"I will not meet him."
He looked at her. As she stood there, her clear-cut features faintly flushed, her slender form upright, a reflection of her former beauty seemed to surround her. But sorrow had cut its marks deep in her features, and the gray hair was in sad contrast with the delicate oval of her face. The doctor had much difficulty in keeping up his a.s.sumed tone.
"Why will you not see him?" he asked. "I think it very possible that Groze will summon you at the same time. It will expedite proceedings and mitigate his penalty. You do not require to take your boy when you appear against his father to-morrow, an act which will probably hand him over to a jailer--"
"Dr. Reiser, are you deserting me? I cannot become a Christian. What can I do?"
"He will tell you that himself," said the doctor, opening the door. She gave a faint scream when she saw Agenor.
"Judith," he sobbed, falling at her feet. "Forgive, forgive! You shall not become a Christian. We will go to Weimar and be married. I swear it."
Her eyes closed, the doctor ran and seized the child, and allowed her to sink gently into a chair.
"It is only a swoon," he said.
CHAPTER XII.
It was a clear, warm Sunday in September, four months later. It had been stormy the whole week, to the delight of many, as it furnished a sufficient excuse for not hanging out flags and otherwise decorating their houses.
But Friday the clouds pa.s.sed away, and Sat.u.r.day the sun shone warm and dried up streets and walls, so that the Christians hurried to make up for lost time, and the Jews, who dared not raise their hands till evening, had to work late in the night.
Herr Stiegle had ordered it, and had also stated that the count would forget none of those whose houses remained as usual. Never had garlands and festoons been prepared with such unwillingness or muttered curses, or such hopes for a downpour on Sunday morning.
But the sun shone as in June. "She succeeds in everything, even in this," they groaned. So they put on their festive garments, and went into the street to witness the entry of Count Baranowski and his wife, Judith Trachtenberg, who had been married two months before by the burgomaster of Weimar.
A stranger would have observed little difference between this reception and the one two years previously. Even the triumphal arch was not lacking, and the crowd in the street was greater, for numbers had come from far and wide to see the miracle. There would have been nothing very terrible to the minds of the sight-seers had the first version of the romance been correct--that the representative of one of the n.o.blest names of Podolia had married a baptized Jewess. But that a Christian should marry a Jewess, without priest or altar, and that there was a country in the world where this could happen, without fear of an avenging thunderbolt! Yet the thunderbolt had not fallen, nor the earth quaked on that day; for, hard as it was to believe, much as it contradicted the traditions of the people, the marriage had taken place. It was not unlike a legend. Perhaps it was in one of those countries where there were yellow people and black, inky-black, people.
The count and the Jewess might be married according to the laws of that strange land, but they would surely stay there; they would not dare to breathe the same air as those who believed in G.o.d.
The fable became a miracle, hard to understand, but true, nevertheless, when the report went abroad that they were coming back. The emperor allowed it! Nothing could astonish any more, not even the order for a public reception. And why not? They had lost all sense of shame and reverence for G.o.d. They were trying how long-suffering was the patience of the Lord and of their fellow-countrymen.
It was warmly debated as to whether piety would permit them to witness the spectacle. Still, when the sun rose that eventful morning, hundreds were to be seen flocking in, in carriages, on horseback, on foot--burghers, peasants, and Jews. Only the clergy and the n.o.bility were absent.
Besides these voluntary spectators, others were here, by order of Herr Stiegle--three hundred peasants and laborers from the count"s estate, middle-aged, sober men, who were to form an escort. "You are to keep order," he had said. "Our master and his bride shall be worthily received." He had said only this, but he knew they understood, and would do their duty if necessary.
No one could foretell whether or not it would be necessary, not even this cool, calculating man, who knew the townspeople so well. He comforted himself with the thought that, if painful scenes occurred, it would not be his fault. Weeks before, he had received by special messenger a note from the count, saying that Prince Metternich had notified the government that the marriage was valid. The boy had been baptized and legitimatized, and therefore he desired a public reception.
The faithful Swabian had sent his protest, founded on public opinion; but it was fruitless, for another messenger renewed the order, as the countess wished it particularly. "The countess!" Even Herr Stiegle, whose only antipathies were the contracting of debts and the disagreeing of accounts, could not repress a mocking smile at the t.i.tle. But he did his duty.
His orders were obeyed, and as he looked at the decorations he could not but be content. The Dominican monastery and the rabbi"s house alone remained unornamented. Stiegle had not dared to speak to the prior, and the rabbi told him he feared G.o.d more than the count.
Herr Groze"s house, too, wore its ordinary appearance; the windows were closed, and some of the blinds down. "I did not appear as his judge in the spring, because there was no plaintiff, and I was obliged to regard the count"s confession as private. But I do not intend to show him respect I do not feel."
This was quite within the scope of Stiegle"s understanding; but that the countess"s brother should make no demonstration was unpardonable.
He knew how many letters had pa.s.sed between them, and therefore believed that there must have been a reconciliation.
There were other cares which pressed upon Herr Stiegle, as he arranged his peasant guard. These honest fellows could be trusted, and the mob was too cowardly for violent deeds; but what if there should be insulting words? Whichever way he looked he saw sullen or sneering faces.
"Herr Twanicki," he said to the little deformed cobbler, who had great influence over his equals, "I count upon you."
"Certainly, certainly; if we only knew what to shout. What is the Hebrew for "hurrah"?"
Herr Stiegle spoke to Simeon Tragmann, the chief elder, at the triumphal arch, who answered, "We are in our places by your command.
But if our people let their indignation master them, what can we do?"
"Indignation! Why, it is such a triumph for you as has never before occurred."
Old Simeon shook his head. "That which is contrary to G.o.d"s law cannot be pleasing to us. It is the will of G.o.d that Jewesses should marry Jews, and that their sons should be Jews."
The only really pleasant face was that of the burgomaster. He had prepared a speech in which he proposed to explain the two creeds and to demonstrate the equalizing force of love. So even his pleasure was spoiled by Stiegle informing him that the count requested that the address should be as brief as possible.
This accomplished, Herr Stiegle placed his guards in line of march, took his stand, and waited anxiously for the shouts of the crowd. Nor were they lacking. The wags took care of that. The cobbler and his friends invented new words for hurrah, and amused themselves by making proposals of marriage to the Jewish women in the crowd. The women screamed, their friends interfered; here and there fists were clenched and a few blows exchanged; but just as the row threatened to become serious, the band of peasants lifted their axes and restored order.
Stupid as they might seem to be, they all knew what was expected from them. Before the Trachtenberg house the public peace was threatened.
The Christians made loud complaint for having been forced to hang out banners, while Raphael had been required to make no sign, to which the Jews made answer by averring that he was right, for the disgrace had fallen most heavily on him. "No," retorted the Christians, "the disgrace is for us--the honor for you!"
Again sticks were raised, when a would-be wit called for three cheers for Wroblewski, which, causing a laugh, restored good-humor. It was known to all that Wroblewski had found refuge with a farmer of ill-repute since he had been turned out of the castle, and that he was maintained by his wife"s shame.
There were two happy hearts in the town. They both blessed G.o.d, in whom they believed; and yet what a wide, impa.s.sable gulf was there in their belief!
In Roskowska, Miriam Gold had been waiting for many hours. She had awakened her servant at early dawn, and had herself dressed in her Sabbath clothes. The servant was a girl from the Ghetto, who lived with the eccentric old woman because of the excellent wages she received; for since Judith had cared for Miriam the former beggar had been enabled to act the part of a benefactress to others.
The servant obeyed, for she knew contradiction would be useless.
"Miriam"s mind as well as her body is waning," she thought. The old woman, whose vitality under persecution and want had seemed indestructible, had been restored, as it were, from the day when she met Judith and her boy, to her youthful energy.
But since Judith had returned to the count her strength had steadily declined. Yet she uttered no word of complaint; on the contrary, a proud smile played about her withered lips as she said, "He knows what he is doing. My work on earth is ended."
When the news of the marriage at Weimar was spread abroad, and the inmates of the Ghetto were loud in condemnation and curses, the old woman held her head still higher. "I knew it," she said to her servant.
"But I did not dare hope He would let me see it. How my Lea will rejoice when she knows of it! for surely they will hear of it _there_?"
The girl reported these words, and there were many zealots who visited the small house in the suburb, to reprove the old woman for her laxity.
But when they stood by her couch they could not find it in their hearts to say anything to hurt the poor creature, who would only be with them a few days longer.
But Miriam lived on. Even the doctor was surprised. She was always glad to see him, but she would not touch his prescriptions. "He will not let me die yet," she said. "I hope, in His mercy, He will grant me this short span of time."
When the doctor asked what she meant, she replied, with a peculiar smile, "You will soon hear; and when it happens, I shall go to the synagogue for the last time."
He did not press his inquiry, but told her Judith had requested him to look after her "benefactress."
"Nonsense!" cried the old woman. "She saved my life; and what I said to you about the little bird that wished to fly away, that is nonsense, too. Judith will not do that now. She must see that G.o.d has chosen her to demonstrate his will to poor, blind humanity, and this knowledge is a thread that will not be easily severed."
The doctor listened with emotion. How many great intellects would have raised themselves to such an ideal height of humanity as this simple Jewess had through her own misery? A few days pa.s.sed, and then he discovered for what Miriam had been waiting.
When the news came of the imperial decision and the public reception, Miriam sent for him for the first time since her illness. "Forgive me, doctor; but I should like to share my thankfulness for G.o.d"s goodness and greatness with one person at least."