THE JEWS OF BARNOW.

STORIES

KARL EMIL FRANZOS

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY

M. W. MACDOWALL

NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1, 3, and 5 BOND STREET
1883

"The scoff, the curse—his people's heritage—
Have left upon his shrunken face their sting;
His eyes gleam like those of some hunted thing,
Against whose life implacable war men wage.
We read the Jew's face as one reads a page
Of his own nation's history, for there cling
About its lines, deep-worn with suffering,
The traces still of Israel's lordly age."

F. F. M.

CONTENTS

[PREFACE TO THE AMERICAN EDITION.]
[PREFACE.]
[THE SHYLOCK OF BARNOW.]
[CHANE.]
[TWO SAVIOURS OF THE PEOPLE.]
["THE CHILD OF ATONEMENT."]
[ESTERKA REGINA.]
["BARON SCHMULE."]
[THE PICTURE OF CHRIST.]
[NAMELESS GRAVES.]
[Christian Reid's Novels.]
[Rhoda Broughton's Novels.]
[Julia Kavanagh's Works.]
[By F. Anstey.]
[By Joel Chandler Harris.]
[Charlotte M Yonge's Novels.]
[James Fenimore Cooper's Novels.]
[Appletons' Popular Series.]

PREFACE

TO THE AMERICAN EDITION.

Although the high literary art which Franzos possesses (the finer quality of which has been preserved in this translation) is fully admitted by intelligent Jews, the subject-matter of his book itself, its raison d'être, they have by no means relished. In a review of "The Jews of Barnow," published some months ago in a leading New York journal, it was asserted by the writer that, from internal evidence, Franzos must be a Jew. This statement was directly controverted by a Jewish weekly of the highest standing. Still, we must believe that the acumen of the New York reviewer was not at fault, because in a late number of "Blackwood's Magazine," which contained an interesting criticism of Franzos and his book, it was asserted that the author is or was a Jew. No man not born a Jew, perfectly familiar with all the phases of Jewish life in Eastern Galicia, and in sympathy with them, could have created this book. Franzos may have clothed Jews and Jewesses with poetical raiment, given them melodramatic phrasings, but the gabardine, caftan, love-locks, are visible—the whine, the nasal twang audible.

This denial that Franzos was a Jew, though apparently insignificant in itself, and due, perhaps, to a want of acquaintance with the facts, is still peculiarly indicative of a natural travers of the Jewish mind. Any description of the inner life of Jews, when written by a Jew, unless it be laudatory, is particularly distasteful to Jews. No race cares to have its failings exposed. From one of another creed such strictures may be passed over with stolid indifference, but, from one of their own blood, any censure, direct or applied, is considered by Jews in the light of a sacrilege. With Jews it is ever a cry, "It is a dirty bird that fouls its own nest." Such acridity as a Goldwin Smith distills, Jews laugh at; but when one of their kinsmen, a Mr. Montefiore, finds fault with them, bidding them look for grace in another direction, then at once a holy horror pervades them.

What Franzos describes is Jewish life pent up within the narrow limits of some Galician town. Religious dislikes, racial hatreds kindled a thousand years ago, have never been quenched. Though to-day in that town a Jew could not be murdered, because it would be against the law, the inclination to kill him, because he is a Jew, still exists. The simple fact, that every Jew had been taught to read and write, had quickened his brains. Through heredity he became, intellectually, superior to the illiterate peasant, or townsfolk, who hemmed him in. The mental phenomenon the Jew would present, under such conditions, would not be, after all, so peculiar. He had but two ends in life, to work and pray. Even his toil was restricted, for he could only engage in certain callings. His solace was his religion. He might pray to his Maker, but only in such set phrases as had been chosen for him. His God was by far too sublime for him, poor worm, to address in such homely words as might well up spontaneously from his own heart. A slave to tradition, bound down by rote, the Jew had been taught that the least divergence from a cut-and-dried ritual was heresy. Mental and physical isolation brought about arrested development. The only wonder about this all is, that the Jew in Eastern Europe, seeing a better chance for life beyond the pale of his religion, had not broken bounds, and, abjuring his creed, found outside of it an easier existence. Brushing aside that sentimentalism which so often obscures considerations of this character, the chances of security for an apostate Jew were not very certain. Travestied in the guise of a Christian, he never could have looked like one. Stamped on his features were all the marked characteristics of his Orientalism. Even his tongue would have played him false, for the rabbi had forbidden him the use of that language common to the state in which he lived. By some complications brought about by the Jews themselves in Eastern Europe, they are not always subjected to the same regulations as Christians. Religious laws made for their own government, which underpinned their social life, were rarely meddled with. In a primitive society, necessarily ignorant, any accredited head, according to the laws of sociology, must be a despotic one. A rabbi, then, in these unknown towns, wielded almost the power of life and death. That modern infliction of Boycotting has been borrowed directly from the Jews. For a trivial divergence from common custom the punishment was severe. In these Polish or Russian districts, thirty years ago, a Jew did not dare read a Christian book.

What Franzos shows markedly in his "Jews of Barnow" is that barrier which Jews throw around their household. The seclusion of the family, so purely Oriental in its character, is something which the Polish rabbi takes particular pains to teach. This hiding, of what is the finest trait the Jew possesses, that love and peace which dwell in his home, that reverence which children have for their parents, that sacrifice of everything to his affections, because it never is known, has tended more than anything else to alienate the Jew from his neighbor. Among the ultra-orthodox Jews, whether they live in Odessa, Cracow, Frankfort, London, or New York, their doors are inhospitably closed to those of another belief. Has there been transmitted some instinct engendered by mistrust?

Is Judaism, then, so sensitive a plant that it should wither by mere contact? If, to live, it must have seclusion, it approaches closely to the Eastern's idea of a woman's virtue, something wanting the protection of high walls and difficult approaches. In our age, any religion which requires exclusiveness so that it may exist is hardly worth the keeping.

Franzos's stories exhibit those barbarities even now practiced under the sacred name of religion. There are Jews who are not merely galled by the opprobrium which in some places is still attached to their race, but are sincerely desirous of removing it. Franzos, because he describes what is the iron law of Talmudical or rabbinical tradition, shows how superstition degrades the man. It is difficult at this day, when research and modern methods of criticism have thrown such a flood of light on the past, to realize the mental condition of that vast body of Jews at the time of the commencement of the Christian era and the destruction of Jerusalem. The whole national and municipal administration of the country was in the hands of the priesthood. Every law, every ordinance, every police and sanitary regulation, became a religious obligation. Every action in every man's family, whether social or political, was regulated for him by rules handed down from former generations, and these rules were barnacled by conventionalisms. For his guidance in the most commonplace actions, a Jew had perforce recourse to his rabbi. As must always be the case, when municipal administration emanates from a church, religious observances override legal or social obligations. With the crucifixion of Christ came that hatred of Jews, the intensity of which can only now be measured by its continuance. The exclusion of Jews from the society and communion of mankind petrified into marble-like hardness all those existing traditions which guided the Jew's methods of life. Forbidden by every conceivable form of oppression and disability from accompanying the rest of mankind on their march toward a higher civilization, every advance, mental or physical, denied them, it was as if a hot iron had been seared over the bloody wound which had lopped them off from the family of nations. It is a wonder that all future growth was not arrested. As to the charge of tribalism (the writer acknowledging that the vast majority of Jews believe in it), and even according some unknown and undefined power as derivable from tribalism, to make a charge of this is but to repeat the old fable of the wolf and the lamb.

All that intelligent Jews are doing to-day is to take advantage of their freedom. They are trying to rid themselves of that incubus which has been weighing them down. That large and increasing number of Reformers and Reform synagogues, springing up in the large cities of Western Europe and the United States; the decadence, the difficulty of maintaining synagogues of pure orthodox Jews; the complaints, the lamentations which are constantly heard from the mouths of orthodox ministers and their organs, over what they call "the neglect of religious observance," show that the time of change has come. Even among some of the orthodox, the gross superstitions accompanying the offerings (auction-sales of God's blessings, knocked down to the highest bidder) have been for the major part abolished. Efforts are continually made to modify the ritual by denationalizing the older-fashioned form of prayer, and giving it more of that spiritual life which Maimonides first developed. Dietary and physical observances, which the Eastern Jew borrowed or adopted from the nations which once surrounded him, are being expunged.

What is the true reason for this change, a change which, born in America and in England, is now commencing to exert some slight influence in Germany? The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church. Every act of wrong done to Jews rendered them the more rigid in their belief, causing at the same time differentiation in their surroundings. Whenever, through the operation of better, more humane laws, oppression was removed, Jews became more like the men among whom they lived. Why should M. Renan find fault with the French Jew, and take the Parisian Israelite as the type of some Hebraic Athenian? Under normal conditions men float in the general current, at about equal depths, for the social law of specific gravity remains forever the same. Those sociologists are ignorant of their calling who demand, then, of the Jew an instantaneous reversal of an existence formed by his surroundings, and a forgetting of the great belief which has been burned into his heart by the fires of thousands of years.

To the American Jew, "The Jews of Barnow" shows very clearly a great many things he may have been ignorant about. Jews who came to this country fifty years since, who by thrift, honesty, and intelligence, have secured an ample store of the world's goods, are prone to forget their early surroundings, or hesitate to tell their American children of that bigotry which existed in their European birth-places. They have educated their children in their own creed; but American school-boys or school-girls have had one inestimable blessing, the contact with an outer world and the opportunity of thinking for themselves. Education and superstition can never have a co-existence. These fathers would feel ashamed, then, did they tell their children the absurdities which they once were taught. That one story of Franzos's, "The Child of Atonement," is a revelation. As an American Jew reads it, he might be inclined to deem the Rabbi of Sadagóra a Torquemada, or that it was a clever creation, having no existence save in the brain of the romance-writer. But it is not a fancy-drawn picture, but had once actual being. Such stories as "The Child of Atonement" and "The Nameless Graves" can not be read by any intelligent Jew without the burning brand of shame rising to his cheeks. As to the truthfulness of many portions of Franzos's book, unfortunately there can be no possible doubt. There may not be many Rabbis of Sadagóra, but excommunication, the cherem, that social inquisition, is as prevalent in Russia and Poland, in 1882, as it was a thousand years ago. The Rabbi of Sadagóra of Franzos's book is dead, but his son actually lives, exercises perhaps not the same cruelties, but attributes to himself the identical miraculous functions as did his wicked father before him, and still this younger medicine-man has his followers.

"The Jews of Barnow" should make the existence of a Rabbi of Sadagóra an impossibility. Jewish women who read "The Jews of Barnow" will be amazed to learn how degraded is the condition of their sex in Eastern Europe. That one horrible text in their prayer-book, said by the men, "Thank God that thou hast not made me a woman," belongs to the period of the coarsest barbarity. It is incorporated in innumerable volumes, now perhaps being printed. Educated Jews who read this vicious paragraph, who think of mother, wife, and daughter, feel the degradation of it, and loathe its interpretation. We can not agree with Frances Power Cobbe in the general application of this sentence of hers, that "something appears to be lacking in Jewish feeling concerning women. Too much of Oriental materialism still lingers. Too little of Occidental chivalry and romance has yet arisen." This might be applicable for the East, even in its most exaggerated sense, but is hardly just to the West. Still, as Franzos tells us in his book, girls are sold to men, and become, it is true, wives, but with as little ceremony as if they were Circassians.

The oldest source of any religion is not the purest, "If it be an historical religion, fanaticism always assumes the form of a return to the primitive type." The ultra-orthodox Jew is ruled by the Ashkenazim of Jerusalem, the most superstitious, the most ignorant of men. This sect still fights for power. Even the purity of the Ashkenazim's belief, monotheism, the only thing left it, must be taken with suspicion, because the sanity or sincerity of any Cabalist is to be doubted.

There are little, if any, differences existing in the social strata, educated or uneducated, which uphold Christian beliefs. If Rome is the fountain-head of Catholicity, Jerusalem ought to be the true source whence Hebraism flows. The Holy City of the Jews does exert its influence over millions of the ultra-orthodox, but for educated Israelites has no more weight than have the decrees of any miracle-working rabbi who holds forth in Cracow. If there be in Russia, Finland, Scandinavia, Austria, Hungary, Roumania, Turkey, some five and a half million Jews, and in England, France, and the United States, half a million more, what a vast proportion are steeped in darkness!

What does as much as anything else to injure the Jew, and to make mankind his enemy, is that belief he entertains that he is the race "God cherishes most." This is, indeed, tribalism. Selected by the Creator as his special favorites, pious Jews think that to them "all blessings shall be given." Once it was believed that a Jew's brain was made of a finer material, that he was less subject to dementia, than others. Some very sad personal observations assure the writer that such is not the case. If anything, in that struggle for wealth in which Jews engage in the large cities of the United States, they have children more prone to feeble-mindedness than Christians. The close-marriage system of the Jews may in a certain measure induce degeneracy by exhaustion of the original stock, for the laws of nature are inexorable, and act alike in Christian or Mohammedan. That preservation of his race is something the Jew most particularly prides himself about. The Parsee, who for so long a time has had a religion apart, presents the precise condition of an isolated existence which the Jew is so proud of. Morality, continence, the sacred character of the marriage-ties, do in a certain measure preserve the Jewish race, but the miraculous in such fractional existence has nothing marvelous about it. This self-laudation of race, that "pride-belief," is the most difficult to eradicate, for it has been the consolation of an oppressed race.

What, then, is reform, this Jewish reform? It is pure, unadulterated monotheism. It believes that men, though they may expound religion, can not create it. It looks on the Talmud, as did Emanuel Deutsch, as the most poetical, the most confusing of chronicles, but utterly worthless for the guidance of any human being—a curiosity, patched over, embroidered, by a thousand different hands, something to be placed in a cabinet, to be gazed on, but as practically useless for human instruction as would be the Arthurian romances. Yahya ibn Main was a worshiper of the Prophet, and labored all his life to purify the text of his Koran, and thus he is recorded to have said: "I wrote down numbers of traditions under the dictation of liars, and made use of the paper for heating my ovens. I thus obtained at least one advantage—my bread was well baked." One saying in the Talmud is applicable to it: "They dived into the ocean and brought up a potsherd." Oh, the olla-podrida of nonsense in it! And still it shapes the lives of millions of Jews; it warps their ways, for it is almost their only book.

The Reformer is no iconoclast, he is educated enough not to wish to destroy this relic of a past, but he is striving to expunge it, to deprive the Talmud from exerting its baleful influence. The reformed Jew believes in a God of mercy—one of love. He thinks that his Creator is not a vengeful being. He does not believe that Christ was the Son of God, doubts even a coming Messiah, but thinks that modern teachings have done for man's immortal soul what the older lawgivers did for grosser flesh and blood only. What the Reformer desires most especially is that he shall have readers, clergymen (call them what you please), who shall not only be familiar with the language they live in, but have the highest, the very highest education, be in fact the equals of those who preach to their Christian friends. These Reformers sicken over those attempts of crass ignorance which, through the borrowed sanctity of a salaried office, assume the direction of educated intelligence. The majority of these Reformers are utterly indifferent to dietary regulations. Can peace with God, a resurrection of the soul after the death of the body, entrance to heaven, have anything to do with the eating of a mollusk? Could the great Creator have made food for one man which another dare not eat? Trivialities, mixed up in religion, debase it, weaken it, sap it to its very vitals. A stronger, more hearty belief must emancipate itself from puerilities. A reformed Jew can not be a materialist, though he may strip religion of its symbolisms.

Millennium is far distant, and a Bishop of Sadagóra and a Goldwin Smith may never, perhaps, lie in the same bed, or sup at the same banquet, for both of them represent that antagonism which inflamed England in King John's time, or is rampant to-day with Pastor Stöcker in King William of Prussia's reign. "Every country has the Jews it deserves," writes Franzos, quoting the most direful of sayings. God help, in his infinite mercy, American-born Jews if, in generations to come, this cruel speech had ever an application! It might arise from their own errors, and the faults of their surroundings. It would mean, however, nothing less than the political degradation of that country in which Christian and Jew live. Mr. Froude has been much blamed, little lauded, for what he wrote in regard to an oppressed race. It was somewhat as follows: that those who could not fight for their freedom did not deserve it.

It sometimes happens that fiction produces effects where facts fail. It is believed, then, that Franzos's stories will not only be of interest to numerous readers, but in the hands of the reformed Jew, by means of the lessons it teaches, help him in his earnest efforts to save his race from retrogression.

Barnet Phillips.

PREFACE.

The following stories, the scene of which is laid in the Podolian Ghetto, were my first literary attempt. They were for the most part written while I was at the university, and were published in various journals. Owing to circumstances, another and later book—"Aus Halb-Asien"—was the first to come out; for this youthful work was not published as a whole until 1876. I mention this, although it is visible from internal evidence, to explain my choice of subjects. The preface to that edition gives a further account of this, and from it I make the following quotations:

"When I took up my pen four years ago, I strongly felt the necessity of making my work as artistic as possible. I wished to write stories, and strove to give them poetic value. For this very reason, it seemed necessary that I should describe the kind of life with which I was best acquainted. This was essentially the case with regard to that of the Podolian Jews. I therefore became the historian of the Podolian Ghetto, and it was my great desire to give these stories an artistic form; but not at the cost of truth. I have never permitted my love of the beautiful to lead me into the sin of falsifying the facts and conditions of life, and am confident that I have described this strange and outlandish mode of existence precisely as it appeared to me. If in my first published volume my efforts to portray men and manners needed the assistance of my powers as a novelist, so in this book my knowledge of men and manners has to help me in my labors as a novelist. Sometimes the one side of my character takes the upper hand, and sometimes the other; but still they are at bottom inseparable, and it has always been my endeavor to describe facts artistically. However the novelist may be judged, the portrayer of men and manners demands that his words should be believed.

"This request is not superfluous, for it is a very strange mode of life to which I am about to introduce the reader. The influences and counter-influences that affect it are only touched upon in this book. Had I given a full account of them in an introduction, the introduction would, in all likelihood have been longer than the book. I have therefore refrained from doing it, and believe that I was right in making this decision. For I have kept before my eyes, while penning these stories, that I am writing for a Western reader. If he will only trust to my love of truth, and regard the separate stories in combination with each other, he will gain a clear idea of the kind of life I describe without any further particulars. I would repeat one sentence, the truth of which is shown in my first book: 'Every country has the Jews that it deserves'—and it is not the fault of the Polish Jews that they are less civilized than their brethren in the faith in England, Germany, and France. At least, it is not entirely their fault.

"No one can do more than his nature permits. This book is to a certain extent polemical, and the stories are written with an object. I do not deny that this is the case, and do not think it requires any excuse. Still I have never allowed myself to sin against truth in the pursuit of this object. I do not make the Polish Jews out to be either better or worse than they really are. These stories are not written for the purpose of holding up the Eastern Jews to obloquy or admiration, but with the object of throwing as much light as I could in dark places."

The second edition, published in 1877, only differed from the first in a few alterations made in the language; but the third edition (from which this translation is taken) is not only enlarged, but is also changed in several important particulars. I examined each story carefully, and strove to bring all into a distinct connection with each other, thus giving a clear idea of Polish Judaism regarded as a whole. For this reason new tales were introduced: they describe Jewish customs that had been at first passed over in silence, but which were necessary for the proper appreciation of the subject.

This work has been translated into all European languages, as well as into Hebrew; and now I have the pleasure of being able to lay it before the English public, by whom I hope it will receive as kind a reception as it has been given elsewhere. I hope so less for my own sake than in the interest of the unfortunate people whose life it describes.

Karl Emil Franzos.

Vienna.

THE SHYLOCK OF BARNOW.

(1873.)

The Jew's great white house stands exactly opposite the old gray monastery of the Dominicans, and close to the public road that leads from Lemberg to Skala, passing through the gloomy little town of Barnow on the way. The people born in the small dirty houses of the Ghetto grow up with a feeling of the deepest respect and admiration for this house and its owner, old Moses Freudenthal. Both house and man are the pride of Barnow; and both in their own way justify this pride.

To describe the house in the first place. It really seems to be conscious of its own grandeur as it stands there proud and stately in all the dignity of white-washed cleanliness, the long windows of the first floor bright and shining, and the painted shutters of the shop-windows coming down to the very ground at either side of the great folding-doors which stand invitingly open. For it is a house of entertainment, and the nobles of the country-side know how to take advantage of its superior attractions when they come to town on magisterial business, or attend the weekly market. It is also patronized by the cavalry officers who are stationed in the villages in the neighborhood, whenever the boredom of country quarters drives them into town. Besides this, the house is let in suites of apartments, and the greatest of the magnates of Barnow, such as the district judge and the doctor, live there. But it would be difficult to give a list of all the house contains, the ground-floor is so crowded. In one room is a lottery agency, then come the offices of a company for insuring cattle, men, and corn; and again, a drapery establishment, a grocer's shop, a room in which gentlemen may drink their wine, and another where the poor man can enjoy his glass of brandy-and-water. But then, the lottery agent, the agent of the insurance company, the draper, the grocer, and the innkeeper are one and all—Moses Freudenthal.

But the tall stern-looking old man to whom the house belongs is even more worthy of notice than it and all it contains. His family has been the grandest in the town as long as people can remember, and to him belongs of right the chief place in the synagogue. His father had been appointed head of the session on the death of his grandfather, and when his father died he was chosen as his successor without a dissentient voice, and by the unsolicited vote of the whole congregation. He is regarded as one of the most pious and honorable men in the Jewish community. Added to this is his wealth—his enormous wealth!

His co-religionists regard him as a millionaire, and they are right. For he not only possesses the big white house and all that is in it, but he has every reason to look upon several of the estates in the neighborhood as more really belonging to him than to the Polish nobles who live on them. And then Komorowka is his also. This beautiful place fell into his hands when little Count Smólski and his lovely wife Aurora lost it by their extravagance after a very few years' possession. Komorowka is indeed a lovely place. No wonder that when the time came for Count Smólski to leave his old home, he was in such utter despair that he sought to forget his woes in the worst fit of drunkenness of his whole life.

Would you be much surprised if you were now told that Moses Freudenthal was not only the richest and proudest, but also the most envied, man in Barnow?

But this he is not. Ask the poorest man in the Jewish town—the teacher of the law, who, with his six children, often suffers from the pangs of hunger, or the water-carriers, who groan under the heavy pails they bear from morning to night from the town-well—ask these men whether they would exchange lots with Moses, and they will at once answer, "No." For Freudenthal's sorrow is even greater than his wealth.

It is true that you can not read this in his face as he stands, tall and stately, in the doorway of his house. His silver-gray hair falls down below his black velvet skull-cap; the two long curls that hang, one at each side of the face, as is the fashion of the Chassidim, are also silver-gray and thin. But his figure is still strong and upright, and the curiously cut Jewish coat that he wears, resembling a talar in shape, and made of black cloth, is by no means an unbecoming garment. The old man stands almost motionless watching the painter who is busy painting the doors of the spirit-shop a bright arsenic green, with bottles, glasses, and bretzeln,[1] in yellow and white upon the green background. He seldom turns to acknowledge the greeting of a passer-by, for but few people are in the streets to-day. Now and then a group of Ruthenian peasants may be seen reeling out of the town-gate, or a nobleman drives past in his light britzska, or perhaps it is some poor peddler, who has been wandering the whole week long from farm to farm in the district, exchanging money and cloth for the sheepskins, laden with which he is returning to town. His burden is heavy and his gain is but small, yet his pale, worn, and, it may be, cunning face is not without a gleam of joy and pride. A few hours later and the miserable ragged Jewish peddler, on whom farmers and nobles had tried the weight of their whips, and on whom they had made many a scurrilous jest, is transformed into a proud prince awaiting the arrival of his lovely bride—the day of rest, the Sabbath.

He has not long to wait now, the Friday afternoon is drawing to a close, and the sun will soon set. Preparations for the day of rest are being made in every house; the sunlit street is almost totally deserted. Herr Lozinski, the district judge, a tall, thin, yellow-faced man, is coming down the street accompanied by a young stranger. He stands at the door for a few minutes talking to Moses before going up-stairs to his rooms. They discuss the badness of the times, the low price of silver, and the promising April weather; for it is a real spring day, more like May than anything else. The streets are very dry, except for a few puddles in the market-place; the air is deliciously soft and warm, and yonder in the monk's garden the fruit-trees and elder bushes are covered with blossom. The Christian children coming home from school are shouting, "Spring! spring is coming!" "Yes, spring is coming," says the district judge, taking off his hat and leading his guest up-stairs. "Spring is coming," repeats old Moses, passing his hand across his forehead as if awakening from a dream.... "Spring is coming!"

"Old Moses is a very remarkable man," says the district judge to the new registrar. "I scarcely know whether to call him eccentric or not. You won't believe it, but he knows as much law as the best barrister in the land. And besides that, he's the richest man in the country-side. He is said to be worth millions! And yet he slaves week-in, week-out, as though he hadn't the wherewithal to buy his Sabbath dinner."

"A niggardly money-grubber like all the Jews," says the registrar, making the smoke of his cigar curl slowly in the air.

"H'm! By no means. He is generous. I must confess that he is very generous. But his generosity gives him no more pleasure than his wealth. Yet he goes on speculating as before. And for whom, if you please—for whom?"

"Has he no children?" inquires the other.

"Yes. That's to say, he has and he hasn't. Ask him, and he will tell you that he has none. But you don't know his story, do you?... Every one here knows it—but then, you see, you come from Lemberg. I suppose that you never heard any one speak of the old man's daughter, beautiful Esther Freudenthal, when you were there? The whole affair is very romantic; I must tell it you...."

The old man, whose story every one knows, is still leaning against the doorway of his house, watching the flower-laden branches of the fruit-trees in the cloister garden as they sway in the breeze. What is he thinking of? It can not be of his business; for his eyes are wet with unshed tears, and his lips tremble for a moment as though with stifled grief. He shades his eyes with his hand, as if the sunlight were blinding him. Then he draws himself up, and shakes his head, as though trying to rid himself of the sad thoughts that oppress him.

"Make haste, the Sabbath is drawing nigh," he says to the painter as he approaches to examine his work more closely.

The little humpback, who wears a shabby frogged coat of a fashion only known in Poland, has just finished the folding-doors, and now limps away to the window-shutters, paint-pot in hand. These shutters had formerly been colored a bright crimson, and their faded surface still bears the almost illegible inscription in white letters: "For ready money to-day—to-morrow gratis." Their glory has long since departed, and the little man, quickly filling his brush with the vivid green, begins to paint over them, saying as he works, "Do you remember, Pani Moschko, that I painted this too?" and with that he points to the dirty brown-red of the first coloring.

But Moses is thinking of other things, and scarcely heeding him, answers with an indifferent, "Really."

"Of course I did," continues the little man eagerly. "Don't you remember? I painted it fifteen years ago on just such another beautiful day as this is. The house was quite new, and I was a young fellow then. When I had finished my work, you looked at it, and said, 'I am pleased with you, Janko.' You were standing in front of the door, just where you are now, I verily believe, and your little Esterka was beside you. Holy Virgin! how lovely the child was! And how pleasant it was to hear her laugh when she saw the white letters appearing one after the other on the red ground! She asked what they meant, the darling! You gave me three Theresien zwanzigers[2] for my work. I remember it as distinctly as if it were yesterday. I thought then that it was my last job in Barnow; for old Herr von Polanski wanted to send me to the school of design at Cracow. But soon afterward he lost every farthing he possessed, and was even obliged to sell his daughter Jadwiga in order to get food to eat, and so I remained a house-painter. Ah yes! man proposes and.... Deuce take it! The old man's gone, and here I am gossiping away to the empty air. I suppose that the Jew is counting his money as usual...."

But Janko is mistaken. Moses Freudenthal is not counting his treasures at this moment. Indeed he would probably give up all that he possesses without a sigh could he thereby rid his life of what has made him poorer and more wretched than the beggar at his gates. He has taken refuge in the large dusky sitting-room, into which no ray of sunlight, and no sound of the human voice, can penetrate. He can now throw himself into his arm-chair, and sob from the bottom of his heart without any one asking him what is the matter; he can let his head fall upon his breast, tear his hair, or cover his face with his hands.... He does not weep, or pray, nor yet does he curse; he moans out in pain, the words echoing in the quiet room, "How pleasant it was to hear the child's laugh!..." Thus he sits alone in the twilight. At last he gets up and raises his eyes as if in prayer—nay, rather as a man who demands a right. "O God!" he cries, "I do not ask that she may come back to me, for I made my servants drive her from my door; I do not ask that she may be happy, for she has sinned grievously in the sight of God and man; I do not ask that she may be unhappy, for she is my own flesh and blood; I only ask that she may die, so that I may not have to curse my only child. Let her die, O God, let her die, or let me!..."

Meanwhile the district judge is concluding his story in the room above. "No one knows what has become of the pretty little girl. She is forgotten; her father even doesn't seem to remember her existence. They're a heartless race these Jews; they're all alike...."

It has grown dusk in the town, but there is no gloom in the hearts of its Jewish inhabitants. The dismal irregularly built houses of the Ghetto are now enlivened by thousands of candles, and thousands of happy faces. The Sabbath has begun in the hearts of these people and in their rooms, a common and usual occurrence, and yet a mysterious and blessed influence that drives away all that is poor and mean in everyday life. To-day, every hovel is lighted up, and every heart made glad with sufficiency of food. The teacher of the law has forgotten his hunger, the water-carrier his hard work, the peddler the blows and derision that continually fall to his lot, and the rich usurer his gain. To-day all are equal; all are the happy trustful sons of the same Almighty Father. The feeble light of the tallow-candle in its rude candlestick, and the soft light of the wax-candle in the silver candelabra, illumine the same picture. The daughters of the house and the little boys sit silently watching their mother, as she, in obedience to the beautiful old custom handed down from generation to generation, blesses the candles. The father then takes the large prayer-book down from the book-shelf and gives it to his eldest son to carry to the synagogue for him. After that they all go out into the street, the men and women keeping apart, as the strict law commands. Their words are few, and those they utter are grave and quiet. To-day neither grief nor joy finds vent in speech, for all hearts are full of the divine peace of the Sabbath....

The large white house opposite the Dominican monastery is also illuminated. But the candles were lighted by a stranger, for there is no mistress there to speak the customary blessing. The finest linen covers the tables in the best parlor, which is handsomely furnished, but no child's merry laugh, and no loving word is heard there. The melancholy sound of the sputtering candles alone disturbs the stillness.

But the old man who now enters the room in his Sabbath suit has been accustomed to this state of things for years—for five long years. At first he used involuntarily to turn and listen for the sound of the voice he loved so well; for it was on an evening such as this that his child had left him. But this evening he crosses the room quickly, and taking the heavy leather-bound prayer-book from the shelf, leaves the room at once. Does he fear that to-day of all days the ghosts of the past will come forth to meet him from every corner of the well-lighted room?

If that be the case, it is foolish to fly from them, Moses Freudenthal! See, they dog your footsteps wherever you go through the narrow gloomy little streets. They whisper in your ear, even though you strive to drown their voices by entering into conversation with the passers-by. They appear before your very eyes in spite of your fixing them upon the votive tablets fastened to the pillars in the house of God! And when you pass through the congregation and take your seat in your accustomed place, they flutter around your head, look at you out of the very letters of your prayer-book, and speak to you in the voice of the officiating minister!...

"Praise ye the Lord. Break out into joy, gladness, and song. For He judgeth the world with righteousness and the people with His truth."

"And the solitary," cries a secret voice in the heart of the unhappy man, "shall He break in pieces!" His eyes are fixed upon his book, his lips whisper the words of prayer; but he does not pray, he can not! The whole of his past life rises ghost-like before his mental vision, and in such vivid detail as to cause him intense agony....

"He who can no longer pray," his old father had often told him, and now the words involuntarily recur to him,—"He who can no longer pray shall be cast out from before the face of the Eternal." He distinctly remembers the day on which he had first heard those words. He was then a boy of thirteen, and had been allowed to put on the phylacteries for the first time, the sign that he had reached man's estate. The life that opened out before him on that day was not easy and pleasant like that of the fortunate of the earth, but hard and narrow as that endured by his race. In common with every one around him, he had early learned to dedicate his life to two objects, and these were—prayer and money-making. When he was seventeen years of age his father had called him into his room, and had then told him, in a calm matter-of-fact tone, that he was to marry Chaim Grünstein's daughter Rosele in three months' time. He did not know the girl. He had seen her, it is true, but he had never really looked at her. His father had, however, chosen her to be his wife, and he was satisfied that it was well. Three months later he married Rosele....

Hark! the Chazzân is beginning the ancient Sabbath hymn, whose words, expressive of joy and longing, go straight to the heart—"Lecho daudi likras kalle." And immediately the choir takes up the strain triumphantly, "Lecho daudi likras kalle"—"Come, O friend, let us go forth to meet the Bride, let us receive the Sabbath with joy!"

Strange emotion to stir the spirit of a people to its very depths! Strange that all the passion and sensuousness of which its heart and mind are capable are expended on the adoration of the Divinity, and on that alone. The same race whose genius gave birth to the Song of Songs—the eternal hymn of love,—and to whom the world owes the story of Ruth, the most beautiful idyl of womanhood ever known—has now, after a thousand years of the night of oppression and wandering, learned to look upon marriage as a mere matter of business, by which to secure some pecuniary advantage, and as a means of preventing the chosen of the Lord from dying off the face of the earth. These men know not what they do—they have no suspicion of the sin of which they are guilty in thus acting.

Nor did Moses Freudenthal know it. He honored his wife as long as she lived, and found in her a faithful helpmeet in joy and sorrow. A blessing seemed to rest upon everything he did, for whatever he undertook prospered. He studied the language of the Christians around him with an eager determination to learn, and then began the arduous task of learning German law: the man of thirty studied as hard as if he had been a schoolboy. He was not actuated by the desire of gain alone, but also by a love of honor and knowledge. And this knowledge bore fruit; he became rich—very rich. The nobles and officers of the neighborhood came to his house and bowed themselves down before the majesty of his wealth; but before he had done with them, they were forced to hold him in as much respect as his gold. In those days every one envied him, and people used to whisper as he passed—"That is the happiest man in the whole district."

But was he really happy? If he were so, why did he often look gloomy, and why did Rosele weep as if her heart would break, when she was sure that no one could see her? A dark shadow rested on the married life of this couple, who, in their daily intercourse, had gradually learned to esteem each other. Their marriage was childless. As they had been brought together by strangers, and were not even yet united in heart and soul, they could not live down their sorrow, or find comfort in each other's love. The proud man bore his grief in silence, and, unmoved, watched his wife fading away before his very eyes. When his friends spoke of a divorce, he shook his head, but no word of love for the unhappy woman to whom he was bound ever crossed his lips. Years passed away; but at last one evening—it was in winter—when he entered the sitting-room, and wished his wife "good evening" as usual, instead of answering softly, and glancing at him shyly and sadly, she hastened to meet him, and clung to him as though she felt for the first time that she had a right to his love. He gazed at her blushing excited face, his surprise giving way to joyful anticipation; then taking her hand, he drew her down to the seat beside him, and made her lay her head upon his breast. Their lips trembled, but neither of them could find words to express their joy—none seemed adequate!...

"Praise ye the Lord!" These words of the minister roused Moses from his dream of the past, and he hears the congregation reply, "Praised be the Lord our God, who createth the day and createth the night, who separateth the light from the darkness, and the darkness from the light: praised be the Lord, the Almighty, the Eternal, the God of battles!..."

"Praised be God!..." With what mixed feelings had Moses Freudenthal joined in this cry of thanksgiving on that Sabbath evening twenty-two years ago when he first entered the house of God a father! His heart bled and rejoiced at the same moment; he wept with mingled joy and sorrow, for a little daughter had indeed been born to him: but his wife's strength had been unable to withstand her sufferings, and she had died. She had borne her terrible agony with unmurmuring resignation; and even when dying a happy smile passed over her pale face whenever she heard the voice of her child. In those sad hours before the end the hearts of the husband and wife, that had remained strangers to each other during the long years of their married life, at length found each other out. He alone understood why his wife said, "Now I can die in peace;" she alone understood why he bent over her hand again and again, sobbing, "Forgive me, Rosele; forgive me!" "The child," she said; "take care of the child!" then she shivered and died. Next morning they carried her out to the "good place." And he rent his garments, took the shoes from off his feet, and sat on the floor of the chamber of death for seven days and seven nights, thus fulfilling the days of mourning after the manner of the children of Israel. He did not weep, but fixed his sad tearless eyes on the flame of the funeral light which has to burn for a whole week in order that the homeless spirit may have a resting-place on earth until God shows it where it is henceforth to dwell.

"He is talking to the dead," whispered his relations in awe-struck tones, when they saw his lips move, as he murmured, "All might have been well now, and you are dead!"

His sorrow found relief in tears when they brought him the child, and asked what it should be called. "Esther," he answered—"Esther, like my mother." He held his little daughter long in his arms, and his tears fell on her face. Then he gave the child back to her nurse, and from that moment became calm and composed.

When the days of mourning were over he returned to his business, and worked harder than ever before. A new spirit seemed to possess him, and every day he embarked in new and daring undertakings. He ventured to do what no one else would attempt, and fortune remained true to him. He now carried out the wish he had long nourished—bought the piece of land opposite the Dominican monastery, and began to build a large house there. He passed his days in unceasing labor; but in the evening he would sit for hours at a time by his child's cradle, gazing at the soft baby face. And in the first months after his bereavement, the nurse was often startled by seeing him come noiselessly into the nursery in the middle of the night, and watch and listen long to see if all were well with the child.

The days grew into months, the months into years, and little Esterka became ever more remarkable for beauty and cleverness as time went on. She was very like her father, for she had the same black curly hair, high forehead, and determined mouth; but in strange and touching contrast with the other features of the defiant little face, were the gentle blue eyes she had inherited from her mother. The father often looked at those eyes, and whenever he did so, he took his little girl in his arms, pressed her to his heart, and called her by a thousand pet names; but except at such times, the grave reserved man showed the child few tokens of the almost insane love he bore her.

When Esther was five years old they left the small house they had formerly inhabited in the Ghetto, and went to live in the large white house opposite the monastery. And after that Moses began to take measures for the education of his daughter, who was to be brought up according to old established usage. Esther learned to cook, to pray, and to count—that was enough for the house, for heaven, and for life. And what could her father have taught her in addition to this? Polish and German, perhaps? She could speak both languages, and he, like every other Jew in Barnow, regarded reading and writing as needless luxuries for a girl. He had learned both in order that he might write his business letters, and understand the book of civil law; his daughter did not need to do either. Besides that, would greater knowledge make her a better or happier woman? "When a Jewish girl knows how to pray"—has come to be a proverb among these stern-natured men—"she needs nothing more to make her good and happy!" And yet little Esther was to learn to read German, and much more besides!...

"It was in an hour of weakness," murmurs the old man, as he rises with the rest of the congregation to take part in the long prayer, during which all must stand—"of weakness and folly that I gave way. Woe unto me for consenting, and cursed be he who led me astray!"

How can you say so, Moses Freudenthal! However much your misfortunes may have enlightened you, and taught you to know your own heart, you can not even yet see that it was a sin you were committing in shutting out the light of the world from your child, and that you did right when you consented to permit another to reveal it to her. Oh, how you sin, old man, when, hardening your heart in egotism and ignorance, you say, "That was the cause of her misfortunes and of mine also! From that time forward her mind was poisoned, and turned away from me and my God! Cursed, cursed be that hour!"

... But all this happened on a warm bright summer evening thirteen years ago.... The moonlight lay on the houses and streets, and the very dust on the road seemed to glitter like silver. Moses Freudenthal was sitting on the stone seat at his door lost in thought. He felt strangely soft hearted that evening; for whether he would or not, he could not help living over again in memory the occurrences of his former life, and thinking of his dead wife Rosele. His daughter, who was now nine years old, was sitting beside him, gazing wide-eyed into the moonlit night. Suddenly a man came up the street and stood looking at them. Moses did not at once recognize him, but little Esther sprang to her feet with a cry of joy—"Uncle Schlome! How glad I am that you have come to see us, Uncle Schlome!"

Moses now recognized the stranger, and rose in astonishment. What did Schlome Grünstein want with him, and how had his daughter become acquainted with the "Meschumed?" He was Rosele's brother, and had been his playfellow in his boyhood, but Moses had not spoken to him for twenty years; for a pious Jew could hold no communication with a Meschumed, an apostate from the faith—and Schlome was an apostate in the eyes of the Ghetto. And yet the pale, delicate-looking man, with the gentle dreamy expression, had always remained a Jew, and had lived quietly and peacefully among his neighbors, spending his wealth in works of charity and mercy. But the name and the shame had cleaved to him from his youth upward.

His had been a strange boyhood. As he had been a shy, thoughtful child, living only in his books, and showing no talent except in literary things, his father determined to make him a Rabbi. Schlome was pleased with this decision, and studied so hard to fit himself for his future calling that he not only injured his health, but soon got beyond his teacher. The delicate boy was consumed by an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. And this thirst became the cause of his destruction, the curse of his life. By means of money and passionate entreaties combined, he induced the Christian schoolmaster of the place to teach him at night and in secret. Thus he learned High German, the forbidden and much-hated language of the Gentiles around him, and also "Christian theology." Of the latter branch of learning the schoolmaster himself knew very little; so he helped out his ignorance by lending his unwearied pupil many books belonging to the Dominican library, and this he did before Schlome had got over all the difficulties of learning to read. In this way the boy read all manner of strange books, one on the top of the other, and often enough, no doubt, put sufficiently curious interpretations upon them. At last one day a book fell into his hands, which nearly drove him mad. The form and tone were well known to him, for did they not enforce obedience to the holy Thora (Law)? But the spirit that breathed in its pages was another and—the youth's very blood seemed to freeze in his veins—a milder and better than what he had known. For this book was the New Testament. Its teaching seemed to him like the mild beauty of a spring day, and yet his hair stood on end with horror. This, then, was the idol-worship of the Christians,—this was the history of the life and labors of that Man whom his father crucified, and from whose likeness he had been taught to turn away his head in hatred and contempt! The blow was too severe. Schlome became very ill, and lay for many weeks dangerously sick of a fever. Often and often in his delirium the unconscious youth wept and talked of the pale Nazarene, of the cross, and of that ill-starred book. His parents and neighbors listened to his ravings in horror; they searched into their cause, and at length discovered Schlome's secret studies. Soon afterward a strange rumor was circulated in the Ghetto, to the effect that Schlome Grünstein had wished to become a Christian, and that as a punishment for this sin God had visited him with madness. In course of time the youth recovered, and went about among his brethren in the faith as usual; but henceforth he seemed paler, shyer, and more depressed than before. No one knew what inward conflicts he had to wage; but every child in the Jewish quarter called him a Meschumed, and told how he had sworn a holy oath to his father that he would only remain a Jew on two conditions—first, that he might buy and read whatever books he chose; and second, that he might remain unmarried. He kept his oath, even when the death of his parents made him rich and independent. Thus he passed his life in the narrow, gloomy Ghetto. He had only one friend, David Blum, a man who devoted his life to tending the sick, and whose own story was both strange and sad. But then he did not make him his friend till late in life, and lost him soon afterward; for David Blum died, whether of low fever or of a broken heart it were difficult to say. The Meschumed mourned his loss deeply. It seemed to him as though a bit of his own heart had been buried with his friend. And yet these men differed from each other as much in character as in the circumstances that had moulded their lives. David was strong and high-hearted, but quick-tempered and fantastic, so that he broke down once for all when fate aimed a heavy blow at him; Schlome, on the contrary, was weak and gentle, and endowed with a great power of endurance which enabled him to bend under the blows of fate instead of being broken by them. Thus he lived on in the midst of men and yet terribly alone—the poor even hesitated to accept charity at his hands. Still he loved all men, but especially children; and these alone returned his affection, although they could seldom show it from fear of their parents. He almost idolized little Esther, the only child of his dead sister; and she loved him better than her grave, reserved father.

Such was the man who came up to the bench on which Moses Freudenthal and his daughter were seated on that lovely summer evening.

"I want to speak to you, brother," he said, as Moses rose and looked at him with a coldly questioning gaze. He then requested the child to go to bed, and after she had left them, continued: "I want to speak to you about many important things. Sit down beside me.... You needn't be afraid! There isn't a creature to be seen in the street...."

Moses sat down hesitatingly.

"It is about the child," resumed the Meschumed. "I have been thinking long and earnestly about her, and when I chanced to see you this evening as I was passing, I determined to say what I had to say at once. You see, brother, the child is growing a big girl. She will be beautiful one day; but what is more to the purpose at present, is, that her goodness and intelligence are surprising in one so young. You have scarcely any idea of the sort of questions she asks, and of the kind of thoughts that little head contains—you'd hardly believe it, brother."

"And how do you know?" interrupted Moses, in a harsh stern voice. "Did I ever give you leave?..."

"Don't let us discuss that point, if you please," replied Schlome, raising his hand in deprecation, "don't let us discuss that point. I could answer you boldly that Esther is my sister's child, and that I have a right to love and care for her. But I will not answer you thus; we have been kept apart long enough by angry words. And even if you tell me that I am a stranger in your house, and by my own fault, too, I will answer you nothing. Love is not alone induced by ties of blood, and the world is not so rich in love that one can afford to cast any aside. But—it isn't that you mean. You fear danger for your child; you fear that I should try to undermine her faith. You feel less confidence in me than in the lowest servant in your house."

He ceased, but Moses made no reply. And yet the hard man's heart was really touched when he once more heard the voice that had been so dear to him in his boyhood. But he shook off his emotion, and when Schlome repeated his question, answered with cold severity, "My servants are all pious, and are stanch believers in the faith of their fathers." This he said with his eyes fixed on the ground. Had he looked up he would have seen his brother-in-law's lips tremble with bitter grief and disappointment. And yet his answer was gentle.

"Listen, Moses," he said; "it is written, and it is a true saying, 'By their fruits ye shall know them.' Every incident of my life is known to you, and to all our neighbors. I have always been terribly alone in the world, forsaken of all men, but still I have striven with all my heart and soul to unite my life to that of others. I have striven to make it as useful as it was possible for it to be after the blight that had fallen upon it. You are the first person to whom I have ever said this, and you will be the last who will ever hear from me that I know I have acted toward my fellow-men with as much beneficence—as it is called—as I could; and yet, what is such beneficence in reality but the duty every man owes to his kind? I have not, therefore, lived either a happy or a good life; but judge, Moses, I entreat of you, whether it shows either folly or sin?"

Moses passed his hand slowly across his forehead and eyes, as though to give himself time for thought.

Then he answered more mildly:

"No man can judge a whole life with a righteous judgement; God, who knows all, can alone do so. I am willing to believe it is as you say, and it is well for you that you can thus justify your life. For you can thus wait quietly for the hour when God Himself will judge you. But"—he interrupted himself, and then continued, almost shyly—"do you believe in God?"

"Yes," replied Schlome, raising his head; "yes, I believe in Him. I sought Him in my boyhood, when I imagined that he was a God of wrath and vengeance, the light and refuge of one people alone; I sought Him in my youth, when I imagined that He was a God of love and mercy, who yet was only gracious to those who worshiped Him with certain forms and ceremonies. Later on, I really found Him and knew Him as He is. He is neither a God of wrath nor of mercy, but a God of justice and necessity; He is, and all are in Him, even those who deny Him...."

He had risen in his excitement, and as he stood in the moonlight before Moses, the latter felt strangely moved; it seemed to him almost as if Schlome's face shone. He did not know how it happened, but he could not help looking at the image of Christ opposite to him in the monastery garden, which stood out sharp and distinct in the clear pale light against the dark sky. "And He over there?" he asked, almost fearing the words he had uttered.

"He," answered the Meschumed, his voice sounding strangely soft and gentle, "He was a great and noble man, perhaps the best man that ever lived. But He is dead, and His spirit has died out—died out even in those who call Him their Redeemer! The fools! Through himself alone can man be redeemed—through himself and in himself...."

He ceased, and Moses was silent also.

The two men sat side by side for some time without speaking, each busied with his own thoughts.

At length Moses asked: "And what do you want with the child?"

"I want to be her teacher," replied Schlome, "for I have learned to love her dearly in the few interviews I dared to have with her. And believe me—she is no common child! Oh, had she only been a boy! I have often thought; and then, again, I have been thankful she was a girl—you can guess why, perhaps. She has a real hunger for knowledge, and a strange longing for the light of truth...."

Here the other interrupted him impatiently. "You are dreaming, Schlome!... Esther is scarcely nine years old, and I, her own father, have noticed nothing of the kind in her."

"Because you wouldn't see it," was the answer; "because you wouldn't see it, or, forgive me, couldn't see it. You look upon it as dreaming or folly, or else think it childish. But I know what it is for a young heart to have to bear that longing alone. Believe me, it would be a sin to let it die out for want of food. I therefore beg of you to allow me to be Esther's teacher!"

There was another long silence between the men.

At length Moses answered: "I can not, brother, and I dare not if I would. It isn't because of you that I say this—I believe that you are good, and that you would only teach the child what is good. But it would not be suitable for my daughter. I wish her to remain a simple Jewish girl; I wish it, and it must be so. Why should she learn what may make her sad, and discontented with her lot? My daughter is to grow up a pious, simple-minded woman; it is best for her that it should be so, and that is my reason for refusing your request. I have already arranged that she should marry a rich and honorable man."

"Yes," said the Meschumed, and, for the first time during this conversation, his voice sounded bitter and hard—"yes; you are rich and have the right to do as you will: you have therefore arranged that you should have a rich son-in-law. The girl is now nine years old; in six or seven years' time you will give her to the wealthiest and most pious youth in the district, or perhaps to a widower who is even richer and more pious. She will not know him, but what of that? she will have plenty of time to make his acquaintance after marriage! Then she will probably fear him, or hate him, or else he will be indifferent to her. But what of that? What does a Jewish woman want with love? What more does she need but to love God, and her children, and—let me not forget to mention it—her little possessions?..."

"I don't understand you," said Moses, hesitating and astonished.

"You do not understand me!" cried the other, springing up excitedly. "Can you say that—you? O Moses, think of my sister...."

Moses Freudenthal started like a wild creature shot to the heart. He wanted to answer angrily, to order Schlome to leave him at once and for ever; but he could not do it. His eyes involuntarily sank before those of the despised Meschumed: after a long and hard struggle with himself he felt constrained to answer low and sadly, "It was not my fault."

"No," replied the other, gently; "no, it was not your fault; it was that of your father and mine. But remember that you, and you only, will be responsible for what you do with your child."

He paused a while, and then finding that Moses was too deeply moved to be able to answer, went on: "Do not harden your heart, lest you be tempted to evil. Remember what is written, 'Give to the thirsty to drink.' Brother, will you allow me to show your child the light and life for which her whole nature thirsts?"

Moses was unable to answer, but next day a strange rumor was afloat in the Ghetto, to the effect that Moses Freudenthal had become reconciled to Schlome, the Meschumed, and had permitted him to teach his only child!...

It is of that hour that the lonely old man in the synagogue is thinking, and it is that hour which he curses from the bottom of his soul. The remembrance of it follows him as he rises with the rest of the congregation and goes out into the spring night. The narrow streets are full of life; the houses are lighted up; the children and young girls are standing in the doorway of their homes waiting for the return of their parents. The unhappy man tortures himself as he walks with the thought of how different everything would be if he were now going home with his son-in-law and his daughter, to be greeted by his grandchildren at the gate. Every child's laugh, every word of welcome that he hears, cuts him to the heart. Ah, well! Perhaps he is not so very much to blame when he mutters below his breath, "If God is just, he will punish him who gained the heart of my child only to lead her astray, and him also who opened her ears to the words of the tempter!..."

At this moment he feels a hand laid upon his shoulder, and, turning round to see who it is, starts back as though he saw a ghost. His breath comes thick and fast, his eyes flash, and he clinches his fist. The man he has just cursed stands before him—a sickly, broken old man—Schlome, the Meschumed.

"I must speak to you," he says to Moses. "I have a letter...."

"Silence, wretch!" cries the other, half mad with rage and misery. "Silence .... I will not listen.... May you words choke...."

A crowd collects round the two men.

The Meschumed advances a few steps nearer his brother-in-law, and repeats: "I must speak to you. Curse me if you like, but listen to me. She is...."

Before he can utter another word, Moses has turned and rushed away. He flies like a hunted creature through the narrow streets, across the market-place, and up to his own house. There he sinks half fainting on the stone seat by the door. He sits still, waiting till his breathing becomes more regular, and his pulses beat less quickly. Then all at once he thinks he hears some one mention his name. The first-floor windows are lighted up and widely opened; loud laughter can be heard within the room. Frau Kasimira Lozinska is having an "at home" this evening. Now he hears it again quite distinctly: his name, and then a burst of laughter. He pays no attention to it, but goes into his parlor and sits down, silently pushing away the food and drink the old housekeeper sets before him. "She is dead!"—these words seem to ring in his ears and heart—"of course—she is dead!"

Thus he sits alone in the brilliantly lighted room in a tumult of wild thoughts, of passionate internal conflict. All around him is hushed; the melancholy sputtering of the numerous candles is the only sound to be heard.

The wife of the district judge has an "at home" to-night.

The gentlemen are in the ante-room playing at whist and tarok, and perhaps a little innocent game of hazard. The ladies in the drawing-room are seated round a large tea-table, drinking tea out of enormous cups, eating sweet cakes of all kinds, and talking a great deal. The only person at all out of humor is the fat wife of the fat estate agent. She is accustomed to be the principal lady in Barnow, but is dethroned for to-day by the wife of a beggarly Government official—i. e., the new registrar. For Frau Emilie comes from Lemberg, the capital of the province, and has brought with her not only the latest fashions in dress, but also a number of piquant stories. In return for these, she is of course told all the scandals of Barnow that relate to any lady who happens not to be present at the time. But that amusement soon comes to an end, as almost every one of any standing is at Frau Kasimira's this evening. Then, as luck will have it, Frau Emilie asks to be told the curious story her husband has heard about from the district judge that day.

"I can tell you that story better than any one else," answers her hostess, eagerly. "We have lived in this house for the last twelve years, and I know everything that happened. It is very interesting, for a handsome hussar is the hero of the tale. I'm sure that you can not have heard anything like it in Lemberg."

She then goes on to relate as follows:

"Well, as you know already, the story is about Esterka, the daughter of the Jew to whom this house belongs. She was ten years old when we came here, and tall of her age, with black hair and large blue eyes. She was scarcely ever to be seen, and never to be heard: she used to sit over her books all day long, and often far into the night. My daughter Malvina, who was about the same age, used to ask her to come and play with her; but the proud little Jewish girl wouldn't accept any of her invitations, she was so taken up with her reading. It was very foolish of her, and her uncle Grünstein was at the bottom of it all. Old Grünstein is a very queer sort of man—most disagreeable to have anything to do with, I should say: he's neither Jew nor Christian—quite an infidel, in fact; indeed, some people go so far as to say that he can raise the dead when he likes. Yes, I mean what I say! He can raise the very dead from their graves! And he was Esterka's teacher. He must have given her a nice sort of education, for at the end of three years she was every bit as foolish and godless as himself. To give you an example of this, let me tell you what happened one very hot August afternoon when she was with us. You must know that she embroidered beautifully, so we had asked her to come and help Malvina to finish a bit of work. As we sat at our sewing the clouds began to come up thick and fast, and soon afterward there was a terrible storm; it thundered, lightened, and hailed with the greatest possible fury. My daughter, who, thank God, had received the education of a good Catholic, began to pray aloud; but the Jewess remained calm and cool. 'Esther,' I said, 'aren't you afraid of the judgement of God?'—'A thunder-storm isn't a judgement of God,' answered the conceited little thing.—'Well, then, what do you call the lightning?' I asked.—'A discharge of atmospheric electricity,' was her reply.—'Aren't you afraid of the lightning, then?'—'Oh, yes,' she answered, 'because we haven't a lightning-conductor on the house!'—I couldn't possibly allow such godless sentiments to pass unreproved, as Malvina was there, so I said very sternly: 'You're a little infidel, child; remember this, the good God guides every flash of lightning!'—'How can that be?' answered Miss Impudence. 'The poor peddler, Berisch Katz, was killed by lightning last year, when he was crossing the open fields, although he was a very good man; and now that he is dead, his children haven't enough to eat.'—I said nothing more at the time, but next day, when I happened to see old Moses, I told him the whole story. 'The child is having a nice sort of education,' I said in conclusion, 'and if this kind of thing goes on, who knows what the end of it will be?'—'It shall not go on,' he replied; 'I had made up my mind to put a stop to it before, and what you tell me determines me to do so at once.'—He was as good as his word, and took away all of Esther's books. Then he put her in the shop, and made her weigh the sugar and sell the groceries. As for Schlome, he turned him out of the house.

"All this took place nine years ago last summer. One Sabbath afternoon in the following autumn Esther came to my daughter and entreated her with tears to lend her a German book, or else she would die. She said that her father had taken away every one of her books, and looked after her so strictly that she couldn't herself get any to take their place. He did not, however, go so far as to prevent her visiting us. Our acquaintance was an honor to the girl, and besides that, he knew that I was a woman of principle. Well, as I said before, Esther wept and entreated in such a heart-rending manner that I was touched. So I lent her some German books that I happened to have in the house: Heine's 'Reisebilder,' Klopstock's 'Messiade,' 'Kaiser Joseph,' by Louise Mühlbach, the new 'Pitaval,' Eichendorf's poems, and the novels of Paul de Kock. She read them all, devouring them much as a hungry wolf does a lamb. She read them in the shop whenever her father's back was turned, and at night when she went to her room. The only book she didn't like was the first novel of Paul de Kock; she brought it back to me, and asked me to find her something else. But I hadn't time to do so then, so I said: 'Read it, child, read it; you'll like it when once you've fairly begun.' I was right; she liked it so much that she never offered to give back the second novel, and after the third, she wanted to finish all by that author before reading anything else. I was able to gratify her, as we have the whole of his works. She devoured the hundred and eighty volumes in the course of one winter. For, I can assure you, these Jewish girls have no moral feeling...!"

The ladies all agree in regarding this statement as true. The estate-agent's wife is the only one who does not join in the chorus. For though she is very fat and rather stupid, she has a good heart.

"It wasn't right," she says very distinctly and very gravely. "You have a great deal to answer for."

The Frau Kasimira looks at her in silent astonishment. If she were not a very courteous woman, a woman of the world, and, above all, if it were not her own house, she would smile sarcastically and shrug her shoulders. As it is, she contents herself with saying apologetically, "Mon Dieu! she was only a Jewess!"

"Only a Jewess!" repeats the chorus of ladies aloud, and also in a whisper. Many of them laugh as they say ... "only a Jewess!"

"Only a Jewess!" is echoed in a grave deep voice. The games in the ante-room, are finished, and the gentlemen have rejoined the ladies unnoticed. "You have made a great mistake, madam."

It is the doctor of Barnow who speaks, a tall stately man. He is a Jew by birth. He is hated because of his religion, and feared because of his power of sarcasm. His position obliges these people to receive him into their society, and he accepts their invitations because theirs is the only society to be had in the dull little country town.

"You have made a mistake," he repeats, addressing the estate-agent's wife. "You have never been able to throw off the prejudices of your German home, where people look upon a Jew as a human being. It is very foolish of you not to have learned to look upon the subject from the Podolian point of the view!"

"Laugh as much as you like," says his hostess quickly. "I still maintain that an uneducated Jewess has very little moral feeling!"

"Yes," is the dry answer, "especially when she has been put through a course of Paul de Kock—has been given the whole of his works without exception. But, pray, don't let me interrupt you; go on with your story."

Frau Kasimira continues:

"Very well; where did I leave off? Oh, I remember now. She had finished Kock by the spring. I had no more German books to lend her; so she begged me to subscribe to the Tarnapol lending library for her, and I at length consented to do so. I didn't like it at all, but she entreated me to do it so piteously, that I must have had a heart of stone to refuse. She read every one of the books in the library, beginning with About and ending with Zschokke. Her father had no suspicion of the truth, and he never knew it. She used only to read in the night when she went to her bedroom. The exertion did not hurt her eyes at all. She had most beautiful eyes, large and blue—blue as the sky. As to her figure, it was queenly, slender, upright, and rounded. In short, she was lovely—very lovely. But at the same time she was a silly romantic girl, who thought that real life was like the novels she used to devour. When she was sixteen her father told her that he wished her to marry a son of Moschko Fränkel from Chorostko, a handsome Jewish lad of about her own age. She said she would rather die than marry him. But old Freudenthal isn't a man to jest with. The betrothal took place, and beautiful Esther sat at the feast pale and trembling as though she were about to die. I had gone down-stairs to see the ceremony from curiosity. My heart is not a very soft one, but when I saw Esther looking so miserable, I really felt for the girl. 'Why are you forcing your daughter to marry against her will?' I asked the old man. He answered me abruptly, almost rudely, I thought: 'Pardon me; you don't understand; our ways are different from your ways. We don't look upon the chicken as wiser than the hen. And, thank God, we know nothing of love and of all that kind of nonsense. We consider that two things are alone requisite when arranging a marriage, and these are health and wealth. The bride and bridegroom in this case possess both. I've given in to Esther so far as to consent that the marriage should be put off for a year. That will give her time to learn to do her duty. Many changes take place in a year.'

"The old man was right. Many changes take place in a year. The greatest possible change had taken place in beautiful Esterka, but it was not the change that her father had expected or wished to see. Look here, the doctor there looks upon me as hating all Jews, but I am perfectly just to them, and I tell you that the girl, although inwardly depraved, had hitherto conducted herself in the most praiseworthy manner. And yet her temptations must have been very great. She was known throughout the whole district, and every one called her the 'beautiful Jewess.' The inn and bar down-stairs had more visitors than Moses cared for. When the young nobles of the district came to Barnow on magisterial business, they spread out the work they had to do over three days, instead of contenting themselves with one as before; the unmarried lawyers and custom-house officials spent their whole time at the bar; and as for the hussar officers, they took up their quarters there altogether. These men, one and all, paid their court to Esther, but she never wasted a thought upon one of them. Her father kept her as much as possible out of the way of his customers. When she met them, she returned their greeting courteously, but was as if deaf to their compliments and flattery. And if any one was rude to her, she was quite able to defend herself. Young Baron Starsky found that out to his cost—you know him, don't you? A tall fair man, and the hero of that queer story about Gräfin Jadwiga Bortynska. Well, he once met Esther as he was leaving the bar-parlor rather the worse for wine. He will never forget that meeting, because of the tremendous box on the ear that she gave him.

"There was a change in her after her engagement. Not that she was on more friendly terms with these men than before, but that she no longer rebuffed one of their number. This favored individual was a captain in the Würtemberg Hussars, Graf Géza Szapany by name. He was like a hero of romance: tall, slight, and interesting-looking, with dark hair, black eyes, and a lovely little mustache. This is no flattering portrait, I can assure you; our friend Hortensia will bear witness that I do not exaggerate, she used to know him too...."

Frau Hortensia, a handsome blonde, and wife of the assistant judge of the district, blushes scarlet, and casts an angry look at her "friend" and hostess, but forces herself to answer indifferently, "Ah yes, to be sure, I remember him.... He was a good-looking man."

"Good-looking," repeats Frau Kasimira. "He was more than that. He was very handsome; and so interesting! His manners were perfect. He thoroughly understood the art of making himself agreeable to women; but that was natural enough, for he had had plenty of experience. Beautiful Esterka was soon caught in his toils. He approached her almost shyly, and spoke to her with the utmost respect; and more than all, he paid her no compliments. That helped on his cause wonderfully. And then you mustn't forget what I told you before, that she was depraved at heart, and foolishly romantic. The affair ran the usual course. At first a few meetings, then many; at first but a few words were exchanged, afterward many; at first one kiss, then many more.... It was very amusing!"

Every one present seems to regard it in the same light as Frau Kasimira. The ladies giggle and the gentleman laugh. One lady alone remains grave—and she is the fat, kind-hearted German woman sitting in the corner of the sofa.

"You don't seem to be amused by the story," observes the doctor, who is sitting beside her.

"No," she answers. "It is a very sad story. The poor girl was a victim."

"Yes," says the doctor, his voice sounding deep and low with suppressed feeling, "she was a victim. But she was not a victim of the handsome hussar, nor even of our kind hostess here. The cause of her ruin lies deeper, much deeper than that. As the twilight is more eerie than complete darkness, so a half education is more dangerous than absolute ignorance. Darkness and ignorance alike lay a bandage over the eyes and prevent the feet from straying beyond the threshold of the known; knowledge and light open the eyes of man and enable him to advance boldly on the path that lies before him; while half knowledge and twilight only remove part of the bandage and leave him to grope about blindly, perhaps even cause him to fall! Poor child! she was snatched away from the pure stream, and her thirst was so great that she strove to slake it in any puddles she passed on the way. Poor child! She...."

Here a yawn interrupts the speaker. The fat woman is thoroughly good and kind, but she is by no means intellectual, and hates having to listen to what she does not understand.

Meanwhile Frau Kasimira continues as follows:

"So Graf Géza soon succeeded in gaining complete influence over her. And when he left this to be stationed at Marburg, she followed him there. One Friday evening—just like to-day—when Moses came home, he found the nest empty. There was a great uproar down-stairs. They called her, sought her everywhere with tears—no words can describe the scene. My husband went down-stairs—Moses raged like a madman. It all happened five years ago, but I shall never forget that night....

"The next few days were very uncomfortable and queer. They all went on as if Esther were dead. The shop and bar were both closed; the pictures were hung with black; the mirrors were turned with their faces to the wall. A small lamp was burnt in a corner of her room for seven days and seven nights, and during the whole of that time Moses sat on the floor of the room barefoot and with his clothes torn. I don't know whether it is true, but I heard that the Jews took an empty coffin to the cemetery on the Sunday following, and then filled in an empty grave. I have been told that they even went so far as to put up a gravestone to Esther! On the eighth day Moses rose up and went quietly about his business again. These Jews are such strange creatures! Only fancy! he came to us that very day to ask for his rent. I scarcely recognized him—his hair had turned quite gray in the course of a week. His manner was quiet and composed, and he seems to have forgotten all about his daughter now. But as everybody knows, the Jews are fonder of their money than of their children!"

"Has no one heard anything more about Esther?" asks the fat woman.

"Yes—once. But what we heard wasn't much to be relied on. Little Lieutenant Szilagy—you remember what fibs he used to tell—went to spend his leave in Hungary on one occasion, and when he came back, he declared that he had seen Graf Géza and Esther in a box in the National Theatre at Pesth. But the little man tells so many lies that one never knows how much to believe. It may quite well have been some other pretty girl."

"Do you know," says Frau Emilie, the highly educated lady from Lemberg, "do you know what this story reminds me of? Of a very amusing play I once saw acted in Lemberg. It was translated from the English of a certain ... oh dear! these English names...."

"Perhaps you mean Shakespeare?" inquires the doctor, coming to the rescue.

"Shakespeare," repeats the district judge; "he's a rather well-known poet."

"Yes; a very talented man!" says the doctor, with the utmost gravity.

"You're right—Shakespeare!" continues Frau Emilie; "and the play was called 'The Merchant of Venice.' There is a Jew in it, Shylock by name, whose daughter also ran away, and who, like Moses, was far fonder of his money than of his child. I therefore propose that we should no longer call the Freudenthal of to-day by his own name, but instead of that"—the speaker makes a long pause—"the Shylock—of Barnow!"

The registrar feels very proud of his clever wife. The gentlemen laugh, the ladies titter, and even the estate-agent's fat wife smiles as they one and all repeat:

"Ha! ha! ha! The Shylock of Barnow!"

But they do not laugh next morning. They never laugh at Shylock again—neither they nor any one else.

The wan pale light of the Sabbath morning dawns upon a woful sight. It is a damp, misty, disagreeable morning. The wind, which had risen at midnight, and had driven the heavy black clouds across the sky, covering the moon as though with a pall, has fallen; but the clouds are heavier and blacker than ever, and a thick cold mist inwraps the whole plain and the gloomy little town.

All sleep soundly in the small houses of the Ghetto. Not a step is to be heard in the narrow streets. The dogs in the courtyards, and the night-watchman in front of the town-hall, are alone awake. The latter is usually asleep at this hour, but the dogs are making too much noise to allow him even to fall into a doze. They are barking furiously. The dogs at the town-gate are the first to begin it, then the watch-dog at the monastery takes up the chorus, and lastly, Moses Freudenthal's black "Britan" joins in the uproar. The wise watchman therefore makes up his mind that some stranger is passing the monastery and going toward the Jew's house. But it never occurs to him to go and see who it is. The mist makes the morning very dark, and the streets very slippery. So the guardian of Barnow remains quietly in his little box in front of the town-hall. "Britan is barking so loud," he says to himself, consolingly, "that the Jew can't help hearing him."

He is not mistaken. The people in Freudenthal's house hear the furious barking. The old housekeeper gets up to see what is the matter, and to call the man-servant. As she passes her master's room, she notices a light under the door, and, on hearing the sound of her footsteps, old Moses comes out. He is still dressed; he has evidently not yet gone to bed, although it is nearly two o'clock in the morning. He looks thoroughly worn-out.

"Go back to bed," he says to the old woman; "I will go myself and see if anything is wrong."

At the same moment the dog again barks furiously, and then all at once begins to whine and utter short barks of joy. They hear the huge creature jumping about and scratching at the outer door. He has evidently recognized the person who has come up to the house, and is trying to get to him.

The old man turns as pale as death. "Who can it be?" he murmurs. Then he proceeds with tottering steps toward the entrance-hall. The housekeeper prepares to follow him, but he exclaims "Go away" so passionately, that she draws back. He takes no candle with him, for it is the Sabbath; so he feels his way to the house-door.

The old woman stands and listens. She hears the dog spring forward to meet his master, and then run with joyous whines toward the outer door.

Then she hears Moses ask, "Who is there?"

All is still. The dog alone utters a short bark.

Moses repeats his question.

An answer comes from without. The housekeeper can not hear what it is. It sounds to her like a cry of pain.

But the old man must have understood. He opens the heavy outer door, steps out, and shuts it behind him. The dog has apparently slipped out at the same time as his master, for the housekeeper can hear the stifled sound of his bark.

Then Moses's voice becomes audible; he speaks very loudly and passionately. What he says sounds at first like scolding, and then like a solemn curse or conjuration. But the old woman can not hear the words.... No mortal ear hears the words that Moses Freudenthal addresses to the person who had knocked at his door that dismal night.

After a minute of suspense, the housekeeper hears the outer door creak. Moses is coming back. He returns alone. The dog has remained outside.

There is a moment's silence; and then the housekeeper hears a heavy fall.

She seizes the candle—what does she care in her terror about the old pious custom?—and hastens to the door. There lies Moses Freudenthal, motionless and pale as death. She raises his head; he breathes stertorously.

On perceiving this, the old woman utters a loud shriek. The man-servant and shopman, wakened by her cry, hasten to the spot. They lifted their master, and, carrying him to his room, put him to bed. Then one of them goes for the doctor of the district, who lives close by on the first floor. He bleeds the sick man, but shakes his head as he does so. The old man has had a stroke.

The housekeeper weeps, the men stand about the room awkwardly, not knowing whether to go or stay, and the doctor attends to his patient.

Thus the hours pass slowly, and the morning comes. No one remembers the stranger who had knocked at the door in the night.

Early in the morning a loud knocking is heard at the door. The night-watchman stands without, accompanied by several people who have come in early to the market. They have found a poorly-dressed, half-starved-looking young woman lying dead at the door. Black Britan is lying beside the corpse, whining, and licking its hands. When any one tries to approach, he growls and shows his teeth.

The doctor goes on and bends over the dead woman. He lays his hand on her heart; it has ceased to beat. He then looks at the pale, worn face, and recognizes it at once.

He rises sadly, and orders the corpse to be taken to the dead-house. He then returns to the sick man, who still lies senseless.

Next day they bury Esther Freudenthal. No one knows what her religion had been—whether she had remained a Jewess, or had become a Christian. Not even her uncle Schlome, who cowers down by her bier in a stupor of grief. So they bury her where suicides are laid; and yet she had died of starvation.

A packet of letters is found in her pocket. They are all written in the same hand, and bear the same superscription—Géza. The last of these letters, which is stamped with the post-mark of a small Hungarian town, contains the following lines: "I tell you honestly that I am tired of the whole thing. I am now with my regiment, and advise you not to attempt to follow me. My sergeant, Koloman, has promised to marry you. He likes you. If you don't like him, you had better go home."

She did go home.

Old Moses does not die in consequence of the occurrences of that night. He lives on for a long time; he outlives his brother-in-law, and many happy people. He lives a gloomy, solitary, mysterious life. When he dies, the only people who weep for him are the mourning-women who have been hired for the purpose. He leaves his great fortune to the wonder-working Rabbi of Sadagóra, the most jealous opponent of light, the most fanatical supporter of the old dark faith.

This is the story of Moses Freudenthal, whom they called the "Shylock of Barnow."

CHANE.

(1873.)

Many years have passed since poor Esther Freudenthal died at her father's feet. Moses has also been dead for a long time. The large white house opposite the Dominican monastery, which now belongs to the Rabbi of Sadagóra, looks quite as grand and well cared for as when it was owned by the stern, unhappy old man. An oval plate now hangs above the door, on which a black eagle is painted on a yellow shield, and round the edge are the words, "Royal and Imperial District Court." Petty thieves, Polish rebels, and Jewish usurers are brought to trial where Moses and his daughter had lived and suffered. These public offices occupy the ground-floor on the right of the entrance-door. The shop formerly kept by old Moses still remains on the left hand, but another name is now painted above the door—"Nathan Silberstein, Grocer and Wine-Merchant." Two words of the inscription were wrongly spelt; but that was the fault of humpbacked little Janko, who painted the sign.

The new owner has made no changes on the first floor, which is still let to the doctor and district judge. The district judge is, however, different from the one Moses Freudenthal knew. Herr Julko von Negrusz has succeeded Herr Hippolyt Lozinski, with the yellow face and attenuated figure. He differs from his predecessor in every respect. Herr Lozinski considered the Jews his prey, rich and poor alike; and what he extorted from them he gave to poor Christians—such as the nobles, officials, and officers. His wife, Kasimira, who came of the noble family of Cybulski—which name in English means Onion—was celebrated for five German miles around Barnow for three peculiarities—her debts, her brilliant toilets, and her love of dancing. She deceived her husband so openly, that people wondered how he could continue to cock his hat so jauntily on his long yellow head.

But all this is changed.

Herr von Negrusz extorts nothing from the Jews, nor does he give great feasts to the Christians. He lives entirely in his office, and for his lovely young wife and two pretty boys. His wife is very beautiful. Her figure is straight and slender, and though her carriage is proud, she is extremely graceful. Her features are finely cut, and her dreamy dark eyes are unfathomably deep. But her most striking beauty is her rich olive complexion. Her appearance conjures up Zuleima and Zuleika, and the enchanted beauties of the East; but it must be observed that the district judge's wife wears a cross upon a chain round her throat, and that she has printed upon her calling-cards, "Christine von Negrusz."

Strange to say, these cards form her sole connection with other people. She has no visitors, and she visits no one. Between her and the world of Barnow there is a limit of acquaintance, past which neither she nor they try to step.

If some public functionary sent to Barnow happens to be a married man, he is carefully instructed by his colleagues to borrow the old carriage and horses of old Herr von Wolanski, and drive with his wife to the large white house. Arrived there, he is to send in cards, and is warned that the customary answer received on such occasions is, that the district judge is not at home, and that gnädige Frau is not well. In the course of a week Herr von Negrusz and his wife drive in the same carriage to return the visit, and the ceremony is acted over again with the parts reversed. All intercourse then ceases between the two families. This custom is invariable.

Another curious circumstance is, that Frau von Negrusz never goes out of the house alone. Once or twice a week she takes a walk with her husband. The inhabitants of Barnow are accustomed to walk in the new park surrounding the castle of Gräfin Jadwiga Bortynska, née Polanska. Unlike other people, the district judge and his wife always take their constitutional in the deserted garden by the river-side, and close to the old castle. The direct road to these pleasure-grounds is through the Jews' quarter; but this unsociable pair avoid the nearest way, and choose rather to go all round the outskirts of the town. One might have supposed their reason to have been that they wished to escape the dust and bad odors of the Ghetto; but this hardly accounts for it, as when once caught in a storm, they made the same long round in the pouring rain.

Herr von Negrusz looks everybody pluckily in the face, and never avoids meeting his friends; why should his wife be so unsociable, and what proscription separates her from the rest of the world?

You have only to ask the gossip and newsmonger of Barnow—the magnificent Frau Emilie, wife of the new registrar. Her husband has lived ten years in Barnow, but he is still called the "new registrar," to distinguish him from his colleague, who has been there twice as long. Frau Emilie will show you a calling-card, and answer as follows: "How can one associate with such a person? Look at her card—why has she not had it printed in the proper way, with her maiden name in the usual place? Because it would not look well to put 'Christine von Negrusz, née Bilkes, divorcée Silberstein.' Her real name is Chane, her father is Nathan Bilkes, and another Nathan—Nathan Silberstein—is her first husband. Negrusz is eccentric. First he wanted to marry the daughter of a millionaire, an Armenian baron, and when this was forbidden, he suddenly comforted himself by falling in love with the rather good-looking Jewess, and he bought her from her husband...."

"Bought?" you will ask with surprise—"for money—for hard cash?"

"Of course—why not?" your informant will reply. "Are you really surprised? To a Jew everything is salable—even a wife. It is said that Negrusz had to pay down a thousand gulden. If you do not believe me, ask every one in Barnow, or, better still, ask Nathan Silberstein how much he got. He is a wine-merchant, and though he is continually traveling about, he is sure to be at home for the great feasts. He will tell you that he gave her up to the district judge willingly. Now, I ask you, can we associate with such a woman?"

Emilie, the magnificent, is right for the most part. Frau Christine was really Chane, and she had been Chane Bilkes, and afterward Chane Silberstein. The wine-merchant had given her up voluntarily to the district judge. She was right also when she said that it was impossible for her—Emilie—to know such a person. She was quite wrong about the money transaction.

The price paid was not a bank-note, but a human heart.

The synagogue is a gray weather-beaten building, erected long ago, almost in the middle ages. The country people call it the Judenburg (Jews' strong-hold), because the Jews once took refuge in it, and intrenched themselves there, when Prince Czartoryski came to murder and rob them. One of his reasons for doing so was that he wanted sport, and there were no foxes or wild boars to be found in the neighborhood in the hunting season; and another was, that he wanted money. The Jews hid themselves and their property behind the walls and iron bars of the synagogue, and held out until the men of Jagiellnica arrived from their neighboring fortress, and relieved them. At that time the walls of the Judenburg were strong, and the iron-work firm; but the bars are all broken now, or they are lost, and the walls are half in ruins. As if to testify to the importance of the building as a holy refuge, the poorest of the Jews' houses are built round it on three sides. On the fourth side, the sluggish river Lered flows so close to the synagogue that there is only space for two dwellings. One of these is a large new house, painted yellow—an unusual decoration in this vicinity—and the other is a dirty, ruinous cottage clinging forlornly to the bank of the river. The yellow house seems to be shoving its poorer neighbor over the brink, the moldering walls of the hovel hang so directly above the slow sad water. The rich wine-merchant, Manasse Silberstein, used to live with his son in the large house, and a very poor man, Nathan Bilkes, had lived for many years in the hovel.

Nathan had been a dorfgeher (peddler) as long as his strength had lasted, and then he spent a weak lonely old age upon his hardly earned savings, eked out by the charity of the community. He had become prematurely old and weak, like most people of his hard-working, poverty-stricken class.

A dorfgeher means, in the language of his co-religionists, a traveler who gains his livelihood by supplying the surrounding villages with the necessaries of life. On Sundays he tramps out of the town with an enormous pack upon his back, in which is stored all that the heart of a Ruthenian peasant could wish for, except the one thing most desired—for the dorfgeher does not sell schnapps.

Everything else he sells: straw hats, leather belts, boots, clasp-knives, flowers, ribbons, corals, love-philters, stuffs for gowns, spindles, linen, tallow, hardware, images of the saints, charms, wax-candles, needles, linen thread, and newspapers of the last week. He sells everything, and all are his customers—from the cavalry officers, who buy his smuggled cigars, and the pastors and gentry, who buy his fine stuffs, to the poorest peasant. Throughout the whole week he goes from village to village, from house to house—in the height of summer and the depth of winter. He knows everybody, and all know him. If they require his wares they invite him to cross their thresholds; if they want to buy nothing they drive him away, and if he does not go immediately they hound their dogs at him. The peasant and the noble, the chaplain and the young lieutenants, sharpen their wits at his expense; and if their jokes are not always ready, they try their switches and spurs. But he never wearies, and from early morning until late evening he raises his hoarse cry, and haggles and cheats wherever he can. If he can not get money in exchange for his wares, he will take what he can get—skins, grain, chickens, ducks, or eggs. On Friday afternoons he returns to town, and for one whole day he feels himself a man; but on Sunday he becomes nothing but a dorfgeher again....

Nathan Bilkes was a dorfgeher, and the above is a description of his life, which differed in no way from that of others of his trade. His father had found him a wife in due time. She had proved most excellent, but had died soon after her marriage, leaving two children.

The children grew up, strong and beautiful, in the dark cheerless cottage, as one sometimes sees sweet flowers blooming in the midst of rubbish and decay. But their father bewailed their strength and beauty, for these qualities lost them to him. His children so passed out of his life that he grew to look upon them as dead. The son was obliged to become a soldier, because Nathan could not pay the fifty gulden that were required to obtain his release. Bär Blitzer, the broker, had said that it could be done for fifty gulden, but the money was not there. The lad went to Italy with his regiment, and after the battle of Magenta his name was in the official list as "missing." His old father waited long for his return, but he never came back. His daughter, too, died to him. "My Chane," the old man took care to say, "was a beautiful Jewess; but I do not know the heathen (goje) Frau Christine."

The dorfgeher had not foreseen that his daughter would be a source of trouble to him. His Chane had been as obedient as she was lovely, modest, and industrious. She was not alone beloved by her father—she was a universal favorite.

No one grudged her good luck when old Manasse Silberstein sought her hand in marriage for his only son Nathan. It was a great and unexpected good fortune; for these people are strictly divided into classes, and the rich and poor seldom intermarry. This custom is natural; for the only occupation they were permitted to follow was money-making, thus the possession of wealth has been their sole happiness for many generations.

The poor peddler was at first incredulous. Old Manasse was very rich, and had a large grocery business, and a prosperous trade in Hungarian and Moldavian wines. It was a great distinction for the poor girl that his choice fell upon her.

Nathan Silberstein was a man of irreproachable character. He was a fine-looking young fellow, honest, straightforward, and intelligent, and knew the Talmud as well as he knew his trade. As he was to be a merchant, his father had had him taught High German. With the help of his teacher he learned reading and writing, and waded through a "complete letter-writer," and a "complete index of German municipal law." These two books were supposed to represent his German library; but hidden in his bookcase, under great Hebrew folios, was one other little German book. On Saturday afternoons, when he went to spend his holiday in the park, he took this little volume in his pocket. He read it in a solitary corner where the green leaves rustled around him, and at these times he felt something within him moving in sympathy with the poetry, of which he was unconscious during the rest of the week. Perhaps it was his heart beating. On the back of the book the title was written in gilt letters, "Schiller's Poems."

When his father told him he had chosen him a wife, and who she was to be, his heart was untouched. He answered dutifully, "As you will, father;" but the color left his face as he spoke. The girl was as obedient to her father as he was to his, only she blushed instead of turning pale when she heard the name of her future husband.

The betrothal took place, and three months later they were married.

In the interval, Nathan gave his fiancée presents of costly pearls and precious stones; and she embroidered a robe in gold and silver for him to wear in the synagogue. Their conversations were always on indifferent subjects. They did not talk of themselves or their future life, and they did not talk of the past; for though they had been neighbors all their lives, they had no mutual recollections.

The marriage was solemnized with great pomp and ceremony: wine flowed liberally, mountains of meat and confectionery were consumed, and the best musicians and merry-andrews enlivened the guests. The young people then took up their abode in the large roomy house opposite the Dominican monastery, which Manasse had prepared for his son. They led a busy life; their days were spent in labor, and they lived on pleasant friendly terms with one another. They were both good and well-disposed, and as they had never expected their married life to be spent in an earthly paradise, they were not disappointed. Custom, a common occupation, and mutual respect bound them to each other. Time passed uneventfully until the end of the first year, when a child was born, and the young father again felt his heart beat as it had not done for a long time. The infant only survived its birth a few weeks, and grief brought the young couple into closer sympathy than before. Old Manasse died about the same time, and the whole responsibility of the business fell upon their shoulders. Nathan had to go away on long journeys, and Chane became a trustworthy stewardess of the great house. She learned to read and write German, so as to be able to help her husband in the business, while his personal comforts were her ceaseless care. He had the greatest esteem for her, and brought her many presents from Lemberg and Czernowitz. They were contented with their lot, and were happy enough.

Happy enough—why were they not quite happy?

Because they did not love one another. They knew nothing of love except that Christians, previous to marriage, fell in love; and what concern had a Jew in Christian usages?

They were happy enough, and their married life seemed firmly founded on esteem for each other, and on their common interests and work; but the storms of passion were to shake the structure to its base, and after throwing it down, were to carry them onward to grief and pain.

Barnow is a very small town, a squalid nook in a God-forgotten corner of the earth, where the great current of life hardly seems to cause the faintest ripple—but it has its casino. This is only a modest little room in the court behind Nathan's shop, containing two tables and a few chairs. Nathan had opened it for the use of his principal customers. Here the officials and magnates of Barnow are accustomed to drink their morning glasses and discuss politics; and if their wives allow them, they do the same again in the evening. The high-born Florian von Bolwinski, a squire without land, and a bachelor, drinks not only his morning and evening glasses in this room, but sundry others also, filling up the intervals with expeditions to make love to a cook, or squeeze a Jew, or execute some important business. The former district judge, Herr Hippolyt Lozinski, had been a constant customer; and the little room did him one good service in giving him a red nose, which was a fine contrast to his yellow complexion. When the red deepened to ruby color he died, rather to the delight of the district, and to the grief of his many admirers. Frau Kasimira retired to the estate of the Von Cybulskies, a small, heavily mortgaged farmhouse near Tarnopol; and the new district judge, Herr Julko von Negrusz, took up his residence in the first floor of the white house. He took the place of his predecessor at the casino also, but without frequenting it so continually as he had been used to do.

Herr von Negrusz was a man of about thirty. He was recognized at once to be an excellent jurist, and when better known, he was also considered a good fellow. A district judge in Podolia is a sort of demigod, and is either the blessing or curse of the district. Herr von Negrusz made a good use of his power. There is not much to be said about his external appearance: he was a slightly built man, with quiet brown eyes and a face that could neither be called handsome nor ugly. The custom-house officer's three sallow elderly daughters considered him a barbarian, and quite unsusceptible to the charms of women. He did not care for ladies' society.

Herr von Negrusz soon became a constant guest in the little parlor behind the grocer's shop. He went there daily when he left the office, and spent half an hour reading the newspapers before going home to the dinner prepared by his old housekeeper. As the entrance by the court was inconvenient and not very clean, he always, like most of the guests, went through the shop where Nathan Silberstein's beautiful wife superintended the business. It was his habit to pass her with a bow. He never talked and joked with her, as did most of the older men and the young officers. He had no particular reason for acting thus, except that much laughing and joking was not in his way. He may also have thought that what these men called compliments were probably objectionable to her; but if so, he was mistaken—Chane was indifferent to what they said, and regarded their talk as one of the annoyances inseparable from attendance in the shop, as, for example, the draughts. Her manner was very decided, and she was well able to protect herself from impertinence. She answered the elder men with the same lightness as they used in speaking to her, while she greeted the officers curtly and laconically. When love was made the subject of conversation, she would laugh and joke almost extravagantly. Love was not only an enigma to her, for she had never felt it, but it was positively ludicrous in her eyes. Whoever ventured, between the first and second pints, to say to her, "I love you," she openly derided and inwardly despised; but whoever attempted to slip his arm round her waist ... well, to find this out, you have only to ask little Lieutenant Albert Sturm, a forward, ill-favored, saucy young fellow, why his right cheek was once redder and rounder than his left for the space of a week.

She never needed to protect herself from word or look of the district judge. For the first three months after his arrival they did not exchange a word. Such stiffness was most unusual in Barnow, where every one knew each other, more especially as she and Herr von Negrusz inhabited the same house, and Chane expressed her surprise openly and unaffectedly to her husband.

One day Nathan stood at the shop-door for a long time in earnest conversation with the district judge and Florian von Bolwinski. At last Negrusz went away to his office, while Florian entered the shop with the merchant, in order to drink an extra glass for the good of his digestion.

"Nathan," said Chane, "what a strange man the district judge is! He must be very proud! He has never yet spoken to me."

"No, he is not at all proud," answered Nathan. "He is one of the most good-natured men I know, but he is not a great talker. Why he is so silent I can not tell—perhaps he is unhappy."

"Ho, ho!" growled Florian. "What a vain woman your wife is, Pani Nathan! We are all at her feet, but that is not enough for her. She wants young Herr Julko to be the next victim. Ho, ho, ho! All her trouble will be thrown away upon him, however, for he is already in love. God's punishment is in store for her!"

Chane waited patiently until the old toper had finished speaking: she was accustomed to his rude witticisms.

"We are not all as light-hearted as you are," she answered, "and this man really seems too sensible to be capable of falling in love."

Herr Florian put his hands on his sides and laughed and sniggered. "Ho, ho!" he gasped. "Did you ever hear such nonsense?... Ho, ho, ho!... As if only stupid people could fall in love!... Am I stupid? and—Pani Nathan, are you not jealous?—I am in love with her. To punish you, I must assure you that he is already disposed of!... his heart is buried in a grave. Ho, ho, ho!"

"Fool!" muttered Chane impatiently, while Herr Florian staggered into the casino with Nathan.

She could not get what he had told her out of her head, and in the evening, when she sat arranging business letters with her husband, who was to leave home next day, she suddenly asked—

"What did Bolwinski mean by saying that Herr von Negrusz's heart was buried in a grave?"

"I do not know," replied Nathan; "but the story goes that he was in love with a girl who died, and that he will never marry. It may be true, for Christians are fools when they are in love."

"Ah!" said Chane, staring thoughtfully at the flame of the lamp.

She soon took her pen again, and finished a letter to Moses Rosenzweig, ordering a barrel of herrings and five hundredweights of sugar from Czernowitz.

Next day a strange thing happened.

Herr Florian Bolwinski is not only a fat man, he is also a good-natured man. As he has never injured any one, he is not afraid of any one—except his landlady, although he has never injured her. He is good-natured, but he has one great fault—he tells everything that he knows, and even invents a little now and then. These additions are the fruit, partly of a vivid imagination, and partly of his numerous potations. Next morning, when he sat alone in the casino with the district judge, he related how Frau Chane had opened her heart to him, and had confessed, with torrents of tears, her mad love for Herr von Negrusz, and that she felt inclined to kill herself in despair, because the object of her passionate love did not take any notice of her, and would not waste one word upon her, even if she were dying.

Herr Florian did not make his story as short as I have given it above, but he went into every little particular, giving the most graphic descriptions of the whole scene.

He interrupted himself several times to laugh, "Ho, ho, ho!" and ejaculate, "Do you see!" He had to do this to give himself breath, for Herr von Negrusz said not a word. He listened gravely, only occasionally allowing a sarcastic smile to play upon his lips. Herr Florian disliked this smile, and as often as he saw it he could not help feeling embarrassed. This he tried to hide by adorning his tale still more. "Now what do you think of it all?" he concluded, out of breath.

"What do I think of it?" repeated the district judge. "I only admire your wonderful imagination. Adam Mickiewicz is nothing to you."

"What! what!—ho, ho! you do not believe me! My dear Herr von Negrusz, I do not deserve this. Have you ever heard me tell a lie? And besides that, what good would it do me? No; on my honor, I am speaking the truth. I was quite sorry for the poor woman. She is over head and ears in love with you. I never saw anything like it—even I, who know women so well. Over head and ears, over head and ears; and now I want to know what I am to say to her? Nathan is away—do you understand?—away for three weeks—ho, ho! The woman...."

"Herr von Bolwinski," interrupted the district judge, rising and folding up the newspapers, which he had been glancing through, "you, who are a Catholic nobleman, think you may say what you like of the wife of the Jew Silberstein behind her back. I must, however, tell you that if I did not know that the story you have just told me is a lie from the first word to the last...."

"Herr von Negrusz!..."

"I repeat it—a lie from the first word to the last. Had you really been the bearer of a message of love to me from a faithless woman, I should have declined any further acquaintance with you. You have been joking in your peculiar way, which is certainly not my way, for I object to jokes at the expense of such worthy people as this Jewish couple. I recommend you not to continue such jokes when you find any of your butts as reluctant as I...."

Herr Florian lost his temper completely. His story was not credited, and his good joke was lost. This he might have pardoned, as he was accustomed to the incredulity of his hearers, but Herr von Negrusz took his story seriously, almost tragically. He treated him like a schoolboy, and that he could not stand. He felt that his honor would not allow him to retract his words, so he rose, and with much gesticulation, said in an overbearing way—

"Do you know to whom you are speaking—do you hear? Do you know to whom you are speaking, I ask? You are speaking to me, Florian von Bolwinski. You must respect what I say; remember what is due to me. I never heard such language. A liar and a go-between, am I?... ho, ho! I must be respected. Remain virtuous if you choose, but what I tell you is true. Chane is in love with you—madly in love...."

"Be silent!"

These words, spoken in a sharp incisive voice, interrupted his flow of words. He looked toward the door, and his arms fell to his sides, the blood forsaking his cheeks. Herr von Negrusz turned crimson.

"Be silent," repeated Chane, stretching her hand toward the fat, trembling little man. Drawn up to her full height, she stood in the doorway, looking as proud and beautiful as a queen.

Herr Florian let his head sink and his under lip fall, and altogether looked very sheepish. Chane closed the door, and walked up to the two men.

"Did—you—listen?" stammered the old sinner, trying to laugh.

"I did not listen," answered Chane, emphatically. "It is not my custom to try to hear what gentlemen say in this room. It is no concern of mine. I was engaged in that part of the shop where the spices are; it is so close to the door that I could not help overhearing. It was bitter enough to do so, but it is harder still to be obliged to speak for myself." As she said this the hot blood rushed to her face. She hesitated, and then continued: "But Nathan is not at home, and I am compelled to tell you myself, to your face, Herr von Bolwinski, that you are a liar. Yesterday I did ask my husband if Herr von Negrusz was proud, as he never spoke to me, as other gentlemen do. I meant nothing wrong, and therefore, Herr von Bolwinski ... you ... you ought to be ashamed...."

Herr von Bolwinski did as he was bid; he was ashamed. His face fell, and his eyes sought the ground. Herr von Negrusz, on the contrary, fixed his eyes upon Chane. It was dangerous, even for one whose heart was "buried in the grave," to drink in her marvelous beauty.

"I thank Herr von Negrusz," continued Chane, with increasing hesitation, and blushing more deeply than before, "for showing a friendly interest in Nathan and me; and if he will not speak to me, I must speak to him, and tell him that he is rightly called a noble-minded man, and for my part, I thank him...."

Like Herr Florian, the district judge found no words of reply, and looked down somewhat abashed. He seized his hat, and bowing respectfully, left the room.

His old housekeeper, who had a great regard for him, was distressed at his loss of appetite that evening, for he sent away his favorite dishes almost untouched.

The days passed, and imperceptibly a bond of love was formed between these two hearts, which was sinful and criminal in the sight of God and man.

The scene in the little wine-shop had had no apparent consequences, except that Herr von Bolwinski took the rest of his potations at home that day. Of course he took an extra quantity, to console him for what he considered his undeserved rebuff. Next day he appeared as usual, passing Chane in the shop.

Herr von Negrusz also came as usual in the middle of the day. That he should do so was not a matter of surprise. It was, however, astonishing that things went on in the old way. Bolwinski continued his customary badinage, and getting no reply from Chane, he said, "Ho, ho! you are proud, but I love you all the same!" while Herr von Negrusz only bowed as before.

What was his reason?

It is not difficult for people to deceive themselves when they wish to do so. "I will not speak to her," he said to himself, "lest I should give the old gossip an opportunity for sarcasm, or the invention of fresh slanders." At the same time he was conscious that this was not his real reason, and sometimes he was childish enough to be angry with the woman whose beauty tempted his heart to be untrue to its natural sense of honor.

It was not the bashfulness of which the lively Emilie accused him; because, after she had on one occasion pressed his hand confidentially, he had not offered to shake hands with her again. Neither was it that "unsusceptibility to the charms of women" of which the three graces complained. No sensible, clever man is ever bashful, and what did his unsusceptibility amount to? Alas! the beautiful and outraged woman had made a deeper impression on his heart than was altogether pleasant to him. The wanton conduct of Herr von Bolwinski had placed him in such a peculiar position toward a woman with whom he was unacquainted, that he could not hit upon the right tone or words with which to address her. He certainly did not feel at ease in her presence, although he swore to himself that he was so. He continually said to himself, "I will not speak to her, so that that wicked old woman in trousers may have no reason for chatter; besides, I have nothing to talk to her about." He knew that he was deceiving himself, and that he was behaving badly; but as time passed on, he found it more and more impossible to break the silence which he knew to be a mistake. He longed to know what she thought of him.

And Chane never spoke of him, even to her husband. She had talked about him openly before the scene in the wine-room, and now she could do so no longer. She did not even tell Nathan, on his return home after a month's absence, of the gross conduct of Herr von Bolwinski. "Why should I make him angry?" she thought; but she knew that she was unwilling to mention the name of Herr von Negrusz. An inexplicable reticence prevented her from doing so. She thought so much about him, and yet she could not speak of him. Every day her imagination took a different turn. Sometimes she thought it was not nice of him to treat her with such marked indifference; and at other times she wondered if the haughty Christian really believed she was in love with him, and wished to show her that she was nothing to him. "He need not do that," she thought, "for he is certainly nothing to me. But then he stood up for me nobly, and perhaps he does not intend to give that fat, ugly Bolwinski an opportunity for further lies. It must be true that his heart is buried in the grave. He loves a dead woman so truly that he will never speak to a living one. He does not even talk to the custom-house officer's wife. How is it possible to love one who is dead—and what is love?..."

The Power that shapes our lives often uses strange means. Two people were being brought together who were not on speaking terms!

They maintained silence for three long months, though they saw one another daily. The summer passed away, the yellow leaves in the monastery garden began to fall; the vintage came, and Nathan started on his long rounds through Hungary and Moldavia. He was to return on the Sabbath before the great feast. "Take care of yourself, and see that you get good vinegar out of the spoiled must," were his parting words. He embraced his wife, calmly kissing her on the brow. He little thought that he did so for the last time.

One beautiful sunny day in September Chane was busy in the shop, and Herr von Bolwinski and the collector of taxes were talking politics in the casino. Everything was as usual. Herr von Negrusz stepped into the shop. He lifted his hat, and was passing on, but was prevented by a cask of herrings, which filled the passage.

"You must come round here," said Chane, pointing behind the counter.

"Thank you," he said, passing her. Then he stopped, and added, "You are making changes here." He wished to say something, and could think of nothing better.

"Yes; for the fruit season."

"There is a splendid crop this year...."

"Particularly of apples...."

"And the wine promises well, I hear. Where is Herr Nathan just now?"

"At Hegyallja, I believe; but I do not know for certain. He has not much time for writing when he is traveling. Perhaps he is at Tokay now." Pride in the flourishing state of the business here triumphed over her shyness, and she continued: "We opened up a good trade with Potocki and Czartoryski last spring, so we now import wines direct from Tokay, as well as from the Rhine."

"I congratulate you on doing so well!" he said, lightly, and passed into the casino.

This was their first conversation, and Herr von Bolwinski could not have found any love-making in it, even after his thirtieth pint.

The ice was, however, broken, and many similar conversations followed, sometimes about the weather, or trade, or little everyday events. It was strange that while they were on distant terms, they were shy of one another; but on knowing each other better, they became firm friends. They might now be said to stand at cross-roads. Their simple daily intercourse might put an end to the peculiar feelings toward each other that had been produced by their first acquaintance, and subsequent coldness of manner; or it might bring about a still more dangerous juxtaposition. They were unconscious of the different paths that lay before them, and as they saw more of one another, and enjoyed the pleasure of each other's society more and more, they did not know that they had already entered upon the road which must lead to sorrow and renunciation, or to shame....

Surely, had they known they would not have ventured on dangerous subjects of conversation, which gave opportunities for the expression of deep feeling and the revelation of each other's hearts. For instance, she allowed him to know that Herr von Bolwinski had told her of his love for one who had died. She almost joked about it, but was immediately sorry when she saw the gravity of his face.

"I have wounded you," she said, regretfully.

"No, no," he answered, "but I should have liked to be the first to tell you."

He then told her the simple story of his first love.

When he was a student in Munich he had fallen in love with a young girl of noble family, to whom he gave lessons. She returned his affection; but the world was too strong for them, and she married some one else, only to die after a short wedded life.

To the Jewess his story sounded like a fairy tale. A few months before, she would not have understood his feeling at all, and even now it was partly incomprehensible to her. She showed this by her next question.

"And you love her still?" she asked.

"She is dead," he replied, "and I do not love her in the same way as I loved the living woman; but her memory will be dear to me as long as I live. I shall never forget her."

Chane looked thoughtfully before her.

"Love must be strong," she whispered.