resolution, and praised him for his goodness. But as time went on they learned really to appreciate his help, and blessed him; then once more his praises were repeated from mouth to mouth as of yore. But there was a certain air of mystery about him, for he made no intimacies in the "Gasse." No one knew what studies he was engaged in when his night-lamp burned till early morning; no one knew what were his resources, or where he had been during his absence from Barnow. The rabbi, who had long forgotten David's boyish faults, and my father--because he was the town doctor--used to see a good deal of him, and they were the only people with whom he was on familiar terms. It was discovered through them that he had been in the Holy Land, that he had seen the countries of the West, and that he had even crossed the great ocean, and had spent some time in "Amerikum," as it was called in the language of the "Gasse." It was said that he could speak many foreign tongues, that he knew everything, and could do whatever he chose, whether good or evil, for he was a master of the "Cabala," and well acquainted with the great and terrible secrets of the "Sohar," the Cabalist primer; and, finally, that he had sworn to himself that he would never marry, and so he was still a "bocher," or bachelor.

But he either knew nothing of these rumors, or did not care what people said of him. He helped all who were in need of his assistance, without desiring either thanks or payment. And as time passed on, all began to feel a deep respect, and even love, for the pale silent man who did so much for them. His face had quite lost the gloomy passionate expression of his boyhood, and had become at once grave and gentle. While every one felt a fearless confidence in his kindness and sympathy, no one would have ventured to treat him with familiarity. The "Bocher" was the only inhabitant of the Ghetto whom the Christian boys neither pelted nor scorned, although outwardly he was only distinguished from his brethren in the faith by the careful cleanliness of his clothing. He wore the same curious old-fashioned Polish garments as all the other Jews in Poland and Russia; and no dress could have shown off to better advantage his tall stately figure, and pale intellectual face surrounded by clustering curls of black hair.

This man was my teacher from my sixth till my twelfth year. I was a very mischievous boy, always ready for fun, and hating to sit still, and he treated me with continual grave kindness. We seldom exchanged a word that had not to do with the lessons he was teaching me. But once it was different: it was on the day on which I had gone to the monastery school for the first time. I came home weeping bitterly because of the contemptuous way in which my school-fellows had treated me for my religion's sake. The "Bocher" came in, and I told him of my distress. He listened to me in silence, and then opened the Bible at the place where he had given me my last lesson on the previous evening. My tears would not stop. "Don't cry," he said; "don't cry, my child, 'they know not what they do.'" And then he added, in a harsh stern tone, such as I had never heard from him before: "Don't cry. They are not worth your tears. And a day of retribution will come sooner or later." I looked up at him in surprise, and saw that his face wore a strange threatening expression. He was silent for a time, and gradually the fierce look faded away. Then he explained the passage to me in a quiet voice....

I was his only pupil during all these years, but all at once he gave up teaching me. A strange and important event had taken place in his own life, which made him wish me to leave him. I only spoke to him once afterward.

* * * * *

Old Graf Adam Bortynski was a hard man, loved by none and feared by all. He belonged to a younger branch of the Bortynskis, and so had had very little chance of ever becoming head of the family. He seldom lived in the country, and had his rents sent to him in Paris, London, Monaco, or Homburg. Very little was known about him in Barnow, when he suddenly came there as master at the death of young Graf Arthur, who died in Paris of apoplexy brought on by intemperance. People used to whisper mysteriously in Barnow about that time that no one had had such an evil influence on the late lord of the manor as his present successor, Graf Adam.

But, however that might be, Graf Adam was master now. He had never married, although he was by no means a woman-hater; but on becoming head of the family, he made up his mind that it was his duty to do so. He chose lovely Jadwiga Polanska to be his wife. She was the daughter of an impoverished noble in the vicinity. Every one knew that she feared and hated Graf Bortynski, but it was also known that her father had sold her to him; and several people who were better informed than the rest could have told the price that had been paid for her to a farthing. For years afterward the inhabitants of the little town used to talk about the wedding procession, and tell how proud and triumphant Graf Adam had looked that day, and how his bride had walked beside him pale as death, and with an expression of deep wretchedness. The breakfast was very grand, and went off well; but at an early hour on the following morning, the servants heard a shot fired in the wing in which the rooms of the newly-married couple were, and on hastening there they found Graf Adam in his room, shot through the head, the pistol still convulsively clutched in his right hand. No one knew what had induced him to commit suicide in this unexpected way, and the pale young widow never said a word to clear up the mystery.

The story formed the subject of endless discussion and conjecture, until something else happened to take its place. Such things are not of uncommon occurrence in Poland and Russia! The estates went to the heir of entail, the head of a distant branch of the family, and Graefin Jadwiga inherited the castle and town of Barnow.

It seemed fated that the castle should remain uninhabited, for even the young widow went away. She was eighteen when she left Barnow, and it was years before she returned. Rumors were current of her triumphs as a beauty and a wit in Paris, Heligoland, or Baden-Baden. She did not marry again, as every one expected. One spring day she returned to Barnow, after an absence of nearly ten years. The castle was once more inhabited, and its courtyards were full of life and bustle. Graefin Jadwiga had grown rather stouter than of old, but she was still beautiful, marvelously beautiful, in spite of what some people would have thought the too great pallor of her face.

* * * * *

One fine morning in May two young people were out riding together, and enjoying the freshness and brightness of the weather.

Were they happy? The rapid movement and the fresh morning air had brought a tinge of color to the lady's pale face which was very becoming to her. The Graefin Jadwiga looked bright and sweet that day, and really happy. Her companion did not look either so cheerful or so happy as she