Chapter I: Was Left Behind, Gazing Out of the Window at the Funeral Procession (2)

Yerachmiel and Shprinze were no longer man and wife. At once a clamorous buzz of conversation arose all over the room. The excitement which had been suppressed so long now burst the bonds of enforced silence and found relief in vociferous exclamations of wonderment and emphatic expressions of approval and disapproval. Some of the women congratulated Shprinze; others held aloof. The men were unanimous in their condemnation of the hard-hearted woman who had taken her husband’s money for years and then induced him, when grown poor, to give her a divorce.

The excitement was at its height, when suddenly a tremendous rap on the table drew the startled gaze of all toward the spot whence the sound had proceeded. What they saw caused a hush to fall over the assemblage. Yerachmiel stood at the side of one of the tables, his cheeks ashy pale, his eyes blazing with a furious light that no one had ever seen in them before, fiercely rapping with his cane in an effort to procure silence. As soon as his voice could be heard he began to speak.

“Jewish brethren and sisters of Novo-Kaidansk,” he said, with painfully labored yet distinct utterance. “You have come here to see Yerachmiel the _Shlemihl_ give divorce to his wife, Shprinze. I know most of you are good people and have pitied me for being such a _Shlemihl_ that I could not keep either my money or my wife. But, perhaps, I am not such a _Shlemihl_ after all. I have not desired nor sought this divorce, but I have tried to find out the truth about an old wrong and to right it; and I believe I have succeeded as well as some who are considered wiser and cleverer than I. _Shlemihl_ though I may be, I have always tried to do my duty toward my wife. Even before I went to America, when poverty and wretchedness were my lot in this town, I gave Shprinze every kopeck that I earned. From America, where God blessed me and made me prosperous, I sent her regularly all that she could properly require. But in return for this I asked wifely love. I knew that a husband must honor, cherish, and maintain his wife; and that a wife must, in true marriage, return love for love, affection for affection. Shprinze never showed the least trace of love for me. My soul hungered and thirsted for love. Shprinze gave me, at worst, bitter revilings and beratings, tongue-stabbings that pierced my soul like the thrusts of a sword; at best, cold indifference. In the beginning, when I could not, because of poverty, properly support her, I excused her. I said to myself that I deserved nothing better. But when from America I sent abundance of gold and loving words, and showed in every way I could that I was a true and loving husband, and when, in return for all this, I could not get an affectionate word, a loving sentence, I resolved that I would find out whether in Shprinze’s heart dwelt a spark of love for me, or whether it was only my gold she loved. The rest you know. I came here, dressed in shabby clothing, looking the olden _Shlemihl_. Her evil heart made her quickly conclude that I had lost my all, and without questioning me or offering, like a true wife, to share my lot, she demanded a divorce. I saw that she loved me not, that she had never been to me more than a wife in name, and to-day I have granted her wish. But let me assure her and you, friends, that she is mistaken in thinking that she has now got rid of a _Shlemihl_, of a poor, never succeeding unfortunate. She has freed herself of a successful, of a wealthy man; she has deprived herself of a splendid home in the greatest city of free America; she has deprived herself of luxury and riches, and, what is more, of the love of a man who was deeply attached to her, and who would have given his all for a kind word or a loving kiss from her lips. See, here are the presents I had brought here for her, and would have given her had she treated me rightly.” So speaking, he drew forth a magnificent diamond necklace and a beautiful, richly ornamented gold watch and chain. “And here is the proof that I am a man of means and no deceiver—a letter of credit on a Berlin banking-house for ten thousand marks”—and here he drew from his wallet the precious document and flourished it triumphantly yet sorrowfully before the eyes of his hearers. “As for me,” he continued, “I thank the All-Merciful that He has opened my eyes to the truth, and that He has freed me from a serpent that would only have devoured my substance, and with its icy touch have frozen my heart. Now farewell, friends, and farewell, false and heartless woman. I go to my home beyond the sea, where I shall try to forget this long, sad dream of misplaced love and cruel ingratitude and heartlessness.”

Having thus spoken, he turned and left the room. None ventured to detain him or to restrain his departure. As he went out of the door, Shprinze, who had been listening with strained attention to his words, and whose countenance had alternately flushed and paled as he spoke, rushed forward as if she would have held him back, then paused, uttered a piercing, heartrending shriek, and fell in a deathly swoon to the floor. The cry reached the ears of Yerachmiel as he strode down the dusty street. An expression of pain crossed his features as he heard it, but he did not turn and he came not back.

A VICTIM OF PREJUDICE.

Franz Friedrich Levy sat on his high stool before his desk in the office of the Second Secretariat of the Anhalt-Diesterburg-Rickershofen State Railroad and reflected discontentedly on his lot. He had rather an important position, it is true, that of chief bookkeeper of the Second Secretariat, an important subdivision in the management of the railway, which was a prosperous governmental institution, binding together a rich and beautiful stretch of country in middle Germany. He was in receipt of a very fair salary, occupied a comfortable house in the suburbs of the town, and was wedded to a rather good-looking wife, with quite a store of fashionable though useless accomplishments, but still he was not happy. The cause of his unhappiness was a grievance which he had against the Ober-Direction or supreme management of the railway, a grievance for which he thought—and his wife agreed with him in this opinion—there could be only one explanation. He believed that his promotion was unduly slow. He had entered the service of the railroad in his twentieth year as clerk, and now in his forty-fifth, when his once raven black locks were already heavily streaked with gray and more than a suspicion of baldness was showing itself on the top of his poll, he was only chief bookkeeper of one of the numerous subdivisions of the great concern. He thought that by length of service and capacity he was fitted to be general manager of the road; but while admitting that he had no right to aspire to that exalted position, he considered that by this time he should have attained at the very least to the post of division chief or superintendent.

“Why is it that I do not advance?” he asked himself as he sat gloomily revolving on the high stool. “Am I incapable? Have I been idle, negligent, or inattentive to my duties? Do I not know all the details of the business from beginning to end? Do I not know by heart all the statistics of the road, the number of passengers and the weight of freight carried, the condition of every station, the receipts and the expenditures to a pfennig? No, the fault is not mine. It is owing to _rishus_, to anti-Semitic prejudice. My only fault, as far as I can discover, is that I am a Jew. To that I owe all my misfortune. This accursed accident of my birth prevents my talents being appreciated, prevents my attaining the success which I should naturally reach; and, I suppose, as long as I am marked with this badge of disgrace and social inferiority I shall always remain an unimportant, insignificant individual. That Ober-Director von Meinken, he is, I am sure, the chief cause of keeping me down. He always looks at me with such a dark, unfriendly glance whenever I have to enter his office. He is the very picture of a _Rosho_, although he talks smoothly enough. I don’t doubt but he would be glad enough to get rid of me altogether if he only knew how to bring it about.”

“Aha, friend Levy, why are you plunged in such deep thought?” suddenly said a deep, hearty voice at his side. “I have been standing here a whole minute and you have never even noticed my presence, so absorbed were you in your reflections. Did I not know that you were a married man of virtuous principles I would say that you were in love. But then the expression of your face shows that you have not been dreaming sweet dreams of love delights. If I am any judge of physiognomy at all, your thoughts have been disagreeable ones. May I ask what they were?”

Levy turned around with a startled jerk of the high stool. It was the Herr Ober-Director, Baron Adalbert von Meinken himself with a good-humored smile on his broad, handsome, Teutonic face, the lower part of which was covered with a neatly trimmed brown full beard. Levy blushed guiltily. He felt as though the keen blue eyes of his superior were gazing into his very soul and reading the thoughts that had just occupied him. He stammered forth a half apology.

“The Herr Ober-Director will pardon my preoccupation,” he said, “but I can assure you that I was not thinking of any outside matter. I never permit myself to think of outside matters in business hours. I was thinking of a method of reducing the expenses of the station Weizenhofen on the Blauberg-Schoenthal branch. That place costs a great deal more than it ought to, considering the small amount of business done at that point, and I hope soon to be able to lay a project before your Excellency which will materially reduce the cost of maintenance of the station.”

“Ah,” said the Ober-Director, with a pleased expression, “I might have known that you, Levy, were not wasting your employer’s time in idle ruminations. You have always been a faithful, industrious worker, devoted heart and soul to the interests of the road. I shall be glad to receive your proposal in the Weizenhofen matter and I shall give it full consideration.”

And the Ober-Director passed on and entered his private office. Levy bent over his books as soon as his chief had passed, and was careful not to fall into another fit of reflection that afternoon. The words of the Ober-Director had pleased him but he did not altogether trust them. He feared that he was under close surveillance, and that all his actions were being rigidly scrutinized, with a view to finding some flaw in his conduct. He devoted himself, therefore, with redoubled assiduity to his routine work until the welcome sound of the bell, announcing the closing hour, relieved him from further labor for the day. He put on his hat, exchanged his light office jacket for his street coat, and with a pleasant word of farewell to his fellow-clerks sallied forth into the street. As he sauntered down the beautiful Kaiser Strasse, the finest thoroughfare of the town, through which he always walked both in his daily journeyings to and from the office and on his Sunday and holiday promenades, he was greeted by so many friends and acquaintances that his hand was continually busy raising his hat in response to their salutations. His social equals, both Christian and Jewish, saluted him with easy and unaffected cordiality, his humbler acquaintances with great deference. These manifestations of friendship and respect, instead of pleasing him, added to his discontent and his resentment against the authorities of the railroad. He said to himself that it was a crying shame, indeed an outrage, that a man so generally esteemed and honored by his fellow-townsmen should be kept in a subordinate position because of the religious prejudices of his superiors; and should be prevented by such a reason, so repugnant to the culture and civilization of the century, from attaining to the rank and emoluments to which he was clearly entitled. In this frame of mind he reached his handsome dwelling, which was charmingly situated in the Schoenberger Allee, a new and fashionable street in the suburbs of the town. To the effusive greetings of the spouse of his bosom, Frau Ottilie, _née_ Kahn, he returned a curt answer and threw himself, in an attitude of utter disgust and weariness, upon the sofa.

Frau Ottilie Levy was a worthy counterpart of her partner in life. If harmony in marriage is secured by similarity in tastes and disposition, theirs should have been an ideal union, for their characters and views were almost exactly alike. Like her husband, Frau Levy was intensely ambitious. Her sole aim in life was to secure the greatest possible measure of wealth and social prestige. She shared her husband’s grievance to the fullest extent; but, womanlike, she was inclined to put the blame on him for his failure to advance, and continually nagged and pestered him with her complaints, and the expression of her discontent at not being able to shine as much as Frau Geheimräthin So-and-So or Frau Commerzienräthin Somebody Else. Seeing the discomposure under which her husband was evidently laboring, her woman’s instinct told her that now was not the time to nag and scold, but to sympathize and console. She therefore relinquished, or rather postponed to a more favorable opportunity, the caustic lecture combined with a demand for a larger allowance which she had been preparing all day for the special benefit of her life partner, and began inquiring, with great solicitude, concerning the cause of his disturbed condition.

“What is the matter, Franz dear?” she asked, in the same tone of winning gentleness which she had lately so greatly admired in the celebrated stage heroine, Adele de Pompadour, as played by Madame Graetzinger, the renowned _Erste Dame_ of the Stadt Theater. “Why are you so upset? I trust that nothing serious has happened.”

“Yes and no,” answered Franz dejectedly; “that old Von Meinken caught me to-day, when I was thinking about the shameful slowness of my promotion, or rather my lack of any promotion, and was neglecting my work. I was so absorbed in thought that I never noticed him, although, as he told me, he stood by my desk over a minute. Of course I gave him as good an excuse as I could get up in a hurry to account for my absent-mindedness; but how can I tell whether the old fox believed what I said or not? Confound him, he’s always sure to be around when he isn’t wanted. You can rely on it that I worked extra hard all the rest of the afternoon.”

“You don’t think that can hurt you any, do you?” asked Otillie, dropping her theatrical manner, and with just a shade of anxiety in her voice. “What harm is it if an old, trustworthy employee like you is idle for a minute or two in the day?”

“It oughtn’t to be any harm,” answered Franz. “But then you know how stiff and exacting these Prussian officials are. They think men are nothing but machines, and they make no allowances for anything. A number of men have been discharged of late, and then, you know, there is so much anti-Semitism nowadays. I, as a Jew, have to be particularly careful.”

“There’s the root of the whole matter,” said Frau Ottilie, pouncing with avidity upon her favorite argument. “It’s only because you’re a Jew that you have any trouble. Don’t tell me that an experienced, faithful official like you, if he were a Christian, would be trembling with fear of losing his place because he had been thinking of something for a moment or two. No such trivial thing would have been of any consequence in his case. It is only we Jews who must be continually alarmed, continually alert lest we commit the slightest error; because, in our case, any fault, sometimes even only imaginary, means ruin. Yes, Heine was right when he said: ‘Judaism is not a religion; it is a misfortune.’ It certainly is your misfortune, and therefore mine. As long as you are a Jew you will never advance. You might as well try to jump over the moon as to overcome the deep-seated prejudices of Christians against Jews. You simply cannot do it.”

IT’S ONLY BECAUSE YOU’RE A JEW THAT YOU HAVE ANY TROUBLE

_Page 252_]

“But, my dear,” said Levy, who had heard this sort of talk very frequently, and was rather weary of it, “what is the use of telling me all that again and again. I know as well as you that being a Jew is the chief hindrance to my progress. But what is the use of continually harping on it. I cannot change what I am; so why kick in vain against the unalterable?”

“But it is not unalterable,” said Frau Ottilie, with even more acerbity than the sense of her old and keenly felt grievance usually aroused. “You talk as though to be a Jew was the same as being a negro, or a Chinaman, or blind, or lame. The negro cannot make his black skin white, nor the Chinaman his complexion or his features resemble those of the Caucasian; neither can the blind nor the lame alter their physical deformities. But the Jew needs only to speak a meaningless formula and permit three drops of water to be sprinkled upon him and presto, change, he has ceased to be a Jew and become a Christian. All his former blemishes and shortcomings are forgotten, and he is received with open arms into Christian society. Instead of being an outcast and a pariah, an individual barely and unwillingly tolerated, he becomes a beloved brother. Then, why stupidly submit to a load of inherited, unnecessary trouble? Why not rather take the one bold step which will make an end of them all at once and forever?”

“But, my dear Ottilie,” said Franz, who, though used to this line of argument, was surprised by his wife’s unusual bitterness. “What is the purpose of all this? You don’t want me to be baptized, to be a _meshummad_, do you?”

“That is just what I do want,” answered Ottilie, vehemently. “I want you to cease being a stupid martyr and begin to be sensible, and I want to be sensible with you, too. I am not afraid of the word _meshummad_. That is only a harmless term which stupid and fanatical Jews use to condemn people who are more sensible than they. Baptism will not hurt you. It is only the key which will unlock before you the gates of prosperity and happiness in life. Besides, if you look honestly into your heart you are no Jew. A Jew must have a faith, must believe in Judaism, and practise a lot of senseless ceremonies. You do not care a straw for the whole Jewish religion, nor bother your head about the Sabbath or the dietary laws, or any of the other absurdities which they call religious practices in Judaism. I don’t believe you have been inside of a synagogue in ten years. I am just as little of a Jewess as you are of a Jew. Yet, by keeping up the name of Jew, without any real reason except a blind clinging to you know not what, you expose yourself and me and our only son to all the trouble and disadvantages which result from connection with a despised and hated people. Again, I say, be sensible. Pay the price of admission to civilized society, that is, accept baptism and be done with it.”

Thus did Ottilie reason and plead with her husband to renounce his ancestral faith. The argument, thus seriously begun, lasted long, and was carried on with intense earnestness on both sides. The thought of accepting Christianity was no new one to Franz. His wife’s constant perusal of that theme had made it familiar to him, but he had never yet seriously contemplated the step. The memory of pious parents and of the religious zeal and piety of youthful days, though long since discarded, had had force enough to render the thought of apostasy utterly repugnant and prevent its serious consideration. But Ottilie’s nature was stronger than his; her’s was the masterful character, his the subordinate. Before the evening was over, her persistence and adroit reasoning had overpowered his feeble and illogical resistance. They retired for the night with the understanding that on the morrow Franz was to inform Herr Ober-Director von Meinken of his determination to seek salvation in the arms of the church, and to request the Herr Ober-Director to act as his godfather at the solemn rite of baptism.

The following morning Franz awoke in a state of high exhilaration. Now that he had made up his mind he was thoroughly content, and wondered a little how he had ever been able to pass so many years with the awful burden of Judaism resting upon him, hindering and impeding his progress, which he now pictured to himself as rapid and uninterrupted, bringing him from step to step to the highest rank in his vocation. Ottilie was even more jubilant than her husband. She rejoiced that her influence over her husband was so great as to induce him to take so important and decisive a step, and she rejoiced particularly when she thought how grandly she would enter the _salons_ of her distinguished acquaintances, no longer the merely tolerated Jewess, but the equal and co-religionist of them all. She pictured to herself with especial delight how solemnly she would enter the beautiful church, only two squares from their home, which was so holy and so fashionable; and what a sensation she would create with her reverent demeanor and her Paris gowns!

As soon as Franz reached the office he inquired whether the Herr Director had arrived. As he had anticipated, the Herr Director had not yet arrived. He did not usually come until about eleven o’clock, and this morning was no exception. Franz waited with great impatience the arrival of the great man. He thought it rather inconsiderate of him to stay away so long when he, Franz Friedrich Levy, desired to make him so important an announcement. At last, about a quarter of an hour later than usual, the Herr Ober-Director put in his appearance and went at once to his private office. He had not been in his sanctum five minutes when a somewhat diffident knock at the door was heard, and upon his deep-voiced “Herein!” Franz entered. “Ah, is it you, Levy?” said Herr von Meinken, with a pleasant smile. “I think I can imagine the reason of your call this morning. It is, I presume, in reference to that Station Weizenhofen matter you spoke of the other day.” Franz hesitated. Now that the decisive moment had come, he grew a little uncertain in his conviction of the spiritual beauties and material advantages of Christianity, and would have more than half liked another chance to think over the matter. But only for a moment.

“No, your Excellency,” he answered. “It is not in reference to the Weizenhofen matter that I have taken the liberty to request a brief interview with you this morning. I am still engaged in working out that matter, but I am not as yet prepared to make any definite proposition on the subject. The cause that has brought me before your Excellency this morning is of an entirely personal nature, but of the highest importance to me, and I trust that I shall have the benefit of your Excellency’s kindness and courteous sympathy in connection therewith.”

Herr von Meinken’s eyebrows rose slightly and his lips tightened just a little when he heard these words. He did not answer, but continued to eye Franz with the somewhat cold and dubious gaze of one who expects to be importuned for a favor and does not feel inclined to grant it. “What I desire and would respectfully request,” continued Franz, “is that your Excellency might kindly consent to act as godfather at my baptism, and that the highly honored baroness might graciously deign to act in the same capacity for my wife. I do not doubt that you are somewhat surprised,” he added, noticing the expression of genuine astonishment upon the Herr Ober-Director’s face, “at this request but the fact is, my wife and I have contemplated this step for some time. We are no longer in sympathy with the faith in which we were born. We have come to recognize that it is a presumption for an insignificant, retrograde minority to cling to a religion different from that of the great, cultured majority. Our tastes and views are all in close accord with those of the Christian people of the land. In a word, we feel that our place is in the church rather than in the synagogue, and, therefore, we have finally determined to seek our true spiritual home, the church, and to request most respectfully your Excellency and your Excellency’s worthy lady kindly to assist at the solemn rite which joins us with our fellow-citizens in the close brotherhood of religion, as we have always been joined to them in the brotherhood of patriotism and love of the fatherland.”

The Herr Ober-Director was surprised. There could be no doubt of that. The expression of his countenance showed it plainly. But another emotion of a less definite nature was also suggested on his features. It seemed something like amusement; but one could not be sure, for he did not explain it. He answered Franz very graciously, congratulated him on his resolution, which did equal credit to his head and heart, assured him that the true unity of citizens could only be found in their adherence to a common faith, and wound up by accepting, in the kindliest and most condescending manner possible, for himself and the Frau Baronin the honorable functions of godfather and godmother to Franz and Ottilie.

Flustered and confused by the extraordinary courtesy of the Herr Ober-Director and overwhelmed with happiness, Franz retired from the august presence. The baptism took place, with all due formality, about a week later. The minister of the fashionable Erlöser Kirche, which Ottilie so greatly admired, Pastor Boecker, had been more than satisfied with the intelligent and modest manner in which Franz and Ottilie had applied for baptism, and had seen no reason to refuse their request for a speedy performance of the ceremony. At the rite itself, which took place in the presence of a small but select group of Christian acquaintances, Franz and Ottilie conducted themselves with due humility and reverence; and the Herr Ober-Director and spouse performed their parts with perfect dignity and solemnity, while the Herr Pastor showed, by the unusual impressiveness of his address, that he considered the act one of exceptional importance. After the ceremony there was a charming little supper in a private room of the Hotel zum Blauen Adler. Never before had the Herr Ober-Director shown himself so affable. He proposed the health of their newly-made Christian brother and sister in the warmest and most eloquent terms, alluded in words of sincere appreciation to Franz’s many years of useful service to the Anhalt Diesterburg-Rickershofen State Railroad, presaged for him a still more distinguished career in the future, and wound up by extending to him, metaphorically, of course, the hand of friendship and brotherhood. As for the Frau Baronin, she was as charming as she could be to Ottilie, whose right-hand neighbor at table she was. Our newly-made Christians were touched to the heart by all the kindness and sympathy that were shown them, and could hardly refrain from open manifestation of their joy. When the delightful feast was over and Franz and Ottilie had reached their home, they gave full vent to their exultation.

“Now, Franz,” said Ottilie, “you see what it means to be numbered among the Christians. What cordiality, what sincere friendship they all showed us! Did you notice how extremely courteous the Frau Baronin was to me? She never used to do more than barely notice me, with a merely formal bow. But then I was only a Jewess, while now I am one of her own faith; that is the difference. I hope now, Franz, you understand how much you are obliged to me for having urged and finally brought you to consent to this step, which means so much to both of us. Ah, I shudder when I think of the time when I was numbered among the despised, wretched Jews. The church in which we were baptized is rightly called Erlöser Kirche, for it has redeemed us both from the bondage of Judaism.”

“You are right, Ottilie,” answered Franz, his face beaming with delight. “This has been a great day for us. I have no doubt now but I shall rapidly advance. Did you notice how the Herr Director praised my services to the railroad and predicted for me a brilliant future? That is what they call a hint with a fence rail; that from now on I am to advance. The only obstacle to my progress was my Judaism; and that hateful stumbling-block being now removed, there is no reason why I should not rapidly forge ahead in my career.”

In this edifying and truly spiritual manner did our worthy couple discuss the advantages of Christianity until a late hour, when they retired to dream sweet dreams of financial blessings and social joys to come. The next morning, bright and early, Franz was at his post in the office of the railroad. He felt it incumbent upon him, so to speak, to show that he did not presume to take any liberties because of his new religious status, but that he still intended to merit promotion through faithful performance of duty. About the usual time the Herr Ober-Director appeared and, with a friendly nod to Franz, went into his private office. As his tall form passed through the door, Franz speculated as to how soon there would come through that door the welcome message announcing his elevation to the next higher post. He did not anticipate that it could come very soon; and when a half-hour later the Herr Ober-Director’s special messenger approached his desk and deposited upon it a huge envelope addressed to him and bearing the official seal of the railroad, he was greatly surprised. “So soon,” he said to himself, as with trembling hands and palpitating heart he tore open the portentous missive. “This is far speedier than I could have expected. How overjoyed Ottilie will be when I bring to her already to-day the welcome news of my preferment. I wonder what the post is for which I am selected.” Hastily he read; and as he grasped the contents of the missive, his gaze hardened into a stare, his breath came in short, quick gasps, all the color fled from his cheeks and left them ashy pale. This is what he read:

“ANHALT-DIESTERBURG-RICKERSHOFEN STATE RAILROAD,

“BUREAU OF THE ADMINISTRATION.

“_To Herr Franz Friedrich, Chief Bookkeeper
of the Second Secretariat._

“DEAR SIR: We regret to inform you that after the end of the present
week your services will no longer be required. Thanking you for your
faithful efforts in the past, and sincerely regretting the necessity
of dispensing with your services in the future, we remain,

“Yours very truly,
“THE OBER-DIRECTION,
“SCHMIDT, _Sec’y._”

Franz sat for a full minute as one petrified, glaring at the curt official note which announced the end of all his hopes and ambitions, hardly able to realize its significance. Then a sudden resolution came into his mind. He would face the Herr Ober-Director; he would demand the meaning of this utterly inexplicable and outrageous action; he would reproach him with his hypocritical professions of friendship at last night’s celebration; he would shame him into continuing his services. He rose from his seat, went to the door of the Ober-Director’s private office and knocked. His chief’s deep-voiced “Herein!” was heard and he entered. The Herr Ober-Director was seated at his desk, and gazed at Franz with a grave countenance as he entered.

“Your Excellency,” said Franz, in a voice almost choked with emotion, showing the fatal letter as he spoke, “I have just received this communication, which informs me of my discharge. Is it correct? Am I really dismissed from the road after a service of over twenty-five years?” The Herr Ober-Director bowed in corroboration. “Your Excellency will pardon me,” continued Franz, “if I ask you, is this just? Have I not always done my duty faithfully? Am I not fully conversant with all the requirements of my position? I believe these reasons would have justified you in retaining me.”

“What you say is true, Herr Levy,” answered the Ober-Director, “and I regret extremely to have to dispense with your services; but the fact is, the business of the road has declined, and does not warrant us in retaining so many officials. The Government is urgent that I must reduce expenses. I am, therefore, obliged to abolish the second secretariat altogether; and since your post thus ceases to exist, there is no choice but for you to go.”

“Your Excellency will further pardon me,” said Franz, with increasing agitation, “if I say that this action comes with especial harshness just at this time when I have joined your faith, and been initiated into the church under your kind patronage. It does seem strange, to say the least, that during all these years, when I was a Jew, I was retained, and no complaint or hint of prospective discharge ever reached my ears; and now that I have become a Christian, you immediately discover that there is no need for my services and I am summarily dismissed.”

“That is the very reason, strange as it may seem,” said the Herr Ober-Director. “You see, we had already contemplated dismissing you some time ago, as the need for your services had really ceased. But there is so much talk nowadays of official anti-Semitism, of anti-Jewish prejudice on the part of the Government, that we hesitated to discharge you, since you were a Jew and an employee of many years’ standing. We knew that if you were discharged, it would immediately be made the basis of accusations of anti-Semitic tendencies on the part of the Government; and since the Government has no such tendencies, and does not wish to be considered as having them, we felt ourselves obliged to retain you. But now that you are a Christian, and a member of the State church, no such accusation of anti-Semitism can be made, and we therefore have felt at liberty to dispense with your services, which, as I have said, have really become superfluous. And, now, permit me to conclude this interview, which is time-robbing and unprofitable, and to wish you a very good day.”

As Franz went out through the Ober-Director’s door he said to himself, with grim emphasis: “I think Ottilie will have to revise her favorite quotation from Heine. As far as we are concerned, not Judaism but Christianity has been the misfortune.”

THE RABBI’S GAME OF CARDS.

“Rabbi, why do you not come to supper? Everything is getting spoiled; and if you do not come soon, your meal will not be fit to eat.”

It was the voice of Rebecca the rebbetzin, or wife of the rabbi of Galoschin, in the province of Posen; and she was endeavoring to induce her lord and master, Rabbi Akiba Erter, to leave his sanctum, where he had been busy all afternoon solving profound intellectual problems, and to turn his attention to the less ideal but equally necessary task of eating his evening meal. It was nothing unusual for the good rabbi to be so absorbed in his studies as to be utterly oblivious to all other matters, and to disregard utterly such insignificant trifles as a call to a meal. Rabbi Akiba was a noble specimen of the old-time rabbi. He was a Talmudic scholar of extraordinary erudition and dialectic keenness, a pietist of rigidly scrupulous observance, and charitable in the extreme. Of the three elements which go to make up the ideal man, the head, the heart, and the soul, it was hard to say with which he was more liberally endowed. Whatever he did, he did with all his power. When engaged in study, his absorption was absolute and his concentration complete; when worshipping, his whole being poured itself out before his Maker; and, when engaged in performing an act of benevolence, he had no other thought in his mind until it was accomplished.

The problem which had engaged his attention on this particular occasion belonged to the last-mentioned category, and was knottier far than the most abstruse ceremonial, legal, or theological riddle he had ever been called upon to solve. So troublesome was it, and so greatly did it worry the good rabbi, that he presented quite a picture of despair as he sat before his study-table, upon which were heaped in picturesque confusion huge rabbinical tomes, some open and some closed, his black skull cup pushed far back upon his head, and his hair and long venerable beard sadly tousled and frowsed from the constant pulling he had given it during the past three hours, while his long _peoth_ were from the same cause all limp and out of curl. Supper-time had come, but the problem was apparently as far from solution as ever, for the servant maid of the household had summoned him four and five times to the evening meal and he had not answered or even seemed aware of the summons; and it was only when the rebbetzin herself appeared that he seemed conscious that he had been called, and answered abstractedly, “Yes, wife, I am coming at once, at once.” Impatiently muttering and grumbling to herself, the rebbetzin returned to the dining-room; and the rabbi, rising from his seat, directed his steps to the same place, his face clearly showing by its abstracted and absorbed expression that the same problem which had worried him all afternoon still engaged his thoughts.

Rabbi Akiba was usually a very pleasant companion at table. He was in the habit of telling amusing anecdotes and making witty remarks in the course of the meal, and it was his invariable custom to discourse learnedly on some theme of the law before the blessing of the food was pronounced, in order to fulfil the rabbinical precept, “a man shall always speak words of the law over his table”; but to-night he was very poor company indeed. He ate his food mechanically, taking everything that came along without examination, although his usual practice was to eat quite sparingly, and only such dishes as were favorites of his. He put snuff into his milk-soup and salt to his nose, and would have eaten the soup with its snuffy admixture had not Rebecca pointed out the error.

To the remarks addressed to him by his better half he returned only incoherent answers. In a word, he was in a state of abstraction and perplexity which was plainly visible to all, so that not only his spouse and his three pretty black-eyed daughters, Leah, Miriam, and Taube, noticed it, but even the Russian _Bochur_ Hayim, whom the rabbi kept in his house out of admiration for the latter’s profound erudition and who was three-fourths blind, and as a rule totally oblivious to everything that went on in the world outside of the _Beth Hammidrash_, dimly perceived that his master was not the same as at other times. Suddenly the rabbi paused while drinking a cup of tea, with such a suddenness, indeed, as to make half of the hot fluid go down “the wrong throat”; and though sputtering and coughing, and with face fiery red from the resulting tracheal disturbance, managed to exclaim in triumphant gasps: “I have it, I have it.”

“What have you?” inquired Rebecca with some acerbity. “As far as any one can notice, all you have is a fit of coughing which cannot do you any good. I hope what you have is worth having.”

“Never mind, wife,” said the rabbi with a pleasant smile. “What I have is indeed worth the while. When all is accomplished you shall know what it is. And now let us finish our meal, for I am in haste.”

The rabbi then briefly discoursed on a religious theme in order not to deviate from his custom, and pronounced the blessing of the food, in which all joined. “Now, my good Rebecca,” said the rabbi, when these ceremonies were concluded, “bring me my great coat, my Sabbath hat, and my cane, for I have a certain visit to make.”

“Why, what possesses you?” said Rebecca in wonderment. “Why do you want to go out at night, although you have often told me that the disciples of the learned should not go out alone at night, and why do you wish to dress in your Sabbath state? Are you making a visit at court or the palace of a noble? I am afraid all is not right with you.”

“Do not be afraid, wife,” said the rabbi, who was now in excellent spirits. “Everything is all right. Now, quickly get me my things, for, as I said, I am in haste.”

The rebbetzin was fain to be content with this not very satisfactory answer, and brought her husband his finest official robes, the great, heavy satin _jubitza_ and his broad velvet _streimel_ or Sabbath hat. Having arrayed himself in these, and taken in addition a stout stick, the rabbi ventured forth into the night, which, although the hour was not late, was already, as usual in those northern regions, intensely dark and quite cold.

While he is on his way to his destination, whatever that may be, let us see what was the matter which had so greatly troubled the holy man all day, and which had driven him forth into the darkness and rigor of a northern winter night. That morning there had come to him Mosheh Labishiner, one of the constant worshippers in the synagogue and an unfailing attendant at the rabbi’s Talmudic lectures in the house of learning, and had poured into his ears a pitiful tale of woe. It was not exactly a story of destitution, but it was one which touched the rabbi’s naturally soft heart, always open to every plea of distress and ever ready to sympathize with all that suffered and sorrowed, in a particularly tender and sensitive spot. Mosheh told Rabbi Akiba that his daughter Deborah (whom Rabbi Akiba knew as a dutiful and God-fearing maiden and pretty withal) had been betrothed to a poor but very worthy youth, Samuel of Kempen, for more than two years; that the two young people were ardently devoted to each other, and desirous, as were also the parents on both sides, of sealing their love by the sacred bond of wedlock, but that prudence forbade the union until the youth would be the possessor of a business of his own, and able properly to maintain a wife and family. He, Mosheh, in accordance with the invariable custom in all good Jewish families, had promised his prospective son-in-law a dowry of a thousand gulden, which would be amply sufficient to establish a modest business; but that owing to various misfortunes and losses he had been unable to accumulate more than two hundred gulden, which would barely suffice for the expenses of the wedding, but would leave nothing for the dowry. The young people were to have been married a year previously; but as Mosheh did not possess the requisite amount of the dowry, he had continually deferred the marriage, on various pretexts, until now it was impossible to defer it any more. His poor wife and his daughter, the _Kallah_, were in the utmost distress and wept unceasingly, while his intended son-in-law and _Mehuttanim_, who knew nothing of his financial embarrassments, were beginning to grow suspicious and to think that he was opposed to the marriage, and did not really intend to permit it to be consummated.

“And now, dear rabbi,” Mosheh had said, “help me, I implore thee. Unless I can procure a thousand gulden within a day or two I do not know what misfortune will happen. My poor wife and daughter will surely die of broken hearts and my name will be blackened forever.”

Rabbi Akiba was not intimately acquainted with Mosheh. All he knew of him was that he was an “honest Jew,” a good, straightforward, religious man; but that was sufficient to gain his sympathy, and especially the sorrows of his wife and daughter touched him to the quick. He at once offered to go and collect the money for the dowry among the wealthy members of his flock; and he added that he was sure there would be no difficulty in obtaining the required amount for a young woman of such excellent repute, who was a daughter of such eminently respectable and pious parents. But here he struck an unexpected difficulty. Mosheh objected strenuously to any public collection in his behalf.

“You must not breathe a syllable of all this to any living creature, dear rabbi,” he begged. “I could never endure the thought that all the Kehillah should know that I had been obliged to depend upon the charitable gifts of kind-hearted people in order to obtain a dowry for my daughter. I have always been an independent, self-respecting merchant, and have myself provided for all the needs of my family. I could not endure the thought of appearing as a _Schnorrer_ for any reason. And then my wife and daughter, do you think that they would ever accept a dowry which had been thus gathered together from the offerings of pity? They would sooner die. They do not even know that my circumstances are so straitened. The mere report that contributions were being solicited in our behalf would destroy whatever happiness they have. No, rabbi, you must get the amount needed in some other way, in some way which will not even raise a suspicion that we are being helped, or else I shall have to ask you rather to do nothing and to leave it to the All-Merciful One to deal with us as He sees fit.”

These words, while they greatly increased the respect which the rabbi felt for Mosheh, also added immensely to his perplexity. They seemed utterly to shut the door in the face of any attempt to obtain the required sum. Rabbi Akiba himself was not the possessor of any considerable amount of money. His income was not large and he never had any difficulty in disposing of it, there being plenty of claimants on his bounty outside of his own family. If, therefore, he could not go to the wealthy householders in the Kehillah and openly ask them for donations, he knew of no source whence he could derive the assistance needed. It would not do to request of them the gift of such a large amount without stating the purpose for which it was to be used. They might give it to him, such was their respect for his character and their trust in the purity of his motives, but they would be apt to speculate on the use to which he intended to devote it, and very likely they would find it out, too, and that would be directly contrary to the explicit desire and request of Mosheh, Hence the perplexity and the mental struggles by which the poor rabbi had been tortured all day until at supper he had found, as he thought, the solution of the vexatious problem. The simpler solution which would have suggested itself to many a modern cleric, to shrug the shoulders deprecatingly and politely to inform the suppliant that he regretted extremely that under the circumstances it was impossible to do anything for him, did not occur to Rabbi Akiba. He was narrow in many ways, limited both in views and experience to that which could be acquired in the secluded recesses of the Beth Hammidrash, simpler, indeed, than many a modern child in worldly ways; but on that very account his moral fibre possessed the old, unspoiled Jewish sturdiness. He knew that Mosheh was deserving of sympathy and help, and he determined to help him if there were any possibility of doing so; and believed he had now found a way to attain that wished-for end.

Rabbi Akiba hurried through the streets of Galoschin, brilliantly lighted with the bright illumination of early evening, presenting a singular enough figure, as he hastened along, to be the object of the wondering stares of many a passer-by. Galoschin was a city originally Polish, but which under the influence of Prussian culture and discipline had become thoroughly Germanized, and which strove to reproduce the manners and the external characteristics of the German metropolis. The Jewish inhabitants in particular had, as a rule, dropped all the old-time Polish characteristics. _Jubitzas_ and _peoth_ in particular were utterly banned, and were conceded only to the rabbi to whom, as an example of rigid conservatism and unswerving piety, they were deemed appropriate. As Rabbi Akiba hastened through the streets he presented, therefore, a most extraordinary contrast in his long, girdled robe, his strange broad-brimmed hat, with long, dangling ear-curls and the stout cane in his hands, to the ladies and gentlemen, attired in the height of modern fashion, who sauntered along the elegant thoroughfare, stopping before the brilliantly lighted windows of the shops or entering the theatres, concert halls, cafés, and other places of amusement which abounded in this vicinity. In front of a large and splendid edifice, through whose windows and great portal floods of light poured and loud strains of gay dance music were heard, the rabbi paused. Over the gateway was a huge sign, which bore, in letters composed of shining gas flames, the legend, “Galoschiner Casino und Vereinshaus.” Rabbi Akiba glanced at this sign a moment and then boldly entered. His entrance was the signal for great excitement among the persons standing in the hall and among the visitors who were entering at the same time, and who had come to attend the annual ball and reunion of the Galoschiner Gesellige Verein, the fashionable club _par excellence_ of the town, to which belonged all those who could lay claim to wealth and social station. It was an unheard-of thing that an old-fashioned, conservative Jew, who clung to Polish costume, beard and ear-locks, should set his foot within a place dedicated to the dance and the new social practices which had come from the West. To such a one they were all un-Jewish abominations; and the sight of swallow-tailed, bareheaded men and half-clothed women, shamelessly exposing their naked bosoms and arms to the gaze of strange men, was hateful and loathsome. That Rabbi Akiba, the holy man, whose name was a synonym for all that was pious and austere, who stood for rigid and unswerving adherence to the olden Jewish life and stern religious discipline, and for uncompromising opposition to all new-fashioned vanities and worldliness, that he should actually in _propria persona_ enter into precincts given over to empty gayety and folly, “the abode of scoffers,” was more than surprising; it was bewildering, stupefying, paralyzing.