Chapter VIII: Preface (6)

"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.